A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

by James Hadley Chase

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?”

  “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 i
n 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.”

  He loved that. His eyes brightened and he leaned forward, staring earnestly at me.

  “Well, of course, putting it like that, I see what you mean.” He ran his hand over his crew- cut and then putting on an expression of a virtuous man who has no truck with scandal, he said, “Herman and Janet West had an affair about nine years ago. There was a baby. Herman ducked out of it and she went to his father who was horrified. The baby died. The old man insisted that Herman should marry the girl, but Herman flatly refused. I think the old man rather fell for her himself. Anyway, he took her into his home and made her his secretary. Herman told me about it. He was mad that his father should bring the girl into his home. I guess the old man hoped Herman would have a change of heart and marry her, but when finally the nickel dropped and he realised Herman wasn’t going to, he fixed for Herman to go East. Janet has been with the old man ever since.”

  “She’s attractive,” I said. “I’m surprised she hasn’t married.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me. The old man wouldn’t like it. He depends on her, and after all, there is no one else for him to leave his millions to now Herman’s dead.”

  “There isn’t?” I tried to conceal my interest. “He must have some relations.”

  “No. I used to know the family pretty well. Herman told me he would inherit as there were no other claimants. I bet Janet will pick up quit? a tidy slice when the old man goes.”

  “Pretty lucky for her Herman’s wife can’t claim it.”

  He looked startled.

  “I hadn’t thought of that angle. Not much chance. I can’t imagine the old man would have left a Chinese woman anything.”

  “As Herman’s wife, she could make a claim. If the judge was sympathetic, she could have got away with it.”

  The door on the right opened and a girl came in with a pile of letters to be signed. She was the kind of girl I would expect Wayde to employ: mousey, scared and with glasses.

  I got up as she put the letters on the desk.

  “I must run along,” I said. “Be seeing you.”

 
“Are- there any further developments?” he asked as the girl left the room. “Have the police got any clues?”

  “Not a thing. The inquest is for tomorrow, but they’ll have to bring in a verdict of murder by persons unknown. It was a pretty neat killing.”

  “I’ll say.” He drew the letters towards him. “If there is anything I can do . . .”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Back in my office, I called Retnick and told him what I had learned about Janet West.

  “The ball is in your court,” I said. “If I were you, I’d want to know where Miss West was at three o’clock when the Chinese woman died.”

  There was a pause while I listened to his heavy breathing.

  “But then you aren’t me,” he said finally. “See you at the inquest. Don’t forget to put on a clean shirt. The coroner’s a fussy son-of-a-bitch,” and he hung up.

  As I had anticipated, the inquest went off without any fuss or excitement. A fat keen-eyed man who introduced himself to Retnick as Jefferson’s attorney sat at the back, but didn’t contribute anything to the proceedings. Janet West, looking pretty and efficient in a dark tailor-made, told the coroner more or less what she had told me. Retnick said his piece and I said mine. The inquest was adjourned for the police to make further inquiries. I had the feeling that no one was particularly interested that a Chinese refugee had been murdered.

  When the coroner had left the court, I went over to Retnick who was gloomily poking a match amongst his teeth.

  “Okay for me to leave town now?” I asked.

  “Oh, sure,” he said indifferently. “Nothing to keep you here,” He looked slyly at Janet West, who was talking to Jefferson’s attorney. “Did you find out if she was in bed when the yellow skin got hers?”

  “I’ll leave that to you.” I said. “Nov/s the time when she has an attorney with her. Step right up and ask her.”

  He grinned, shaking his head.

  “I’m not that crazy,” he said. “Have a good time. Watch out for the Chink girls. From what I hear they’re not only willing but wanton.”

  He went off, giving Janet West and the attorney a wide berth. I hung around until the attorney had gone, then as Janet West was moving towards the exit, I joined her.