She took off her jacket and draped it over the sofa. At once she noticed the change in the temperature of the room. She turned to him with a broad grin.

“Thanks for your suggestion to Gu,” he said.

“You should have had these things long ago. Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she said. “Oh, here is a tape of my interview with some of the staff members at the university.”

“You are a great secretary, White Cloud.”

“Little, not great,” she giggled.

He would have liked to listen to the tape at once, but her presence in the room made it difficult to focus on the investigation.

“Can I take a hot shower here?” she asked abruptly.

“Sure. But the installer was just here. I have not yet cleaned up.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she said.

Kicking off her shoes, she went into the bathroom with her bag and turned back with a smile before closing the door after her. He wondered whether this was a calculated gesture, inviting intimacy. Listening for the sound of the shower, he tried not to read too much into her status as a little secretary.

He began playing the tape. Its contents were not exactly interviews, more like a collection of various people’s observations. It was little wonder, since she had neither the authority nor the training of a cop. In fact, it was surprising that the interviewees had talked to her.

The first interview was of a senior professor at the college where Yin had taught: “She was an opportunist. Why do I say so? First, she saw an opportunity by becoming a Red Guard! And all of us turned into the targets of her ruthless revolutionary criticism. When her luck at being a rebel changed, she saw her opportunity in being with Yang. He was a brilliant scholar. Like a gold mine undiscovered. Like buying valuable stocks at the bottom. Sooner or later the Cultural Revolution would end, she must have foreseen that. Only she carried the romantic drama too far-at his expense. Still, she did not really lose, did she? The book, the fame, the money, what-not!”

The next one was of a retired lecturer named Zhuang who had worked with Yang for several years and met with Yin a few times: “He was just too bookish. Even in those years, he remained so idealistic, still reading and writing, something like Doctor Zhivago, I think. As for her, she was already a plain spinster, with problems in her political dossier. That was her last chance, and of course she scrambled to take it.”

The third was of a middle-aged researcher whose last name was Pang, who had read Yin’s novel, but had had little personal contact with her: “As a writer, she was not so talented. If the book attracted a lot of attention, it is more because of its autobiographical nature. Now that’s another shame. No big deal if the book was merely about herself. No, she was nobody without him. So the appeal really came from him…”

In these interviews, White Cloud did not pose questions. As she was not a cop, it was clever of her not to try to sound like one. But in the interview with Pang, she did ask “So you don’t believe she fell in love with him at the time; but didn’t she, too, take a great risk by having an affair?”

“I’m not saying that she did not care for him at all-she did, in her way,” Pang answered. “But I would say that, as far as she was concerned, there must have been other considerations involved.”

Generally, Chen reflected, that might be true-must be true.

It was difficult to draw a clear-cut line anywhere, yet not so difficult for others to make comments.

When he heard the slow turning of the bathroom doorknob, he had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he was startled. He pressed the off button on his computer. He did not know how long she had been in the bathroom. There was not even a real bathtub, only a tiny space partitioned out in concrete with a shower head above, but she must have taken her time there. That was not surprising. A hot shower was still a luxury for most Shanghainese. He looked up to see her walking, barefoot, over to his desk. She was wearing his gray terry robe, which she might have noticed in the apartment at any time. The robe parted as she bent to look over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of her breasts, her face flushed with the heat, her hair glistening with the beads of water, and he thought of several lines by Li Bai, a well-known Tang dynasty poet. They were from a poem that Yang had included in his manuscript:

But he remembered having quoted them the first time White Cloud and he had met, when they danced together in that private karaoke room, she wearing a dudou, an ancient Chinese halter-like garment that had suddenly become popular, his hand touching her bare back. That might not be an appropriate scene to remind her of, so he did not recite these lines aloud now.

Li Bai, something akin to the Tang palace poet, had gotten into political trouble because of the poem. According to later critics, the imperial concubine was not pleased with the idea of being appreciated by a poet on behalf of the emperor. But the same later critics were laudatory of the poetry. The lesson seemed to be that a poet should never become involved in politics.

“What are you thinking?” she said as she stood behind him, drying her hair with a towel.

“It’s not easy for people to forget what happened during the Cultural Revolution,” he said. His gaze fell upon her slender ankle. No tattoo there, her red-painted toenails like fresh petals. Could he have imagined that tattoo the other day? “Nor is it easy for people not to judge from their own perspectives.”

“What do you mean, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“People cannot wipe out the impression of Red Guards that they formed during the Cultural Revolution.”

“Yes, I, too, was surprised that most of them seemed to be so biased against her, even some who hardly had any personal contact with her.”

“Well, there is a Chinese proverb, When three people start talking about seeing a tiger on the street, everybody else in the city believes it.” He added abruptly, “One of your interviewees, Mr. Zhuang, mentioned Doctor Zhivago. Do you have his phone number?”

“Yes. Is it important?”

“I don’t know, but I think I’ll look into it.”

“Here it is,” she said, handing him a small piece of paper.

“Now I have something else for you to do, White Cloud, but you looked a bit tired today.”

“I slept late. That’s nothing. The hot shower has helped.”

He explained to her the problem he was having with the marketing section of the business proposal.

“Oh, I happen to have read an introductory book on marketing. A very good introduction, concise yet comprehensive. I may have given it to a friend, but I can find it in the library.”

“Your major is Chinese, right?”

“The government still assigns jobs to college students, but there are no good jobs for Chinese majors,” she said. “No joint venture company will hire someone capable only of reading classical poems.”

“The water flows, flowers fall, and the spring fades. / It’s a changed world.”

“Why did you recite those lines from Li Yu?” she asked.

“I am thinking of my college days, when the government assigned me to my job in the police bureau. I was interested in nothing but poetry then.”

“But you have a marvelous job, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said, tugging at the robe belt tentatively. “I’m going to change. I’ll bring the book over today if I can get it. Don’t worry.”

Her departure made it possible for him to refocus on the homicide investigation. He decided to take a short cut, using his connections. Internal Security had not been helpful in providing essential information, so he would have to try to find out what they needed to know in his own way. He had a friend, Huang Shan, who was the director of the foreign liaison office of the Shanghai Writers’ Association. Chen had once been considered as a candidate for the position, but had recommended his friend Huang instead. Since Yin Lige had made the trip to Hong Kong as a member of the Shanghai Writers’ Association, the foreign liaison office must have kept a file on her. Her dossier should be available to Huang. Chen dialed Huang’s phone number; he readily promised to help.