“Look,” Qinqin whispered to Yu. “He took pork out of his pocket.”

It was true. The old man actually produced plastic-wrapped slices of pork from his jacket pocket, put them into the soup, and waited for the celebrated soaking effect.

“Is that pork really so special?” Qinqin asked in amusement.

Yu did not know how to answer. For regular customers here, he supposed, it could be a ritual to place a piece of xiao pork on top of the noodles. But he did not know what kind of pork the old fellow had brought with him. Perhaps it was ham, processed in a very special way.

But there was another mystery: xiao pork was prepared only at Old Half Place. What the old man brought must have been home-cooked pork. If so, why had he bothered?

Then, when he took off his hat and turned toward them, Yu recognized the old customer to be none other than Mr. Ren.

“Ah, Mr. Ren!”

“Comrade Detective Yu, I’m so glad to see you here in Old Half Place!” Mr. Ren said with a genial smile. “You have taken my advice, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have brought my wife and son as well. Peiqin and Qinqin.”

“Great. A wonderful family dining out together. That’s the spirit,” Mr. Ren said with an energetic gesture. “Please go ahead and enjoy your noodles or they will get cold.”

Turning back, Yu whispered in Peiqin’s ear, “He is someone I met at Yin’s building.”

“I should have known better,” she whispered back. “Imagine you having the leisure to take us out for breakfast in the midst of your investigation.”

“No, our breakfast has nothing to do with the case.”

But that was not exactly true. Yu might have intended, subconsciously, to check the accuracy of Mr. Ren’s statement.

“He told me a lot about Old Half Place when I interviewed him. Does that count as something related to the case?”

“He’s one of the suspects on your list, I remember,” she said with a smile of subtle sarcasm. “And are you satisfied now?”

“Well, he’s not on my list any longer, but I’m satisfied with breakfast.”

That was true. The breakfast, at a total of sixteen Yuan for the three of them, was inexpensive yet delightful. It was also good for the whole family to go out occasionally, like this.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Mr. Ren turned around to their table. His noodles were finished. “You may be surprised that I took some pork out of my pocket. That’s a trick only an old gourmet knows how to play.” He grinned at Qinqin.

“Yes, please tell me why you did that,” Qinqin said.

“After lunchtime, the restaurant sells xiao pork by the kilo. Fifty Yuan for one kilo. It sounds expensive, but it is not really. If you slice the pork at home, one kilo will make about seventy-five or eighty portions. How much do you pay for a side dish here? Two Yuan. So I buy half a kilo, put it in the refrigerator-you must have a refrigerator at home-and take out a few slices before I come here.”

“You surely don’t have to be so hard on yourself, Mr. Ren, with all-” Yu did not say “all your compensation money.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Detective Yu. An old gourmet will do anything but let his stomach down. I’m too old to care for what’s called-oh, conspicuous consumption. The xiao pork I bring with me tastes the same in my mouth. Old Half Place is a good place. I hope I’ll see you here again.”

“We will certainly come back,” Yu said. “When the investigation is over, you will have to tell me more about your gourmet tricks.”

“Come to my restaurant some day, Mr. Ren,” Peiqin said. “Ours is not well-known-it is called Four Seas -but we have some quite good specialties, and they are inexpensive too.”

“Four Seas? I think I’ve heard of it. I will be there. You may count on that. Thank you, Peiqin.”

They rose from their tables, ready to leave.

Near the entrance, Qinqin stopped to look over the counter into a window, behind which two white-clad, white-capped chefs were slicing the chunks of xiao pork deftly on huge stumps. There were rows of chickens, dripping oil, hung on the shining steel hooks overhead.

“It’s like in Zhaungzi,” Qinqin said.

“Really!” Yu said vaguely, without catching the reference. Perhaps Peiqin had.

Then he saw Mr. Ren, who had walked out ahead of them, walking back toward the restaurant.

“Did you forget something, Mr. Ren?”

“No-that is, I forgot to tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

“Maybe it is nothing, but I’d better tell you about it, I think,” Mr. Ren said. “On the morning of February seventh, when I went out of the shikumen building, I saw somebody leaving in front of me.”

“Who?”

“Wan.”

“Really! Do you remember the time?”

“Well, as I have told you, it was around five forty-five.”

“Are you sure it was Wan, and that it was that morning?”

“I’m pretty sure. We may not be close as neighbors, but we have lived in the same building for many years.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No, I did not. As a rule, I do not talk much to my neighbors- after so many years of being a black capitalist.”

“Neither did my father. He was a black capitalist too, when he was alive,” Peiqin interjected. “He was in the import-export line of business.”

“Yes, it’s understandable only to those who have lived through the years of humiliation. I used to be so black, politically black, and Wan used to be so politically red,” Ren said, his lips hardening into a bitter smile. “Of course it’s possible that Wan, too, came back that morning-earlier than usual-to commit the murder, but isn’t that too far-fetched?”

“You are absolutely right, Mr. Ren. That is a very important point. In his statement, Wan did not mention going out earlier that morning.”

“Now there’s another thing. I’ve heard people talking about a train ticket found in Wan’s room as the piece of evidence that pinned the crime on him, but I happen to know something else about it.”

“What is it, Mr. Ren?”

“Another coincidence,” Mr. Ren said. “As a frugal gourmet, I eat around, not just at Old Half Place. Another of my favorite restaurants is close to the Shanghai railway station. Western Hill is known for its mini soup buns. The soup inside the bun is so juicy and delicious.

“One morning half a year ago, I happened to see Wan standing in a long line in front of the railway ticket window. I did not pay too much attention then. He might have been buying a train ticket for a relative, if not for himself.

“Then one morning several weeks ago, I saw Wan standing in a long line there again.”

“That’s strange,” Yu said. “Wan seems to have lived by himself. I have not heard anything about his making frequent trips out of Shanghai.”

“It’s none of my business. But that morning, Western Hill was so packed with customers that I had to wait for more than an hour and half before a bamboo steamer of mini soup buns appeared on my table. On my way out, I caught sight of Wan again. This time, he was not standing in line; he was selling tickets to some provincials in the railway station square. So Wan earned a little money by selling tickets to those unable to stand for hours in line.”

“That’s the very information I need. Instead of going out for tai chi practice, Wan goes out early every morning to buy and sell train tickets. Now I see.”

“I have never talked to anybody about this. Wan is a man who cannot afford to lose face. It’s terribly humiliating for an ex-Mao Zedong Thought Propaganda Worker Team Member to end up being a train ticket scalper. So he told the neighbors he practiced tai chi in the morning.

“A Propaganda Member could be as relentless as a Red Guard during those years, but I have no personal grudge against them. No one should be wronged, Wan or anybody else, just to conclude a murder investigation.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Ren. This is a real breakthrough.”