1962 - A Coffin From Hong Kong

by James Hadley Chase

  “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.

  chapter six

  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. “Now’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.

  “I can get off tomorrow,” I said as she paused and looked at me with her quizzing remote eyes. “Any chance of a plane reservation?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ryan. I’ll have your ticket this evening. Is there anything else you want?”

  “I’d like a photograph of Herman Jefferson. Can you fix that?”

  “A photograph?” She seemed surprised.

  “It could be useful. I’m getting a morgue shot of his wife. Photos are always useful when on a job like this.”

  “Yes: I can get you one.”

  “How would it be if we met somewhere down town this evening? It’ll save me driving out to your place. I’ve got a lot to do before I go. Suppose we say at the Astor Bar at eight?”

  She hesitated, then nodded,

  “Yes: then at eight.”

  “Thanks: it’ll help a lot.”

  She nodded again, gave me a cool little smile and walked away. I watched her get into a two-seater Jaguar and drive away.

  Don’t moon over her, sucker, I said to myself. If she’s coming into Jefferson’s millions, she’ll find someone a lot more interesting than you: and that wouldn’t be so hard either.

  I drove to the office and spent the rest of the morning tidying up the various outstanding odds and ends. Luckily, I had nothing on hand that mattered: nothing that couldn’t wait a couple of weeks, but I hoped I wouldn’t have to be away that long.

  I was just thinking of going over the way for a sandwich when a tap came on the door and Jay Wayde wandered in.

  “I won’t keep you,” he said. “I wanted to know the time of Herman’s funeral. Do you know? I think I should be there.”

  “It’s tomorrow,” I said, “but I don’t know the time.”

  “Oh.” He looked disconcerted. “Well, maybe I could call Miss West. I wonder if they would mind if I went?”

  “I’m seeing Miss West this evening. I’ll ask her if you like.”

  “I wish you would.” He brightened up. “It’s a bit embarrassing for me to ask. I mean I haven’t seen him for so long. It just occurred to me . . .” He let the sentence drift away.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “How did the inquest go?”

  “As I thought: it’s been adjourned.” I paused to light a cigarette. “I’m off to Hong Kong tomorrow.”

  “You are?” He looked a little surprised. “That’s quite a trip. Something to do with this business?”

  “Sure. Old man Jefferson’s hired me to look into the girl’s background. He’s paving: so I’m going.”

  “Is that a fact? You know that’s one of the places I’d really like to visit. I envy you.”

  “I envy myself.”

  “Well, I’ll be interested to hear how you get on.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “Think you’ll find out anything?”

  “I haven’t an idea. I can but try.”

  “So you met Mr. Jefferson. How did you find him?”

  “Not so hot. He doesn’t look as if he’s going to last long.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. He’s pretty old.” He shook his head. “Must have been a jolt to him when Herman went.” He began to move to the door. “Well, I only looked in. I have someone coming to see me. Have a good trip. Anything I can do for you while you’re away?”

  “Not a thing, thanks. I’ll lock up and that’ll be that.”

  “Well, then I’ll be seeing you. We’ll have a drink together on your return. I’ll be interested to hear how you get on and what you think of the place. You won’t forget about the funeral? You might ask if one can send flowers.”

  “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  Later in the afternoon, I drove over to police headquarters and picked up the morgue photo of Jo-An Jefferson that Retnick had promised me. I: was a good photograph. By letting the light fall on her dead eyes, the photographer had given her a resemblance of life. I sat in my car for some minutes, studying the picture. She had been certainly attractive. I had asked the morgue attendant what the funeral arrangements were. He told me she was to be buried at Jefferson’s expense at the Woodside Cemetery the day after tomorrow. That meant she wasn’t being put away in the family vault. The Woodside Cemetery was not for the lush-plush residents of Pasadena City.

  Around six o’clock, I locked up the office and went home. I packed a bag: did the various things one has to do when leaving for a couple of weeks, took a shower, shaved, put on a clean shirt, then drove down town to the Astor Bar, arriving there at five minutes to eight.

  Janet West arrived as the minute hand of my strap watch shifted to the hour. She came in with that confident air a well-dressed, good-looking woman has who knows she looks good and is pleased about it.

  Male heads turned to watch her as she made her way to the corner table where I was sitting. We said the usual things polite strangers say to each other when meeting and I ordered her a vodka martini while I had a Scotch.

  She gave me the airplane ticket and a leather wallet.

  “I got some Hong Kong dollars for you,” she said. “It’ll save you the trouble at the other end. Would you want me to telephone for a room for you? The Peninsular or the Mirama are the best hotels.”

  “Thanks, but I’m aiming to stay at the Celestial Empire.”

  She gave me a quick alert stare as she said, “Yes, of course.”

  “Did you remember the photograph?”

  As the waiter set the drinks, she opened her lizard handbag and gave me an envelope.

