anything?”
“I haven’t an idea. I can but try.”
“So you met Mr. Jefferson. How did you find him?”
“Not so hot. He doesn’t look as if he’s going to last long.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He’s pretty old.” He shook his head. “Must have been a jolt to him when Herman went.” He began to move to the door. “Well, I only looked in. I have someone coming to see me. Have a good trip. Anything I can do for you while you’re away?”
“Not a thing, thanks. I’ll lock up and that’ll be that.”
“Well, then I’ll be seeing you. We’ll have a drink together on your return. I’ll be interested to hear how you get on and what you think of the place. You won’t forget about the funeral? You might ask if one can send flowers.”
“I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
Later in the afternoon, I drove over to police headquarters and picked up the morgue photo of Jo-An Jefferson that Retnick had promised me. I: was a good photograph. By letting the light fall on her dead eyes, the photographer had given her a resemblance of life. I sat in my car for some minutes, studying the picture. She had been certainly attractive. I had asked the morgue attendant what the funeral arrangements were. He told me she was to be buried at Jefferson’s expense at the Woodside Cemetery the day after tomorrow. That meant she wasn’t being put away in the family vault. The Woodside Cemetery was not for the lush- plush residents of Pasadena City.
Around six o’clock, I locked up the office and went home. I packed a bag: did the various things one has to do when leaving for a couple of weeks, took a shower, shaved, put on a clean shirt, then drove down town to the Astor Bar, arriving there at five minutes to eight.
Janet West arrived as the minute hand of my strap watch shifted to the hour. She came in with that confident air a well-dressed, good-looking woman has who knows she looks good and is pleased about it.
Male heads turned to watch her as she made her way to the corner table where I was sitting. We said the usual things polite strangers say to each other when meeting and I ordered her a vodka martini while I had a Scotch.
She gave me the airplane ticket and a leather wallet.
“I got some Hong Kong dollars for you,” she said. “It’ll save you the trouble at the other end. Would you want me to telephone for a room for you? The Peninsular or the Mirama are the best hotels.”
“Thanks, but I’m aiming to stay at the Celestial Empire.”
She gave me a quick alert stare as she said, “Yes, of course.”
“Did you remember the photograph?”
As the waiter set the drinks, she opened her lizard handbag and gave me an envelope.
The half-plate glossy print was obviously a professional job. The man photographed was staring intently at the camera. There was a sly, half grin in his eyes: not a pleasant face. Dark, with thick black eyebrows, coarse featured, a strong ruthless jaw line, a thin mouth. The kind of face you would expect to see in a police line-up.
I was surprised. I wasn’t expecting Herman Jefferson to look like this. I had in mind a more easy-going, irresponsible, playboy type. This man could do anything that was violent and vicious, and do it well.
I remembered what she had said about him. ‘He was utterly and thoroughly bad. He had no redeeming feature.’ Looking at this man’s face, I could accept this statement now.
I looked up. She was watching me: her face expressionless, but her eyes were cold.
“I see what you mean,” I said. “He doesn’t take after his father, does he?”
She didn’t say anything to that but continued to watch me as I put the photograph in my wallet. I had a sudden idea for no reason at all and I took out the morgue shot of Jo-An.
“You asked me if she was pretty,” I said. “Here she is,” and I offered the photograph.
For a long moment she made no move to take the photograph. Maybe the light was deceptive, but I had an idea she lost colour. Her hand was steady enough as she finally took the photograph. It was now my turn to watch her as she studied the dead woman’s face. She stared for a long moment, her face expressionless. I wondered what was going on in her mind. Then she handed me back the photograph.
“Yes,” she said, her voice cold and flat.
I picked up my glass and she picked up hers. We drank.
“You said the funeral was tomorrow?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“A friend of Herman’s asked me to find out the time and if he could go. He has an office next to mine. His name is Jay Wayde. He went to school with Herman.”
She stiffened.
“Only Mr. Jefferson and I are attending the service,” she said. “None of Herman’s friends would be acceptable.”
“I’ll tell him. He wanted to send flowers.”
“There are to be no flowers.” She looked at her watch, then got to her feet. “Mr. Jefferson is expecting me. I must get back. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
We had scarcely touched our drinks. I was vaguely disappointed. I had hoped to have got to know her better, but it was like trying to talk to someone behind a nine foot wall.
“No, thanks. What time does the plane take off?”
“Eleven o’clock. You should be at the airport at half past ten.”
“Thanks for fixing it.” As she began to move towards the exit, I hurriedly shoved two dollars at the waiter and followed her out onto the street.
The Jaguar was parked exactly opposite the bar. I had had to drive around two blocks three times before I had finally found parking room about a couple of hundred yards away. That proved cither she or more probably old man Jefferson had plenty of pull in this city.
She paused by the car.
“I hope you have a successful trip,” she said. There was no smile. Her eyes were still remote. “If there is anything you think of you need before you leave, please telephone me.”
“Don’t you ever relax?” I asked, smiling at her. “Do you never take rime off from being an efficient secretary?”
Just for a brief moment there was a flicker of surprise in her eyes, but it was quickly gone.
She opened the door of the car and got in. It was neatly done: there was no show of knees.
She slammed the door shut before I could put my hand on it.
“Good night, Mr. Ryan,” she said, and stabbing the starter button, she slid the car into the traffic and was away.
I watched the car out of sight, then looked at my strap watch. The time was thirty-five minutes past eight. I would have liked to have had her as a companion for dinner. The evening stretched ahead of me: empty and dull. I stood on the edge of the kerb and thought of the four or five girls I knew who I could call up and have dinner with, but none of them were in Miss West’s bracket: none of them would amuse me this night I decided to eat another goddam sandwich and then go home and watch television.
I wondered what Jay Wayde would have thought if he knew I was planning to spend this kind of evening. He would probably have been shocked and disillusioned. He would have expected me to have been at some clip-joint talking tough to a blonde or wrestling rough with some redhead.
I walked into a snack bar. The juke-box was blaring swing. Two girls in jeans and skintight sweaters were perched on stools at the bar, their round little bottoms pushed out suggestively, their hair in the Bardot style, their grubby fingers red-tipped.
They looked at me as I came in, their hard worldly young eyes running over me speculatively, then they looked away. Too old, too dull and obviously no fun.
I ate a beef and ham sandwich, feeling depressed. Even going to Hong Kong in the morning failed to light a spark. I took out the photographs of Herman and Jo-An and studied them. They made an ill-assorted pair. The man worried me. I couldn’t understand how a girl like Janet West had not only fallen for him but had produced his baby.
I thought the hell with it and put the photographs away. Then paying for the sandwich, I went out onto the
