James Chase - A Coffin from Hong Kong

The answer to that one was no.

“Did Jo-An ever have any friends to visit her?”

The answer again was no.

I realised with a feeling of irritated frustration I was getting nowhere. I had come around in a full circle unless Leila had been telling the truth.

“Did Jo-An leave any of her things in her room when she left?” I asked casually.

This was a trap question and the reception clerk walked into it.

“No,” he said through Wong. “She left nothing.”

I pounced on him.

“Then how did she manage to walk out of here with her belongings and not pay her bill?” I demanded Wong saw the fairness of this and he barked at the old man. For a moment he hesitated, then scowling, he said she had left a suitcase but he was holding it against the rent.

I said I wanted to see it. After some more talk, the old reception clerk got up and led me down the passage to the room next to Leila’s. He unlocked the door and produced a cheap imitation leather suitcase from under the bed.

Wong, who had followed us, said, “This case belonged to the girl, sir.”

I examined the suitcase. It was locked.

“You two wait outside.”

When they had gone, I closed and bolted the door. It didn’t take me a couple of minutes to force the locks on the suitcase.

Jo-An possessed a slightly better outfit than Leila, but not a great deal better. I turned over the things I found. At the bottom of the suitcase was a large white envelope, its flap tucked. I opened the envelope and shook out a glossy print of Herman Jefferson: a replica of the photograph Janet West had given me. Across the foot of the photograph was scrawled: For my wife, Jo-An . I stared at the hard gangster face, then returned the photograph to the envelope and replaced it where I had found it.

I sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. I wondered how Janet West, miles away in Pasadena City, and Jo-An in Hong Kong could both have owned the same photograph. I told myself that Jefferson must have given it to them, but suddenly and far away, a note of interrogation started up in my mind.

I thought back on the conversation I had had with Leila. What the reception clerk had said didn’t tally with what she had said… one or the other was lying. Why should Leila have lied?

After some more thought I came to the conclusion there was no point in remaining in this sordid little hotel. I would have to look elsewhere to find the clue to this mystery.

I got to my feet, crossed the room and stepped out into the passage.

Wong was leaning up against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He straightened and bowed as I came out. The reception clerk probably had gone back to his desk: he wasn’t there.

“I hope everything is satisfactory, sir,” he said.

“I guess,” I said. “I’m leaving here. Is there a hotel at Repulse Bay?”

He looked faintly surprised.

“Why, yes, sir. There is the Repulse Bay Hotel: a very fine hotel. Would you like me to arrange accommodation for you there?”

“If you can fix it, I’d like to move in right away.”

“You realise, sir, the hotel is rather out of the way. If you are thinking of seeing Kowloon, it isn’t very convenient.”

“That won’t worry me. Tell the old guy I’m checking out and get my bill.’’

“There are no further questions you wish to ask him?” Wong asked, his face showing disappointment.

“No. Let’s get out of here.”

Thirty minutes later we were in the Packard, driving along the beautiful road towards Repulse Bay.

Repulse Bay turned out to be something very special and the hotel matched it. To my thinking the set-up with its mountains, its concealed bays with an emerald green sea looked better than most of the pleasure spots I’d ever visited, and in my time, I had been lucky to have visited a number of them.

Wong managed to get me a room in the hotel overlooking the bay. He left me the Packard and departed with much bowing, assuring me he was at my service should I need him again.

I got busy as soon as I had unpacked by beginning on the telephone book and then talking to the reception clerk of the hotel probing for a lead to Herman Jefferson. Neither the telephone book nor the clerk had heard of Herman Jefferson.

I then asked the hall porter on the theory a hall porter of a good hotel knows everything. I asked him if he knew who owned a villa close by with steps down to the sea into a small harbour complete with boat.

He regarded me thoughtfully before saying, “You mean Mr. Lin Fan’s villa, sir? It is now occupied by Mr. Enright and his sister: they are Americans.”

“Did you ever hear if a guy named Herman Jefferson lived there?” I asked.

He shook his head. I could see he was getting a little bored with me.

“Jefferson? No, I don’t know the name, sir.”

Later in the afternoon, I put on a pair of swim trunks and went down to the crowded beach. I hired a pedallo and took it out into the bay. After some hard, solid work, I got in a position to see the whole coastline. I quickly spotted Lin Fan’s villa. It was situated on a promontory, isolated and very lush, with a terrace garden and winding steps leading down to a small harbour where a fast-looking speedboat was moored.

I propelled my boat towards the villa and when I got within two or three hundred yards of the harbour. I paused to study the place, thinking if Herman Jefferson had really rented this place as Leila had said he had, then he must have suddenly found the opportunity of making really big money. But had he? Had Jo-An told Leila he had rented this villa to save face? It was the kind of lie one woman might tell another.

I suddenly became aware of two tiny sparkling dots showing from a top window of the villa and I moved on. I had a sudden naked feeling. I propelled my craft along the coast for ten minutes, knowing someone was watching me from the villa through a pair of field glasses, the lenses of which were catching the sun. Then I turned my craft, still aware I was being watched and made my way back to the beach.

I glanced up at the villa as I passed it. The two sparkling dots remained focused on me. I tried to look like a tourist, and I asked myself why I was creating so much interest. I got back to the beach as the sun was going down, and I returned to the hotel, wondering what my next move should be.

I was still undecided the following morning. Around ten o’clock, I went down to the beach. After a quick swim, I stretched myself out on the sand and pushed Herman Jefferson, Janet West, old man Jefferson and poor little Leila out of my mind. I gave myself up to the sun, the sound of the surf and to the feeling of surrender that Hong Kong gives you which is hard to resist.

I lay there for maybe an hour, dozing and letting the sun soak into me. Then I became aware that someone had passed close to me and I lazily opened my eyes.

She was tall and slim “and burned a golden brown by the sun. Her salient points which were interesting were scarcely concealed by her scarlet bikini. I saw most men lying on the beach were staring at her… so I stared too.

She walked across the hot sand towards the sea, swinging a big sun hat in her hand. Her hair was the colour of ripe corn. She was as intriguing and as beautiful as a motif from a Brahms s symphony.

I watched her drop her hat carelessly on the sand and then slide into the sea. She swam well with strong expert strokes that took her quickly out to the distant raft. I watched her hoist herself onto the raft and she sat with her feet in the water. She looked lonely out there all on her own and I had a sudden urge to keep her company.

I took a running dive into the sea and set out towards the raft with my best racing stroke which is impressive so long as I don’t have to keep it up too long.