“Thank you, Auntie Yao,” Chen said. “Don’t worry about me. I want to have a quiet meal here.”

“Good. I don’t think he’ll bother you again – not until he’s done with his horse shit,” she said, glaring over her shoulder.

“Don’t worry about me, Auntie Yao,” Gang echoed from his table as she retreated into the kitchen.

Auntie Yao must have been the restaurant’s only waitress, having worked there for years and knowing the regular customers well. She soon returned to Chen’s table with the noodles and the chef’s special.

The special came in a small rustic urn, still steaming, as if from a rural kitchen. The beef noodles looked both hot and fresh.

She sat on a stool not far from his table, as if guarding him, making sure that Chen had a quiet meal.

But he wasn’t going to have one that evening.

He was just putting the chopsticks into the fragrant-smelling urn when his cell phone rang. Possibly another call from Yong, he thought, who didn’t give up easily.

“Comrade Chief Inspector Chen, this is Huang Keming from Beijing.”

“Oh, Minister Huang.”

“We need to talk. Is it a good time for you?”

It was not, but Chen chose not to say so to the new Minister of Public Security. Nor was it really a question from Huang. Chen rose, hurrying out of the eatery, both hands covering the phone. “Yes, please go ahead, Minister Huang.”

“Do you know about Shang Yunguan, a movie queen during the fifties?”

“Shang Yunguan… I watched one or two of her movies long ago. But they didn’t leave much of an impression. She committed suicide at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, I think.”

“She did, but in the fifties and early sixties, she was very popular. When Chairman Mao came to Shanghai, he danced with her at parties arranged by the local government.”

“Yes, Minister Huang?” Chen asked, wondering where this was going.

“She could have taken – or been given – something from him. There were many opportunities.”