A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

by James Hadley Chase

  “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.

  A young cop came in and sat down away from us. He opened a notebook and looked expectantly at Retnick and then at me.

  “Shoot,” Retnick said to me. “Give me one of your classical statements, shamus. Don’t leave anything out. I’m going to check every word you utter and if I find out you’re lying, you’ll be sorry your father had a sex life.”

  “I don’t have to take that talk from you, Retnick,” I said, suddenly angry. “Jefferson is waiting to fix you and a word from me could fix you good.”

  Pulski pushed himself off the wall he was holding up. The young cop looked horrified. Before Pulski could take a swing at me, Retnick was on his feet, shoving Pulski back.

  “Shut up!” he snarled at Pulski. To me, he said, “Relax, shamus. Okay, so I take it back. You don’t have to be so goddam sensitive. Come on, for Judas’ sake, let’s have the statement.”

  I eyed him for a long moment, but he wouldn’t meet my stare, then I calmed down. I lit a cigarette and gave him the statement. I covered everything that had happened to me since I had arrived in Hong Kong. The only fact I kept quiet about was that Stella and I had returned- to New York together. There we had parted. I was sorry to part with her, and she seemed sorry to part with me, but once back in her own environment there seemed no point in us continuing. She had done me a good turn and I had done her one. I had given her two hundred dollars with which to make a new Wart It had been my money and not Jefferson’s. She had thanked me with a rueful smile and had said goodbye. That was the last I ever saw of her.

  Retnick smoked two cigars while I was talking. When I had finished, he told the young cop to get the statement typed and when he had gone, he told Pulski to take a walk.

  When we were alone, Retnick said, “Still doesn’t explain why the yellow skin got shot, does it?”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t be in your shoes having to tell that son-of-a-bitch Jefferson his son was a drug pedlar.”

  “Then you don’t wear my shoes,” I said.

  “We’ll have to open the coffin.” Retnick lit his third cigar. “Don’t suppose the old man will like that too much.”

  “Why shouldn’t he? The coffin doesn’t contain his son.”

  “That’s right,” Retnick brooded. “Better get it done fast and quietly. It’d help if you got the old man’s say-so. We’ll have to open the family vault.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “The newspapers will love this,” Retnick said, his face gloomy. “Could be they’ll stir up trouble.”

  “Yeah.”

  He brooded for some moments, then took out his cigar case and offered it to me.

  “Not for me,” I said. “I’m a lung cancer addict.”

  “Yeah ... I was forgetting.” Retnick polished the cigar case on his sleeve. “I don’t want trouble, Ryan. I’m relying on you. Maybe I should have looked in the coffin before I released it.”

  “Someone smart is bound to bring that point up.”

  “Yeah . . ”

  There was a long pause, then I got to my feet.

  “I’ll talk to Mr. Jefferson.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you to call me. As soon as you get his okay, I’ll open the coffin.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “Remember, Ryan, you can always do with a good friend at police headquarters . . . just remember that.”

  “Just so long as you remember me, I’ll remember you. We could make a song out of that, couldn’t we?”

  I left him, staring uneasily into space and went down to where I had parked my car. I got under the wheel, lit a cigarette and brooded for several minutes. I decided first to go to my office just to see if it was still there. From my office I could telephone Janet West and see if the old man would be ready to talk to me this afternoon.

  I drove to my office, parked and rode up in the elevator. As I unlocked my office door, I heard Jay Wayde’s deep voice dictating. There was a heap of mail lying on the floor. I picked it up and dumped it on my dust-covered desk. Then, as I found the room stuffy, I crossed to the window and opened it wide. Jay Wayde’s baritone voice came clearly to me. He was dictating a letter about a consignment of adhesive plaster. I listened for a brief moment before moving back to my desk. I flicked through my mail which seemed depressingly non­productive. Only three letters looked like business: the rest were circulars which I dumped into the trash-basket.

  I reached for the telephone and called J. Wilbur Jefferson’s residence. The voice of the gloomy butler asked who was calling. I told him. There was a delay, then Janet West came on the line.

  “This is Mr. Jefferson’s secretary. Is that Mr. Ryan?”

