1962 - A Coffin From Hong Kong

by James Hadley Chase

  I left her, staring thoughtfully down at her desk. The butler let me out He said nothing. I had nothing to say to him. As I walked over to my car I saw a movement behind the curtains of Janet West’s window.

  She was watching me leave.

  chapter eighteen

  Lieutenant Retnick and Sergeant Pulski got out of the police car and joined me at the cemetery gates.

  “If there’s one place I hate visiting,” Retnick said around the cigar he was holding in his teeth, “it’s a burial field.”

  “We’ll all arrive here sooner or later,” I said. “It’s your future, permanent home.”

  “I know. You don’t have to tell me,” Retnick growled. “I just don’t like permanent homes.”

  We walked through the open gateway and up a broad roadway flanked on either side by expensive-looking tombs.

  “It’s over there,” Pulski said, pointing to an alley to our right. “Fourth one in the row.”

  We walked down the alley until we came to a massive marble tomb, surrounded with marble chippings and a marble kerb.

  “This is it,” Pulski said and took the key I handed to him.

  “How did old man Jefferson react?” Retnick asked as he watched Pulski approach the door to the tomb. “I bet he had things to say to you, shamus.”

  “Hey!” There was a startled note in Pulski’s voice as he turned to face us. “Someone’s been here before us!”

  Retnick moved forward. I kept pace with him. We saw Pulski push the vault door open. The lock had been broken. We could see where some kind of lever had been inserted between the door and the lock. The marble was cracked and a piece had been broken off. There had been a lot of hurried pressure exerted to break the lock.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Retnick warned Pulski. “Let’s take a look.”

  He threw the beam of a flashlight into the vault. There were four coffins on shelves facing us. The one on the lowest shelf was without a lid. The lid stood against the wall of the tomb. We moved forward and looked into the coffin. There was a long bar of lead lying on the floor of the coffin, but nothing else.

  Retnick said, “Well, for Pete’s sake! Looks like someone’s snatched the body!”

  “Could be there was never a body in it,” I said.

  He turned on me, his face snarled up with impatient anger.

  “What do you mean? Just how much do you know you haven’t told me?”

  “I’ve told you all I know,” I said curtly. “But that still doesn’t stop me using my brains, does it?”

  He turned savagely to Pulski.

  “Get this box to headquarters and give it the treatment. Could be there are fingerprints on it. Me and this smart shamus are going for a walk.” He grabbed hold of my arm and shoved me out of the tomb while Pulski walked down the alley to the police car where he started to talk to headquarters over the car’s telephone.

  When he was out of hearing, Retnick sat on one of the tombs and fed a cigar into his face.

  “Come on, shamus, give. What’s on your goddam mind?”

  “Right now there’s nothing on my mind,” I said. “Would it worry you to know you’re sitting on someone’s dead wife, husband or mother?”

  “I don’t give a damn who I’m sitting on,” Retnick snarled. “The Mayor telephoned me this morning . . . my influential brother-in-law . . . he wants to know when I’m going to solve this case.” He chewed his cigar savagely. “How do you like that? Even my own brother-in-law puts pressure on me.”

  “Tough,” I said.

  “What makes you think there wasn’t a body in the coffin?”

  “Just an idea. Belling’s body was burned to a cinder. Why snatch it? It couldn’t be identified anyway. So why take the risk and the trouble to bust open the vault and lug his remains away? Just because Herman’s body wasn’t in the coffin, I thought Belling’s body had to be. Now I don’t think anyone’s body was in it. The coffin was sent back here loaded with lead. There was no body in it.”

  Retnick brooded over this.

  “Why then should some joker take a look?” he asked.

  “That’s right.” I suddenly saw why. I thumped my fist into the palm of my hand. “I must be more of a dope than I think I am! Of course! It jells! It’s one of those goddam simple things I should have seen right from the start!”

  Retnick regarded me sourly.

  “What are you raving about?” he snarled.

  “The heroin was in the coffin!” I said. “Two thousand ounces of it! It was the perfect hiding-place . . . the perfect means of smuggling it out of Hong Kong to here!”

  Retnick stared at me, then he jumped to his feet.

  “Yeah . . . that makes sense! Looks like we’ve got ourselves an idea!”

