A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

“I read many detective stories,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet a real-life detective, sir.”

I lugged out some of my dollars and offered him fifty of them.

“Will this take care of your fees for a day or so?” I said. “I’ll probably need you from time to time in a hurry.”

He said that would be quite satisfactory, but the car would have to be considered as an extra. As I was spending Jefferson’s money, I said that would be all right. I was sure I could have bargained with him, but I wanted his full co-operation and I felt I might not get it if I cut corners.

We drove to the hotel and leaving the car on the waterfront, we crossed the road and mounted the stairs to the hotel lobby.

“This is not a good hotel,” Wong said on the way up. “I would not advise you to stay here, sir. I can arrange for a nice room for you at a distinguished hotel if that would please you.”

“Let’s leave it for the moment,” I said. “Right now I have a job to do.”

We arrived in front of the old reception clerk who bowed to me and looked blankly at Wong who looked blankly back at him.

“Tell him I want to ask some questions,” I said to Wong. “I will pay him if he can help me. Wrap it up so he won’t take offence.”

Wong went off into a long speech in Cantonese with a certain amount of bowing. Half-way through the speech, I got out my roll of money and counted out ten five-dollar bills, made them into a neat little roll and put the rest away.

The old reception clerk immediately took more interest in what I was holding than in what Wong was saying. Finally, Wong said it would be a pleasure for the clerk to answer any of my questions.

I produced the morgue photograph of Jo-An.

‘Ask him if he knows this girl.”

After staring at the photograph, the reception clerk got in a huddle with Wong who then told me the girl used to live at the hotel. She left fifteen days ago without paying her hotel bill and was I willing to pay it?

I said I wasn’t.

After further questions, Wong went on, “She was married to an American gentleman who shared her room here. His name was Herman Jefferson and he died unfortunately in a car accident. It was after this gentleman had died, the girl left without paying her bill.”

I produced the photograph of Jefferson that Janet West had given me.

“Ask him if he knows who this is?” I said to Wong.

There was an exchange of words after the clerk had stared glassily at the photograph, then Wong said, “It is the American gentleman who lived here.”

“How long did he live here?”

Through Wong, the reception clerk said he had lived in the hotel until he was killed.

This was the first false note in the interview. Leila had said Jefferson had left nine months ago. Now this old buzzard was saying he lived in the hotel up to three weeks ago when he had died.

“I heard Jefferson only stayed here for three months,” I said, “then he left his wife and lived elsewhere. That would be some nine months ago.”

Wong looked surprised. He talked earnestly to the reception clerk, then he said, puzzled, “He is quite sure the American gentleman remained here until he died.”

If the reception clerk was telling the truth, then Leila had been lying’.

“Tell him Leila said Jefferson left here nine months ago. Tell him I think he is lying.”

Wong got into a long huddle with the reception clerk, then suddenly, smiling, he turned to me. “He is not lying, Mr. Ryan. The girl was mistaken. Jefferson left early in the morning and returned very late. It is easy to see why this girl didn’t meet him and imagined he had left.”

“Then why did Jo-An tell her he had left?” I demanded.

The reception clerk had no answer to that one. He drew in his neck like a startled tortoise and blinked at me. He began to fidget and I could see he was thinking he had given full value for money and he would be glad to be left in peace.

Wong said, “He does not know the answer to that question, sir.”

“What did Jefferson do for a living?” I asked, shifting ground.

The reception clerk said he didn’t know.

“Did any Europeans ever come to see him here?”

The answer to that one was no.

“Did Jo-An ever have any friends to visit her?”

The answer again was no.

I realised with a feeling of irritated frustration I was getting nowhere. I had come around in a full circle unless Leila had been telling the truth.

“Did Jo-An leave any of her things in her room when she left?” I asked casually.

This was a trap question and the reception clerk walked into it.

“No,” he said through Wong. “She left nothing.”

I pounced on him.

“Then how did she manage to walk out of here with her belongings and not pay her bill?” I demanded

Wong saw the fairness of this and he barked at the old man. For a moment he hesitated, then scowling, he said she had left a suitcase but he was holding it against the rent.

I said I wanted to see it. After some more talk, the old reception clerk got up and led me down the passage to the room next to Leila’s. He unlocked the door and produced a cheap imitation leather suitcase from under the bed.