A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

“Sit down,” I said. “Tell me about Herman Jefferson. The Chinese woman was his wife.” That really shook him. He sat down and gaped at me.

“Herman’s wife? He married a Chinese?”

“So it seems.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

I waited, watching him.

He thought for a moment, then said, “Not that it shocks me. I’ve heard Chinese girls can be attractive, but I can’t imagine his father would be pleased.” He frowned, shaking his head. “What was she doing here?”

“She brought her husband’s body back for burial.”

He stiffened.

“You mean Herman’s dead?”

“Last week ... a car accident.”

He seemed completely thrown off balance. He sat there, staring blankly as if he couldn’t believe what he had heard.

“Herman . . . dead! I’m sorry,” he said at last. “This will be a shock to his father.”

“I guess so. Did you know him well?”

“Well, no. We were at school together. He was a reckless fella. He was always getting into trouble: fooling around with girls, driving like a madman, but I admired him. You know how kids are. I looked on him as a bit of a hero. Then later, after I had gone through college, I changed my views about him. He didn’t seem to grow up. He was always drinking and getting into fights and raising general hell. I dropped him. Finally, his father got tired of him and shipped him out East. That would be some five years ago. His father has interests out there.” He crossed one leg over the other. “So he married a Chinese girl. That certainly is surprising.”

“It happens,” I said.

“He died in a car accident? He was always getting into car smashes. I wonder he lasted as he did.” He looked at me. “You know to me this is damned intriguing. Why was she murdered?”

“That’s what the police are trying to find out.”

“It’s a problem, isn’t it? I mean, why did she come here to see you? It really is a mystery, isn’t it?”

I was getting a little bored with his enthusiasm.

“Yeah,” I said. Through the wall, I heard a telephone bell start ringing. He got to his feet.

“I’m neglecting my business and wasting your time,” he said. “If I can remember anything about Herman that I think might help, I’ll let you know.”

I said I’d be glad and watched him leave, closing the door after him.

I sank lower in my chair and brooded over what he had told me. I was still sitting there, twenty minutes later, still brooding and still getting nowhere when the telephone bell jerked me out of my lethargy. I scooped up the receiver.

“This is Mr. J. Wilbur Jefferson’s secretary,” a girl’s voice said: a nice, clear voice that was easy to listen to. “Is that Mr. Ryan?”

I said it was.

“Mr. Jefferson would like to see you. Could you come this afternoon at three o’clock?”

I felt a sharp stirring of interest as I opened my date book and surveyed its blank pages. I had no appointment for three o’clock this afternoon: come to that, I had no appointment for any day this week.

“I’ll be there,” I said.

“It is the last house, facing the sea on Beach Drive,” she told me. “Beach View.”

‘I’ll be there.”

“Thank you.”

She hung up.

I held the receiver against my ear for a brief moment while I tried to recapture the sound of her voice. I wondered what she looked like. Her voice sounded young, but voices can be deceptive. I hung up.

My morning passed without incident. I envied Jay Wayde whose telephone seemed to be constantly ringing. I could also hear the continuous clack-clack of a typewriter. He was obviously a lot busier than I, but then I had the mysterious Mr. Hardwick’s three hundred dollars to keep me from starving anyway for a couple of weeks.

No one came near me, and around one o’clock I went down to the Quick Snack Bar for the usual sandwich. Sparrow was busy so he couldn’t bother me with questions, although I could see he was itching to be brought up to date on the murder. I left with the rush hour still in full swing, aware of his reproachful expression as I left without telling him anything.

Later, I drove out to Beach Drive, the lush-plush district of Pasadena City. Here, rich retired people lived with their own private beaches, away from the crowds that invaded the city during the summer months.

I reached the gates of Beach View a few minutes to three o’clock. They stood open as if I were expected and I drove up a forty-yard drive, bordered on either side by well-kept lawns and flower-beds.

The house was over large and had an old-fashioned air. Six broad white steps led up to the front entrance. There was a hanging bell-pull and the front door was of fumed oak.

I pulled the chain and after a minute or so, the door opened. The butler was a tall gloomy- looking old man who stared impassively at me; raising one busy eyebrow inquiringly.

“Nelson Ryan,” I said. “I’m expected.”

He moved aside and motioned me into the dark hall full of heavy dark furniture. I followed him down a passage and into a small room containing a few uncomfortable looking chairs and a table on which lay some glossy magazines: a room that had the atmosphere of a dentist’s reception-room. He indicated one of the chairs and went away.