A Coffin From Hong Kong (6 page)

"Are you going to Hong Kong, Mr. Ryan?" she asked, pushing the cheque book aside. She watched me as I sat down.

"I guess so, but I can't leave at once. I could make it by the end of the week if I'm lucky." "You will need a smallpox shot. Cholera too would be wise, but it isn't compulsory."

"I'm all up to date with my shots." I took out a pack of cigarettes, offered it and when she shook her head, I lit up and put the pack back in my pocket. "Mr. Jefferson said you had some letters from his son. I need every scrap of information I can get, otherwise it'll be just so much waste of time going all that way." "I have them ready for you."

She opened a drawer and took out about six letters which she handed to me.

"Herman only wrote once a year. Apart from the address I'm afraid they won't tell you much."

I glanced through the letters: they were very short. In each one was an urgent request for money. Herman Jefferson was no correspondent, but he certainly seemed to have had money on his mind. He merely stated he was in good health and he wasn't having any luck and could his father let him have some money as soon as he could. The first letter was dated five years ago and each letter was written at yearly intervals. The last letter, however, did interest me. It was dated a year ago.

Celestial Empire Hotel,

Wanchai

Yours ever,

Herman.

I laid down the letter.

"That was the last letter he wrote," Janet West said quietly. "Mr. Jefferson was very angry. He cabled, forbidding the marriage. He heard nothing more from or about his son until ten days ago when this letter arrived."

She handed over a letter written on cheap notepaper which smelt faintly of sandalwood. The writing was badly formed and not easy to read.

Celestial Empire Hotel,

Wanchai

Jo-An Jefferson.

This struck me as a pathetic letter and I imagined this Chinese girl suddenly left alone with the unburied body of her husband, without money and without any future unless her father-in law relented and took pity on her. "Then what happpened?" I asked.

Janet West rolled her gold fountain pen across the blotter. Her remote eyes went a shade more remote.

"Mr. Jefferson wasn't satisfied this letter was genuine. He thought possibly this woman was trying to get money out of him and that his son wasn't dead. I telephoned the American Consul at Hong Kong and learned that Herman had died in a motor accident. Mr. Jefferson then told me to write to this woman, telling her to send the body back. He suggested she should remain in Hong Kong and he would arrange an income to be paid regularly to her, but as you know, she came back with the body, although she didn't come here." "And the body?"

I had a sudden idea that she was controlling herself. I could sense the tension in her although it didn't show.

"The funeral will be the day after tomorrow."

"Just what did Herman do in Hong Kong for a living?"

"We don't know. When he went there first, his father arranged for him to have the position of assistant manager to an export firm but after six months, Herman left. Since then, he never told his father what he was doing: only these yearly requests for money." "Did Mr. Jefferson give him what he asked for?" "Oh yes. Whenever he was asked, he always sent money."

"From these letters," I said, touching the letters, "Herman seems to have asked for money once a year. Were the sums substantial?"

"Never more than five hundred dollars."

"He couldn't have lived on that for a year. He must have earned something besides." "I suppose so."

I rubbed my jaw while I stared out of the window, my mind busy.

"There's not much to go on, is there?" I said finally. Then I asked the question I had been wanting to ask since I had become aware of her nearly concealed tension. "Did you know Herman Jefferson personally?"

That got a reaction. I saw her stiffen slightly and the remoteness went out of her eyes for a brief moment, but came back.

"Why, yes, of course. I have been with Mr. Jefferson for eight years. Herman lived here before he went out East. Yes: I knew him."

"What sort of man was he? His father says he was wild but he now thinks if he had been more understanding his son wouldn't have been so wild. Do you agree?"

Her eyes flashed suddenly and I was startled to see how hard she could look when she let her mask slip.

"Mr. Jefferson was very shocked to learn his son was dead," she said, her voice sharp. "At the moment he is feeling sentimental. Herman was vicious, callous and amoral. He was a thief. He stole money from his father: he even stole money from me. It is hard to believe he was Mr. Jefferson's son. Mr. Jefferson is a fine man: he has never done a mean thing in his life!" I found her intensify slightly embarrassing.

"Well, thanks," I said and got to my feet. "I'll do my best for Mr. Jefferson, but I'll have to have some luck."

She flicked through a pile of signed cheques, found one and pushed it across the desk.

"Mr. Jefferson wishes to pay you a retainer. I will have your air ticket ready when you let me know when you can leave. If you need more money, please let me know."

I looked at the cheque. It was signed by her and for a thousand dollars.

"I'm not this expensive," I said. "Three hundred would have been enough."

"Mr. Jefferson told me he wanted you to have it," she said as if she had handed me five bucks.

"Well, I never refuse money." I looked at her. "You handle Mr. Jefferson's affairs?" "I'm his secretary," she said, a curt note in her voice.

"Well . . ." There didn't seem anything to say to that, so instead, I said, "I'll contact you as soon as I know when I can leave."

As I was moving to the door, she said, "Was she very pretty?"

For a moment I didn't catch on, then I looked quickly at her. She sat still, and there was a curious expression in her eyes I couldn't read.

"His wife? I guess so. Some Chinese women are very attractive. She was—even in death." "I see."

She picked up her fountain pen and pulled the triple cheque book towards her. It was her way of dismissing me.

I found the butler waiting for me in the hall. He let me out with a slight bow. No one could ever accuse him of being over talkative.

I walked slowly to my car. That last scrap of dialogue had been enlightening. I was suddenly sure at one time or the other Janet West and Herman Jefferson had been lovers. The news of his marriage and his death must have been as great a shock to her as it had been to old man Jefferson. This was an unexpected and interesting development. I decided it might pay off to know something more about Janet West.

