IT WAS A WARM and bright morning outside the eatery. Glancing at his watch, Chen changed his mind about the visit to his mother. Next time, he told himself. After the Mao Case, perhaps. He should have asked Auntie Yao to deliver some food to her. It was quite close, Chen thought belatedly, hurrying to the subway station at the intersection of He’nan and Nanjin Roads.

Squeezing into the train, he failed to find a seat. He had a hard time even trying to stand firm without being elbowed around. During rush hour in the city, taxis crawled like ants, while the subway was at least guaranteed to move. He thought of Gang again, a disabled man who would never be able to get in a train like this one. In his college years, the ex-Red Guard must have studied the classics, the way he filled his conversation with quotes. People should be responsible for their own actions, but Gang had been so young and hot-blooded then, choosing to follow Mao. And a high price Gang had paid for it.

It was getting hotter in the train. Chen wiped the sweat from his forehead and neck. The train increased its speed with a sudden lurch, and he staggered, stepping on the foot of a young girl, who was seated reading a morning newspaper. He murmured his apology. She smiled and went on beating her sandaled feet on the train floor. Wearing a yellow summer dress like a butterfly, she reminded Chen of Yang.

Tapping Gang could be a hopeless long shot, but the chief inspector couldn’t leave any stone unturned. He had a heavy heart, holding himself responsible for two cases, rather than one – the two possibly interrelated, though the connection was still beyond his grasp.

Half an hour later, he arrived at Xie Mansion, his shirt sweat-soaked. He felt obliged to comb his damp hair with his fingers before pressing the bell.

As a result of the murder case, the weekend party and class were cancelled. People didn’t believe Xie was involved, but no one wanted to be there when the cops were dropping in and out, asking questions and occasionally requesting statements.

Jiao walked out to open the door for him. “Oh welcome, Chen. You are the only visitor today. Mr. Xie doesn’t feel well this morning. After the shock, you know. But he’ll come down shortly.”

She was wearing a pink and white mandarin dress, sleeveless and almost backless. A fashionable variation of the elegant high-class dress, but with a white apron tied over it, her feet in pink satin slippers.

“I am too early,” he said, wondering what she was doing there, with no class or party scheduled that day.

“Don’t worry about that.” Aware of his curious glance at her apron, she added, “I’ve come to help a little.”

“That is so considerate of you.”

“I’m no cook, but he doesn’t know anything about the kitchen. Please be seated,” she said, producing a cut-glass bowl containing assorted dried fruit. “What would you like to drink?”

“Coffee.”

“Good. I’ve just made a fresh pot for myself.”

She behaved as though she were the hostess there. After serving him a mug of coffee, she glided back to the sofa close to the French window. There was a cup of coffee beside an antique typewriter on a mahogany corner table. She must have been sitting there, by herself.

There was a small sketch against the wall. It could be hers, just finished. He didn’t start speaking at once. He sat quietly sipping at his coffee, seemingly at ease.

Looking at him, she might be wondering at the purpose for his visit. The high slits of the mandarin dress revealed her shapely legs.

“I’m concerned about Mr. Xie,” he said. “I know a couple of good attorneys. If necessary, I could contact them for him.”

“Thank you, Chen. Song didn’t bring too much pressure to bear on Mr. Xie, not after he provided his alibi. Song asked me some questions too, but not too many. We’ve already talked to an attorney Mr. Xie has known for years – just to be on the safe side.”

“Yes, it is better to be on the safe side,” he said. “By the way, did you know Yang well?”

“No, not that well. She was a fashionable girl, flitting around like a butterfly. She seemed to know a lot of people.”

“I see,” he said, taking “a butterfly” to be a negative metaphor. “She attempted to drag you to another party the other day, I remember.”

“You’re very observant, Mr. Chen.”

“I couldn’t help noticing you,” he said, smiling. “You’re so different, like an immaculate crane standing out among the chickens.”

Now it sounded like flirting with an attractive girl – the “approach” Minister Huang had implied. He didn’t push, though, and took another sip of the coffee, which tasted strong and bitter. Nor did she respond, sitting there demurely, her eyes downcast.

The short spell of silence was punctured by the ringing of a cell phone in her dainty purse.

“Excuse me,” she said, jumping up and hastening out through the French window, leaving her slippers behind. The phone against her cheek, she stood framed against the window as if in an oil painting, merging into the verdant background. In her pink and white mandarin dress, she looked like a plum blossom, which vaguely reminded him of a poem. Slightly pensive in the morning light, she seemed to be nodding to that invisible speaker on the phone. She raised her right foot up backward against the window frame, scratching at her ankle, her red-painted toes shining like petals.

Years earlier, Mao could easily have been fascinated by someone like her…

Chen stood up, walked over to the antique typewriter on the corner table. Underwood. There was no paper in it. He struck two or three keys at random, all of which were rusted, stuck together. Worthless junk somewhere else, yet a valuable decoration here.

“Sorry about the phone call, Mr. Chen,” she said, sliding back into the room. “By the way, you have a maid at home, don’t you?”

“A maid?” He wondered why she was asking him about a maid. And it came out more like a statement than a question. Perhaps it was something taken for granted given his assumed identity. He responded vaguely. “You must have one too.”

“I used to, but she quit abruptly, without explanation or notice. Now things are a mess here and I have to come over to help. I need someone at home.”

He didn’t have a maid at home. There was no need for one. His mother had talked about the necessity of having someone to take care of things for him, but he knew what she was driving at. It meant anything but a maid.

Was Jiao really in need of a maid? Only a year ago, she was working as a receptionist, a position that paid little more than a maid. She was young, living alone, probably not much house work in her apartment.

But it presented an opportunity he couldn’t afford to miss. She hadn’t invited him to her home. Nor was that a possibility in the near future. Having a maid there, keeping her eyes open for him, could make the difference.

“Yes, you definitely need one.”

“Those people recommended by agencies are not dependable. It takes weeks to find a good one.”

“Mine is quite reliable,” Chen said, improvising. “I trust her. She has been working in her field for years. She must know some good people.”

“That would be fantastic. Could you find one for me? I trust you.”

“I’ll talk to her about it today.”

She appeared genuinely relieved. Picking up her coffee cup, she shifted her position on the sofa, resting her feet on the sofa arm. It was a pose not becoming for one in a mandarin dress, but she wasn’t exactly a lady like Shang. Actually, she struck him as uniquely lively, sitting like that, with a blade of grass from the garden stuck on her sole, a tiny detail that actually made her real, close – not an insubstantial echo from the faraway legend of Mao and Shang.

After what help he had offered, first with the real estate company and then with the Yang murder case, though indirectly, both Xie and Jiao had become quite friendly to him. The candlelight dinner with Jiao might have made a subtle difference too. There was something in the way she spoke to him. At least she had come to trust him, as she had just said. He wished that he could prove to be truly trustworthy.