“That’s true, unfortunately.”
“So I sit here all day, with not much to do. You can see that from the register. Less than ten pages have been used this month.”
At the Writers’ Association, Chen reflected, there wasn’t much for security to do, but for a time-honored government institution, the presence of Young Bao and the register was still indispensable.
“The other day I was at the Moller Hotel,” Chen said, “and the doorman was busy all the time.”
“That’s a special hotel. Weiming, the doorman there, is a friend of mine. His register is at least three or four times thicker than mine,” Young Bao said, chewing a tea leaf reflectively. “But I have nothing to complain about, Master Chen. Among all the doormen in the city, I’m probably the only one who can read during work without worrying about the consequences. In fact, both An and you have encouraged me to read as much as possible. After all, it is the Writers’ Association, and it has a library of its own.”
“I’m glad to learn that you enjoy reading so much.”
“Weiming, the Moller doorman I just told you about, is another bookworm. He comes to me for books-it’s much more convenient than going to the public library-and in return, he sells me canteen coupons for the hotel. The food there is excellent but still inexpensive due to the government subsidy and the high-ranking cadres who stay there.”
Chen didn’t immediately respond, being reminded of a metaphor: China was turning into a huge cobweb of omnipresent correlations, with every thread connected and interconnected, however thin or insubstantial, visible or invisible.
“Guess what I’ve been reading lately. Detective stories. Some of them were translated by you. That’s another reason I have to call you a master. Not just because of your literary work, but also because of your police work.”
“I have to cut my visit short, Young Bao. The tea is really excellent,” Chen said, draining the cup, “but I have to go now.”
“I’m glad you like it. I’ll keep the tea here for you-it’ll be here anytime you come over.”
Chen walked back to Shanxi Road. He remained depressed, in spite of the refreshing tea, but he no longer felt so exhausted. He headed straight to the hotel, though not without looking over his shoulder a couple of times.
A flower girl standing by the street corner greeted him with an engaging smile.
“Buy a bouquet, sir?” She spoke in a non-Shanghai dialect, a basket of dazzling white jasmine flowers at her feet.
Thinking of Wei, he paid for a budding jasmine blossom as small as a button decoration and put it in his blazer pocket.
Yesterday, Wei could have been on his way to the hotel, turning the same corner, with, or without, the flower girl standing here with her basket.
The scenario of Wei going to the hotel would account for his formal dress that morning. He would have been going on his own, trying to make sure no one recognized him as a cop. Wei would have had to be cautious, since the city team was still stationed there.
Now there were people from the Central Party Discipline Committee from Beijing involved as well, and they were probably not coming just for someone like Zhou. Beijing wouldn’t send a team just for him. Chen had to be more cautious.
Still, he thought he would try not to worry about the Beijing team too much: its work would be considered none of his business, and Chief Inspector Chen had enough on his hands.
He slowed down, strolling at a leisurely pace, like a tourist, and pulled out his cell phone. Chen called a retired cop nicknamed Encyclopedia.
Filling him in briefly, Chen asked, “Why have all these people chosen the Moller Hotel? Can you tell me something about the history of the hotel?”
“Oh, it used to be Moller Villa. After 1949, it was turned into offices of the Shanghai Communist Youth League. It operated both under the city government and under the Central Communist Youth League in Beijing. Quite a few of today’s high-ranking leaders in the Forbidden City started out in the Youth League, which makes them a most powerful faction in the Party power structure.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Encyclopedia,” Chen said. He said his good-byes and hung up.
It occurred to Chen that the current Central Party general secretary had also been a cadre from the Communist Youth League. He and his closest allies were sometimes called the Youth League Gang. There was also a Shanghai Gang, as it was sometimes called, consisting of cadres who rose to the top through the city government. That group was headed by the Shanghai Party boss, Qiangyu, and it was said the Shanghai Gang stood in opposition to Beijing’s Youth League Gang.
The arrival of the Beijing Central Party Discipline Committee team in Shanghai, and at this particular hotel, could be a sign of an intensifying power struggle at the top. Chen couldn’t tell whether or not it was in any way connected to the Zhou case.
Actually, that struggle might have been another factor in Chen’s not being promoted to Party secretary of the Shanghai police bureau. Chen was rumored to be closely connected to major figures in Beijing, such as Comrade Zhao, the ex-secretary of the Central Party Discipline Committee, even though Chen himself knew that it wasn’t true. For one thing, Comrade Zhao had not contacted him in quite a while. For another, no message had been sent to Chen about the Beijing team being dispatched to Shanghai.
The chief inspector decided to take a few extra precautions on this visit to the hotel. Instead of going to Jiang’s room in building B of the hotel, Chen approached the hotel front desk. He didn’t have to sign a register to do that.
“Sorry, but there’s a special meeting going on at the hotel,” the desk clerk said as Chen walked in. “It is no longer open to tourists.”
“What a pity! I’ve heard so much about this legendary hotel,” Chen said. He picked up a brochure, adding, as if an afterthought, “But what about the people already staying here?”
“They will have to move out, and as soon as possible.”
So there was something going on here. Perhaps there wouldn’t be an exception made for Jiang, and he too would have to leave the hotel, but Chen wasn’t sure.
Walking out of the hotel like a disappointed tourist, Chen looked around before he crossed the street and went to a new restaurant. The restaurant was called Northeast Family, and it sported a row of red lanterns in front of its rustic façade. He walked in, and then went up to the second floor, where he was surprised to see several kangs-or table-and-seat units shaped like kangs-by the windows overlooking Shanxi Road. He went over to one out of curiosity.
A waiter hurried to his side, saying apologetically, “Sorry, this is a table for six people.”
Sitting at this table, however, Chen could easily keep the hotel in sight.
“What’s the minimum charge to sit here?” Chen asked.
At some restaurants, a private room had a minimum charge attached: it was possible this restaurant had a minimum for desirable tables.
“Usually, we charge six hundred. Our northeast cuisine is not expensive, so you can have a banquet for that. One person alone wouldn’t be able to finish that much.” The waiter paused. “Well, let’s make an exception for you and waive the minimum expense, sir,” he said considerately. “We have eating girls here. For just one hundred yuan she’ll sit at your table and introduce you to the specialties of our cuisine.”
“Fine. I’ll pay for her company, but I want to sit by myself for a while first.”
“Whatever you want, sir. I’ll brew you a pot of Dragon Well tea first.”
He secured the table against the window. It wasn’t that comfortable to sit on the kang. A real kang was a long earthen bed with coals burning underneath, the people sitting above with their legs comfortably crossed under them, and with a small table in the middle during mealtime. Here he saw only a resemblance of one, but he took off his shoes, climbed on, and started keeping watch on the hotel.
Across the street, the hotel shimmered in the sunlight. It didn’t take long for him to realize that the hotel looked different that morning. For about fifteen minutes, he didn’t see anybody walking in or out. There were only a couple of luxury cars that drove in, their curtains drawn, and not a single taxi. The hotel must have been converted into a “political base.”