A COFFIN FROM HONG KONG

Retnick brooded over this.

“Why then should some joker take a look?” he asked.

“That’s right.” I suddenly saw why. I thumped my fist into the palm of my hand. “I must be more of a dope than I think I am! Of course! It jells! It’s one of those goddam simple things I should have seen right from the start!”

Retnick regarded me sourly.

“What are you raving about?” he snarled.

“The heroin was in the coffin!” I said. “Two thousand ounces of it! It was the perfect hiding-place ... the perfect means of smuggling it out of Hong Kong to here!”

Retnick stared at me, then he jumped to his feet.

“Yeah . . . that makes sense! Looks like we’ve got ourselves an idea!”

“After Jefferson hijacked the stuff,” I said, “he found he was stuck with it. He couldn’t leave Hong Kong and the organisation were hunting for him. That amount of heroin must be worth a pile of money. Jefferson had to convince the organisation he was dead. So he killed two birds with one stone. He got Jo-An to write to his father for money to bring his body home. Remember, he had no money. The only way to get the heroin out was in the coffin with old man Jefferson paying to get it out. Selling’s body was put in the coffin and cleared through the American Consul for shipment home. At some stage, the body was removed and probably dumped in the sea. The drugs and the lead weight were put in the coffin. Although Jefferson was trapped in Hong Kong, he did make sure his wife and the heroin were safe.”

“Who’s knocked the stuff off?” Retnick asked hopefully.

“How should I know? MacCarthy told me when they found Jefferson’s body he had been given a working over. Maybe the organisation got the truth out of him and sent a man over here to break open the vault and grab the stuff. I wouldn’t know.”

Retnick’s face brightened.

“Makes sense. Well then, this isn’t my goddam pigeon. The Narcotic Squad will have to take care of this headache.” He beamed at me. “Don’t let anyone persuade you to use your head for a door-stop. You’ve got brains even if you don’t show them.”

“Still doesn’t explain why the Chinese girl came to my office and got shot,” I said.

His smile slipped and he scowled.

“Yeah.”

“I’m working on the idea the killing had nothing to do with the heroin,” I said. “Jo-An was to have come into half old man Jefferson’s money. He told me so this afternoon. I also found out now she’s dead, his secretary, Janet West, gets the lot.”

Retnick squinted at me.

“You think she killed her?”

“No, I don’t, but she’s got a ten million dollar motive. I told you before: she could have an ambitious boy friend. But that still doesn’t explain how the girl came to be shot in my office.”

Retnick scratched his head.

“Maybe I’d better check to see if she has a boy friend,” he said reluctantly.

Pulski called to him.

“Keep in touch, shamus,” Retnick said. “I’ve got things to do,” and he hurried down the alley towards Pulski who was holding the telephone receiver and beckoning to him.

I drove back to my office block. The time was half past five. I had no idea why I was going back to my office. I certainly had nothing to do, but there seemed no point in my going back to my apartment. I unlocked the door, entered the outer room, unlocked my office door and crossed to the window and opened it. Then I sat down, lit a cigarette and stared at the bust and buttock calendar on the wall facing me.

I thought of Janet West. I thought of the mysterious John Hardwick. Was this man who called himself Hardwick Janet’s boy friend? Had he killed Herman Jefferson’s wife? If he had then why the hell had he picked on my office to do the job and why had he tried to implicate me in the murder?

Somehow I couldn’t imagine Janet West implicated in a murder. She just wasn’t the type. And yet there was the ten million dollar motive. Maybe the boy friend had done it and hadn’t told her about it. . . maybe . . .

I heard Jay Wayde’s voice. It broke into my concentration. He said, “I’ll get off now. See you in the morning.” His voice came clearly from his open window through mine. I heard him leave and half expected him to look in on me, but he didn’t. He walked heavy-footed to the elevator. A moment later I heard the elevator descend.

I went back to my thoughts: they didn’t get me anywhere.

I sat there, brooding, trying to get an idea on which to work for over an hour, then suddenly I heard the distant sound of an aircraft engine. It became loud and then faded and I found myself sitting bolt upright in my chair. The noise of a jet-propelled aircraft taking-off followed. I remembered hearing these sounds coming over the telephone when John Hardwick had telephoned me, asking me to go out and watch the deserted bungalow on Connaught Boulevard. I got swiftly to my feet and listened. The sound of a busy airport came through my open window. I had no doubt where it was coming from. I went into the passage, aware my heart was thumping, and moving silently to Jay Wayde’s office door, I turned the handle and eased open the door.