A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

“Oh, he told me,” she said wearily. “You see, I was stupid enough to fall in love with him. He played on that. I’ve been a hopeless fool about him, but some women do make fools of themselves over worthless men.”

“Why did you give me this photograph and tell me it was Herman’s?”

“I wanted to shield Mr. Jefferson. He is the only decent, generous person I have ever known. I couldn’t bear to let him find out his son was a drug pedlar.”

“Where did you get the photograph from?”

“Herman sent it to me. Although he only wrote once a year to his father, he wrote more often to me.” She hesitated, then went on. “You may as well know the truth. We had an affair together years ago. I had his child. Although I knew he was utterly worthless I loved him. He knew that and he played on my feelings. He often sent me snapshots of various people he met. Photographs of Chinese girls. He knew he was upsetting me ... it amused him. Then suddenly he sent this photograph of Belling. He said he and Belling were going into business together. I suppose he sent the photograph to prove he wasn’t lying. I don’t know, but he sent it. He asked me to lend him a thousand dollars so he could make a fresh start. I didn’t send it to him. Then I had a frantic letter from him saving he was in bad trouble. He was terrified. I could tell that by the way he wrote. He said he had got mixed up with a drug organisation and they were going to kill him. He said he was going into hiding. He told me Belling was dead, but these people thought it was he who was dead. He said his wife would bring Belling’s body back here. It was the only way to convince these people he was dead and once they were convinced, they would stop hunting for him.” She lifted her hands helplessly. “I was shocked to know he had sunk so low. I didn’t want Mr. Jefferson to find out. I know I shouldn’t have done it. . . but I did.”

As I said nothing, she went on, “He gave me the address of a Chinese. His name was Wong Hop Ho. He told me to write to this man if anything went wrong. When his wife was murdered and when Mr. Jefferson said he was sending you to Hong Kong, I wrote to this man Wong and warned him. I told him I had given you Belling’s photograph. I was desperately anxious that Mr. Jefferson shouldn’t know the truth.”

“He’s got to know the truth now,’ I said. “I can’t keep it away from him.”

“Why can’t you?” She leaned forward. “Why can’t he die, thinking his son was decent?”

“It’s too complicated for that. The coffin has to be examined. The police are in on this now. This is something that can’t be hushed up.” I studied her. “I’ll keep you out of it, but that’s the best I can do.”

There came a tap on the door and the butler came in.

“Mr. Jefferson is ready to see you now,” he said. “Will you come this way?”

I went with him, leaving Janet staring bleakly out of the window.

J. Wilbur Jefferson was reclining on the bed-chair as if he hadn’t moved since the last time I had met him. He watched me come towards him and he waved me to a chair near his.

“Well, young man, so you’re back. I take it you have information for me.”

I sat down.

“Yes . . . but not the kind of information you’re going to welcome,” I said. “You sent me to Hong Kong to get the background of this thing and I’ve got it.”

He studied me, then shrugged his shoulders.

“Go ahead and tell me. What did you find out?”

I gave him an edited version of what had happened in Hong Kong and what I had found out about his son. I didn’t tell him how his son had died. I said the police had found his body in the sea.

He listened, staring across at a row of standard roses, his face expressionless. He said nothing until I had finished.

“And now?” he asked, still not looking at me.

“The police want to open the coffin,” I said. “They want your permission to open the vault.”

“That’s all right. They can get the key from Miss West.”

“I have arranged for your son’s body to be sent back here,” I went on. “It’ll arrive at the end of the week.”

“Thank you,” he said indifferently.

There was a long pause while I looked down at my feet, waiting and he stared bleakly in

front of him.

“I never thought Herman would have sunk as low as that,” he said finally. “A drug trafficker . . . the lowest animal on earth.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Well. I suppose he is better off dead,” he went on. “Now about his wife . . . you haven’t found out who killed her?”

“Not yet. Do you want me to go on trying?”

“Why not?” I could see he was thinking about his son. “If there is anything you want, any money you want, Miss West will attend to it. We may as well make a tidy end to this sordid business. Find who killed her.”

“I’ll want the key to the vault,” I said, and got to my feet. “There is one other thing, Mr. Jefferson. Now your son is dead, who will be your heir?”

That startled him. He gazed at me blankly.

“What business is it of yours who gets my money?”

“Is it that much of a secret? If it is, I apologise.”

He frowned, moving his heavily-veined hands uneasily along the arms of his chair.