JAMES HADLEY CHASE: A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

“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

Dear Dad,

I’ve met a Chinese girl and I’m marrying her. Her name is Jo-An. She has had a tough life as she is a refugee from China, but she’s pretty, smart and my type of woman. I guess you won ’t be exactly pleased with my news, but you’ve always said I must lead my own life so I’m marrying her. I’m satisfied she ’ll make me a good wife. I’m looking around for an apartment but it is not easy as prices come high. We may decide to stay on here at the hotel. It is convenient in some ways although I prefer to have a home of my own.

I hope you will send us your blessing. If you feel like sending a cheque towards an apartment it would be very welcome.

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

Mr. Jefferson,

Herman died yesterday. He had a car crash. He often said he wanted to be buried at home. I have no money but if you will send me some I will bring him back so he can be buried the way he wanted to be. I have no money to bury him here.

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?”