A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

“How do you explain what she was doing here and how she got in if you had locked up?” “I could make a guess.”

His eyes narrowed and he cocked his head on one side.

“Go ahead and guess.”

“I think this woman had business with me. A guy calling himself John Hardwick didn’t want her to talk to me. I don’t know why nor do I know what she wanted to talk to me about—I’m just guessing. It’s my guess Hardwick sent me to sit outside an empty bungalow to be sure I wouldn’t be in my office when she arrived. I think he was waiting here for her. My locks are nothing special. He wouldn’t have any trouble opening the doors. He was probably sitting at my desk when she walked in. The fact she doesn’t look scared makes me think she didn’t know this guy and thought he was me. After she had said her say, he shot her. It was a quick expert shot. She didn’t have time even to change the expression on her face.”

Retnick looked at Pulski.

“If we don’t watch out, this shamus will be stealing our jobs.”

Pulski removed something from a back tooth and spat it on my carpet. He didn’t say anything: it wasn’t his job to talk. He was a professional listener.

Retnick thought for a moment. It was a process that apparently gave him some pain. Finally, he said, “I’ll tell you what makes your guess stink, bright boy. This guy called you from the airport which is two miles from here. If you’re not lying, you left your office just after six. He couldn’t have got here much before seven-thirty the way the traffic is on that highway at that time, and anyone, even a yellow skin, would know that’s after business hours. She wouldn’t have come here on the off-chance of finding you here. She would have telephoned first.”

“What makes you so sure she didn’t? Maybe she did and Hardwick was in my office to take the call. Maybe he told her he would be waiting for her and for her to come right along.”

By his change of expression I knew he was irritated with himself for not having worked this out for himself.

The M.O., plus two interns, plus the usual stretcher appeared in the doorway.

Pulski reluctantly pushed himself off the door-post and took the M.O., a fussy little guy with a lemon sour face, into the inner room to view the remains.

Retnick adjusted a pearl stickpin in his tie.

“She shouldn’t be difficult to trace,” he said as if he were talking to himself. “When a yellow skin is as pretty as this one, she gets noticed. When did you say this guy Hardwick was going to call on you?”

“T omorrow—Friday.”

“Think he will?”

“Not a chance.”

He nodded his head.

“Yeah.” He looked at his watch, then yawned. “You look like hell. Suppose you go get yourself a cup of coffee? Don’t go far and don’t flap your mouth. I’ll be ready to talk to you in about half an hour.”

I wasn’t kidded for a moment. He wasn’t being considerate: he wanted me out of the way.

“I guess I can use some coffee,” I said. “Okay for me to go home and take a shower?”

“Who cares how bad you smell?” he said. “Just coffee and where you can be seen.”

I took the elevator to the ground floor. Although it was only twenty minutes to eight o’clock, a small crowd had collected to stare at the waiting ambulance and the four police cars parked in front of the building As I walked to the Quick Snack Bar I heard heavy footfalls behind me. I didn’t bother to look around. I expected to drink my coffee under police supervision.

I entered the bar and eased myself up onto a stool. Sparrow, his eyes bugging, tore himself from the window where he was watching the ambulance and looked expectantly at me.

“What’s cooking, Mr, Ryan?’ he asked, his breath hissing between his teeth.

“A coffee, strong and black and fast,” I said, “then two fried eggs on ham.”

The big plain-clothes man who had followed me didn’t come into the bar. He stood just outside where he could watch me.

Containing his patience with an effort that brought dark circles to his armpits, Sparrow drew coffee and then got busy with the eggs and ham.

“Someone dead, Mr. Ryan?” he asked as be broke the eggs onto the hot-plate.

“What time do you shut down for the night?” I asked, watching the cop outside who scowled at me through the plate-glass window.

“Ten o’clock sharp,” Sparrow said, doing an unconscious little jig with impatience. “What’s going on across the way?”

“A Chinese woman got herself murdered.” I drank some of the coffee. It was hot and strong and good. “I found her in my office half an hour ago.”

His Adam’s apple did a rock ‘n’ roll.

“No kidding, Mr. Ryan?”

“Gospel truth.” I finished the coffee and pushed the cup towards him. “And again.”

“A Chinese woman?”

“Yeah. Don’t ask questions. I know as much as you do about it. Did you see a Chinese woman go in my office block after I had left?”

He shook his head as he refilled my cup.

“No. I think I’d have seen her if she had gone in before I shut up. I hadn’t much to do last night.”