A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

It wasn’t possible to talk against the sound of the powerful engines. Stella sat away from me, staring out into the moonlit night. There was a depressed expression on her face as if she were concentrating on something that saddened her. My mind was busy too, turning over the bits of information I had gathered. I still couldn’t believe that Leila had lied to me. Either the Enrights were misinformed or they too, like the reception clerk at the Celestial Empire Hotel, were lying about Herman Jefferson . . . but why?

The village of Aberdeen was one of the most fantastic sights I have seen. The harbour was crammed with junks, shoulder to shoulder and swarming with Chinese with their relations

and children. There was no hope of entering the harbour so Enright dropped anchor and we took a sampan rowed by a thirteen-year-old Chinese girl to the landing-stage. We spent an hour wandering around the tiny, interesting bay village, then Stella said she was tired and we returned to the boat. As we were being rowed in the sampan to the boat, Stella said, “Have you been to the islands yet? You should see them. You can take a ferry.”

“Not yet ... no.”

“If you have nothing better to do tomorrow, I’m going to Silver Mine Bay. We could go together. I have a visit to make. While I’m visiting you might like to look at the waterfall. It is something to see, then we could come back together.”

“I’d like it fine,” I said.

“My sister is a very charitable soul,” Enright said. “We had a servant when we first came here. She was very old and we had to get rid of her. She lives at Silver Mine Bay. Stella visits her from time to time. She takes her things.”

He started the motor-boat engine and that stopped all talking. It took us twentv minutes or so to reach tn* villa. Stella left the boat and Enright said he would run me back to the hotel.

“Good night,” Stella said, pausing at the bottom of the steps to smile at me. “The ferry-boat leaves at two. I’ll look out for you on the pier.”

I thanked her for a wonderful evening and she lifted her hand in a little wave and then started up the steps as Enright opened the throttle and sent the boat roaring in the direction of the hotel.

He dropped me at the landing-stage.

“When did you say you were leaving?” he asked as I climbed out of the boat.

“About a week’s time . . . I’m not sure.”

“Well, you must come again. It’s been nice meeting you.”

We shook hands and then I watched him drive the boat out to sea.

I walked slowly up the beach towards the hotel. I couldn’t get out of my mind the sinister squat figure of the Chinese I had seen reflected in the mirror. I had an instinctive feeling he meant trouble.

The following morning I found myself in the office of the Third Secretary, American Consul.

I had had a little trouble getting to him, but by bearing down on old man Jefferson’s name, I was finally and reluctantly admitted to his office.

He was a fat, smooth-looking bird, surrounded by an atmosphere of diplomatic immunity. He read my card which lay on his desk by peering gingerly at it as if he felt by touching it he might pick up an incurable disease.

“Nelson Ryan . . . private investigator,” he intoned and then sat back and lifted supercilious eyebrows. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m working for J. Wilbur Jefferson,” I said. “I’m making inquiries about his son, Herman Jefferson, who died here in a road accident about seventeen days ago.”

He fed a cigarette into his fat face.

“So?”

“He was a resident of Hong Kong. I take it he would have had to register here.”

“That is correct.”

“Can you tell me his last address?”

He moistened one fat finger and smoothed down his left eyebrow.

“Well, I suppose I could give it to you, but is it necessary? It’s a dead file now. It may take a little time to get it from the vaults.”

“Is that what you want me to tell Mr. Jefferson?” f asked. “I can’t imagine he would toss his bonnet over a windmill to hear a Third Secretary of the American Consul couldn’t be bothered to help him.”

He looked suddenly wary. Probably he had suddenly remembered just how much water the old man could draw if he wanted to.

Slightly flustered, he picked up the telephone and said, “Oh, Miss Davenport, will you bring me Herman Jefferson’s file . . . yes, Herman Jefferson. Thank you.” He replaced the receiver and hoisted a weary smile on his fat face, showing me his set of porcelain choppers. “Yeah ... J. Wilbur Jefferson. I remember now . . . the millionaire. How is the old gentleman?” “Still ready and willing to kick a backside when it needs kicking,” I said cheerfully. “He has a hell of a long leg and a hell of a heavy boot.”

The Third Secretary, whose name was Harris Wilcox, winced, then laughed as convincingly as a newly-wed husband laughs when meeting his mother-in-law for the first time.

“Wonderful how these old tycoons last,” he said. “He’ll probably see us both into the ground.”