A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

There was a pause while we sat staring at each other for about two minutes, then the door opened and Miss Davenport, a willowy girl of around twenty-five, moved her well-built body to the desk and put a file, slim enough to be empty, before Mr. Wilcox. She glanced at me, then went out waving her hips the way secreraries with hips do while we both watched her until the door closed, then Wilcox opened the file.

“All his papers went back with the body,” he said apologetically, “but we should have something here.” He peered at the single sheet of paper in the file, then shook his head. “Not a great deal, I’m afraid. His last address was the Celestial Empire Hotel. He arrived in Hong Kong on September 3rd, 1956, and he has lived at the hotel ever since. He married a Chinese girl last year.”

“What did he do for a living?”

Wilcox again peered at the sheet of paper.

“He’s down here as an exporter, but I understand he didn’t do anything for a living. I guess he had private means although I understand that he lived very rough.”

“Would it surprise you to know he rented a luxury villa at Repulse Bay?” I asked.

Wilcox stared blankly at me.

“He did? He should have registered a change of address if he had done so. Are you sure? What villa?”

“The villa belonging to Lin Fan.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Ryan, I know that villa. Jefferson couldn’t possibly have afforded such a place. It would cost in English money at least four hundred pounds a month.”

“Right now the villa is rented by Harry Enright who lives there with his sister,” I said.

Wilcox nodded. His face showed sudden animation.

“That’s right. Enright took the villa over from some Englishman. I forget his name. Nice guy ... I mean Enright, and what a sister!” He leered. “Probably the most attractive woman in Hong Kong.”

“I understood the villa was empty before Enright took it.”

“Oh no. There was some Englishman there. I never met him.”

“Jefferson and this Chinese girl were really married?”

He stared at me.

“Of course. They were married here. I could show you a copy of the marriage certificate if you want to see it.”

“Yeah: I’d like to see it.”

He did some telephoning, then as we waited, he said, “I remember her well—a pretty little thing. I had the job of clearing her papers and despatching the coffin ... a sad affair.” He tried to look sad. “I was sorry for her.”

Miss Davenport minced in, gave Wilcox the certificate and then duck-tailed out. When we had got through watching her exit, Wilcox passed the certificate across the desk to me. I examined it. It did prove that Jefferson had married Jo-An a year ago. I learned that Frank Belling and Mu Hai Ton had been witnesses of the ceremony.

“Who is Frank Belling?” I asked, showing Wilcox the certificate.

He shook his head.

“I’ve no idea. A friend of Jefferson’s I guess. He must be English. We’ve no record of him.”

“And the girl?”

“I wouldn’t know. Probably a friend of Mrs. Jefferson.” He tapped his porcelain teeth gently with the end of his fountain pen and looked sideways at his desk clock.

I decided there was nothing further to learn from him so I got to my feet.

“Well, thanks,” I said. “I mustn’t take up your time.”

He said it was a pleasure to have met me. I could see it gave him more pleasure to see me go.

“You never met Herman Jefferson?” I asked at the door.

“Funnily enough I didn’t. He kept to the Chinese quarter. He seemed never to mix with my friends.”

I left the building and walked slowly over to where I had parked the Packard. On my way I had to sidestep two uniformed Chinese policemen who were dragging along a beggar woman and a screaming child. No one seemed to pay any attention to this little scene. When you have an influx of a hundred thousand refugees illegally entering this small island even,’ year, such a sight probably becomes commonplace, but it depressed me.

I sat in the car and turned over in my mind what I had learned. Not much, but perhaps I had a small lead to work on. I decided I wanted to talk to this Chinese girl, Mu Hai Ton, and also to Frank Belling.

I drove to the Central Police Station and asked to speak to Chief Inspector MacCarthy. After a little delay, I was shown into his office.

The Chief Inspector was cleaning his pipe. He waved me to a chair, blew through his pipe and then began to fill it.

“And what can I do for you this morning?” he asked.

“I’m looking for a man. His name is Frank Belling,” I said. “Can you give me a lead on him?”

MacCarthy lit his pipe and puffed smoke towards me. He would have made a poor poker player. Although his face remained expressionless, I saw his eyes become alert and hard.

“Frank Belling?” He removed his pipe and rubbed the warm bowl against the side of his nose. “Why are you interested in him?”

“I don’t know that I am. He happened to be a witness at Herman Jefferson’s wedding. Do you know him?”

MacCarthy stared blankly at the wall behind me, then reluctantly he nodded.

“Yes ... we know him,” he said. “So he was a witness to Jefferson’s wedding. Hmm . . . interesting. You wouldn’t know where he is?”