“But there was no class yesterday, as I remember.”

“No class. No party in the evening either.”

“Then how did she come to be here?”

“The question is,” Song said deliberately, “how did she get in here?”

“What do you mean, Song?”

“She couldn’t have flown into the garden like a butterfly. Someone must have opened the door to let her in. Who else was here at the time? Nobody but Xie.”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t know anything, of course. What else would he say?” Chen didn’t have an immediate answer. “Xie says he alone has the key,” Song went on. “With the place frequently mentioned in the media, he makes a point of keeping the door locked all the time. People have to ring the bell and be let in. Yesterday evening he went to bed early.”

“Well…” Chen knew what Song was driving at. “We’ve put a man outside his room.”

Could the body’s appearing in the garden be a set up? It would serve as an excuse for “tough measures” by Internal Security, but Chen decided to put such a possibility aside for the moment.

“Tell me more about the discovery of the body, Song.”

Song provided a rather scanty summary. Around seven, Xie took his usual morning walk in the garden, where he was shocked by the sight of the body, lying face down under the tree. He called the police. It took about twenty minutes for the first officers to arrive at the scene. And it wasn’t until the cop turned over the body that Xie recognized it as Yang, a student in his painting class. He had no idea how she had come into the garden.

“Yang could have sneaked in by herself,” Chen commented, “with a key she had obtained.”

“Technically possible, but for what, Chief Inspector Chen?” Song countered. “To be attacked and killed by someone who had sneaked into the garden earlier?”

“She could have chosen the garden as a romantic place for her rendezvous. Quiet and secluded, especially when there’s no party at the house. Xie usually goes to bed early, which she knew.”

“Do you think that she would have gone to the trouble of obtaining a key for that purpose?”

“For some, it is a romantic place. These students come here not just for the painting class, you know,” Chen said. “Did Xie have any visitors yesterday?”

“He hemmed and hawed, saying only that he fell asleep early.” That was a problem for Xie. No alibi. It might not be uncommon for a man of his age to go to bed early, but that wasn’t good enough for Song, in spite of the fact that Xie himself had called the police.

“What are you going to do, Song?”

“We’re going to conduct a thorough search of the house,” Song said. “As for Xie, we’ll take him into custody first.”

So the Mao Case was back to ground zero: the “tough measure” that Internal Security had opted for – to break Xie, and then Jiao, for the sake of the Mao material.

“A body in his own garden, and no alibi – Xie whould have known better,” Chen resumed. “No one would be that stupid. Besides, what could be his motive?”

“Xie’s different. What’s his motive for his classes and parties? You never know.”

“He’s different, but if we lock him in as the suspect, it could mean the real criminal will walk away.”

“We have waited for your approach to work, patiently, for a week, but what? A young life was wasted. Had we acted earlier…”

Song was upset. So was Chen.

But for the case – the Mao Case – such a move could prove disastrous, even more so in the light of the latest information from Detective Yu. Chen was debating whether he should share it with Song when the latter’s cell phone shrilled out. Presumably it was something new about Yang. Song listened, furrowing his forehead, while cupping the phone in his hand.

Chen made a vague sign to Song and headed back to the living room.

He was surprised at the sight of Jiao standing behind the French window, her eyes slightly squinting in the sunlight. She wore a white T-shirt and jeans with a leather label near the waistline. She could have seen them talking in the garden.

That morning, she was the only visitor there – apart from Chen.

“Oh you’re here,” he said. “No one else will come today, I’m afraid,” she responded. “How did you get in?”

“I didn’t know anything, so I came over, as usual.”

“You had a long talk with the cop out in the garden. It must have been about the death of Yang. Does he have any clues?”

“No. Nothing so far. According to Officer Song, she couldn’t have gotten in by herself. Someone must have opened the door for her – that is, unless she had her own key.”

“Her own key?” Jiao repeated, a frown creasing her brows. “No, I don’t think so. Yang came only for the class.”

“At her estimated time of death, Mr. Xie was alone in the house, but he knew nothing about it.”

“Oh my god! So is Xie a suspect?”

“Well -” he said, struck by the concern on her face. “I’m no cop. It’s not for me to say.”

“But do you know the policeman? He showed you something.”

“No. I’ve read a lot of mysteries so Officer Song thought he could discuss the case with me a little, and he showed me a picture. He asked me a considerable number of questions too.”

“Xie couldn’t have done anything like that.”

“Does he have any enemies – or people who hate him?”

“I don’t think he has any enemies – except some distant relatives of his, who also lay claim to the house. If he got into trouble, it might be their chance.”

That made him think of another possibility – the real estate company with connections in both black and white ways – but he asked instead, “Do you think Yang could have sneaked into the garden?”

“No, not without a key. Xie always keeps the keys with him – on his key ring.” She then added hesitantly, as if in afterthought, “About three months ago, Xie was sick. We helped him to the hospital, taking care of him there in turns. So Yang could have gotten hold of his key.”

“That’s a possibility, but it won’t help much. Anybody could say that his key was stolen and duplicated.”

“He didn’t do it, that I know. You have to help him. You are so resourceful, Mr. Chen.”

“I don’t think he did it either, but cops think only of evidence or alibis -”

“Alibis?”

“An alibi proves,” he said, looking her in the eyes, “someone was incapable of committing the crime because he was somewhere else, or with somebody else, at the time of the murder.”

“Xie’s incapable of telling a lie!” she exclaimed.

“But you have to prove it.”

“Oh – what’s the exact time the murder took place?”

“Her time of death was estimated as roughly the period from ten o’clock to midnight, according to Officer Song.”

“Alibi – let me think – now I remember, I do remember,” she said. “He was with me at the time. I was posing for him in this room.”

“What! You were posing for him then? Then why didn’t he say so?”

“I posed for him – yes – nude,” she said with an inexplicable glimmer in her eyes. “He couldn’t afford professional models, so I did it for free. He didn’t tell people about it because he was concerned about my reputation. That’s why.”

That was a stunning revelation. Chen had heard stories about Xie’s students posing in the studio, but even if that might not be uncommon for a painting class, he had to wonder: was she posing for “romantic” reasons? Chen suspected that, what with the mansion, the collection, the painting, and the parties, not to mention what Xie had gone through during the Cultural Revolution, the older man had no money or energy left to do more than pose as a Baoyu or Don Juan, but one never knew.

Still, Jiao’s statement made some sense. Even in the nineties, in Shanghai, a nude model was seen as someone shameless. Jiao wasn’t even professional, and stories about it could easily lead to speculation.

Jiao was already running toward the staircase, raising her arms, calling out loud upstairs: