“Sure. When?”

“I have a meeting this morning. What about this afternoon?”

“Then I’ll do a little research in the Shanghai Library in the morning.”

“About Chinese secret societies?”

“Right.” In addition, she was going to collect some information about Chen. Not merely for the CIA.

“The library is also on Nanjing Road. A taxi will take you there in less than five minutes.”

“I’ll walk if it is so close.”

“That’s up to you. I’ll meet you at twelve in a restaurant opposite the library, across the street. The Verdant Willow Village. That’s the name of the restaurant.”

“See you then.”

After a quick shower, she left the hotel. She strolled along Nanjing Road, an extended shopping center, not only lined with shops on both sides, but also with rows of peddlers in front of the shops. She crisscrossed the street several times, lured by the interesting window displays. She had not done any shopping since her arrival.

At the intersection of Zhejiang Road, she had to resist the temptation to enter a vermilion restaurant with engraved pillars sustaining a yellow-glazed tile roof-an imitation of the ancient Chinese architectural style. A waitress dressed in the Qing dynasty costume bowed enticingly to the people passing by. Instead, Catherine bought a piece of sticky rice cake from one of curbside peddlers, nibbling it like the Shanghai girls walking in front of her. It was rather fashionable to talk about the Chinese people as natural capitalists, born wheelers and dealers, and to explain the economic boom in that way, but she believed it was their collective energy released after so many years of state economic control, being given the opportunity to do something for themselves for the first time, that had led to the transformation she saw around her.

And she encountered no more curious glances than shewould have in St. Louis. Nor did she meet with any accident except shoulder-bumping and elbow-pushing as she squeezed past a crowded department store. She had been disturbed by the accidents in the last two days, but perhaps she had been clumsy from jet lag. She was well rested that morning. Soon she came in view of the library. She gave small change to beggars on the steps as she would have done in St. Louis.

As she entered the Shanghai Library, an English-speaking librarian came over to help. She had two subjects, the Flying Axes and Chen. To her surprise, Catherine found practically nothing on triads in their literature. Perhaps writing about those criminal activities was forbidden in contemporary China.

She found several magazines containing Chen’s poems and translations. And a few translations of mysteries under Chen’s name, too. Some of them she had read in English. What fascinated her was the stereotyped “translator preface” for each of the books. It consisted of an introduction giving the author’s background, a brief analysis of the story, and an invariable conclusion using political clichés-due to the author’s ideological background, the decadent values of the Western capitalist society cannot but be reflected in the text, and Chinese readers should be alert against such influence…

Absurd, and hypocritical too, but such hypocrisy might have accounted for his rapid rise.

The librarian stepped into the reading room with a new magazine. “Here is a recent interview with Chen Cao.”

There was a color picture of him in a black suit with a conservative tie, looking like an academic. In the interview, using T. S. Eliot as an example, Chen claimed that poetry should be written without the pressure of having to be a poet. He mentioned Louis MacNeice, who had to earn a living at another job. Chen acknowledged their influence on his poetry and mentioned the title of a poem suffused with melancholy. She found “The Sunlight on the Garden,” read it, and made copies. The CIA’s purpose was political, but Chen’s essay might throw more light on her Chinese partner as a human being. Eliot and MacNeice, Chen used their stories to justify his own career. She returned the material to the librarian.

As she left the library, she saw Chen waiting in front of the restaurant. Less scholarly-looking than in the magazine picture, he wore a black blazer with khaki pants. He took several steps across the street, met her halfway at the safety island, and led her into the restaurant. There, a hostess ushered them into a private room on the second floor.

She examined the bilingual menu. After reading a few lines, she pushed it over to him. She understood each of the characters, but not their combination. The English translation, or rather the transliteration, did not help much.

A waiter carried over a long-billed brass kettle and poured a graceful arc of water into her cup. In addition to the green tea leaves, there were also tiny pieces of red and yellow herbs at the bottom of the cup.

“Eight Treasure Tea,” Chen said. “Supposed to be potent for boosting your energy.”

She listened in amusement as he discussed the house specials with the waiter. He turned to ask her approval at intervals. A perfect escort, this chosen representative of the Shanghai Police Bureau.

“The name of the restaurant comes from a line of a Song dynasty poem, There’s a home deep in the verdant willows. I’ve forgotten the author.”

“But you remember the name of the restaurant.”

“Yes, that’s more important. As Confucius tells us, ‘You cannot be too fastidious in choosing your food.’ That’s the first lesson for a sinologist.”

“I guess you are a regular customer here,” she said.

“I’ve been here two or three times.” He ordered a South Sea bird’s nest soup with tree ears, oysters fried in spiced egg batter, a duck stuffed with a mixture of sticky rice, dates, and lotus seeds, a fish steamed live with fresh ginger, green onions, and dried pepper, and an exotic-sounding special whose name she did not catch.

After the waiter had withdrawn, she rested her eyes on him. “I’m just wondering-”

“Yes?”

“Oh, nothing. Forget it.” Several cold dishes appeared on the table, which gave her an excuse not to continue. She was curious as to how he had acquired all his epicurean knowledge. An ordinary Chinese chief inspector could not have afforded it. She realized she was already carrying out the CIA’s task, yet this did not spoil her appetite.

“I’m just wondering,” she said, “if our interviews here can lead anywhere. Wen seems to have totally cut herself off from her past. I can hardly see any possibility of her coming back to Shanghai after so many years.”

“We have just started. In the meantime, my temporary assistant Qian has been checking hotels as well as neighborhood committees.” He picked up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks. “We may hear something soon.”

“Do you think Wen could have afforded to stay in a hotel?”

“No. I think you’re right, Inspector Rohn. Feng has not sent any money home. His wife does not even have a bank account. So I have had Old Hunter look into cheap, unlicensed hotels as well.”

“Isn’t Old Hunter engaged with another case?”

“Yes, but I asked him to help with this case, too.”

“Any breakthrough in the other case?”

“Not much progress there either. It involves a body found in the park. Old Hunter has just identified the dead man’s pajama brand by the V pattern woven into the fabric.”

“Mmm, Valentino.” she said. “Now in our case, there’s another thing that troubles me. As far as we can tell, Wen has not yet made any effort to contact her husband. This does not make sense. Feng wanted her to run for her life, but not out of his life. She knows about the trial date, so if she didn’t know how to contact him she should have gotten in touch with the police. With each passing day, the possibility of her rejoining Feng before the trial becomes fainter. It’s the seventh day that she’s been missing.”