A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

“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 photograph 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 rime 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.