“Isn’t there anything new at all?”
“Well, I had a free meal with Lei. He insisted on it-because of Yin. Really, this is something new for me, being treated by a businessman, just like Chief Inspector Chen,” he said. “Yin did not get along with most of her neighbors, but she could be helpful to some.”
“It’s hard to judge people. She might have lived too much in the past-together with Yang-to get along with her neighbors,” she said, “or to move out of the shadow of the Cultural Revolution.”
“What a life! I, too, have read a few pages of her novel. She said her life started with Yang in the cadre school, but how long were they really together? As lovers, less than a year. Now she may have died because of him.”
“Still, she got fame and money because of him,” Peiqin said. “And the book, too, of course.”
Perhaps this was meant to comfort him, but Yu did not see how. “You may be a bit too hard on her,” he said. “After all, it was her book; she earned her royalties.”
“I have nothing against her. But it’s a fact that the novel sold so well because of him, because of her relationship with him.” She added, “What about his poetry collection, the one she edited, then?”
“Poetry earns no money, as Chief Inspector Chen always says.”
“But Yang’s collection sold out.” She added, “It was a large printing. In those years, a lot of people read poetry. I bought a copy too.”
Afterward, at the neighborhood committee office, Yu mentioned Peiqin’s point in a phone conversation with Chief Inspector Chen.
“Things have changed a lot,” Chen said. “Several years ago, the publisher would have paid just a one-time fee of about fifteen Yuan per thousand characters, or ten lines of poetry. So all in all, she would not have received much money.”
“That’s what I guessed.”
“But if her contract provided that she would earn royalties based on sales, it might be another story. Have you talked to the editor about it?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, he may tell you the amount she received,” Chen said thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Maybe you should give him a call.”
A large sum could have been a motive for murder, but it seemed to Yu that since Chen was a passionate writer and Peiqin a passionate reader, they might be overemphasizing the literary aspects of the investigation. Still, Yu made a phone call to Wei, the editor of Death of a Chinese Professor at Shanghai Literature Publishing House.
“About Yin again?” Wei was not very patient on the phone.
“Sorry, we have to ask you some more questions,” Yu said.
He could understand Wei’s impatience. Wei had gotten into trouble because of Death of a Chinese Professor. If anything politically incorrect was published, not only the author, but the editor too, was held responsible. Should the author be well-known, he would sometimes get away with little punishment, while the editor became the one to shoulder the “black pot.” Wei had been criticized for having not foreseen the political repercussions of Death of a Chinese Professor.
“I have told you everything I know about Yin, Comrade Detective Yu. What a trouble-maker-even after her death.”
“Well, last time, we talked about Yin’s novel, Death of a Chinese Professor. But Yang also had a book published by your house. A poetry collection.”
“That’s right, but I am not the poetry editor. Jia Zijian edited the poetry collection. It came out sometime before the novel.”
“Has Jia talked to you about it?”
“We did not discuss it. A poetry book, you know, does not find too many readers, or make much money. Yin was involved with the book, of course. She was some character: she would not have let a single drop of fertilizer fall into anyone else’s field.”
“Can I talk to Jia?”
“He’s not in the office this morning. Call back in the afternoon.”
This did not appear to lead anywhere. Wei, too, was sure that the poetry collection had not earned much money. For a while after their conversation, however, Yu could not shake off an uneasy feeling, as if he had missed something.
Old Liang did not appear in the office in the morning. It was a silent protest, perhaps. For him, the case was finished when Wan confessed and any further investigational effort was an attack on Liang’s judgment.
Because Yu had been turning the conversation with Wei over in his mind, he called Peiqin.
“Wei only guesses,” Peiqin said, not ready to acknowledge that the sum involved would be so small. “You need to talk to the poetry editor.”
“I don’t know why Wei reacted so negatively against a dead woman,” he said.
“It beats me too. Why would he have a grudge against her?” Peiqin added abruptly, “He said she would not spare even a drop of fertilizer for anyone else. Who could he have meant?”
“Somebody else who wanted to edit the collection?”
“But no one could have competed with her. She alone had possession of many of Yang’s original poems.”
The proverb Wei had quoted was commonly used to describe a greedy person, or a person in a given business transaction who was overreaching. “I’ll call you later.” It was Detective Yu’s turn to be abrupt. He put down the phone and then immediately picked it up again to dial the editor.
“Comrade Wei, excuse me for one more question,” he said. “In our earlier talk, you used a proverb-not letting a single drop of fertilizer fall on another’s field. What did you mean?”
“That’s something Jia said-in connection with a relative of Yang’s, I remember.” Wei hardly tried to conceal the impatience in his voice. “So what?”
“Thank you so much, Comrade Wei. This may be very important for our work. I really appreciate your help.”
“Well, I don’t know much about it. You’d better talk to Jia. He will be back soon.” Wei added, “Oh, one more thing. About a year ago, somebody called to inquire about the publication date of the poetry collection’s second edition. The call was transferred to me, and I did not have any information for him. He might have been a reader interested in the poetry, but I somehow got the feeling that he called for some other reason.”
Yu decided to visit the publishing house.
The Shanghai Literature Publishing House was located on Shaoxing Road. It had been a large private residence in the thirties. There was a new bookstore cafe on the first floor. Detective Yu called Jia and waited for him there.
Jia, a man in his late forties, walked into the cafe in big strides. As Yu broached his topic, Jia eyed him in surprise.
“The second edition has not come out, has it?”
“What do you mean?” Yu said, reminded of the conversation with Wei.
“Then why do you ask, Comrade Detective Yu?”
Yu’s puzzlement was mirrored on Jia’s face. He apparently knew nothing about the murder investigation.
“I don’t know anything about the first edition or the second edition, Comrade Jia. Can you tell me what you know, from the beginning?”
“Well, it was several years ago,” Jia said slowly. “Yin asked me to arrange a meeting here at the publishing house to explain her contract for Yang’s poetry collection to Yang’s grandnephew.”
“Yang’s grandnephew?”
“Yes, a boy named Bao, from Jiangxi Province.”
“Hold on here-a boy, from Jiangxi Province -” Yu interrupted Jia. It fit the description given by the shrimp woman. The time was right, too. It made sense for Yin to have referred to him as her nephew. In view of the difference in their ages, it would have been too much to call him her grandnephew. “Yes, please go on, Comrade Jia.”
“His mother is an ex-educated youth, who married a local farmer and settled in Jiangxi. Bao must have come here to claim the money as the legitimate heir to Yang. After all, Yin had not been married to Yang.”