Later, I drove out to Beach Drive, the lush-plush district of Pasadena City. Here, rich retired people lived with their own private beaches, away from the crowds that invaded the city during the summer months.
I reached the gates of Beach View a few minutes to three oclock. They stood open as if I were expected and I drove up a forty-yard drive, bordered on either side by well-kept lawns and flower-beds.
The house was overlarge and had an old-fashioned air. Six broad white steps led up to the front entrance. There was a hanging bell-pull and the front door was of fumed oak.
I pulled the chain and after a minute or so, the door opened. The butler was a tall gloomy-looking old man who stared impassively at me; raising one busy eyebrow inquiringly.
Nelson Ryan, I said. Im expected.
He moved aside and motioned me into the dark hall full of heavy dark furniture. I followed him down a passage and into a small room containing a few uncomfortable-looking chairs and a table on which lay some glossy magazines: a room that had the atmosphere of a dentists reception-room. He indicated one of the chairs and went away.
I stood around for about ten minutes, looking out of the window at the view of the sea, then the door opened and a girl came in.
She was around twenty-eight to thirty, slightly taller than average: dark, nice to look at without being sensational. Her eyes were slate blue, intelligent and remote. She had on a dark blue dress that merely hinted of her well-shaped body. The neckline was severe and the skirt length modest.
Im sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Ryan, she said. Her smile was slight and impersonal. Mr. Jefferson is ready for you now.
You are his secretary? I asked, recognising the clear, quiet voice.
Yes. Im Janet West. Ill show you the way.
I followed her out into the passage and through a green baize door into a big old-fashioned but comfortable lounge lined with books and with double windows opening onto a secluded walled garden full of standard rose trees that were giving of their best.
J. Wilbur Jefferson was reclining on a bed-chair, fitted with wheels. He lay in the shade just outside the double windows: an old man, tall, thin and aristocratic with a big hooked nose, skin as yellow as old ivory, hair like white spun glass and thin fine hands heavily veined. He was wearing a white linen suit and white buckskin shoes. He turned his head to look at me as I followed Janet West into the garden.
Mr. Ryan, she said, drawing aside and motioning me forward, then she went away.
Use that chair, Jefferson said, pointing to a basket chair close to him. My hearing isnt as good as it was so Ill ask you to keep your voice up. If you want to smoke smoke. Its a vice I have been forced to give up now for more than six years.
I sat down, but I didnt light a cigarette. I had an idea he might not like cigarettes. When he had smoked, he would have smoked cigars.
Ive made inquiries about you, Mr. Ryan, he went on after a long pause while his pale brown eyes went over me intently, giving me the feeling he was looking into my pockets, examining the birthmark on my right shoulder and counting the money in my wallet. I am told you are honest, reliable and not without intelligence.
I wondered who could have told him that, but I put my modest expression on my face and didnt say anything.
I have asked you here, Jefferson went on, because I would like to hear first-hand this story of the man who telephoned you and how, later, you found this Chinese woman dead in your office.
I noted he didnt call her his daughter-in-law. I noted too that when he said this Chinese woman, his mouth turned down at the corners and there was distaste in his voice. I guess for a man as old and as rich and as conventional as he, the news that your only son has married an Asian could come as a jar[49].
I told him the whole story, remembering to keep my voice up.
When I had finished, he said, Thank you, Mr. Ryan. You have no idea what she wanted to see you about?
I cant even make a guess.
Nor have you any idea who killed her?
No. I paused then added, The chances are this man who calls himself John Hardwick did it or at least he is implicated.
I have no confidence in Retnick, Jefferson said. He is a brainless fool who has no right to his official position. I want the man who murdered my sons wife caught. He looked down at his veined hands, frowning. Unfortunately, my son and I didnt get along well together. There were faults on both sides as there usually are, but I realise now that he is dead that I could have been much more tolerant and patient with him. I believe my lack of tolerance and my disapproval of his behaviour goaded him to be wilder and more reckless than he would have been if he had been more understood. The woman he married has been murdered. My son wouldnt have rested until he had found her murderer. I know his nature well enough to be sure of this. My son is dead. I feel the least I can do now is to find his wifes murderer. If I succeed, I shall feel I have squared my account with him to some extent. He paused and looked across the garden, his old face hard and sad. The slight breeze ruffled his white hair. He looked very old but very determined. He turned to look at me. As you can see, Mr. Ryan, I am an old man. I am burnt out. I get tired easily. I am in no physical shape to hunt down a murderer and that is why I have sent for you. You are an interested party. This woman was found in your office. For some reason the murderer has tried to shift the responsibility onto you. I intend to pay you well. Will you find this man?