  “After Jefferson hijacked the stuff,” I said, “he found he was stuck with it. He couldn’t leave Hong Kong and the organisation were hunting for him. That amount of heroin must be worth a pile of money. Jefferson had to convince the organisation he was dead. So he killed two birds with one stone. He got Jo-An to write to his father for money to bring his body home. Remember, he had no money. The only way to get the heroin out was in the coffin with old man Jefferson paying to get it out. Selling’s body was put in the coffin and cleared through the American Consul for shipment home. At some stage, the body was removed and probably dumped in the sea. The drugs and the lead weight were put in the coffin. Although Jefferson was trapped in Hong Kong, he did make sure his wife and the heroin were safe.”

  “Who’s knocked the stuff off?” Retnick asked hopefully.

  “How should I know? MacCarthy told me when they found Jefferson’s body he had been given a working over. Maybe the organisation got the truth out of him and sent a man over here to break open the vault and grab the stuff. I wouldn’t know.”

  Retnick’s face brightened.

  “Makes sense. Well then, this isn’t my goddam pigeon. The Narcotic Squad will have to take care of this headache.” He beamed at me. “Don’t let anyone persuade you to use your head for a door-stop. You’ve got brains even if you don’t show them.”

  “Still doesn’t explain why the Chinese girl came to my office and got shot,” I said.

  His smile slipped and he scowled.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m working on the idea the killing had nothing to do with the heroin,” I said. “Jo-An was to have come into half old man Jefferson’s money. He told me so this afternoon. I also found out now she’s dead, his secretary, Janet West, gets the lot.”

  Retnick squinted at me.

  “You think she killed her?”

  “No, I don’t, but she’s got a ten million dollar motive. I told you before: she could have an ambitious boyfriend. But that still doesn’t explain how the girl came to be shot in my office.”

  Retnick scratched his head.

  “Maybe I’d better check to see if she has a boyfriend,” he said reluctantly.

  Pulski called to him.

  “Keep in touch, shamus,” Retnick said. “I’ve got things to do,” and he hurried down the alley towards Pulski who was holding the telephone receiver and beckoning to him.

  I drove back to my office block. The time was half past five. I had no idea why I was going back to my office. I certainly had nothing to do, but there seemed no point in my going back to my apartment. I unlocked the door, entered the outer room, unlocked my office door and crossed to the window and opened it. Then I sat down, lit a cigarette and stared at the bust and buttock calendar on the wall facing me.

  I thought of Janet West. I thought of the mysterious John Hardwick. Was this man who called himself Hardwick Janet’s boyfriend? Had he killed Herman Jefferson’s wife? If he had then why the hell had he picked on my office to do the job and why had he tried to implicate me in the murder?

  Somehow I couldn’t imagine Janet West implicated in a murder. She just wasn’t the type. And yet there was the ten million dollar motive. Maybe the boyfriend had done it and hadn’t told her about it. . . m
aybe . . .

  I heard Jay Wayde’s voice. It broke into my concentration. He said, “I’ll get off now. See you in the morning.” His voice came clearly from his open window through mine. I heard him leave and half expected him to look in on me, but he didn’t. He walked heavy-footed to the elevator. A moment later I heard the elevator descend.

  I went back to my thoughts: they didn’t get me anywhere.

  I sat there, brooding, trying to get an idea on which to work for over an hour, then suddenly I heard the distant sound of an aircraft engine. It became loud and then faded and I found myself sitting bolt upright in my chair. The noise of a jet-propelled aircraft taking-off followed. I remembered hearing these sounds coming over the telephone when John Hardwick had telephoned me, asking me to go out and watch the deserted bungalow on Connaught Boulevard. I got swiftly to my feet and listened. The sound of a busy airport came through my open window. I had no doubt where it was coming from. I went into the passage, aware my heart was thumping, and moving silently to Jay Wayde’s office door, I turned the handle and eased open the door.

  Wayde’s secretary, the one with the glasses and the mousey look was bending over the tape recorder I had already noticed on Wayde’s desk. The band was running through the playback head and from the loudspeaker came the busy sounds of an aircraft landing and taking-off.

  “For a moment I thought you had turned into an airport,” I said.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin. Hastily turning off the recorder, she spun around, her pale washed-out blue eyes wide with shock.

  I smiled disarmingly at her.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said. “I heard the noise and I was curious.”

  “Oh. . . .” She relaxed a little. “I—I shouldn’t be doing this. I—I wondered what was on the tape. Mr. Wayde has gone home.”

