A Coffin From Hong Kong (18 page)

Sergeant Hamish leaned against the wall, chewing a tooth-pick, his cop eyes blankly staring at me. MacCarthy sucked at his empty pipe while he listened to my story.

I didn't tell him about the Silver Mine Bay outing. I felt if I had told him he might have turned hostile. I told him how I had wanted to talk to Mu Hai Ton, how I had found her through the Madame at the Wanchai bar and how I had seen her surprise and distress when I had told her Jo-An was dead.

"I had an idea she might want to pass on the news," I said, "so I waited across the road and followed her into the walled city."

I told them how Wong had suddenly appeared, what Belling had said and how Wong had coshed me.

After a long pause, MacCarthy said, "Well, you asked for it. You should have come to me." I let that one go.

He sat for some moments thinking over what I had told him, then before he could say what was on his mind, the telephone bell rang. He scooped up the receiver, listened, then said, "Well, keep after her, I want her," and hung up.

"She didn't return to her apartment," he said to me. "I have a man watching the place and we're looking for her."

I hadn't expected she would have been there waiting for them to pick her up. I wondered if they would eventually find her in the harbour the way they had found Leila.

"Have you a photograph of Frank Belling?" I asked. "I have an idea this guy wasn't Belling. He was an American."

MacCarthy opened a desk drawer and took out a fat file which showed he was taking more interest in Belling than he had led me to believe. He opened the file and took out a half-plate glossy print which he flicked across the desk so it fell right side up in front of me.

I looked at the photograph and felt a queer creepy sensation crawl up my spine. It was the same photograph that Janet West had given me: the hard gangster face Janet West had said belonged to Herman Jefferson."You sure this is Belling?" I said.

MacCarthy stared blankly at me.

"That's a police photograph. We distributed a number of them to the newspaper agencies and to the newspapers when we were trying to pick him up. Yes . . . that's Frank Belling." "That's not the man I talked to . . . the man who said he was Frank Belling."

MacCarthy drank some of his tea and then began to fill his pipe. I could see by the expression in his eyes he was beginning to dislike me.

"Then who was the man you talked to?"

"Did you ever meet Herman Jefferson?"

"Yes . . . why?"

"Got a photograph of him?"

"No ... he was an American citizen. Why should I have a photograph of him?" "Can you describe him?"

"Thin, sharp-featured with thinning sand-coloured hair," MacCarthy said promptly.

"Sound like the man I talked to ... the man who said he was Frank Belling."

There was a long pause, then MacCarthy said heavily, "Jefferson is dead. He was killed in a road accident and his body was shipped to America."

"Jefferson is alive . . . anyway, he was alive two hours ago," I said. "That description of yours fits him."

"The body in the car matched Jefferson's size," MacCarthy said as if trying to convince himself. "The body was so badly burned identification wasn't possible but his wife identified him by the ring on his finger and the cigarette case he was carrying. We had and still have no reason to think he was anyone else but Jefferson."

"If it wasn't Jefferson and I'm damn sure it wasn't, who was it?" I said.

"Why ask me?" MacCarthy said. "I've still no reason to think Jefferson is alive."

"A tall thin man with pale green eyes, thin sandy hair and thin lips," I said. I thought for a moment, then went on, "He had a crooked little finger on his right hand, come to think of it, as if it had been broken at one time and had been badly set."

"That's Jefferson," Hamish said. It was the first time he had said anything since I had come into the office. "I remember the crooked finger. That's Jefferson all right." MacCarthy puffed at his pipe.

"Then who was buried?" he asked uneasily. "Whose body was sent back to America?"

"My guess is that it was Frank Selling's body," I said. "For some reason Jefferson tried to kid me he was Belling."

"Why should he do that?"

"I don't know." I touched the bump on my head and grimaced. "If it's all the same to you, Chief Inspector, I'll go to bed. I'm feeling like something the cat has dragged in."

"You look like it," he said. "Let's have a description of Wong."

"He looks like any other Chinese to me. Squat, fat with gold teeth."

