“Well, the golden and glittering thirties could serve as another myth of the city for the upstarts today. They have to invent a tradition to justify their extravagance. But I’ll introduce you to him. No problem.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Shen. Oh, by the way, you may tell him that I’m a writer – and an ex-businessman too – with an interest in the thirties. Don’t mention that I’m a cop.”

“What Xie’s really up to, I don’t know,” the old man said hesitantly, “but I think he is harmless.”

“I’m not going to get him into trouble, Mr. Shen. I give you my word. It’s only because he might not talk freely to a cop.”

“I trust you, Chief Inspector Chen. I’m giving him a call and write you a letter of introduction too – about the talented writer and a good man that I know. Don’t worry. I’ll have the letter sent to you by special delivery.”

“I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

“There’s no need.” Shen added with a chuckle, “Just give me a copy of your book when it’s published.”

As he put the phone back, Chen saw a word on the back of a matchbox on the nightstand – Poetry – scribbled in his own sloppy handwriting.

What could that possibly mean?

He had gotten sentimental over Li Shangyin’s poem before falling asleep last night, but that was not something worth writing down.

There was a knock on the door. Another special delivery package for the case, he suspected. It was a package, but to his surprise, it was postmarked as from abroad – from London. It was from Ling – he guessed she must have mailed it during her honeymoon trip. That the couple went abroad was no surprise. The newlyweds were both successful entrepreneurs with HCC background and could easily afford the trip.

He tore open the package to find a large book inside: The Waste Land: A Facsimile and Transcript of the Original Draft Including the Annotations of Ezra Pound. There was no note enclosed.

It was a book about the writing of T. S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land,” containing the manuscripts with the changes made by Eliot and by Pound and the marginal notes made at different stages. The book would shed light on the connection between Eliot’s personal life and his “impersonal” work, Chen contemplated, as he leafed through a few pages.

But it was not the time for him to sit down and read it. Nor was he in the mood. There’s nothing more accidental than the world of words. And ironical too. Had he gotten the book shortly after his college years, he would have used it in his translation of Eliot – possibly making it a better translation, which might have changed his career’s course. At the moment, however, in the midst of the Mao Case, it was irrelevant, and at best, it was only a consolation prize for having lost Ling – perhaps even less than that. She hadn’t totally forgotten about him, but it was like a footnote on a closed chapter.

He was pondering the wording for a thank-you card when there was another knock on the door. This time, it was a stranger standing there, reaching out his hand formally. He was a tall man with a serious-looking square face and broad shoulders, probably in his early forties. He produced a badge to show to Chen.

“I’m Lieutenant Song Keqiang of Internal Security. Minister Huang called about your joining us in our investigation.”

“Oh Lieutenant Song, I was going to contact you. Please come in,” Chen said. “I’ve just read the file. We need to talk about it.”

“Well, all the basic information is in the file,” Song said, sitting on the chair Chen pulled out for him. “Do you have any questions, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“About the Mao material – about whatever Shang left behind, I mean – have you any idea what it might be?”

“Pictures, diaries, letters, anything is possible.”

“I see. Is there anything new – anything that’s happened since the file was compiled?” Chen said, pouring a cup of water for the visitor. “Sorry, there is no tea left at home.”

“Do you know about Xie’s ex-wife?”

“I know he has an ex-wife. What about her?”

“She has just come back. Last week, she met with Xie and then was seen sobbing in the garden.”

“I know they are divorced, but was there anything suspicious about their meeting, Lieutenant Song?”

“She cut all ties when she left China. There were no letters or phone calls for years. So why meet now?”

“Well, with things between a husband and wife, who can tell? Xie’s worth something now, with his mansion and his collection, and they have no children. You know what I mean.”

“It’s more than that. A couple of days ago, she brought a foreigner to the mansion. What for? We’ve also found out that she has booked a return ticket for two weeks from today.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means we have to conclude the investigation before she goes back to the States.”

“So I only have two weeks?”

“Less than two weeks, Chief Inspector Chen. If your approach does not work, we’ll need time to wrap it up our way.”

Chen didn’t like Internal Security’s way. It was too easy for them to apply “tough measures” to Xie or Jiao using any available excuse. As a cop rather than Internal Security, Chen was disturbed, and not only about the possible consequences. But he didn’t want to confront Song during their first meeting. Internal Security might have every reason to be upset with Chen, since his assignment to the case was a challenge to their competence.

“According to Minister Huang, you have suggested a point of entry for me – through Xie’s parties.”

“Yes, with your English and poetry, you’ll be like a fish swimming in the water.”

“You don’t have to say that, Lieutenant Song.” Aware of the sarcasm in Song’s comment, Chen retorted, “You must go to a lot of his parties too, like a dragon stranded in a shallow pool.”

“We have someone who goes to them. If you want, you may go with him to the next party.”

“Thank you, but I’ve already made a couple of phone calls about the party. I think I may go there by myself and meet your man there. What’s his name?”

“So you are going by yourself? That’s great.” Song added without answering his question, “You’re moving fast.”

“It’s a special case, isn’t it?”

“Well, since you’re going, you’ll see everything for yourself,” Song said, standing up abruptly. “Let’s talk again after your visit.”

Chen also rose, accompanying him to the door.

Why had Song come? Chen pondered, listening to the sound of the lieutenant’s steps fading away in the concreted staircase. It could have been a sort of formal gesture made for the sake of Minister Huang and other “leading comrades in Beijing,” but Chen doubted it.

He wondered whether Detective Yu had heard anything about it in the bureau. But as close as the two had been, he would not enlist Yu’s help for this case. A case concerning Mao could have unpredictable consequences, possibly serious ones for the cops involved.

Instead, he thought of Old Hunter, Yu’s father, a retired cop whom Chen knew and trusted. As a retiree, Old Hunter might also know more about things that happened during the Cultural Revolution, when Chen was still in elementary school. For this case, Chen thought he’d better sound out the old man first. People had very different opinions of Mao. In these days of increasingly rampant corruption and an ever-enlarging gap between the rich and poor, some were beginning to miss Mao, imagining that they had had better days under him. The utopian society of egalitarianism as advocated by Mao remained attractive to a lot of people. If Old Hunter was so inclined, Chen would not even broach the subject. They would meet simply for a pot of tea.

Back at the table, the blank thank-you card struck him as an equally difficult job. He didn’t know what to say, but he had another idea. He might send a present to Ling rather than a card, just as she had. A message in the absence of a message.