A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

“The investigation is in the hands of the police,” I said. “They are the only people who can find this man—I can’t. A murder case is outside an investigator’s province. Retnick doesn’t encourage outsiders stirring up the dust. I can’t question his witnesses. It would get back to him and I would land in trouble. As much as I would like to earn your money, Mr. Jefferson, it just wouldn’t work.”

He didn’t seem surprised, but he looked as determined as ever.

“I understand all that,” he said. “Retnick is a fool. He seems to have no idea how to set about solving this case. I suggested he should cable the British authorities in Hong Kong to see if we can find out something about this woman. We don’t know anything about her except she married my son and was a refugee from Red China. I know that because my son wrote about a year ago telling me he was marrying a Chinese refugee.” Again he looked across the garden as he said, “I foolishly forbade the marriage. I never heard from him again.”

“Do you think the British police will have information about her?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“It is possible, but not likely. Every year more than a hundred thousand of these unfortunate refugees come into Hong Kong. They are stateless people with no papers. I have a number of contacts in Hong Kong and I try to keep up to date with the situation. As I understand it, h is this: refugees fleeing from Red China are smuggled by junk to Macau which, as you probably know, is Portuguese territory. Macau can’t cope with the invasion nor do they wish to. The refugees are transferred to other junks sailing for Hong Kong. The British police patrol the approaches to Hong Kong, but the Chinese are patient and clever when they want to get their own way. If a junk carrying refugees is spotted by the police, the police boat converges on it, but there are hundreds of junks fishing the approaches to the island. Usually the refugee junk succeeds in mixing with the fishing junks that close protectively around it and since all junks look alike, it becomes impossible for the police boat to find it. I understand the British police are sympathetic towards the refugees: after all, they have had a horrible time and they are escaping from a common enemy. The search for them ceases once the junk succeeds in reaching Hong Kong’s territorial waters. The police feel that as these poor wretched people have got so far, it wouldn’t be human to send them back. But all these people are anonymous. They have no papers. The British police supply them with new papers, but there is no means of checking even their names. From the moment they arrive in Hong Kong, they begin an entirely new life with probably new names: they are reborn. My son’s wife was one of these people. Unless we can find out who she really was and what her background was, I doubt if we’ll ever discover why she was murdered and who her murderer is. So I want you to go to Hong Kong and see if you can find out something about her. It won’t be easy, but it is something Retnick can’t do and the British police wouldn’t be bothered to do. I think you can do it and I’m ready to finance you. What do you think?”

I was intrigued by the idea, but not so intrigued that I didn’t realise it could meet with no success.

“I’ll go,” I said, “but it could be hopeless. I can’t say what chances I have until I get out there, but right now, I don’t think I have much of a chance.”

“Go and talk to my secretary. She’ll show you some letters from my son that may be helpful. Do your best, Mr. Ryan.” He gave me a slight gesture of dismissal. “You will find Miss West in the third room down the passage to your right.”

“You realise I can’t go at once?” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll have to attend the inquest and I’ll have to get Retnick’s say-so before I leave.”

He nodded. He seemed now to be very tired.

“I’ll see Retnick doesn’t obstruct you. Go as soon as you can.”

I went away, leaving him staring stonily in front of him: a lonely man with bitter memories tormenting his conscience.

I found Janet West in a large room equipped like an office. She sat at a desk, a triple cheque book in front of her and a pile of bills at her elbow. She was writing a cheque as I entered the room. She looked up, her eyes probing. She gave me a slight smile which could have meant anything and indicated a chair by the desk.

“Are you going to Hong Kong, Mr. Ryan?” she asked, pushing the cheque book aside. She watched me as I sat down.

“I guess so, but I can’t leave at once. I could make it by the end of the week if I’m lucky.”

“You will need a smallpox shot. Cholera too would be wise, but it isn’t compulsory.”

“I’m all up to date with my shots.” I took out a pack of cigarettes, offered it and when she shook her head, I lit up and put the pack back in my pocket. “Mr. Jefferson said you had some letters from his son. I need every scrap of information I can get, otherwise it’ll be just so much waste of time going all that way.”

“I have them ready for you.”