"That's right," MacCarthy said and stifled a yawn. "They all look alike to us just as we all look alike to them." He turned to Hamish. "Take as many men as you want and go through the walled city. See if you can find Jefferson. You won't, but we've got to try." To me, he said, "Okay, Ryan, you go to bed. You can leave this to us."

I said I would be glad to and went out of the office with Hamish.

"Looking for Jefferson in the walled city is like looking for the invisible man," Hamish said bitterly. "No one knows anything. Everyone covers up for everyone. I might have Jefferson right next to me and I wouldn't know it."

"Cheer up," I said unfeelingly. "It'll give you something to do."

Leaving him swearing, I picked up the Packard and drove back to the Repulse Bay Hotel. I felt old, tired and worn out.

I left the elevator on the fourth floor where my room was. The night boy, a grinning, bowing Chinese, wearing a white drill jacket and black trousers, bowed to me as he handed me my key. I thanked him and walked to my room. I unlocked the door and entered the sitting-room. Most of the rooms in the hotel had sirting-rooms. The bedroom was beyond drawn curtains that divided the two rooms. I turned on the light and pulled off my jacket. The air-conditioner made the room pleasantly cool.

My one thought was to take a cold shower and then go to bed, but it wasn't to be. As I parted the curtains and moved into the bedroom, I saw the bedside lamp was on.

I saw a woman lying on the bed. It was Stella Enright. She had on a gold and black cocktail dress. She had kicked off her shoes that were lying by the bed.

The sight of her gave me a shock. For a moment I thought she was dead, then I saw she was breathing by the rise and fall of her breasts. I stood there, staring at her, aware of the pain in my head and wondering what the hell she was doing here and how she got in. Then I remembered the grinning night boy and guessed she had bribed her way in.

As I watched her, she slowly opened her eyes and looked at me, then she lifted her head. Sitting up, she swung her long legs off the bed.

"I'm sorry," she said and smiled. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. I just got bored waiting for you."

"Have you been waiting long?" I asked, more for something to say. I sat down in an armchair, watching her as she slipped into her shoes. She patted her hair and then stood up and came into the sitting-room.

"I've been here since ten o'clock," she said. "I was worrying about you. I hope you don't mind me coming here." She hurried on before I could say anything. "What happened to you? I nearly missed the ferry. Why weren't you waiting for me?"

"I was delayed," I said, thinking of the thin Chinese with his knife and the squat Chinese with his rifle. "Now I'll ask you something. Was it your idea that you and I should go to Silver Mine Bay?"

She sat on the arm of the armchair facing me, "My idea? What do you mean?"

"It's not so hard, surely? When you suggested I should see the waterfall . . . was it your idea or did someone else suggest it to you?"

She frowned, staring at me for a moment, then she said, "I don't know why you ask, but my brother told me to invite you. He said you were lonely and would be glad of company." "Is he your brother?" I asked. She stiffened, stared at me and then quickly looked away. As she said nothing, I repeated the question.

"You're asking the most extraordinary questions," she said, still looking away from me. "What makes you ask that?"

"There's no likeness between you," I said, "and it seems odd to me that a girl like you should want to live with her brother."

I watched her hesitate, then she shrugged.

"No, he isn't my brother. I've only known him a couple of months. Now, I'm sorry I ever met him."

I gave up the thought of going to bed. I took out my pack of cigarettes and we both lit up. 

She slid off the arm of the chair into the chair itself and leaning back, she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.

"Where did you meet him?" I asked.

"In Singapore. I was doing a strip act at a night club there," she told me. "I'd come all the way from New York . . . like the dope I am. The night club was raided and I never got my money and I was strapped. Harry turned up. He had seen my act several times and he propositioned me. He had plenty of money, certain charm and . . . well, I went to live with him in a bungalow near the MacRitchie reservoir. It was nice out there. I had a good time with him until people began to talk, then it wasn't so good." She opened her eyes to stare at the burning tip of her cigarette. "I decided to go home, but Harry wouldn't give me the fare. Then suddenly he had to come here. He got me a false passport. We came here as brother and sister." She looked at me. "I still want to go home. Could you lend me the money? I'll pay you back in a couple of months." "How did he get you a false passport?" She shook her head. "I don't know . . I didn't ask. Will you lend me the money?" "I never lend that kind of money."