  The half-plate glossy print was obviously a professional job. The man photographed was staring intently at the camera. There was a sly, half grin in his eyes: not a pleasant face. Dark, with thick black eyebrows, coarse featured, a strong ruthless jaw line, a thin mouth. The kind of face you would expect to see in a police line-up.

  I was surprised. I wasn’t expecting Herman Jefferson to look like this. I had in mind a more easy-going, irresponsible, playboy type. This man could do anything that was violent and vicious, and do it well.

  I remembered what she had said about him. He was utterly and thoroughly bad. He had no redeeming feature. Looking at this man’s face, I could accept this statement now.

  I looked up. She was watching me: her face expressionless, but her eyes were cold.

  “I see what you mean,” I said. “He doesn’t take after his father, does he?”

  She didn’t say anything to that but continued to watch me as I put the ph
otograph in my wallet. I had a sudden idea for no reason at all and I took out the morgue shot of Jo-An.

  “You asked me if she was pretty,” I said. “Here she is,” and I offered the photograph.

  For a long moment she made no move to take the photograph. Maybe the light was deceptive, but I had an idea she lost colour. Her hand was steady enough as she finally took the photograph. It was now my turn to watch her as she studied the dead woman’s face. She stared for a long moment, her face expressionless. I wondered what was going on in her mind. Then she handed me back the photograph.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice cold and flat.

  I picked up my glass and she picked up hers. We drank.

  “You said the funeral was tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “A friend of Herman’s asked me to find out the time and if he could go. He has an office next to mine. His name is Jay Wayde. He went to school with Herman.”

  She stiffened.

  “Only Mr. Jefferson and I are attending the service,” she said. “None of Herman’s friends would be acceptable.”

  “I’ll tell him. He wanted to send flowers.”

  “There are to be no flowers.” She looked at her watch, then got to her feet. “Mr. Jefferson is expecting me. I must get back. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  We had scarcely touched our drinks. I was vaguely disappointed. I had hoped to have got to know her better, but it was like trying to talk to someone behind a nine foot wall.

  “No, thanks. What time does the plane take off?”

  “Eleven o’clock. You should be at the airport at half past ten.”

  “Thanks for fixing it.” As she began to move towards the exit, I hurriedly shoved two dollars at the waiter and followed her out onto the street.

  The Jaguar was parked exactly opposite the bar. I had had to drive around two blocks three times before I had finally found parking room about a couple of hundred yards away. That proved cither she or more probably old man Jefferson had plenty of pull in this city.

  She paused by the car.

  “I hope you have a successful trip,” she said. There was no smile. Her eyes were still remote. “If there is anything you think of you need before you leave, please telephone me.”

  “Don’t you ever relax?” I asked, smiling at her. “Do you never take time off from being an efficient secretary?”

  Just for a brief moment there was a flicker of surprise in her eyes, but it was quickly gone.

  She opened the door of the car and got in. It was neatly done: there was no show of knees. She slammed the door shut before I could put my hand on it.

  “Good night, Mr. Ryan,” she said, and stabbing the starter button, she slid the car into the traffic and was away.

  I watched the car out of sight, then looked at my strap watch. The time was thirty-five minutes past eight. I would have liked to have had her as a companion for dinner. The evening stretched ahead of me: empty and dull. I stood on the edge of the kerb and thought of the four or five girls I knew who I could call up and have dinner with, but none of them were in Miss West’s bracket: none of them would amuse me this night I decided to eat another goddam sandwich and then go home and watch television.

  I wondered what Jay Wayde would have thought if he knew I was planning to spend this kind of evening. He would probably have been shocked and disillusioned. He would have expected me to have been at some clip-joint talking tough to a blonde or wrestling rough with some redhead.

  I walked into a snack bar. The juke-box was blaring swing. Two girls in jeans and skintight sweaters were perched on stools at the bar, their round little bottoms pushed out suggestively, their hair in the Bardot style, their grubby fingers red-tipped.

  They looked at me as I came in, their hard worldly young eyes running over me speculatively, then they looked away. Too old, too dull and obviously no fun.

  I ate a beef and ham sandwich, feeling depressed. Even going to Hong Kong in the morning failed to light a spark. I took out the photographs of Herman and Jo-An and studied them. They made an ill-assorted pair. The man worried me. I couldn’t understand how a girl like Janet West had not only fallen for him but had produced his baby.

  I thought the hell with it and put the photographs away. Then paying for the sandwich, I went out onto the street, aware the two girls were staring after me. One of them laughed shrilly. Maybe she thought I was funny to look at. I didn’t blame her. There were times when I was shaving I thought so too.

