1962 - A Coffin From Hong Kong

by James Hadley Chase

  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.

  I broke water a few yards from the raft, and hoisted myself up onto it.

  She was lying on her side, her breasts heavy in their slight support, her eyes looking directly into mine.

  “Tell me if I’m spoiling a beautiful solitude,” I said, “and I’ll swim away.”

  She studied me. Now I was at close quarters, I could see she was a woman who had had plenty of experience with men. She had that air about her. She had inquiring, probing eyes of a woman who is interested in men.

  “I was rather hoping for company,” she said and smiled. Her voice had that husky sexy tone you sometimes hear, but not often. “Who are you? You’ve only just arrived, haven’t you?”

  “My name is Nelson Ryan,” I told her. “I was named after the English Admiral. My father spent all his spare time reading English naval history. He was nuts about Nelson.”

  She rolled over on her back and her hard pointed breasts thrust towards the sky.

  “I’m Stella Enright,” she said. “I live here. It’s nice to meet a new face. Are you staying long?”

  Just how lucky can a man be? I wondered. Here is the sister of the man who rents Lin Fan’s villa. Then I recalled the sparkling dots of the watching field glasses. Maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe this meeting was a little more subtle than luck.

  “I wish I was . . . a week perhaps.” I took from my waterproof pocket a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “You’re lucky to be able to live here. This place is pretty nice.”

  I offered her a cigarette and we lit up.

  “It’s all right . . . now is the best season, but the summer is bad.” She blew a thin cloud of smoke into the still air. “My brother is writing a book on Hong Kong. I run the house.” She lifted her head to look at me. “Are you staying at the hotel?”

  “Yes. You have a house?”

  “We have rented a villa. It belongs to a Chinese gambler.”

  “Lin Fan?”

  Her eyes showed surprise.

  “That’s right. How would you know?”

  “I heard.” I hesitated, then decided to push it as far as it would go. “I thought Herman Jefferson rented that place.”

  She lifted golden eyebrows in what seemed to me genuine astonishment.

  “Herman Jefferson? Do you know him?”

  “He happens to come from my home town. Do you?”

  “He’s dead . . . killed in a car accident.”

  “I heard that. Did you know him?”

  “Harry—that’s my brother—knew him. I met him once or twice. So you know him? Harry will be interested. It was an awful thing the way he died . . . awful for his Chinese wife.”

  “You knew her?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I’ve seen her . . . a lovely little thing.” She flicked ash off her cigarette. “Some Chinese women are really attractive. She was. I could understand Herman falling for her. She was very intriguing.” She said it the way most women talk about a woman who is attractive to men: a bitter-sweet touch I didn’t miss. “She took his body back to America. I suppose she will stay there. After all, Herman’s father is a millionaire. I guess he’ll look after her.”

  I resisted the temptation to tell her Jo-An was dead.

  “Someone told me Herman came into money, left her and rented your villa.”

  She half sat up, frowning.

  “What an extraordinary story! Who told you that?”

  “Oh, someone,” I said casually. “It isn’t true?”

  “Why no . . . of course not!” She suddenly relaxed, smiling at me. “It’s too ridiculous. Herman was. . . .” She paused, then shrugged her naked shoulders. “Well, frankly, Herman was a no-gooder. I didn’t like him very much, but he amused Harry. He just wasn’t any good. He went native. He never had any money. There were rumours he lived on this Chinese girl. He could never have afforded to rent Lin Fan’s villa. The very idea is ridiculous. Whoever told you that?”

  The sound of a fast-moving motor-boat made both of us look out to sea. Coming towards us was a speedboat, cleaving through the sea and throwing up a white spray.

  “Here’s Harry now,” Stella said and rising to her feet, balancing herself on the rocking raft, she waved.

  The boat slowed and then the engines cut. It drifted close to the raft. A tall, sun-burned man, wearing a blue and white sweat shirt and white shorts grinned amiably at Stella. His handsome face was a trifle fleshy from good living and there was a network of fine veins, well-disguised by his heavy tan that told me he liked the extra drink.