I got into my car and drove to police headquarters. I had to wait half an hour before I could see Retnick. I found him at his desk, chewing a dead cigar and in a depressed mood. "I don't know if I want to waste time with you, shamus," he said as I shut the door and came over to his desk. "What do you want?"

"I'm now employed by J. Wilbur Jefferson," I said. "I thought you should know." His face hardened.

"If you foul up my investigation, Ryan," he said, "I'll see you lose your licence. I'm warning you." He paused, then went on, "What's he paying you?" I sat down on the upright chair.

"Enough. I won't have a chance to foul up anything. I'm going to Hong Kong."

"Who wouldn't be a peeper," he said. "Hong Kong, eh? Wouldn't mind going there myself. What do you imagine you'll do when you get there?"

"The old man wants to know who the girl is. He thinks we won't get anywhere until I've dug up her background and taken a look at it. He could be right."

Retnick fidgeted with a ball pen for some moments, then he said, "It'll be a waste of money and time, but I don't suppose that'll worry you as long as you get paid."

"It won't," I said cheerfully. "He can afford to indulge his whims and I can afford the time. I might even strike lucky."

"I know as much about her as you'll ever find out. I didn't have to go to Hong Kong to find out cither. All I had to do was to send a cable."

"And what did you find out?"

"Her name was Jo-An Cheung—that's a hell of a name, isn't it? Three years ago she was caught landing in Hong Kong from a junk from Macau. She spent six weeks in jail and was then given papers. She worked as a taxi dancer at the Pagoda Club and that probably means she was a prostitute." He scratched his ear, looking out of the window for some moments before going on. "She married Jefferson before the American Consul on the 21st of September of last year. They lived together at a Chinese joint called the Celestial Empire Hotel. Jefferson seems to have had no Work. He probably lived on what she earned and what he picked up from his old man. On September 6th of this year, he was killed in a car smash and she applied to the American Consul for permission to take his body back to his home. That's the story. Why go to Hong Kong?" "I'm being paid to go. Anyway, I'll be out of your way."

He grinned evilly. "Don't worry about getting in my way, shamus. I can get you out of my way any time."

I gave him that. There were times when he had to feel important : this was one of them. "Well, how's the case going? Getting anywhere?"

"No." He scowled down at his ink-stained blotter. "What foxes me more than anything is why she came to your office at three o'clock in the morning."

"Yeah. Maybe I'll get the answer in Hong Kong." I paused to light a cigarette, then went on, "Old man Jefferson is worth a lot of money. I imagine his son would have inherited it. Unless his father altered his Will, Jo-An would have been his heiress now the son is dead. Someone might have been tempted to knock her off so she didn't inherit. I'd like to find out who is coming into his money now. Could be a motive for the murder."

He brooded, then said, "You get an idea now and then. Yeah: it's an idea."

"Have you run into his secretary: Janet West? It wouldn't surprise me if she doesn't pick up some of Jefferson's money when he passes on. I think, one time, she was in love with the son. Could be an idea to check where she was at three o'clock when the Chinese woman was shot."

"How do I do that?" Retnick asked. "I've met her. The old man is gaga about her. If I start digging into her private life, I could run into trouble and that's something I never do. He draws a lot of water in this town." He looked hopefully at me. "What makes you think she was in love with the son?"

"I've been talking to her. She has a nice line of control, but it slipped a little. I'm not suggesting she killed the girl, but maybe she knows more about the killing than she lets on. Maybe she has an ambitious boy friend."

"I'm not going to chase that goat," Retnick said. "What I've got to find out is why that yellow skin came to your office. Once I find that out, the case is solved." I got to my feet.

"You could be right. When is the inquest? I'd like to get off as soon as I can."

"Tomorrow at ten. It won't mean a thing, but you'll have to be there." He poked the ball pen into his blotter. "Don't forget, if you turn up anything, I want to know." "Don't you do anything for your pay?"

He made a sour face.

"Who calls it pay? I have to watch my step. Jefferson draws ..." "I know . . . you told me."

I left him digging more holes in his blotter. The killer of Jo-An Jefferson would have liked to have seen him. The sight would have given him a lot of confidence.

I returned to my office. As I was about to unlock my door, I had an idea. I walked the few yards down the corridor and knocked on Jay Wayde's door, then pushed it open.

I walked into a large office, well furnished, with a desk facing the door on which stood a tape recorder, a telephone, a portable typewriter and a couple of steel 'In and Out' trays. Wayde sat behind the desk, smoking a pipe, pen in hand, papers before him.

There was another door to his right. Through it came the chick of a busy typewriter.

The office had a much more prosperous air than mine, but being an industrial chemist was a much more paying racket than being a private investigator.

"Hello there," Wayde said, obviously pleased to see me. He half rose to his feet, waving to a leather lounging chair by his desk. "Come on in and sit down." I came on in and sat down.

"This is unexpected." He looked at his gold Omega. "How about a drink? It's close on six. Will you have a Scotch?"

He seemed so anxious to act the host, I said I would have a Scotch. He hoisted a bottle and two glasses out of a drawer and poured large snorters into the glasses. He apologised for not having ice. I said I was used to shimming and would survive. We grinned at each other and drank. It was pretty good Scotch.

"What you told me about Herman Jefferson interested me," I said. "I was wondering if you could give me some more information. I'm coasting around. Any angle would be helpful." "Why, sure." He looked the way a St. Bernard dog might look when it hears a cry of distress. "What angle had you in mind?"