  “Play it again . . . it sounded a good recording.”

  She hesitated.

  “No . . . I—I don’t think I’d better. Mr. Wayde might not like it.”

  “He won’t mind.” I wandered over to the desk. She gave ground, moving away from me. “Nice machine.” I pressed the rewind button. When the tape was ready to play again I pressed down the playback button. The sounds of a busy airport came clearly through the loudspeaker. I stood listening for maybe a couple of minutes, then I switched off the machine and smiled at her.

  I was pretty excited for I was sure now I had at last found the mysterious John Hardwick. I had found him by a fantastic stroke of luck and by this scared-looking girl’s curiosity.

  “Mr. Wayde won’t be back until tomorrow?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, okay, I’ll see him tomorrow then. Good night,” and I went out and into my office where I sat at my desk and lit a cigarette with hands that shook a little from my excitement.

  I sat there for half an hour. Then a few minutes after six I heard the girl leave the office, lock up and walk away down the passage. I waited for the whine of the descending elevator as it took her down to the ground floor. I waited until I heard the sounds of the other workers leaving the offices along my corridor. I waited until there was no sound to tell me anyone remained up there. Then I got to my feet and went to my door, opened it and looked out into the passage. No lights showed behind any of the glass-panelled doors. I had the floor now to myself.

  I went back to my desk and opening a drawer, took out a bunch-of skeleton keys. It took me less than a minute to unlock Jay Wayde’s office door. I entered and locked the door after me. I stood looking around. There was a big green steel and fireproof cupboard against one of the walls. I examined the lock. None of my keys would open it. I went back to my office and collected a few tools, returned and once more locked myself in Wayde’s office.

  I spent fifteen minutes trying to open the cupboard, but the lock beat me. I hesitated, wondering if I should bust open the cupboard, but decided against it. I looked in the other room. It contained a desk, a typewriter, a chair and a filing cabinet. I looked into the filing cabinet but there was nothing in there but papers.

  If what I was looking for was in the office at all, it would be locked in the steel cupboard.

  I took the airport recording off the tape recorder and put another tape I found in the desk drawers onto the machine. I turned off the lights and leaving the door wide open I went into my office.

  I locked the tape away, then I turned up Wayde’s home address in the telephone book. His apartment was on Laurence Avenue, a ten-minute drive from his office. I called the number, but there was no answer.

  I wondered if I should call Retnick, but I wanted to sew up this case on my own. I could still be wrong, but I didn’t think so. I decided there was time to call Retnick after I had talked to Wayde.

  I kept calling Wayde’s number. Finally, a little after nine o’clock, he answered.

  “This is Nelson Ryan,” I said.

  “Why, hello!” He sounded surprised. “Anything I can do for you? Did you have a good trip?”

  “Fine . . . I’m in my office. I looked in to pick up something I’d forgotten. I found your office door wide open and the lights off. Your girl’s gone. Looks like she’s forgotten to lock up. Do you want me to get the janitor to lock up for you?”

  I heard him catch his breath sharply.

  “That’s damned odd,” he said after a long pause. “Maybe I’d better come down.”

  “Doesn’t look as if you have had a burglar.”

  “There’s nothing to steal in there except my recorder and the typewriter. I guess I’d better come down all the same.”

  “Suit yourself. I can get the janitor to lock up if you like.”

  “No, it’s all right. I’d rather come down. I can’t understand her forgetting to lock up. She’s never done that before.”

  “Maybe she’s in love,” I laughed. “Well, I’m leaving now. Sure you don’t want me to do anything?”

  “No, thanks, and thanks for calling.”

  “Think nothing of it . . . so long.”

  I hung up and turned off the lights. I locked up my office and then went into Wayde’s office. I went into his secretary’s room and sat on the desk. I took out my gun and clicked back the safety-catch. I put the gun on the desk beside me.

  I had about ten minutes to wait before I heard the whine of the ascending elevator. I got off the desk and stood behind the door, gun in hand. I heard quick footfalls then movements in Wayde’s office. The light turned on, the door closed. I peered through the door crack. Wayde stood looking around. He walked to the room in which I was, pushed the door back against me and looked in, then he stepped back into his office. I heard a jangle of keys, then a lock snap back. I guessed he had opened the steel cupboard.

  I stepped out from behind the door. He was kneeling in front of the cupboard. The double doors of the cupboard stood wide open. The cupboard was packed with bottles, boxes, glass files and other chemist’s samples.

