I produced the photograph of Jefferson that Janet West had given me.
“Ask him if he knows who this is?” I said to Wong.
There was an exchange of words after the clerk had stared glassily at the photograph, then Wong said, “It is the American gentleman who lived here.”
“How long did he live here?”
Through Wong, the reception clerk said he had lived in the hotel until he was killed.
This was the first false note in the interview. Leila had said Jefferson had left nine months ago. Now this old buzzard was saying he lived in the hotel up to three weeks ago when he had died.
“I heard Jefferson only stayed here for three months,” I said, “then he left his wife and lived elsewhere. That would be some nine months ago.”
Wong looked surprised. He talked earnestly to the reception clerk, then he said, puzzled, “He is quite sure the American gentleman remained here until he died.”
If the reception clerk was telling the truth, then Leila had been lying’.
“Tell him Leila said Jefferson left here nine months ago. Tell him I think he is lying.”
Wong got into a long huddle with the reception clerk, then suddenly, smiling, he turned to me. “He is not lying, Mr. Ryan. The girl was mistaken. Jefferson left early in the morning and returned very late. It is easy to see why this girl didn’t meet him and imagined he had left.”
“Then why did Jo-An tell her he had left?” I demanded.
The reception clerk had no answer to that one. He drew in his neck like a startled tortoise and blinked at me. He began to fidget and I could see he was thinking he had given full value for money and he would be glad to be left in peace.
Wong said, “He does not know the answer to that question, sir.”
“What did Jefferson do for a living?” I asked, shifting ground.
The reception clerk said he didn’t know.
“Did any Europeans ever come to see him here?”
The answer to that one was no.
“Did Jo-An ever have any friends to visit her?”
The answer again was no.
I realised with a feeling of irritated frustration I was getting nowhere. I had come around in a full circle unless Leila had been telling the truth.
“Did Jo-An leave any of her things in her room when she left?” I asked casually.
This was a trap question and the reception clerk walked into it.
“No,” he said through Wong. “She left nothing.”
I pounced on him.
“Then how did she manage to walk out of here with her belongings and not pay her bill?” I demanded
Wong saw the fairness of this and he barked at the old man. For a moment he hesitated, then scowling, he said she had left a suitcase but he was holding it against the rent.
I said I wanted to see it. After some more talk, the old reception clerk got up and led me down the passage to the room next to Leila’s. He unlocked the door and produced a cheap imitation leather suitcase from under the bed.
Wong, who had followed us, said, “This case belonged to the girl, sir.”
I examined the suitcase. It was locked.
“You two wait outside.”
When they had gone, I closed and bolted the door. It didn’t take me a couple of minutes to force the locks on the suitcase.
Jo-An possessed a slightly better outfit than Leila, but not a great deal better. I turned over the things I found. At the bottom of the suitcase was a large white envelope, its flap tucked. I opened the envelope and shook out a glossy print of Herman Jefferson: a replica of the photograph Janet West had given me. Across the foot of the photograph was scrawled:
I sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. I wondered how Janet West, miles away in Pasadena City, and Jo-An in Hong Kong could both have owned the same photograph. I told myself that Jefferson must have given it to them, but suddenly and far away, a note of interrogation started up in my mind.
I thought back on the conversation I had had with Leila. What the reception clerk had said didn’t tally with what she had said ... one or the other was lying. Why should Leila have lied?
After some more thought I came to the conclusion there was no point in remaining in this sordid little hotel. I would have to look elsewhere to find the clue to this mystery.
I got to my feet, crossed the room and stepped out into the passage.
Wong was leaning up against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He straightened and bowed as I came out. The reception clerk probably had gone back to his desk: he wasn’t there.
“I hope everything is satisfactory, sir,” he said.
“I guess,” I said. “I’m leaving here. Is there a hotel at Repulse Bay?”
He looked faintly surprised.
“Why, yes, sir. There is the Repulse Bay Hotel: a very fine hotel. Would you like me to arrange accommodation for you there?”
“If you can fix it, I’d like to move in right away.”
“You realise, sir, the hotel is rather out of the way. If you are thinking of seeing Kowloon, it isn’t very convenient.”
“That won’t worry me. Tell the old guy I’m checking out and get my bill.’’
“There are no further questions you wish to ask him?” Wong asked, his face showing disappointment.
“No. Let’s get out of here.”
Thirty minutes later we were in the Packard, driving along the beautiful road towards Repulse Bay.
5
Repulse Bay turned out to be something very special and the hotel matched it. To my thinking the set-up with its mountains, its concealed bays with an emerald green sea looked better than most of the pleasure spots I’d ever visited, and in my time, I had been lucky to have visited a number of them.
Wong managed to get me a room in the hotel overlooking the bay. He left me the Packard and departed with much bowing, assuring me he was at my service should I need him again.
I got busy as soon as I had unpacked by beginning on the telephone book and then talking to the reception clerk of the hotel probing for a lead to Herman Jefferson. Neither the telephone book nor the clerk had heard of Herman Jefferson.
I then asked the hall porter on the theory a hall porter of a good hotel knows everything. I asked him if he knew who owned a villa close by with steps down to the sea into a small harbour complete with boat.
He regarded me thoughtfully before saying, “You mean Mr. Lin Fan’s villa, sir? It is now occupied by Mr. Enright and his sister: they are Americans.”
“Did you ever hear if a guy named Herman Jefferson lived there?” I asked.
He shook his head. I could see he was getting a little bored with me.
“Jefferson? No, I don’t know the name, sir.”
Later in the afternoon, I put on a pair of swim trunks and went down to the crowded beach. I hired a pedallo and took it out into the bay. After some hard, solid work, I got in a position to see the whole coastline. I quickly spotted Lin Fan’s villa. It was situated on a promontory, isolated and very lush, with a terrace garden and winding steps leading down to a small harbour where a fast-looking speedboat was moored.
I propelled my boat towards the villa and when I got within two or three hundred yards of the harbour. I paused to study the place, thinking if Herman Jefferson had really rented this place as Leila had said he had, then he must have suddenly found the opportunity of making really big money. But had he? Had Jo-An told Leila he had rented this villa to save face? It was the kind of lie one woman might tell another.
I suddenly became aware of two tiny sparkling dots showing from a top window of the villa and I moved on. I had a sudden naked feeling. I propelled my craft along the coast for ten minutes, knowing someone was watching me from the villa through a pair of field glasses, the lenses of which were catching the sun. Then I turned my craft,