It would have been easy to have said yes, taken his money and then waited hopefully to see if Retnick would turn up the killer, but I didnt work like that. I was pretty sure I didnt stand a chance of finding the killer myself.
The investigation is in the hands of the police, I said. They are the only people who can find this man I cant. A murder case is outside an investigators province.[50] Retnick doesnt encourage outsiders stirring up the dust[51]. I cant question his witnesses. It would get back to him and I would land in trouble. As much as I would like to earn your money, Mr. Jefferson, it just wouldnt work.
He didnt seem surprised, but he looked as determined as ever.
I understand all that, he said. Retnick is a fool. He seems to have no idea how to set about solving this case. I suggested he should cable the British authorities in Hong Kong to see if we can find out something about this woman. We dont know anything about her except she married my son and was a refugee from Red China. I know that because my son wrote about a year ago telling me he was marrying a Chinese refugee. Again he looked across the garden as he said, I foolishly forbade the marriage. I never heard from him again.[52]
Do you think the British police will have information about her? I asked.
He shook his head.
It is possible, but not likely. Every year more than a hundred thousand of these unfortunate refugees come into Hong Kong. They are stateless people with no papers. I have a number of contacts in Hong Kong and I try to keep up to date with the situation. As I understand it, it is this: refugees fleeing from Red China are smuggled by junk to Macau which, as you probably know, is Portuguese territory. Macau cant cope with the invasion nor do they wish to. The refugees are transferred to other junks sailing for Hong Kong. The British police patrol the approaches to Hong Kong, but the Chinese are patient and clever when they want to get their own way[53]. If a junk carrying refugees is spotted by the police, the police boat converges on it, but there are hundreds of junks fishing the approaches to the island. Usually the refugee junk succeeds in mixing with the fishing junks that close protectively around it and since all junks look alike, it becomes impossible for the police boat to find it. I understand the British police are sympathetic towards the refugees: after all, they have had a horrible time and they are escaping from a common enemy. The search for them ceases once the junk succeeds in reaching Hong Kongs territorial waters. The police feel that as these poor wretched people have got so far, it wouldnt be human to send them back. But all these people are anonymous. They have no papers. The British police supply them with new papers, but there is no means of checking even their names. From the moment they arrive in Hong Kong, they begin an entirely new life with probably new names: they are reborn. My sons wife was one of these people. Unless we can find out who she really was and what her background was, I doubt if well ever discover why she was murdered and who her murderer is. So I want you to go to Hong Kong and see if you can find out something about her. It wont be easy, but it is something Retnick cant do and the British police wouldnt be bothered to do. I think you can do it and Im ready to finance you. What do you think?
I was intrigued by the idea, but not so intrigued that I didnt realise it could meet with no success.
Ill go, I said, but it could be hopeless. I cant say what chances I have until I get out there, but right now, I dont think I have much of a chance.
Go and talk to my secretary. Shell show you some letters from my son that may be helpful. Do your best, Mr. Ryan. He gave me a slight gesture of dismissal. You will find Miss West in the third room down the passage to your right.
You realise I cant go at once? I said, getting to my feet. Ill have to attend the inquest and Ill have to get Retnicks say-so before I leave.
He nodded. He seemed now to be very tired.
Ill see Retnick doesnt obstruct you. Go as soon as you can.
I went away, leaving him staring stonily in front of him: a lonely man with bitter memories tormenting his conscience.
4
I found Janet West in a large room equipped like an office. She sat at a desk, a triple cheque book in front of her and a pile of bills at her elbow. She was writing a cheque as I entered the room. She looked up, her eyes probing. She gave me a slight smile which could have meant anything and indicated a chair by the desk.
Are you going to Hong Kong, Mr. Ryan? she asked, pushing the cheque book aside. She watched me as I sat down.
I guess so, but I cant leave at once. I could make it by the end of the week if Im lucky.
You will need a smallpox shot. Cholera too would be wise, but it isnt compulsory.
Im all up to date with my shots. I took out a pack of cigarettes, offered it and when she shook her head, I lit up and put the pack back in my pocket. Mr. Jefferson said you had some letters from his son. I need every scrap of information I can get, otherwise itll be just so much waste of time going all that way.
