Free Shanghai Redemption by Qiu Xiaolong Page B

possible that the journalist simply wrote the piece based on a press release, without so much as a fact-checking phone call about the details of the party. Or was it possible that no one there, including Wuting or Rong, was aware of the raid? It would certainly be understandable for the nightclub management to keep mum.
    All of this, however, pointed to the scenario that occurred to him last night: that the raid was targeting not the Heavenly World, but rather someone who was there—a surprise attack by the police in collaboration with the nightclub management. Chen recalled the surprising overtures of the cat girls and realized that it was very possible that the person they were targeting was the former chief inspector Chen himself.
    If so, if he was indeed the target, then he’d had a very lucky escape last night. But that kind of luck wouldn’t last long.
    That kind of political assassination was most thorough. Pan Ming, the former Shanghai Propaganda Minister, had been personally and professionally annihilated in a very similar way. During the eventful summer of 1989, Pan had chosen the “wrong side” and was removed from his position. But his political enemies worried that he might be able to stage a comeback. So one evening, he was caught in the company of a naked massage girl. It was obviously a setup, but there was evidence and witnesses, so Internal Security nailed Pan to “the pillory of humiliation.” After he was released from prison several years later, it was rumored that Pan was a broken man, running a small eatery somewhere near Shanghai.
    The sponsor of the book launch party, Rong Pan, undoubtedly had close ties to the local government, otherwise his non-state-run bank wouldn’t exist in the first place. As for his fondness for and knowledge of T. S. Eliot, he could have been stuffed with it like a Peking duck, all for the purpose of staging that party.
    Was Wuting involved? To what extent? It was a convenient fact that Wuting got an emergency phone call, causing him to leave the nightclub shortly before the raid. Chen had always thought of him as a capable publisher. But it wasn’t easy to run a decent publishing house in this materialistic age, especially under the constraints of Party censorship. That Wuting’s survival might have required some sort of collaboration between the publisher and the authorities wasn’t unimaginable.
    But for his mother’s call, Chen—if he was indeed the target—could have ended up like Pan, caught by the police in the company of the two undressed cat girls. There would have been no use in his arguing or trying to explain. Being discovered in such a scenario would have finished him and put him beyond redemption.
    Suffering another assault from his dull headache, Chen didn’t want to speculate further.
    He picked up the phone and called his mother.
    â€œI’d planned to come over yesterday, Mother, but something unexpected came up. So I had the pictures delivered to you instead.”
    â€œDon’t worry. I know you’re busy. The pictures arrived,” she said. “Last night, I placed them on the small table in front of the Guanyin image and burned incense and candles. Guess what? Sparks flew up from the candles like small flowers, and then the picture quivered a couple of times. It’s a sign.”
    She was a devout Buddhist, capable of seeing signs in many things. Chen never tried to argue with her.
    â€œWhat time, Mother?”
    â€œIt was almost ten, I think,” she said. “I was thinking of your father. So the candle must have been his message to us. He’s still around here, blessing and protecting us.”
    â€œYes, I think so too.” That was around the time the black-clad police were sneaking into the nightclub.
    â€œAbout the grave renovation—you do whatever is necessary, but don’t spend too much. And don’t go out of your way. You already have a lot on