  “Is the heroin still there?” I asked quietly.

  He gave a shudder, then looked slowly over his shoulder to stare at me. I lifted the gun slightly so he could see it. His face went chalk-white and slowly he rose to his feet.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice husky.

  “I tried to open the cupboard but the lock beat me,” I said, watching him. “So I thought it was an idea if you came down and opened it for me. Move away and don’t start anything.”

  “Why should I?” he said and walked unsteadily to his desk and slumped down into his chair. He buried his face in his hands. I glanced into the bottom of the cupboard. There were about fifty small, neatly packed parcels lying on the floor of the cupboard.

  “Those the drugs Jefferson hijacked?” I asked, coming over to the desk and sitting on the edge of it.

  He leaned back, rubbing his white, sweating face.

  “Yes. How did you know I had them?”

  “You forgot to take the tape recording of the airport off the machine. Your girl played it back
. I heard it. The whole set-up fell into place,” I told him.

  “I’ve always been forgetful. If there’s a mistake to be made, I make it. I knew when you said you were going to Hong Kong I was sunk.” He looked wearily at me. “I knew somewhere along the line you’d come across a loose thread that would lead you to me. When you told me you were going, I was insane enough to hire a junkie to kill you. That’s how desperate I was! When that didn’t work, I knew it was only a matter of time, but I was so hopelessly involved there was nothing else I could do but hang on and hope.”

  “If it’s any satisfaction to you, you nearly got away with it,” I said, “I thought Jefferson’s secretary was the one. She had the motive and I’m a sucker for motives.”

  “I hoped you would pick on her,” he said. “That’s why I told you about her affair with Herman, but I knew if you ran into him in Hong Kong and you talked to him you were certain to get onto me.”

  “How did you know Jo-An was coming back here with the heroin?”

  “It was all arranged. That stuff I told you about Herman was true, but I lied when I told you I didn’t like him. We had always been friends. We always kept in touch. For the past two years now I’ve been struggling to keep this business of mine going. I just haven’t the knack for business. I haven’t the knack for anything come to that. I guess that’s why Herman and I were friends. He hadn’t the knack for anything either. Things got so bad here, I was desperate for money. Then Herman wrote me. He said he had got his hands on a large consignment of heroin and would I buy it off him? As an industrial chemist I have a number of safe outlets for handling heroin, but of course, I hadn’t the money. He was stupid enough to tell me he was trapped in Hong Kong and unless Jo-An could raise the money to get him a false passport and his fare home, he would be dead in a few weeks. He said the organisation he had double-crossed were hunting for him, and if they found him, they would kill him. I saw my chance of at last laying my hands on a big sum of money. If I could get the heroin, I could sell it at a very high profit. So I wrote to him and told him I’d buy the stuff. It was arranged that Jo-An should come straight to me from the airport and hand over the stuff and get the money, but Herman didn’t tell me on what plane she was coming. I didn’t dare ask in case the query was traced back to me. I knew I would have to kill her.” He stared down at his big, shaking hands. “At the time, it didn’t seem so bad planning to kill a Chinese girl, but I couldn’t think how I was to get rid of her body. It was then I finally decided to plant her body in your office. You were next door to me so it would be easy. You were a private investigator. She might be taken for a client of yours. I thought when the police investigated the murder, with you involved, the trail would get so confused, they wouldn’t think of me. I had to be sure you would be out of your office when she arrived. I had this airport recording I’d taken when I first bought the recorder. I was scared to go to the airport in case I was spotted so I used the recorder to convince you I was calling from the airport, giving me a reasonable excuse why I didn’t come to see you. When you had gone, I waited and waited. I thought she would never come. Finally, she arrived. She trusted me. She told me the heroin was in the coffin. I very nearly didn’t kill her.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “She was such a pretty little thing. I had got into your office and taken your gun. While she talked, I took the gun from the desk drawer, keeping it out of sight. Then she asked me for the money. That decided me. I lifted the gun and shot her.” He shuddered and again wiped his sweating face. “I carried her into your office . . . I left her there. Well, it’s a relief it’s over. I haven’t been able to sleep. I couldn’t even sell the stuff. It’s all there. I’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting for you to come back. When I knew you were back, I just hadn’t the nerve to face you.” He looked imploringly at me. “What are you going to do?”