I have them ready for you.
She opened a drawer and took out about six letters which she handed to me.
Herman only wrote once a year. Apart from the address Im afraid they wont tell you much.
I glanced through the letters: they were very short. In each one was an urgent request for money. Herman Jefferson was no correspondent[54], but he certainly seemed to have had money on his mind. He merely stated he was in good health and he wasnt having any luck and could his father let him have some money as soon as he could. The first letter was dated five years ago and each letter was written at yearly intervals. The last letter, however, did interest me. It was dated a year ago.
Celestial Empire Hotel,
Wanchai
Dear Dad, Ive met a Chinese girl and Im marrying her. Her name is Jo-An. She has had a tough life as she is a refugee from China, but shes pretty, smart and my type of woman. I guess you wont be exactly pleased with my news, but youve always said I must lead my own life so Im marrying her. Im satisfied shell make me a good wife. Im looking around for an apartment but it is not easy as prices come high. We may decide to stay on here at the hotel. It is convenient in some ways although I prefer to have a home of my own.
I hope you will send us your blessing. If you feel like sending a cheque[55] towards an apartment it would be very welcome.
Yours ever,Herman.I laid down the letter.
That was the last letter he wrote, Janet West said quietly. Mr. Jefferson was very angry. He cabled, forbidding the marriage. He heard nothing more from or about his son until ten days ago when this letter arrived.
She handed over a letter written on cheap notepaper which smelt faintly of sandalwood. The writing was badly formed and not easy to read.
Celestial Empire Hotel,
Wanchai
Mr. Jefferson,
Herman died yesterday. He had a car crash. He often said he wanted to be buried at home. I have no money but if you will send me some I will bring him back so he can be buried the way he wanted to be. I have no money to bury him here.
Jo-An Jefferson.This struck me as a pathetic letter and I imagined this Chinese girl suddenly left alone with the unburied body of her husband, without money and without any future unless her father-in-law relented and took pity on her.
Then what happpened? I asked. Janet West rolled her gold fountain pen across the blotter. Her remote eyes went a shade more remote.
Mr. Jefferson wasnt satisfied this letter was genuine. He thought possibly this woman was trying to get money out of him and that his son wasnt dead. I telephoned the American Consul at Hong Kong and learned that Herman had died in a motor accident. Mr. Jefferson then told me to write to this woman, telling her to send the body back. He suggested she should remain in Hong Kong and he would arrange an income to be paid regularly to her, but as you know, she came back with the body, although she didnt come here.
And the body?
I had a sudden idea that she was controlling herself. I could sense the tension in her although it didnt show. The funeral will be the day after tomorrow.
Just what did Herman do in Hong Kong for a living?
We dont know. When he went there first, his father arranged for him to have the position of assistant manager to an export firm but after six months, Herman left. Since then, he never told his father what he was doing: only these yearly requests for money.
Did Mr. Jefferson give him what he asked for?
Oh yes. Whenever he was asked, he always sent money.
From these letters, I said, touching the letters, Herman seems to have asked for money once a year. Were the sums substantial?
Never more than five hundred dollars.
He couldnt have lived on that for a year. He must have earned something besides.
I suppose so.
I rubbed my jaw while I stared out of the window, my mind busy.
Theres not much to go on, is there? I said finally. Then I asked the question I had been wanting to ask since I had become aware of her nearly concealed tension. Did you know Herman Jefferson personally?
That got a reaction. I saw her stiffen slightly and the remoteness went out of her eyes for a brief moment, but came back.
Why, yes, of course. I have been with Mr. Jefferson for eight years. Herman lived here before he went out East. Yes: I knew him.
What sort of man was he? His father says he was wild[56] but he now thinks if he had been more understanding his son wouldnt have been so wild. Do you agree?
Her eyes flashed suddenly and I was startled to see how hard she could look when she let her mask slip.
Mr. Jefferson was very shocked to learn his son was dead, she said, her voice sharp. At the moment he is feeling sentimental. Herman was vicious, callous and amoral. He was a thief. He stole money from his father: he even stole money from me. It is hard to believe he was Mr. Jeffersons son. Mr. Jefferson is a fine man: he has never done a mean thing in his life!
I found her intensity slightly embarrassing.
Well, thanks, I said and got to my feet. Ill do my best for Mr. Jefferson, but Ill have to have some luck.