Earlier, Chen had hinted about the possibility of his being shadowed in the midst of his carrying out the investigation. It would not be too far-fetched to portray Qiang as a collateral casualty. At least it appeared as a convincing scenario to himself.

With the power struggle going on at the top, it might appear convincing to Zhao, too.

The inspector had no idea what he could do for Qiang, but he would try in whatever way possible.

‘Knowing it’s impossible for you to do the thing, you still have to try as long as it’s the right thing for you to do.’ He had quoted the Confucian maxim recently, though he failed to recall when.

‘What’s up?’ Yu said, moving over.

Chen knew he must have looked terrible, with the cellphone grasped tight in his trembling hand.

Others were also coming over to Chen, looking at him with concern in their eyes. After all, the enigmatic inspector might not have told them everything.

‘The service is finished here,’ Peiqin said tentatively.

The fire out in the burner, the gold and silver ingots in ashes, the monks were filing back to the hall.

‘I’ve got to leave now,’ Chen said, ‘for another case, possibly related.’

QIU XIAOLONG (Shanghai, 1953 - ). He was selected for membership in the Chinese Writers’ Association and published poetry, translations and criticism in China. He has lived in the United States since 1989 and has an M.A. and a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature awarded by Washington University. His work has been published in Prairie Schooner, New Letters, Present Tense, River Styx, Riverfront Times, and in several anthologies. He has been the recipient of the Missouri Biennial Award, the Prairie Schooner Readers’ Choice Award, a Yaddo and a Ford Foundation Fellowship. He teaches Chinese Literature at University College of Washington University and lives in St. Louis with his wife and daughter.