“Didn’t you get a line on the Chinese woman?”
“Oh, sure, that wasn’t hard. There was nothing but the usual junk a woman carries in the handbag, but we got her spotted at the airport. She came from Hong Kong. Her name is Jo-An Jefferson. Believe it or not, she’s the daughter-in-law of J. Wilbur Jefferson, the oil millionaire. She married the son, Herman Jefferson, in Hong Kong about a year ago. He was recently killed in a car smash and she brought his body back for burial.”
“Why?” I asked, staring at him.
“Old man Jefferson wanted his son buried in the family vault. He paid this girl to come over with the body.”
“What’s happened to the body?”
“It was picked up at the airport by a mortician at seven o’clock this morning, acting on orders. It’s at his parlour waiting interment.”
“You checked that?”
He yawned, showing me half his false teeth.
“Listen, shamus, you don’t have to tell me my job. I’ve seen the coffin and inspected the papers: everything’s in order. She flew in from Hong Kong, arriving here at one-thirty. She took a taxi from the airport to your office block. What beats me is why she came to see you immediately she arrived and how her killer knew she was coming to see you. What did she want with you?”
“Yeah. If she was from Hong Kong, how would she know I existed?” I said.
“Your idea she telephoned for an appointment around seven after you had left your office is out. She was in the air at that time. If she had written, you would have known about it.”
I thought for a moment.
“Suppose Hardwick met her at the airport? He called me from the airport at six. Suppose he waited for her to arrive and told her he was me. Suppose he went on ahead while she was clearing the coffin through the authorities and slipped the lock on the outer door. A lock isn’t too hard to slip and then waited for her to join him.”
He didn’t seem to like this idea much: nor did I.
“But what the hell did she want with you?” he demanded.
“If we knew that we wouldn’t be asking each other questions. How about her luggage? Did you locate it?”
“Yeah. She checked it in at the left-luggage office before leaving the airport: one small suitcase; nothing in it except a change of clothes, a small Buddha and some joss sticks. She certainly travelled light[42].”
“Have you talked to old man Jefferson yet?”
He pulled a face. “Yeah, I’ve talked to him. He acted as if he hated my guts. I think he does. That’s the hell of marrying into an influential family. My brother-in-law and Jefferson get along like I get along with a boil on my neck.”
“Still it has its compensations,” I said.
He fingered his pearl stick-pin.
“Sometimes. Anyway, the old goat didn’t let his hair down. He said he wanted me to catch the man who had killed his daughter-in-law, otherwise there would be trouble.” He stroked his beaky nose. “He draws a lot of water in this city.[43] He could make trouble for me.”
“He wasn’t helpful?”
“He certainly wasn’t.”
“How about the Express messenger who delivered the three hundred bucks to me? He could have seen the killer.”
“Look, shamus, you’re not half the ball of fire you think you are. I checked on him: nothing. But this is interesting: the envelope containing the dough was handed in at four o’clock at the Express headquarters which as you know is across the way from you. None of the dim-witted clerks can remember who handed it in, but the instructions were to deliver it to you at six-fifteen.”
“You checked Herron Corporation to see if Hardwick works there?”
“Yeah. I’ve checked every goddam thing. He doesn’t work for them.” He yawned, stretched, then stood up. “I’m going to bed. Maybe tomorrow I’ll strike something. Right now I’ve had enough of it.”
I got up too. “It was my gun that killed her?”
“Yeah. No prints: nothing on the car. He’s a neat bird, but he’ll make a mistake… they always do.”
“Some of them.”
He looked sleepily at me.
“I’ve done you a good turn[44], Ryan, you try to do me one. Any ideas you get, let me know. Right now I need ideas.”
I said I wouldn’t forget him. I went down to where I had left my car and drove fast back to my apartment and to my bed.
I got to the office the next morning soon after nine o’clock. I found a couple of newspaper men parked outside my door. They wanted to know where I had been all yesterday. They had been trying to get to me to hear my side of the murder story and they were irate they hadn’t been able to find me.
I took them into my office and told them I had spent the day at police headquarters. I said I knew no more about the murder than they did, probably less. No, I had no idea why the Chinese woman had come to my office at such an hour nor how she had got into the building. They spent half an hour shooting questions at me, but it was a waste of their time. Finally, disgruntled, they went off.
I looked through my mail and dropped most of it into the trash-basket. There was a letter from a woman living on Palma Mountain who wanted me to find the person who had poisoned her dog.
I was typing her a polite letter telling her I was too busy to help her when there came a knock on my door. I said to come in.
Jay Wayde, my next-door neighbour, came in. He looked slightly embarrassed as he came to rest a few feet from my desk.
“Am I disturbing you?” he asked. “It’s not my business really, but I wondered if they had found out who killed her.”
His curiosity didn’t surprise me. He was one of those brainy types who can’t resist mixing themselves up with crime.
“No,” I said.