"If it would make any difference, we could travel together." She smiled stiffly at me. I had a sudden idea she was frightened. There was a bleak, scared expression in her eyes. "You know what I mean . . . value for money."

"I want a drink," I said. "Will you have one?" 

She sat bolt upright, her eyes widening. "Don't let anyone in here," she said, her voice going shrill. "I don't want anyone to know I'm here."

"The boy knows. He let you in, didn't he?"

"No. I got the number of your room and took the key off the board. There were two keys. He doesn't know I'm here."

I wished my head would stop aching."What are you scared about?"

She relaxed back in the chair, looking away from me. "I'm not scared. I just want to get away from here. I want to go home." "Why the sudden urgency?"

"Must you ask so many questions? Will you lend me the money? I'll sleep with you now it you'll promise to give me the money."

"I'll give you the money if you'll tell me all you know about Harry Enright."

I saw her hesitate, then she said, "I know very little about him really. He's just a playboy having himself a good time."

I was too tired to be patient. "Well, if that's all you know I'll keep my money," I said and getting to my feet I crossed to the telephone. "I'm going to order a drink and then I'm going to bed . . . alone. You'd better get out before the waiter comes."

"No . . . wait."

I called room service and asked for a bottle of Scotch and ice. As I replaced the receiver, she got to her feet.

"Will you really give me the money if I tell you what I know about him?" "That's what I said."

"I think he is a drug smuggler," she said, clenching and unclenching her hands. "Why do you think that?"

"People come to see him at night. When we were in Singapore he used to go down to the docks and meet sailors. The police once raided our bungalow in Singapore and they searched the place, but they didn't find anything. Here, we get night visitors. They are always Chinese. He goes out in the early hours in his boat." "Jefferson did live in your villa before you came?"

"Yes. Harry told me not to tell you. When Jefferson was killed, Harry was sent from Singapore to replace him. The villa is conveniently situated for receiving drugs." There came a gentle tap on the door.

"That's the waiter," I said. "Get into the bathroom and stay quiet."

As soon as she was in the bathroom and had shut the door, I went across the room to let the waiter in.

Just outside 'the door, smiling, was Harry Enright. He had a .38 automatic in his hand which he pointed at me.

"Don't start anything smart, pal," he said. "Just back in and keep your hands still." I backed in, keeping my hands still.

"Don't look so hopeful," Enright said, closing the door and leaning against it. "I told the waiter you had changed your mind . . . he's gone away."

"Okay for me to sit down?" I said. "The excitement is getting too much for me."

I sat down, keeping my hands on my knees and I studied him. The smile was fixed. There was a cold, vicious expression in his eyes that warned me to be careful. The gun was steady in his hand and the sight was centred on a spot just between my eyes.

"You're smart," Enright said. "You don't know how goddam smart you are. You did something I haven't been able to do for the past three weeks." "What would that be?" I asked.

"You found Jefferson. I've been hunting for that son-of-a-bitch until I thought I'd go crazy. To think I nearly had you killed ! Then you go out and find him . . . just like that."

"I'm not following you," I said. "Do you have to point that gun at me? I've had a heavy day and that gun looks lethal."

Still keeping me covered, he moved farther into the room. He sat on the same chair arm on which Stella had sat not ten minutes ago.

"Don't worry about the gun," he said. "Just so long as you don't start anything smart, you won't get a bullet in your head. What did you tell the cops?" "What makes you imagine I told the cops anything?"

"I've had a man on your tail from the moment you started showing interest in the villa. I spotted you in the pedallo. From that moment we haven't taken our eyes off you." "We? You mean this drug traffic organisation?"

"That's it, pal. It's a big thing . . . too big for you. It makes me sweat to think those two might have killed you. That was my mistake. I should have left you alone. I had no idea you were after Jefferson."