  “I thought I’d pick you up. It’s lunchtime.” He looked inquiringly at me. “Who’s your boyfriend?”

  “This is Nelson Ryan. He knew Herman Jefferson,” Stella said and looked at me. “This is my brother, Harry.”

  We nodded to each other.

  “You knew Herman?” Harry said, “Well, what do you know? You here for some time?”

  “Not more than a week, worse luck,” I said.

  “Look, if you have nothing better to do tonight, why not come over to our place and have dinner with us? I’ll pick you up in the boat. . . it’s the only way to get to the place. Will you do that?”

  “Why, sure I’d be glad to, but I don’t want to trouble you to pick me up.”

  “That’s nothing. Be down on the beach at eight o’clock. I’ll be there, and after dinner we’ll take the boat out. It’s wonderful at night in this tub.” He looked at Stella. “Are you coming?”

  “Take me back to the beach first. I’ve left my hat.” She climbed into the boat. I couldn’t take my eyes off her slim, sun-tanned back as she got into the boat. She looked suddenly over her shoulder, catching me staring and she smiled as if she knew what was going on in my mind. “I’ll see you tonight,” she said, and with a wave of her hand she settled herself beside her brother. He nodded to me and the boat roared away across the bay towards the beach.

  I lit a cigarette and dangled my feet in the water, my mind busy. I sat there for the next half hour, my body soaking in the sun, then feeling hungry, I slid into the water and swam to the shore.

  I was down on the beach at eight o’clock, and after a few minutes’ wait, I saw the speedboat come out of the darkness. The driver was a powerfully-built Chinese who assisted me on board as if I were a cripple with abrupt little bows and a steely grip on my arm. Mr. Enright, he explained in guttural English, had been unable to come, and he presented his excuses.

  The boat was fast, and within five minutes, we arrived at the little harbour below Lin Fan’s villa.

  I toiled up the steps and reached the terrace, slightly breathless.

  Stella, wearing a white evening dress, cut low enough to reveal the tops of her breasts, was lying on a bamboo lounging chair, a highball in her hand, a cigarette between her lips. A young Chinese servant stood expectantly in the shadows. There was no sign of Harry Enright.

  “There you are . . .” Stella said, waving the highball at me. “What will you drink?”

  I said Scotch and soda and the Chinese servant quickly produced the drink.

  “Harry will be here in a moment. Sit there where I can see you.”

  I could see into the big lounge that led off the terrace. The room was richly furnished in Chinese style with heavy lacquer cabinets, red silk on the walls and a big black mother-of-pearl inlaid table set for dinner.

  “Some place you have here,” I said.

  “Yes . . . it’s nice. We were lucky to have got it. We’ve only been here a few weeks . . . before we had an apartment in Kowloon. We like this much better.”

  “Who was here before you?” I asked.

  “I don’t think anyone was. The owner only decided to let the villa recently. He’s now living in Macau.”

  Just then Harry Enright came out onto the terrace. He shook hands with me and then sat down opposite me.

  The Ch
inese servant made him a highball.

  After the usual polite chit-chat about the view and the villa, he asked, “Are you here on a business trip?”

  “I’m on vacation,” I said. “I had the chance for a week or so off and couldn’t resist coming here.”

  “Don’t blame you.” He studied me in a friendly way. “I’m crazy about Hong Kong. Stella was telling me you come from Pasadena City. Did you know Herman Jefferson well?”

  “I know his father better. The old man is worried about Herman. He asked me to make inquiries about him when he heard I was coming this way.”

  Enright looked interested.

  “Is that right? What sort of inquiries?”

  “Well, Herman had been out here for five years. He seldom wrote home. His father has no idea what he did with himself. He was pretty shaken when Herman wrote he had married an Asian.”

  Enright nodded and looked over at Stella.

  “I bet he was.”

  “I think the old boy feels bad that he didn’t do more for his son while he was alive. Have you any idea what Herman did for a living?”

