junks, shoulder to shoulder and swarming with Chinese with their relations
and children. There was no hope of entering the harbour so Enright dropped anchor and we took a sampan rowed by a thirteen-year-old Chinese girl to the landing-stage. We spent an hour wandering around the tiny, interesting bay village, then Stella said she was tired and we returned to the boat. As we were being rowed in the sampan to the boat, Stella said, “Have you been to the islands yet? You should see them. You can take a ferry.”
“Not yet ... no.”
“If you have nothing better to do tomorrow, I’m going to Silver Mine Bay. We could go together. I have a visit to make. While I’m visiting you might like to look at the waterfall. It is something to see, then we could come back together.”
“I’d like it fine,” I said.
“My sister is a very charitable soul,” Enright said. “We had a servant when we first came here. She was very old and we had to get rid of her. She lives at Silver Mine Bay. Stella visits her from time to time. She takes her things.”
He started the motor-boat engine and that stopped all talking. It took us twentv minutes or so to reach tn* villa. Stella left the boat and Enright said he would run me back to the hotel.
“Good night,” Stella said, pausing at the bottom of the steps to smile at me. “The ferry-boat leaves at two. I’ll look out for you on the pier.”
I thanked her for a wonderful evening and she lifted her hand in a little wave and then started up the steps as Enright opened the throttle and sent the boat roaring in the direction of the hotel.
He dropped me at the landing-stage.
“When did you say you were leaving?” he asked as I climbed out of the boat.
“About a week’s time . . . I’m not sure.”
“Well, you must come again. It’s been nice meeting you.”
We shook hands and then I watched him drive the boat out to sea.
I walked slowly up the beach towards the hotel. I couldn’t get out of my mind the sinister squat figure of the Chinese I had seen reflected in the mirror. I had an instinctive feeling he meant trouble.
The following morning I found myself in the office of the Third Secretary, American Consul.
I had had a little trouble getting to him, but by bearing down on old man Jefferson’s name, I was finally and reluctantly admitted to his office.
He was a fat, smooth-looking bird, surrounded by an atmosphere of diplomatic immunity. He read my card which lay on his desk by peering gingerly at it as if he felt by touching it he might pick up an incurable disease.
“Nelson Ryan . . . private investigator,” he intoned and then sat back and lifted supercilious eyebrows. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m working for J. Wilbur Jefferson,” I said. “I’m making inquiries about his son, Herman Jefferson, who died here in a road accident about seventeen days ago.”
He fed a cigarette into his fat face.
“So?”
“He was a resident of Hong Kong. I take it he would have had to register here.”
“That is correct.”
“Can you tell me his last address?”
He moistened one fat finger and smoothed down his left eyebrow.
“Well, I suppose I could give it to you, but is it necessary? It’s a dead file now. It may take a little time to get it from the vaults.”
“Is that what you want me to tell Mr. Jefferson?” f asked. “I can’t imagine he would toss his bonnet over a windmill to hear a Third Secretary of the American Consul couldn’t be bothered to help him.”
He looked suddenly wary. Probably he had suddenly remembered just how much water the old man could draw if he wanted to.
Slightly flustered, he picked up the telephone and said, “Oh, Miss Davenport, will you bring me Herman Jefferson’s file . . . yes, Herman Jefferson. Thank you.” He replaced the receiver and hoisted a weary smile on his fat face, showing me his set of porcelain choppers. “Yeah ... J. Wilbur Jefferson. I remember now . . . the millionaire. How is the old gentleman?” “Still ready and willing to kick a backside when it needs kicking,” I said cheerfully. “He has a hell of a long leg and a hell of a heavy boot.”
The Third Secretary, whose name was Harris Wilcox, winced, then laughed as convincingly as a newly-wed husband laughs when meeting his mother-in-law for the first time.
“Wonderful how these old tycoons last,” he said. “He’ll probably see us both into the ground.”
There was a pause while we sat staring at each other for about two minutes, then the door opened and Miss Davenport, a willowy girl of around twenty-five, moved her well-built body to the desk and put a file, slim enough to be empty, before Mr. Wilcox. She glanced at me, then went out waving her hips the way secreraries with hips do while we both watched her until the door closed, then Wilcox opened the file.
“All his papers went back with the body,” he said apologetically, “but we should have something here.” He peered at the single sheet of paper in the file, then shook his head. “Not a great deal, I’m afraid. His last address was the Celestial Empire Hotel. He arrived in Hong Kong on September 3rd, 1956, and he has lived at the hotel ever since. He married a Chinese girl last year.”
“What did he do for a living?”
Wilcox again peered at the sheet of paper.
“He’s down here as an exporter, but I understand he didn’t do anything for a living. I guess he had private means although I understand that he lived very rough.”
“Would it surprise you to know he rented a luxury villa at Repulse Bay?” I asked.
Wilcox stared blankly at me.
“He did? He should have registered a change of address if he had done so. Are you sure? What villa?”
“The villa belonging to Lin Fan.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Ryan, I know that villa. Jefferson couldn’t possibly have afforded such a place. It would cost in English money at least four hundred pounds a month.”
“Right now the villa is rented by Harry Enright who lives there with his sister,” I said.
Wilcox nodded. His face showed sudden animation.
“That’s right. Enright took the villa over from some Englishman. I forget his name. Nice guy ... I mean Enright, and what a sister!” He leered. “Probably the most attractive woman in Hong Kong.”
“I understood the villa was empty before Enright took it.”
“Oh no. There was some Englishman there. I never met him.”
“Jefferson and this Chinese girl were really married?”
He stared at me.
“Of course. They were married here. I could show you a copy of the marriage certificate if you want to see it.”
“Yeah: I’d like to see it.”
He did some telephoning, then as we waited, he said, “I remember her well—a pretty little thing. I had the job of clearing her papers and despatching the coffin ... a sad affair.” He tried to look sad. “I was sorry for her.”
Miss Davenport minced in, gave Wilcox the certificate and then duck-tailed out. When we had got through watching her exit, Wilcox passed the certificate across the desk to me. I examined it. It did prove that Jefferson had married Jo-An a year ago. I learned that Frank Belling and Mu Hai Ton had been witnesses of the ceremony.
“Who is Frank Belling?” I asked, showing Wilcox the certificate.
He shook his head.
“I’ve no idea. A friend of Jefferson’s I guess. He must be English. We’ve no record of him.”
“And the girl?”
“I wouldn’t know. Probably a friend of Mrs. Jefferson.” He tapped his porcelain teeth gently with the end of his fountain pen and looked sideways at his desk clock.
I decided there was nothing further to learn from him so I got to my feet.
“Well, thanks,” I said. “I mustn’t take up your time.”
