When Red is Black

earlier, the better, of course, as most residents would not get up before six. As long as he was not actually seen leaving Yin’s room, he would not be in danger. The only possible risk was that one of her neighbors might recognize him. But since his previous visit, he had grown up, and that risk was slight. Even if he were to be identified as the thief, the police would probably not exert much effort to track down a mere burglar, nor would it be easy to trace him in Shanghai.
     
    To make sure of his plan, he did some surveillance work. After having observed the lane secretly for a week, he decided to act. He sneaked in through the back door shortly after Yin left on the morning of February 7. He did not really consider that he was doing anything wrong, for he believed that it was only fair that he receive a share of Yang’s legacy.
     
    But it took him much longer than he had anticipated to find anything valuable to steal. There was less cash than he had expected and no checkbook, much less a credit card. Then he found the English manuscript in a cardboard box under the bed. He could not read it, but he could tell what it must be.
     
    When he heard footsteps mounting the stairs, he paid no attention. There were so many people in the building. Some of the women went to the food market quite early in the morning. But when he heard the sound of the key being inserted in the lock, he was thrown into a panic. He rushed to hide behind the door, hoping he might somehow sneak out unseen. Her face registered horror upon the sight of the ransacked room, in which most of the drawers had been emptied out, and the shoeboxes shoved into the middle of the floor. As she turned in his direction, he jumped out, snatched up the pillow from the bed, and covered her face while pushing her body hard up against the wall. He was trying to stop her from shouting, but he used too much force. When he finally let go of the pillow, she collapsed to the floor like a sack.
     
    It was impossible for him to stay with her corpse in that tiny room.
     
    He knew that he could not take the slightest risk of being seen or recognized by a neighbor, now that this had happened. It was a murder case now. He picked up the manuscript and the few valuables he had found, opened the door to her room, and stepped out onto the stairs. He could not leave the building through the front door. At any second, people might come from the rooms in the wings on either side.
     
    As he went downstairs toward the back door, he saw the woman peeling shrimp outside. He could not retreat, so he had no choice but to hide in the space under the staircase. He did not have a plan; he was just bumping about like a headless fly. After the longest two or three minutes of his life, he heard some commotion in the lane. He peered out and saw that the shrimp woman was no longer there.
     
    He dashed out.
     
    Bao’s narration lasted nearly two hours. Yu almost used up the tape. A few minutes before Bao finished, Chen returned carrying his briefcase and the manuscript under his arm.
     
    A large part of Bao’s tale confirmed Yu’s earlier hypothesis, though some details surprised him.
     
    “He did it,” Yu said, nodding to Chen.
     
    Chen put the manuscript on the bed, in front of Bao. “Did you know that Yin had this English manuscript?”
     
    “No, I had no clue,” Bao said. “But I had wondered about it. My mother thought she might have it. My mother had never met her uncle Yang, you know.”
     
    “Shall we take him to the bureau now?” Yu asked.
     
    “Yes. I called Little Zhou from the restaurant downstairs. He said he’d be here at one o’clock in a bureau car. He may be waiting downstairs now.”
     
    They walked Bao down. Sure enough, Little Zhou was waiting for them in a Mercedes.
     
    “Chief Inspector Chen, we will always have the best bureau car for you.”
     
    Chen seemed to be lost in thought as he tapped his fingers on his bulging briefcase, which rested on the seat beside him.
     
    “I have one question, Chief Inspector Chen,” Yu said. “Yang’s novel manuscript should have been kept in the bank safe, together with his translation of Chinese poetry into English. Why did she leave it in her room?”
     
    “She was too clever for her own good. Do you think the safety deposit box would be safe enough for someone like her?” Chen said. “She might have purposely rented a bank box so people would assume her valuables were there and would not