  I said it was, then, “Can I see Mr. Jefferson?”

  “Yes, of course. Will you come at three o’clock this afternoon?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Have you found out anything?” I wasn’t sure if her voice sounded anxious or not.

  “I’ll be there,” I said and hung up.

  I lit a cigarette and put my feet up on the desk. The time was now twenty minutes to one o’clock. I was feeling faintly hungry. I was back now in Pasadena City. I missed Hong Kong.

  I missed the Chinese food. I thought of Sparrow and his eternal sandwiches without enthusiasm, but the body had to be kept alive. After I had planned what to say and do when I got to Jefferson’s residence, I locked up the office and went down to Sparrow’s snack bar. I kept him fascinated for twenty minutes telling him about the Chinese girls. The hamburger and beer seemed pretty heavy after the Chinese food.

  After lunch I went back to my apartment. I shaved, showered and put on a change of clothes. It was then time to drive to J. Wilbur Jefferson’s residence.

  The butler let me in, still gloomy, still silent. He took me directly to Janet West’s office where she was working at her desk.

  She looked pale and her eyes were dark-ringed as if she had been sleeping badly. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes as she stood up as I came into the room.

  “Come in, Mr. Ryan,” she said. “Please sit down.” />
  I came on in and sat down. The butler faded away like a replica of Hamlet’s ghost.

  She sat down, resting her slim hands on the blotter, her eyes troubled, she studied me.

  “Did you have a successful trip? Mr. Jefferson will be ready to see you in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, I had a pretty successful trip,” I said. I took from my wallet the photograph of Frank Belling she had given to me and flicked it onto her desk. “You gave me that—remember? You told me it was a photograph of Herman Jefferson.”

  She looked at the photograph, her face expressionless, then she looked at me. “Yes, I know.”

  “I’m going to show it to Mr. Jefferson and I’m going to tell him you gave it to me, telling me it is a photograph of his son.”

  She looked down at her hands, then she said, “Is he dead?”

  “Herman? Yes, he’s dead now.”

  I saw a shiver run through her and for a long moment she remained motionless, than she looked up. She was pale and there was a lost expression in her eyes.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Did you know he was hooked up in a drug traffic racket?”

  “Yes ... I knew.”

  “Well, they caught up with him. He tried a double-cross that didn’t come off. How did you

  know?”

  She didn’t say anything for some seconds.

  “Oh, he told me,” she said wearily. “You see, I was stupid enough to fall in love with him. He played on that. I’ve been a hopeless fool about him, but some women do make fools of themselves over worthless men.”

  “Why did you give me this photograph and tell me it was Herman’s?”

  “I wanted to shield Mr. Jefferson. He is the only decent, generous person I have ever known. I couldn’t bear to let him find out his son was a drug pedlar.”

  “Where did you get the photograph from?”

  “Herman sent it to me. Although he only wrote once a year to his father, he wrote more often to me.” She hesitated, then went on. “You may as well know the truth. We had an affair together years ago. I had his child. Although I knew he was utterly worthless I loved him. He knew that and he played on my feelings. He often sent me snapshots of various people he met. Photographs of Chinese girls. He knew he was upsetting me ... it amused him. Then suddenly he sent this photograph of Belling. He said he and Belling were going into business together. I suppose he sent the photograph to prove he wasn’t lying. I don’t know, but he sent it. He asked me to lend him a thousand dollars so he could make a fresh start. I didn’t send it to him. Then I had a frantic letter from him saving he was in bad trouble. He was terrified. I could tell that by the way he wrote. He said he had got mixed up with a drug organisation and they were going to kill him. He said he was going into hiding. He told me Belling was dead, but these people thought it was he who was dead. He said his wife would bring Belling’s body back here. It was the only way to convince these people he was dead and once they were convinced, they would stop hunting for him.” She lifted her hands helplessly. “I was shocked to know he had sunk so low. I didn’t want Mr. Jefferson to find out. I know I shouldn’t have done it. . . but I did.”

