JAMES HADLEY CHASE: A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

“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 21 st 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?”

I gave him my puzzled I-wish-I-knew expression I use when dealing with types like Jay Wayde.

“I don’t know,” I said. “My job is to collect as many facts as in the hope they’ll make sense. For instance, you knew

Jefferson. You told me something about his character. You said he was reckless, a bit of a drunk, got into fights and generally raised hell. How was he with women?”

Wayde’s sun-tanned face showed sudden righteous indignation. I could guess how he was with women. His sex impulses would be worked out of his system with a golf club.

“He was rotten with women. Okay, when you are young, you fool around with girls—I fooled around myself, but Herman was plain rotten. If his father hadn’t had so much influence in this city, there would have been endless scandals.”

“Any girl in particular?” I asked.

He hesitated, then said, “I don’t like mentioning names, but there was this girl, Janet West. She’s Mr. Jefferson’s secretary. She . . .” He paused and his eves shifted from mine. “Look, excuse me, I don’t think I should talk about this. After all, it happened nearly nine years ago. I know because Herman told me, but that doesn’t give me the right to tell you.”

I could see he was longing to tell me: longing to participate in a murder hunt and feeling pretty important that I was interested in what he had to tell.

So I said gravely, “Every scrap of information I can get might lead me to the killer. You should ask yourself if you have the right not to tell me.”