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 didn’t work like that. I was pretty sure I didn’t 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 can’t. A murder case is outside an investigator’s province.[50] Retnick doesn’t encourage outsiders stirring up the dust[51]. I can’t 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 wouldn’t work.”
He didn’t 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 don’t 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 can’t 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 Kong’s territorial waters. The police feel that as these poor wretched people have got so far, it wouldn’t 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 son’s wife was one of these people. Unless we can find out who she really was and what her background was, I doubt if we’ll 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 won’t be easy, but it is something Retnick can’t do and the British police wouldn’t be bothered to do. I think you can do it and I’m ready to finance you. What do you think?”
I was intrigued by the idea, but not so intrigued that I didn’t realise it could meet with no success.
“I’ll go,” I said, “but it could be hopeless. I can’t say what chances I have until I get out there, but right now, I don’t think I have much of a chance.”
“Go and talk to my secretary. She’ll 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 can’t go at once?” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll have to attend the inquest and I’ll have to get Retnick’s say-so before I leave.”
He nodded. He seemed now to be very tired.
“I’ll see Retnick doesn’t 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 can’t leave at once. I could make it by the end of the week if I’m lucky.”
“You will need a smallpox shot. Cholera too would be wise, but it isn’t compulsory.”
“I’m 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 it’ll 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 I’m afraid they won’t 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 wasn’t 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, I’ve met a Chinese girl and I’m marrying her. Her name is Jo-An. She has had a tough life as she is a refugee from China, but she’s pretty, smart and my type of woman. I guess you won’t be exactly pleased with my news, but you’ve always said I must lead my own life so I’m marrying her. I’m satisfied she’ll make me a good wife. I’m 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 wasn’t satisfied this letter was genuine. He thought possibly this woman was trying to get money out of him and that his son wasn’t 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 didn’t come here.”
“And the body?”
I had a sudden idea that she was controlling herself. I could sense the tension in her although it didn’t show. “The funeral will be the day after tomorrow.”
“Just what did Herman do in Hong Kong for a living?”
“We don’t 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 couldn’t 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.
“There’s 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 wouldn’t 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. Jefferson’s 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. “I’ll do my best for Mr. Jefferson, but I’ll have to have some luck.”
She flicked through a pile of signed cheques, found one and pushed it across the desk.
“Mr. Jefferson wishes to pay you a retainer. I will have your air ticket ready when you let me know when you can leave. If you need more money, please let me know.”
I looked at the cheque. It was signed by her and for a thousand dollars.
“I’m not this expensive,” I said. “Three hundred would have been enough.”
“Mr. Jefferson told me he wanted you to have it,” she said as if she had handed me five bucks.
“Well, I never refuse money.” I looked at her. “You handle Mr. Jefferson’s affairs?”
“I’m his secretary,” she said, a curt note in her voice.
“Well…” There didn’t seem anything to say to that, so instead, I said, “I’ll contact you as soon as I know when I can leave.”
As I was moving to the door, she said, “Was she very pretty?”
For a moment I didn’t catch on[57], then I looked quickly at her. She sat still, and there was a curious expression in her eyes I couldn’t read.
“His wife? I guess so. Some Chinese women are very attractive. She was – even in death.”
“I see.”
She picked up her fountain pen and pulled the triple cheque book towards her. It was her way of dismissing me.
I found the butler waiting for me in the hall. He let me out with a slight bow. No one could ever accuse him of being over-talkative.
I walked slowly to my car. That last scrap of dialogue had been enlightening. I was suddenly sure at one time or the other Janet West and Herman Jefferson had been lovers. The news of his marriage and his death must have been as great a shock to her as it had been to old man Jefferson. This was an unexpected and interesting development. I decided it might pay off[58] to know something more about Janet West.
I got into my car and drove to police headquarters. I had to wait half an hour before I could see Retnick. I found him at his desk, chewing a dead cigar and in a depressed mood. “I don’t know if I want to waste time with you, shamus,” he said as I shut the door and came over to his desk. “What do you want?”
