James Chase - A Coffin from Hong Kong

I looked admiringly at him.

“You must have been very persuasive. This guy seems to have sung like a skylark.”

MacCarthy rubbed the side of his nose with the bowl of his pipe.

“The Chinese aren’t kind to each other,” he said. “The marine police had him for half an hour before they turned him over to me. He tried to stick one of them with a knife. They got a little rough with him.”

“That’s pretty fast work to have softened him to that extent.”

“Yes, they work fast.” He seemed bored with this topic. Casually, he asked, “By the way, you wouldn’t know about a Chinese found shot out at Silver Mine Bay, would you? He was shot through the head with a Lee-Enfield rifle.”

“He was? I haven’t handled a Lee-Enfield since I left the infantry.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you shot him. You were out there this afternoon?”

“Come to think of it, I was. I had a look at the waterfall.”

“That’s where the body was found.”

“Isn’t that extraordinary?”

“You heard no shooting?”

“Not a thing.”

MacCarthy stared at me, then shrugged his shoulders.

“I was pretty sure you would have reported a shooting if you had known about it.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

There was a long pause while Hamish took out his pipe and began to fill it.

“Enright had a sister,” MacCarthy said. “Rather a glamorous piece. Would you know where she is?”

“At the villa I suppose, in bed where I’d like to be.”

“She’s not there… we’ve looked. When did you last see her?”

“On the ferry-boat going to Silver Mine Bay. She was taking groceries to an old ex-servant. We travelled together.”

“You haven’t seen her since?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“I had the idea she was the woman who tipped us that Enright was in your room.”

“She could have done. She has a nice nature.”

MacCarthy suddenly smiled.

“Come off it, Ryan. We’ve checked on her. Her name is Stella May Tyson. She is a stripper who worked at a night club in Singapore. She and Enright joined up. She came here with a forged passport.”

“And so?” I asked, looking steadily at him.

“When she telephoned we traced the call to the hotel. They told us she called from the bathroom in your suite. She was seen going up the stairs towards your suite at ten o’clock. I think she’s still in your suite.”

“She probably is… I hope so,” I said. “She saved my life. What do you expect me to do… hand her over to you?”

“It’s not a wise thing to tell lies to police officers,” MacCarthy said as he began to clean his pipe with a gull’s feather, “but as she saved your life and as she has given us the opportunity of breaking up this drug organisation, I think we can forget about her. Tell her if she gets out by tomorrow night and stays out, we won’t make trouble for her. She has twenty-four hours to get out. If she is still here after that time, then we’ll have to do something about her.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll tell her. I’m getting out myself. There’s nothing more here I can do.

I’ve still to find out who murdered Jefferson’s wife. Whoever did it is in Pasadena City. With what I have found out here, I should be able to find the killer. Okay for me to leave now?”

“It’s all right with me,” MacCarthy said.

“I guess I’ll go back to the hotel now and get me some sleep.”

“If that girl is still in your room, I don’t imagine you’ll get much sleep,” MacCarthy said with a sly grin.

“What a mind you’ve got,” I said, getting to my feet. “How about sending me back by car?”

MacCarthy turned to Hamish.

“Send him back by car. He’s in a hurry,” he said, and pulling a file towards him, he settled down to work.

I got back to the Repulse Bay Hotel as the sun was beginning to creep up behind the mountains. I went up to my room, took the key from a grinning Chinese I hadn’t seen before and unlocked my do

The light was on. Stella was dozing in an armchair. She started up as I came in, her eyes scared.

“Relax,” I said, shutting and locking the door. “There’s nothing now for you to be scared about.”

“What happened? I heard shooting. I thought they had killed you.”

I flopped into an armchair.

“You did me a good turn… thanks.”

“I had to do something. I was terrified he would hear me telephoning.”

“Well, you’ve got your wish… you can leave for home within the next twenty-four hours. I’ll pay the fare. The police won’t worry you. You’d better use your own passport. Have you still got it?”

She drew in a long deep breath.

“Yes, I’ve got it. And Harry?”

“He was unlucky. The police were better shots. It’s the best way out for him. He wouldn’t have taken to jail life.”

She shuddered.

“He’s dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead. I want some sleep. I’m going to take a shower and then I’m going to sleep. You have the bed. I’ll take the settee.”

I shut myself in the bathroom and took a shower. I was feeling pretty old and pretty worn out. I put on my pyjamas and came out of the bathroom.

She was waiting for me. She had stripped off her clothes and was lying on the bed. We looked at each other, then she held out her arms. She was still holding me in her arms, sometime later, when I fell asleep.

It all seemed very familiar… the smell of sweat, disinfectant and fear; the green painted corridor, the tramp of heavy feet, the stony-faced cops who shoved past me as if I didn’t exist.

I paused outside Detective Lieutenant Retnick’s door and knocked.

A voice bawled something. I turned the handle and went in.

Retnick was sitting at his desk. Detective Sergeant Pulski leaned against the wall, chewing a matchstick.

They both stared at me, then Retnick pushed his hat to the back of his head and slapped his blotter with a well-manicured hand.

“Look who’s here,” he said to no one in particular. “Well, what a surprise! If I’d known you were coming, I’d have turned out the town band. Sit down. What were the Chinese tarts like?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said, sitting down. “I’ve been too busy to find out. Got the murder case solved yet?”

Retnick pulled out his cigar case, selected a cigar, bit off the end and stuck the cigar into his face. He didn’t offer me one.

“Not yet… have you got anything?”

“Could have. You haven’t got one single thing?”

He lit the cigar, frowning.

“We’re still trying to find Hardwick, What have you got?”

“The body that Jo-An Jefferson brought back here wasn’t Herman Jefferson’s.”

That shook him. He choked on smoke, cursed, put down his cigar and blew his nose on a soiled handkerchief. He put the handkerchief away, then tilted back his chair and squinted at me with watering eyes.

“Look, shamus, if this isn’t the McCoy, you’re going to have a rough time. I mean just that.”

“Herman Jefferson was murdered two days ago,” I said. “He was dropped into the sea a few miles outside Hong Kong. The British police fished him out. The body is coming back by plane at the end of this week.”

“For sweet Pete’s sake! Who was in the coffin then?”

“No one you’d know… a guy named Frank Belling, a British subject, connected with heroin smuggling.”

“Have you talked to old man Jefferson yet?”

“Not vet… you’re my first port of call. He’s my second.”

Retnick stared at Pulski who stared blankly back at him, then Retnick shifted his gaze and stared at me.

“Give with the mouth,” he said. “All of it. Hey! Wait a minute. I’ll have it on paper.” He picked up the telephone receiver and bawled for a stenographer. While we waited, he chewed on his cigar, scowling and worried.