  As I said nothing, she went on, “He gave me the address of a Chinese. His name was Wong Hop Ho. He told me to write to this man if anything went wrong. When his wife was murdered and when Mr. Jefferson said he was sending you to Hong Kong, I wrote to this man Wong and warned him. I told him I had given you Belling’s photograph. I was desperately anxious that Mr. Jefferson shouldn’t know the truth.”

  “He’s got to know the truth now,’ I said. “I can’t keep it away from him.”

  “Why can’t you?” She leaned forward. “Why can’t he die, thinking his son was decent?”

  “It’s too complicated for that. The coffin has to be examined. The police are in on this now. This is something that can’t be hushed up.” I studied her. “I’ll keep you out of it, but that’s the best I can do.”

  There came a tap on the door and the butler came in.

  “Mr. Jefferson is ready to see you now,” he said. “Will you come this way?”

  I went with him, leaving Janet staring bleakly out of the window.

  J. Wilbur Jefferson was reclining on the bed-chair as if he hadn’t moved since the last time I had met him. He watched me come towards him and he waved me to a chair near his.

  “Well, young man, so you’re back. I take it you have information for me.”

  I sat down.

  “Yes . . . but not the kind of information you’re going to welcome,” I said. “You sent me to Hong Kong to get the background of this thing and I’ve got it.”

  He studied me, then shrugged his shoulders.

  “Go ahead and tell me. What did you find out?”

  I gave him an edited version of what had happened in Hong Kong and what I had found out about his son. I didn’t tell him how his son had died. I said the police had found his body in the sea.

  He listened, staring across at a row of standard roses, his face expressionless. He said nothing until I had finished.

  “And now?” he asked, still not looking at me.

  “The police want to open the coffin,” I said. “They want your permission to open the vault.”

  “That’s all right. They can get the key from Miss West.”

  “I have arranged for your son’s body to be sent back here,” I went on. “It’ll arrive at the end of the week.”

  “Thank you,” he said indifferently.

  There was a long pause while I looked down at my feet, waiting and he stared bleakly in 143

  front of him.

  “I never thought Herman would have sunk as low as that,” he said finally. “A drug trafficker . . . the lowest animal on earth.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Well. I suppose he is better off dead,” he went on. “Now about his wife . . . you haven’t found out who killed her?”

  “Not yet. Do you want me to go on trying?”

  “Why not?” I could see he was thinking about his son. “If there is anything you want, any money you want, Miss West will attend to it. We may as well make a tidy end to this sordid business. Find who killed her.”

  “I’ll want the key to the vault,” I said, and got to my feet. “There is one other thing, Mr. Jefferson. Now your son is dead, who will be your heir?”

  That startled him. He gazed at me blankly.

  “What business is it of yours who gets my money?”

  “Is it that much of a secret? If it is, I apologise.”

  He frowned, moving his heavily-veined hands uneasily along the arms of his chair.

  “No, it’s no secret, but why do you ask?”

  “If Herman’s wife had lived, would she have had a mention in your Will?”

  “Of course. My son’s wife would have been entitled to have received what I was leaving to him.”

  “Was it a large amount?”

  “Half my money.”

  “That would be a large amount. Who gets the other half?”

  “Miss West.”

  “So now she’ll get the lot?”

  He stared thoughtfully at me.

  “That is right. Why are you so curious about my personal affairs, Mr. Ryan?”

  “It’s my business to be curious,” I said and I left him.

  I found Janet West at her desk. She looked up as I stood in the doorway.

  “Come in, Mr. Ryan,” she said, her voice cold and flat.

  I came in.

  “I want the key to the vault,” I said. “The police will want to open the coffin. I promised Lieutenant Retnick to get the key for him. Mr. Jefferson doesn’t object.”

  She searched in a drawer of her desk and then gave me a key.

  “I told him the story,” I said, dropping the key into my pocket. “He took it pretty well.”

  She lifted her shoulders in a resigned shrug.

  “And now?”

  “He wants me to find Jo-An�
��s killer. That’s my next job.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “Most murders start from a motive,” I said. “I’m pretty sure there is a motive for this one. I even have an idea what the motive is. Well, I mustn’t take up your time. I’ll return the key when I’ve finished with it.”

  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.

  2

  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.