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Road? You used to live quite close to that neighborhood,
     I remember.”
    “Yes, I know him. Nowadays he’s an authority on the thirties, on the fashion of those years too. He talked to me about it
     two or three weeks ago.”
    “Have you been to his parties?”
    “No, I’m too old for those fashionable parties of his, but I went to his father’s. So he calls me uncle. That was before 1949,
     of course. What do you want with him, Chief Inspector Chen?”
    “So you’re like an uncle to him! That’s great. I’ve been thinking of a book project about old Shanghai. It would be fantastic
     if you would be so kind as to introduce me to him.”
    “Well, the golden and glittering thirties could serve as another myth of the city for the upstarts today. They have to invent
     a tradition to justify their extravagance. But I’ll introduce you to him. No problem.”
    “Thank you so much, Mr. Shen. Oh, by the way, you may tell him that I’m a writer — and an ex-businessman too — with an interest
     in the thirties. Don’t mention that I’m a cop.”
    “What Xie’s really up to, I don’t know,” the old man said hesitantly, “but I think he is harmless.”
    “I’m not going to get him into trouble, Mr. Shen. I give you my word. It’s only because he might not talk freely to a cop.”
    “I trust you, Chief Inspector Chen. I’m giving him a call and write you a letter of introduction too — about the talented writer
     and a good man that I know. Don’t worry. I’ll have the letter sent to you by special delivery.”
    “I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

    “There’s no need.” Shen added with a chuckle, “Just give me a copy of your book when it’s published.”
    As he put the phone back, Chen saw a word on the back of a matchbox on the nightstand —
Poetry
— scribbled in his own sloppy handwriting.
    What could that possibly mean?
    He had gotten sentimental over Li Shangyin’s poem before falling asleep last night, but that was not something worth writing
     down.
    There was a knock on the door. Another special delivery package for the case, he suspected. It was a package, but to his surprise,
     it was postmarked as from abroad — from London. It was from Ling — he guessed she must have mailed it during her honeymoon trip.
     That the couple went abroad was no surprise. The newlyweds were both successful entrepreneurs with HCC background and could
     easily afford the trip.
    He tore open the package to find a large book inside:
The Waste Land: A Facsimile and Transcript of the Original Draft Including the Annotations of Ezra Pound.
There was no note enclosed.
    It was a book about the writing of T. S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land,” containing the manuscripts with the changes made by Eliot
     and by Pound and the marginal notes made at different stages. The book would shed light on the connection between Eliot’s
     personal life and his “impersonal” work, Chen contemplated, as he leafed through a few pages.
    But it was not the time for him to sit down and read it. Nor was he in the mood. There’s nothing more accidental than the
     world of words. And ironical too. Had he gotten the book shortly after his college years, he would have used it in his translation
     of Eliot — possibly making it a better translation, which might have changed his career’s course. At the moment, however, in
     the midst of the Mao Case, it was irrelevant, and at best, it was only a consolation prize for having lost Ling — perhaps even
     less than that. She hadn’t totally forgotten about him, but it was like a footnote on a closed chapter.
    He was pondering the wording for a thank-you card when there
was another knock on the door. This time, it was a stranger standing there, reaching out his hand formally. He was a tall
     man with a serious-looking square face and broad shoulders, probably in his early forties. He produced a badge to show to
     Chen.
    “I’m Lieutenant Song Keqiang of Internal Security.