“I don’t suppose it helps,” he said apologetically, “but thinking about this, I remember hearing your telephone bell ring around seven o’clock. It rang for some time. That was after you had left.”
“My telephone is always ringing,” I said, “but thanks. Maybe it might help. I’ll tell Lieutenant Retnick.”
He ran his hand over his close-cropped hair.
“I just thought… I mean in a murder investigation every little thing can be important until it is proved otherwise.” He moved restlessly. “It’s an odd thing the way she got into your office, isn’t it? I guess it has been a bit difficult for you.”
“She got into my office because the killer let her in,” I said, “and it hasn’t been difficult for me.”
“Well, that’s good. Did they find out who she was?”
“Her name is Jo-An Jefferson and she’s from Hong Kong.”
“Jefferson?” He became alert. “I know a friend named Herman Jefferson who went out to Hong Kong: an old school friend.”
I tilted back my chair so I could put my feet on the desk.
“Sit down,” I said. “Tell me about Herman Jefferson. The Chinese woman was his wife.”
That really shook him. He sat down and gaped at me. “Herman’s wife? He married a Chinese?”
“So it seems.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
I waited, watching him. He thought for a moment, then said, “Not that it shocks me. I’ve heard Chinese girls can be attractive, but I can’t imagine his father would be pleased.” He frowned, shaking his head. “What was she doing here?”
“She brought her husband’s body back for burial.”
He stiffened. “You mean Herman’s dead?”
“Last week… a car accident.”
He seemed completely thrown off balance. He sat there, staring blankly as if he couldn’t believe what he had heard.
“Herman… dead! I’m sorry,” he said at last. “This will be a shock to his father.”
“I guess so. Did you know him well?”
“Well, no. We were at school together. He was a reckless fella[45]. He was always getting into trouble: fooling around with girls, driving like a madman, but I admired him. You know how kids are. I looked on him as a bit of a hero. Then later, after I had gone through college, I changed my views about him. He didn’t seem to grow up. He was always drinking and getting into fights and raising general hell[46]. I dropped him. Finally, his father got tired of him and shipped him out East. That would be some five years ago. His father has interests out there.” He crossed one leg over the other. “So he married a Chinese girl. That certainly is surprising.”
“It happens,” I said.
“He died in a car accident? He was always getting into car smashes. I wonder he lasted as he did.” He looked at me. “You know to me this is damned intriguing. Why was she murdered?”
“That’s what the police are trying to find out.”
“It’s a problem, isn’t it? I mean, why did she come here to see you? It really is a mystery, isn’t it?”
I was getting a little bored with his enthusiasm.
“Yeah,” I said.
Through the wall, I heard a telephone bell start ringing. He got to his feet. “I’m neglecting my business and wasting your time,” he said. “If I can remember anything about Herman that I think might help, I’ll let you know.”
I said I’d be glad and watched him leave, closing the door after him.
I sank lower in my chair and brooded over what he had told me. I was still sitting there, twenty minutes later, still brooding and still getting nowhere when the telephone bell jerked me out of my lethargy. I scooped up the receiver.
“This is Mr. J. Wilbur Jefferson’s secretary,” a girl’s voice said: a nice, clear voice that was easy to listen to. “Is that Mr. Ryan?”
I said it was.
“Mr. Jefferson would like to see you. Could you come this afternoon at three o’clock?”
I felt a sharp stirring of interest as I opened my date book and surveyed its blank pages. I had no appointment for three o’clock this afternoon: come to that[47], I had no appointment for any day this week. “I’ll be there,” I said.
“It is the last house, facing the sea on Beach Drive,” she told me. “Beach View.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Thank you.” She hung up.
I held the receiver against my ear for a brief moment while I tried to recapture the sound of her voice. I wondered what she looked like. Her voice sounded young, but voices can be deceptive. I hung up. My morning passed without incident. I envied Jay Wayde whose telephone seemed to be constantly ringing. I could also hear the continuous clack-clack of a typewriter. He was obviously a lot busier than I, but then I had the mysterious Mr. Hardwick’s three hundred dollars to keep me from starving anyway for a couple of weeks.
No one came near me, and around one o’clock I went down to the Quick Snack Bar for the usual sandwich. Sparrow was busy so he couldn’t bother me with questions, although I could see he was itching to be brought up to date on the murder. I left with the rush hour still in full swing[48], aware of his reproachful expression as I left without telling him anything.
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 o’clock. 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. “I’m 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 dentist’s 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.
“I’m 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. I’m Janet West. I’ll 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 isn’t as good as it was so I’ll ask you to keep your voice up. If you want to smoke… smoke. It’s a vice I have been forced to give up now for more than six years.”
I sat down, but I didn’t light a cigarette. I had an idea he might not like cigarettes. When he had smoked, he would have smoked cigars.
“I’ve 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 can’t 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 son’s wife caught.” He looked down at his veined hands, frowning. “Unfortunately, my son and I didn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 wife’s 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?”