  “I don’t think he did anything,” Enright said slowly. “He was a bit of a mystery. Personally, I liked him, but he wasn’t anyone’s choice.” He grinned at Stella. “She couldn’t stand the sight of him for one.”

  Stella moved impatiently.

  “Don’t exaggerate,” she said. “I admit I didn’t take to him. He thought any woman had to fall for him . . . I don’t like that type.”

  Enright laughed.

  “Well, you didn’t fall for him,” he said, and I caught a jeering note in his voice. “Probably sour grapes. Well, I liked him.”

  “But then you are amoral,” his sister said. “You like anyone who will amuse you.”

  The conversation was interrupted by the Chinese servant announcing dinner was ready. We moved into the lounge.

  It was a Chinese meal which I enjoyed. We talked about this and that. Enright was very gay but I noticed Stella seemed preoccupied as if she were only half listening to our conversation.

  As the meal was finishing, she asked abruptly, “Who told you Herman rented this villa, Mr. Ryan?”

  “Herman rented this villa?” Enright cut in. “For Pete’s sake! Did someone tell you that?” He looked quizzingly at me.

  “A Chinese girl,” I said. “I met her at the Celestial Empire Hotel where Jefferson lived. She told me.”

  “I wonder why?” Stella said, frowning. “What an absurd thing to say.”

  I lifted my shoulders.

  “She was probably kidding me,” I said. For the past ten or twenty seconds I had suddenly felt I was being watched. I glanced around the room. “I asked her for information about Herman. Maybe she fell she should tell me something to earn what I was offering her.” There was a big mirror opposite me. I looked into it. Behind me, in the lobby outside the lounge, reflected in the mirror, I could see a squat shadowy figure of a man. He was Chinese, wearing a European suit. He was studying me intently. For a brief second our eyes met in the reflection of the mirror, then he moved back into the darkness of the lobby and disappeared. I felt a prickle run up my spine. There was something sinister and menacing about the man and I had trouble not to show by my expression I had seen him watching me.

  “Chinese will say anything if they imagine it is what you want them to say,” Enright said. I was aware he was looking intently at me. “Chinese girls are the most fluent liars in the world.”

  “Is that a fact?” I said. I looked again into the mirror, then with an effort shifted my eyes back to Enright. “Well. . . .”

  “Let’s go on the terrace,” Stella said, getting to her feet. “Will you have a brandy?”

  I said no, and we wandered out onto the terrace. The moon had come up and was reflecting on the sea.

  “I’ve a couple of telephone calls to make,” Enright said. “If you’ll excuse me, then we might take the boat out. Would you like that?”

  I looked at Stella.

  “If you like it, it suits me fine.”

  “Oh, I’ll like it,” she said in a resigned voice. “Harry can’t think of anything except his blessed boat.”

  By then Enright had gone. She slid her arm through mine and led me to the balustrade. We stood looking at the sea.

  “In a way that Chinese girl is lucky,” Stella said, and I caught a wistful note in her voice. “I expect Herman’s father will provide for her. I hear he is very rich.”

  “She lost her husband,” I said, still not sure if I should tell her that Jo-An was dead.

  She made an impatient movement.

  “It was good riddance. Now she is free with money and she is in America.” She heaved a sigh. “I wish I were back in New York.”

  “Is that where you come from?”

  “Hmm . . . I haven’t been back for over a year now. I’m homesick.”

  “Can’t you go? Do you have to stay here?”

  She started to say something then stopped. After a long pause, she said, “I don’t have to stay here, of course, but my brother and I have done things together for so long it’s become a habit.”

  She pointed to the mountain ahead of us. “Doesn’t that look lovely in the moonlight?”

  I guessed she was deliberately changing the subject and I wondered why, but I played along. We were still admiring the view when Enright came onto the terrace.

  “Well, let’s go,” he said. “How would you like to see Aberdeen—it’s the fishermen’s village here? It’s quite something to see.”

  “Why, sure,” I said, and we left the terrace and filed down the steps to the boat. Stella and I sat immediately behind Enright who took the driver’s wheel. He sent the boat roaring out to sea.

