“Something from Mao?” Chen was instantly alert, though hardly able to smother the sarcasm in his voice. “What could that possibly be?”

“We don’t know.”

“Perhaps pictures with captions saying ‘Our great leader encouraged a revolutionary artist to make a new contribution,’ or ‘Let hundreds of flowers bloom.’ Our newspapers and magazines were full of his pictures.”

“Shang could have left it to her daughter Qian,” Huang went on without responding, “who died in an accident toward the end of the Cultural Revolution, leaving behind a daughter of her own, named Jiao. So you are going to approach Jiao.”

“Why?”

“She may have it.”

“Something from Mao – the Mao material, you mean?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“Did Shang, Qian, or Jiao ever show this material to anyone?”

“No. Not that we are aware of.”

“Then there may not even be any such material.”

“Why would you think that?”

“With someone like Shang, a popular movie actress, her home must have been thoroughly ransacked and searched by Red Guards. They never found anything, right? The Mao material – whatever it could be – wasn’t something like a life-saving imperial decree like in ancient time. Even if it existed, it didn’t save her; if anything, it probably only caused her trouble. How would she have been able to leave it to her daughter Qian? And how could Qian, dying in an accident, have given it to her daughter Jiao?”

“Comrade Chief Inspector Chen!” Huang obviously was not pleased with Chen’s response. “We cannot afford to overlook this possibility. There are some quite suspicious things about Jiao. About a year ago, for instance, she suddenly quit her job and moved into a luxurious apartment. Where did the money come from? Now she’s regularly attending parties with people from Hong Kong, Taiwan, or Western countries. What is she really up to? What’s more, the host of these parties, a certain Mr. Xie, is someone who bears a deep grudge against Mao. So she could be trying to sell the Mao material for a large advance.”