As Chen expected, the information he had requested arrived by special courier that afternoon.

Chen saw that Yin had recently made an application for renewal of her passport. The formalities required that an applicant first be approved by his or her work unit. Yin had chosen to go through the Writers’ Association because of her membership in that group, rather than through her college. The application was based on an invitation from a small American university for a trip at the end of the coming summer.

In the past, an application of a dissident writer like Yin would have been denied at the outset. But the Party authorities must have come to the realization that the more they tried to keep dissidents at home, the more attention they attracted abroad. Once out of China, they were no longer the focus of attention, no longer even a nine days’ wonder. In fact, the Party authorities had believed that Yin would not return from her earlier trip to Hong Kong. Good riddance once and for all, they must have hoped. However, she had come back to Shanghai. So there was no reason to reject her current application for a passport renewal.

Nor did there seem to be anything suspicious about her application, according to Huang. Yin had been invited as a visiting scholar for the next school year and granted a fellowship, although it was only symbolic in terms of money. So a literary agency in New York had provided a financial support affidavit. With or without the affidavit, as a well-known dissident writer, Yin would not have had a problem getting a visa from the American consul in Shanghai.

But the information surprised Chen, for Yu should have been informed of her application, whatever political considerations Internal Security or the higher authorities might have had. For the first time, Chen seriously considered the possibility that the murder might have been politically motivated. Why else would they be so cagey even after her death? But, on the other hand, if the government had intended to prevent her leaving China, wouldn’t she have been denied a passport when she had applied to make the earlier trip to Hong Kong? “Murdered Before Her Trip to the United States ”: such a headline would be internationally sensational, would have the potential to damage the new image the government was trying hard to present to the world.

Then something else in the file caught his attention. Yin had recently had her birth certificate and diploma translated and notarized through the Writers’ Association. This made no sense unless as a step toward emigration. Like so many others, she might have intended to remain in the United States. And there was something odd about the sponsorship affidavit too, although it was not exactly suspicious. For a lot of Chinese would-be emigrants, that financial affidavit served only for the visa application. The sponsoring individual had agreed beforehand with the applicant that he would not, in fact, be liable, despite signing and swearing to the document. But if an American company furnished such a financial affidavit, it might be different. Why should a literary agency have offered her financial support for a year? That was a lot of money. As far as Chen knew, Death of a Chinese Professor had not sold that well in the United States. The relatively small sum it had earned was out of proportion to what the literary agency had promised in the affidavit.

He made himself a pot of coffee. Whistling, he tapped lightly on the Brazilian coffee can. He hoped the cup of coffee would give him fresh ideas.

Was it possible that she had another book contract obtained by that agency? If so, they might have used her advance as the sum promised in the affidavit. There was no information, however, about Yin having written a new book.

Could it be money for Yang’s poetry translation? That might also account for the presence of the manuscript in the bank safety deposit box.

But there was no information about this either. Also, he doubted that a translation of Chinese poems into English would sell so well.

Chapter 13

Yu left for home early in the afternoon. He could not do any solid thinking in the neighborhood committee office, where people were constantly coming and going. Nor did he want to return to the police bureau. He was in no mood for another political lecture from Party Secretary Li.

When he arrived home and opened the front door to the house before stepping into the courtyard, he was surprised to see Peiqin busily making coal briquettes there.

“You’ve come back early today.”

“You, too.”

There was not much coal dust left. Behind Peiqin, against the wall, stood a small mound of coal briquettes.

She had rented a briquette mold from the neighborhood coal store, an upper and lower half connected by a steel spring. The lower part was filled with coal dust, and water sprinkled over it; the upper part, which had hollow cylinders throughout, had to be pushed down hard to form each briquette. It was not yet spring, and rather windy for the time of the year. Her hands were covered with wet dust, and her wrists, chilled by the damp and the cold, were red.

In the first year of their marriage, he had occasionally made briquettes from coal dust to save money since the local coal store sold coal dust far more cheaply than ready-made briquettes. As he began to roll up his sleeves, he wondered why she had chosen that afternoon for the arduous chore.

“I’m almost finished, Yu. Don’t get your hands dirty,” she said, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “There is a pot of green bean soup in our room. Go in and help yourself.”

A light gray smudge from the back of her hand appeared on her forehead. He chose not to mention it. But he said, “Don’t do this again, Peiqin. It’s not worth it. “

“It’s not about the money. No ration coupons are needed to buy coal dust. And Geng’s business is too good.”

One problem Geng’s private restaurant had was an inadequate coal supply. Most rationing restrictions had disappeared from the city of Shanghai, but there was still a shortage of coal. Peiqin had been helping Geng with his accounting work. Now, it seemed, she was helping with his coal problem.

“We will use these at home,” she explained with a smile. “Then Geng can have our ration coupon.”

In their room, he helped himself to a bowl of green bean soup, which was supposed to keep the body’s elements in balance. Green beans were not in season; the soup must have come from her restaurant. It was already cool.

Peiqin entered their room, wiping her hands on a towel. She must have washed at the courtyard sink. There was no longer a faint smudge on her forehead. “How is it going?”

“Slow,” he said, “as usual.”

“Is Chief Inspector Chen still on vacation?”

“Yes, still busy with his translation.”

“It must be some project to keep him away from such a case.”

“Yes, it’s a very lucrative commission from Mr. Gu, a Mister Big Bucks of the New World Corporation.”

“Long sleeves are wonderful for dancing. Chief Inspector Chen has long connections. Because of the connections he has made in his position, those Misters Big Bucks come to him.”

“That may well be true,” Yu said somewhat somberly. “But he is a capable man.”

“No, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying anything against your boss. At least he works for his money, instead of taking it for doing nothing.”

“You should have had a rest today, Peiqin, instead of making those coal briquettes.”

“It was like a good workout for me. A health club recently opened on Huaihai Road. It beats me how people pay to go there.”

“The newly rich cannot find enough ways to waste their money.”

“Well, we may be worse off than the upper crust,” she said, “but we’re better off than the bottom layer.”