When Red is Black

because of her name. Or was it because of something else?
     
    * * * *
     

Chapter 22
     
     
    T
    he ringing of the telephone woke Yu.
     
    Chen told him, “Bao’s address is 361 Jungong Road. Second floor. It’s in the Yangpu District.”
     
    Yu said, “How did you get this information?”
     
    “Through one of my connections,” Chen replied vaguely.
     
    The boss did not sound too willing to go into detail. Yu understood.
     
    “I’m on my way,” Chen continued. “Not a word to Old Liang or anybody else. Meet me there.”
     
    This was a surprise to Yu. So far, Chen had made a point of staying in the background. When Yu reached that section of Jungong Road, the chief inspector was already waiting for him, smoking a cigarette.
     
    In the pre-1949 era, this area had been a slum. It had been upgraded in the early fifties, when some workers’ housing was built there to show the superiority of the socialist system. Nothing further had been done, as the city was overwhelmed by one political movement after another. The area was now considered a depressed neighborhood that had a markedly different living standard from other parts of the city. It had acquired a nickname—”the forgotten corner.”
     
    In recent years, it had also become one of the streets where provincials gathered because of the cheap rentals that they could obtain there by means of illegal subleases. Five or six people usually squeezed into a single room when they first arrived in the city. When they bettered their finances, they moved out into other areas.
     
    “According to my information, Bao lives by himself in a small room here,” Chen said. “He moved in about two months ago. He does a not have a regular job; he survives by working part-time for an interior construction company.”
     
    “If he has a room for himself, he is better off than others,” Yu commented.
     
    Bao’s building, 361 Jungong Road, was one of the old two-story workers’ houses from the fifties. It boasted neither the sophisticated style of a shikumen house nor the modern facilities of the new apartment buildings. The house consisted of units, rather than apartments; each unit was inhabited by several families; each family had one room and shared the common kitchen area. Bao’s room had originally been a balcony accessed from the kitchen area of the unit. Beneath it was a small restaurant on the first floor of the building. It, too, looked like it had been converted from a residential room.
     
    Chen and Yu went up the stairs. Their knock on the door was answered by a tall, lean young man of sixteen or seventeen. Bao looked like an undeveloped green bean sprout. His small eyes dilated with fear at the sight of Detective Yu in uniform. His room was one of the barest Yu had ever seen. There was hardly any furniture. A hardboard had been placed on two bamboo benches as a bed, and beneath it stood a disorderly pile of cardboard boxes. A broken chair and something like a student desk completed the furnishings, which appeared to be castoffs Bao had found and brought back.
     
    “Let’s crack this nut here before we take him to the bureau,” Chen whispered.
     
    This was not like Chen, who normally made a point of following procedure. But they were pressed for time, Yu knew. If they took Bao to the bureau, Party Secretary Li and others might join their interrogation. In one way or another, they might slow things down.
     
    It was Thursday. They had to get the truth from Bao before the press conference on Friday.
     
    “You’d better spill the beans,” Chen told Bao. “If you come clean about what you did on the morning of February seventh, Detective Yu may be able to work out some sort of a deal for you.”
     
    “We know everything, young man,” Yu said, “and if you are cooperative, we will recommend leniency.”
     
    Detective Yu did not know if he could guarantee this, but he had to back up Chen.
     
    There was nothing for them to sit on, except for the broken chair. Bao squatted against the wall, like a wilting bean sprout.
     
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about, officers,” he said, without looking at either of them.
     
    “You question him, Detective Yu,” Chen said. “I will search the room.”
     
    Again, Chen was departing from his usual standard of behavior this morning, Yu observed. They did not even have a search warrant.
     
    “Go ahead, Chief,” Yu said, playing along. “Where were you on the morning of February