  It wasn’t possible to talk against the sound of the powerful engines. Stella sat away from me, staring out into the moonlit night. There was a depressed expression on her face as if she were concentrating on something that saddened her. My mind was busy too, turning over the bits of information I had gathered. I still couldn’t believe that Leila had lied to me. Either the Enrights were misinformed or they too, like the reception clerk at the Celestial Empire Hotel, were lying about Herman Jefferson . . . but why?

  The village of Aberdeen was one of the most fantastic sights I have seen. The harbour was crammed with junks, shoulder to shoulder and swarming with Chinese with their relations and children. There was no hope of entering the harbour so Enright dropped anchor and we took a sampan rowed by a thirteen-year-old Chinese girl to the landing-stage. We spent an hour wandering around the tiny, interesting bay village, then Stella said she was tired and we returned to the boat. As we were being rowed in the sampan to the boat, Stella said, “Have you been to the islands yet? You should see them. You can take a ferry.”

  “Not yet . . . no.”

  “If you have nothing better to do tomorrow, I’m going to Silver Mine Bay. We could go together. I have a visit to make. While I’m visiting you might like to look at the waterfall. It is something to see, then we could come back together.”

  “I’d like it fine,” I said.

  “My sister is a very charitable soul,” Enright said. “We had a servant when we first came here. She was very old and we had to get rid of her. She lives at Silver Mine Bay. Stella visits her from time to time. She takes her things.”

  He started the motor-boat engine and that stopped all talking. It took us twenty minutes or so to reach the villa. Stella left the boat and Enright said he would run me back to the hotel.

  “Good night,” Stella said, pausing at the bottom of the steps to smile at me. “The ferry-boat leaves at two. I’ll look out for you on the pier.”

  I thanked her for a wonderful evening and she lifted her hand in a little wave and then started up the steps as Enright opened the throttle and sent the boat roaring in the direction of the hotel.

  He dropped me at the landing-stage.

  “When did you say you were leaving?” he asked as I climbed out o
f the boat.

  “About a week’s time . . . I’m not sure.”

  “Well, you must come again. It’s been nice meeting you.”

  We shook hands and then I watched him drive the boat out to sea.

  I walked slowly up the beach towards the hotel. I couldn’t get out of my mind the sinister squat figure of the Chinese I had seen reflected in the mirror. I had an instinctive feeling he meant trouble.

  chapter twelve

  The following morning I found myself in the office of the Third Secretary, American Consul.

  I had had a little trouble getting to him, but by bearing down on old man Jefferson’s name, I was finally and reluctantly admitted to his office.

  He was a fat, smooth-looking bird, surrounded by an atmosphere of diplomatic immunity. He read my card which lay on his desk by peering gingerly at it as if he felt by touching it he might pick up an incurable disease.

  “Nelson Ryan . . . private investigator,” he intoned and then sat back and lifted supercilious eyebrows. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m working for J. Wilbur Jefferson,” I said. “I’m making inquiries about his son, Herman Jefferson, who died here in a road accident about seventeen days ago.”

  He fed a cigarette into his fat face.

  “So?”

  “He was a resident of Hong Kong. I take it he would have had to register here.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Can you tell me his last address?”

  He moistened one fat finger and smoothed down his left eyebrow.

  “Well, I suppose I could give it to you, but is it necessary? It’s a dead file now. It may take a little time to get it from the vaults.”

  “Is that what you want me to tell Mr. Jefferson?” f asked. “I can’t imagine he would toss his bonnet over a windmill to hear a Third Secretary of the American Consul couldn’t be bothered to help him.”

  He looked suddenly wary. Probably he had suddenly remembered just how much water the old man could draw if he wanted to.

  Slightly flustered, he picked up the telephone and said, “Oh, Miss Davenport, will you bring me Herman Jefferson’s file . . . yes, Herman Jefferson. Thank you.” He replaced the receiver and hoisted a weary smile on his fat face, showing me his set of porcelain choppers. “Yeah . . . J. Wilbur Jefferson. I remember now . . . the millionaire. How is the old gentleman?”