A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

“We’ll have to open the coffin.” Retnick lit his third cigar. “Don’t suppose the old man will like that too much.”

“Why shouldn’t he? The coffin doesn’t contain his son.”

“That’s right,” Retnick brooded. “Better get it done fast and quietly. It’d help if you got the old man’s say-so. We’ll have to open the family vault.”

“I’ll get it.”

“The newspapers will love this,” Retnick said, his face gloomy. “Could be they’ll stir up trouble.”

“Yeah.”

He brooded for some moments, then took out his cigar case and offered it to me.

“Not for me,” I said. “I’m a lung cancer addict.”

“Yeah ... I was forgetting.” Retnick polished the cigar case on his sleeve. “I don’t want trouble, Ryan. I’m relying on you. Maybe I should have looked in the coffin before I released it.”

“Someone smart is bound to bring that point up.”

“Yeah . . ”

There was a long pause, then I got to my feet.

“I’ll talk to Mr. Jefferson.”

“I’ll be waiting for you to call me. As soon as you get his okay, I’ll open the coffin.”

“I’ll get it.”

“Remember, Ryan, you can always do with a good friend at police headquarters . . . just remember that.”

“Just so long as you remember me, I’ll remember you. We could make a song out of that, couldn’t we?”

I left him, staring uneasily into space and went down to where I had parked my car. I got under the wheel, lit a cigarette and brooded for several minutes. I decided first to go to my office just to see if it was still there. From my office I could telephone Janet West and see if the old man would be ready to talk to me this afternoon.

I drove to my office, parked and rode up in the elevator. As I unlocked my office door, I heard Jay Wayde’s deep voice dictating. There was a heap of mail lying on the floor. I picked it up and dumped it on my dust-covered desk. Then, as I found the room stuffy, I crossed to the window and opened it wide. Jay Wayde’s baritone voice came clearly to me. He was dictating a letter about a consignment of adhesive plaster. I listened for a brief moment before moving back to my desk. I flicked through my mail which seemed depressingly non­productive. Only three letters looked like business: the rest were circulars which I dumped into the trash-basket.

I reached for the telephone and called J. Wilbur Jefferson’s residence. The voice of the gloomy butler asked who was calling. I told him. There was a delay, then Janet West came on the line.

“This is Mr. Jefferson’s secretary. Is that Mr. Ryan?”

I said it was, then, “Can I see Mr. Jefferson?”

“Yes, of course. Will you come at three o’clock this afternoon?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Have you found out anything?” I wasn’t sure if her voice sounded anxious or not.

“I’ll be there,” I said and hung up.

I lit a cigarette and put my feet up on the desk. The time was now twenty minutes to one o’clock. I was feeling faintly hungry. I was back now in Pasadena City. I missed Hong Kong.

I missed the Chinese food. I thought of Sparrow and his eternal sandwiches without enthusiasm, but the body had to be kept alive. After I had planned what to say and do when I got to Jefferson’s residence, I locked up the office and went down to Sparrow’s snack bar. I kept him fascinated for twenty minutes telling him about the Chinese girls. The hamburger and beer seemed pretty heavy after the Chinese food.

After lunch I went back to my apartment. I shaved, showered and put on a change of clothes. It was then time to drive to J. Wilbur Jefferson’s residence.

The butler let me in, still gloomy, still silent. He took me directly to Janet West’s office where she was working at her desk.

She looked pale and her eyes were dark-ringed as if she had been sleeping badly. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes as she stood up as I came into the room.

“Come in, Mr. Ryan,” she said. “Please sit down.”

I came on in and sat down. The butler faded away like a replica of Hamlet’s ghost.

She sat down, resting her slim hands on the blotter, her eyes troubled, she studied me.

“Did you have a successful trip? Mr. Jefferson will be ready to see you in ten minutes.”

“Yes, I had a pretty successful trip,” I said. I took from my wallet the photograph of Frank Belling she had given to me and flicked it onto her desk. “You gave me that—remember? You told me it was a photograph of Herman Jefferson.”

She looked at the photograph, her face expressionless, then she looked at me. “Yes, I know.”

“I’m going to show it to Mr. Jefferson and I’m going to tell him you gave it to me, telling me it is a photograph of his son.”

She looked down at her hands, then she said, “Is he dead?”

“Herman? Yes, he’s dead now.”

I saw a shiver run through her and for a long moment she remained motionless, than she looked up. She was pale and there was a lost expression in her eyes.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Did you know he was hooked up in a drug traffic racket?”

“Yes ... I knew.”

“Well, they caught up with him. He tried a double-cross that didn’t come off. How did you

know?”

She didn’t say anything for some seconds.