“I’m now employed by J. Wilbur Jefferson,” I said. “I thought you should know.”
His face hardened.
“If you foul up my investigation, Ryan,” he said, “I’ll see you lose your licence. I’m warning you.” He paused, then went on, “What’s he paying you?”
I sat down on the upright chair.
“Enough. I won’t have a chance to foul up anything. I’m going to Hong Kong.”
“Who wouldn’t be a peeper[59]”, he said. “Hong Kong, eh? Wouldn’t mind going there myself. What do you imagine you’ll do when you get there?”
“The old man wants to know who the girl is. He thinks we won’t get anywhere until I’ve dug up her background and taken a look at it. He could be right.”
Retnick fidgeted with a ball-pen for some moments, then he said, “It’ll be a waste of money and time, but I don’t suppose that’ll worry you as long as you get paid.”
“It won’t,” I said cheerfully. “He can afford to indulge his whims and I can afford the time. I might even strike lucky.”
“I know as much about her as you’ll ever find out. I didn’t have to go to Hong Kong to find out either. All I had to do was to send a cable.”
“And what did you find out?”
“Her name was Jo-An Cheung – that’s a hell of a name, isn’t it? Three years ago she was caught landing in Hong Kong from a junk from Macau. She spent six weeks in jail and was then given papers. She worked as a taxi dancer at the Pagoda Club and that probably means she was a prostitute.” He scratched his ear, looking out of the window for some moments before going on. “She married Jefferson before the American Consul on the 21st of September of last year. They lived together at a Chinese joint called the Celestial Empire Hotel. Jefferson seems to have had no work. He probably lived on what she earned and what he picked up from his old man. On September 6th of this year, he was killed in a car smash and she applied to the American Consul for permission to take his body back to his home. That’s the story. Why go to Hong Kong?”
Примечания
1
was just about to shut down the office – (разг.) собирался закрывать свою лавочку
2
I didn’t get that – (разг.) Я не понял, что вы сказали
3
jacking up my usual fee – (разг.) увеличивая свою обычную ставку (оплату)
4
getting up to tricks when he was away – (разг.) погуливать в его отсутствие
5
a split-second impulse – (разг.) решение, принятое в последнюю минуту
6
was still toiling for a living – (разг.) всё ещё сидел на работе, отрабатывая своё жалованье
7
Poking my nose where it shouldn’t be poked, huh? – (разг.) Что, я сую свой нос не в своё дело?
8
the glove compartment – (разг.) «бардачок» в машине
9
I had a crick in my neck – (разг.) У меня затекла шея
10
What’s it to you – (разг.) Вам-то какое дело
11
had sent me on this wild goose chase – (разг.) послал меня искать ветра в поле
12
but on second thoughts – (разг.) но передумал
13
dog-eared magazines – (разг.) журналы с обтрёпанными страницами
14
apparently not short of money – (разг.) явно не бедная
15
he was about as useful as a hole in a bucket – (разг.) проку от него было как от козла молока
16
shamus – (разг., ирл.) частный детектив
17
give with the story – (разг., уст.) выкладывайте, что тут случилось
18
Koh-i-Noor diamond – индийский бриллиант весом 106 каратов, является частью сокровищ Британской короны
19
My locks are nothing special. – (разг.) Замки у меня примитивные
20
M.O. – сокр. от Medical Officer
21
don’t flap your mouth – (разг.) не треплите языком
22
plain-clothes man – (разг.) полицейский в штатском
23
Gospel truth. – (разг.) Вот как Бог свят; ей-богу
24
Someone’s got knocked off. – (разг., уст.) Кого-то там кокнули
25
Put it on the slate – (уст.) Запишите на мой счет
26
to stand him on his ear – (уст.) навострить уши; насторожиться
27
For the love of Mike! – (воскл.) Господи помилуй!
28
A .38 – (разг.) пистолет 38-го калибра (используемый полицией)