  I drove back to my top-floor apartment that consisted of a reasonably large living-room, a tiny bedroom and an even tinier kitchen. I had lived there ever since I had come to Pasadena City. It was central, cheap and convenient. It had no elevator, but I didn’t worry about that. Walking up five flights of stairs kept my figure in trim and kept anyone but a good friend away.

  I was panting slightly by the time I reached my front door. As I fumbled for my key, I told myself I’d better cut down on the cigarettes, but I knew I was just kidding myself.

  I unlocked the door and walked into my living-room. I didn’t see him until I had shut the door. The room was very dim: it was dusk and he was in black.

  There was a big neon sign advertising a soap powder across the way and its gaudy blue, green and red tubes made a reflection on the ceiling. If it hadn’t been for the sign, I wouldn’t have seen him at all.

  He was sitting in my best armchair that had been moved close to the window. He sat with his legs crossed, his hands on a folded newspaper on his lap and he seemed relaxed and at ease.

  He certainly gave me a shock that set my heart thumping.

  The light switch was just by me. I snapped it on.

  He wasn’t much more than a kid: around eighteen or nineteen, but powerfully built with thick lumpy shoulders. He, had on a black greasy leather jacket, a black woollen cap with a dirty red tassel, black corduroy trousers and a black cotton handkerchief knotted at his thick throat.

  You can see the type any night hanging around in gangs outside bars: a typical product of the streets: as vicious and as dangerous as a cornered rat.

  His skin was the colour of cold mutton fat. His eyes were the flat, glittering eyes of a muggle smoker and a killer. His right ear was missing and he had a thick white scar of an old knife wound running along his jaw line. He was the most terrifying looking specimen of a delinquent I had ever seen.

  He scared the hell out of me.

  He gave me a cold, sneering grin.

  “Hi, Buster, I thought you were never coming,” he said in a hoarse, rasping voice.

  I thought of my gun somewhere at police headquarters. I was getting over the shock now, but I would have been a lot happier if I had had the gun under my coat.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” I said.

  “Relax, Buster: squat. I got business with you.” He waved to a chair. I saw he was wearing black cotton gloves and that brought me out in a sweat. I knew this young punk was lethal and he could be lethal to me. He was too confident: much, much too confident. I looked closely at him. The pupils of his eyes were enormous. He was junked to the tassel of his woollen cap.

  “I’ll give you two seconds to get out of here before I throw you out,” I said, forcing my voice to sound tough.

  He sniggered, rubbing the tip of his waxy-looking nose with a gloved finger. He shifted his legs and the newspaper slid onto the floor. I saw the .45 resting on his thighs. It had a twelve-inch metal tube screwed into the barrel.

  “Squat, Buster,” he said. “I know you ain’t got a rod.” He tapped the extension tube. “It’s silent. I made this hicky myself. It’ll last for three shots, but one’ll be plenty.”

  I looked at him and he looked at me, men moving slowly, I sat down, facing him. There were six feet of carpet between us. From this distance I could smell him. He smelt of dirt, stale sweat and reefer smoke.

  “What do you want?” I demanded.

  “You tired of life, Buster?” he asked, ma
king himself more comfortable by shifting his thick body in the chair. “You’d better be. You ain’t got long to live.”

  Looking into those flat, drugged eyes that were as impersonal as the eyes of a snake sent a chill up my spine.

  “I like life,” I said for the sake of something to say. “I get along fine with it.”

  “Too bad.” He moved the gun slightly so that the black tube was suddenly pointing directly at me. “You got a girl?”

  “Several—why?”

  “Just wondered. Will they be sad when they hear you’ve been knocked off?”

  “One or two might. Look, this is a crazy conversation. What have you against me? What have I done to you?”

  “Not a thing, Buster.” His thin bloodless lips curled into a sneering smile. “You look a nice guy. You got a nice apartment. I watched you arrive. You got a nice car.”

  I drew in a long, deep breath.

  “Suppose you put that gun away and let’s get pally,” I said without much hope. “How about a drink?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Good for you. There are times when I wish I didn’t. I could do with a drink right now. Would drat be all right with you?”

  He shook his head.

  “This isn’t a drinking party.”

  While this insane conversation was going on, my mind was busy. He was big and strong and tough. If it wasn’t for the gun, I would have been ready to take him. I’m not all that weak myself and I’ve learnt a trick or two to take care of a punk his weight and build. I was within six feet of him. One quick jump would put me on equal terms with him if it wasn’t for the gun.

  “What kind of party is it then?” I asked, moving my right foot so that it was slightly behind the front leg of my chair. In that position I had the correct leverage to catapult myself at him if I got the chance.

  “Shooting party, Buster,” he said and sniggered.

  “Who’s getting shot?”

  “You are, Buster.”

  I wished I wasn’t sweating so hard. It irritated and bothered me. I’ve been in tight spots before, but none quite so tight as this one. I wished I wasn’t feeling so goddam cowardly. “But why? What’s it all about?”