A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

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.