1
It all seemed very familiar ... the smell of sweat, disinfectant and fear; the green painted corridor, the tramp of heavy feet, the stony-faced cops who shoved past me as if I didn’t exist.
I paused outside Detective Lieutenant Retnick’s door and knocked.
A voice bawled something. I turned the handle and went in.
Retnick was sitting at his desk. Detective Sergeant Pulski leaned against the wall, chewing a matchstick.
They both stared at me, then Retnick pushed his hat to the back of his head and slapped his blotter with a well-manicured hand.
“Look who’s here,” he said to no one in particular. “Well, what a surprise! If I’d known you were coming, I’d have turned out the town band. Sit down. What were the Chinese tarts like?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said, sitting down. “I’ve been too busy to find out. Got the murder case solved yet?”
Retnick pulled out his cigar case, selected a cigar, bit off the end and stuck the cigar into his face. He didn’t offer me one.
“Not yet . . . have you got anything?”
“Could have. You haven’t got one single thing?”
He lit the cigar, frowning.
“We’re still trying to find Hardwick, What have you got?”
“The body that Jo-An Jefferson brought back here wasn’t Herman Jefferson’s.”
That shook him. He choked on smoke, cursed, put down his cigar and blew his nose on a soiled handkerchief. He put the handkerchief away, then tilted back his chair and squinted at me with watering eyes.
“Look, shamus, if this isn’t the McCoy, you’re going to have a rough time. I mean just that.” “Herman Jefferson was murdered two days ago,” I said. “He was dropped into the sea a few miles outside Hong Kong. The British police fished him out. The body is coming back by plane at the end of this week.”
“For sweet Pete’s sake! Who was in the coffin then?”
“No one you’d know ... a guy named Frank Belling, a British subject, connected with heroin smuggling.”
“Have you talked to old man Jefferson yet?”
“Not vet ... you’re my first port of call. He’s my second.”
Retnick stared at Pulski who stared blankly back at him, then Retnick shifted his gaze and stared at me.
“Give with the mouth,” he said. “All of it. Hey! Wait a minute. I’ll have it on paper.” He picked up the telephone receiver and bawled for a stenographer. While we waited, he chewed on his cigar, scowling and worried.
A young cop came in and sat down away from us. He opened a notebook and looked expectantly at Retnick and then at me.
“Shoot,” Retnick said to me. “Give me one of your classical statements, shamus. Don’t leave anything out. I’m going to check every word you utter and if I find out you’re lying, you’ll be sorry your father had a sex life.”
“I don’t have to take that talk from you, Retnick,” I said, suddenly angry. “Jefferson is waiting to fix you and a word from me could fix you good.”
Pulski pushed himself off the wall he was holding up. The young cop looked horrified. Before Pulski could take a swing at me, Retnick was on his feet, shoving Pulski back.
“Shut up!” he snarled at Pulski. To me, he said, “Relax, shamus. Okay, so I take it back. You don’t have to be so goddam sensitive. Come on, for Judas’ sake, let’s have the statement.”
I eyed him for a long moment, but he wouldn’t meet my stare, then I calmed down. I lit a cigarette and gave him the statement. I covered everything that had happened to me since I had arrived in Hong Kong. The only fact I kept quiet about was that Stella and I had returned- to New York together. There we had parted. I was sorry to part with her, and she seemed sorry to part with me, but once back in her own environment there seemed no point in us continuing. She had done me a good turn and I had done her one. I had given her two hundred dollars with which to make a new Wart It had been my money and not Jefferson’s. She had thanked me with a rueful smile and had said goodbye. That was the last I ever saw of her.
Retnick smoked two cigars while I was talking. When I had finished, he told the young cop to get the statement typed and when he had gone, he told Pulski to take a walk.
When we were alone, Retnick said, “Still doesn’t explain why the yellow skin got shot, does it?”
“It doesn’t.”
“I wouldn’t be in your shoes having to tell that son-of-a-bitch Jefferson his son was a drug pedlar.”
“Then you don’t wear my shoes,” I said.
“We’ll have to open the coffin.” Retnick lit his third cigar. “Don’t suppose the old man will like that too much.”
“Why shouldn’t he? The coffin doesn’t contain his son.”
“That’s right,” Retnick brooded. “Better get it done fast and quietly. It’d help if you got the old man’s say-so. We’ll have to open the family vault.”
“I’ll get it.”
“The newspapers will love this,” Retnick said, his face gloomy. “Could be they’ll stir up trouble.”
“Yeah.”
He brooded for some moments, then took out his cigar case and offered it to me.
“Not for me,” I said. “I’m a lung cancer addict.”
“Yeah ... I was forgetting.” Retnick polished the cigar case on his sleeve. “I don’t want trouble, Ryan. I’m relying on you. Maybe I should have looked in the coffin before I released it.”
“Someone smart is bound to bring that point up.”
“Yeah . . ”
There was a long pause, then I got to my feet.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Jefferson.”
“I’ll be waiting for you to call me. As soon as you get his okay, I’ll open the coffin.”
“I’ll get it.”
“Remember, Ryan, you can always do with a good friend at police headquarters . . . just remember that.”
“Just so long as you remember me, I’ll remember you. We could make a song out of that, couldn’t we?”
I left him, staring uneasily into space and went down to where I had parked my car. I got under the wheel, lit a cigarette and brooded for several minutes. I decided first to go to my office just to see if it was still there. From my office I could telephone Janet West and see if the old man would be ready to talk to me this afternoon.
I drove to my office, parked and rode up in the elevator. As I unlocked my office door, I heard Jay Wayde’s deep voice dictating. There was a heap of mail lying on the floor. I picked it up and dumped it on my dust-covered desk. Then, as I found the room stuffy, I crossed to the window and opened it wide. Jay Wayde’s baritone voice came clearly to me. He was dictating a letter about a consignment of adhesive plaster. I listened for a brief moment before moving back to my desk. I flicked through my mail which seemed depressingly nonproductive. Only three letters looked like business: the rest were circulars which I dumped into the trash-basket.
I reached for the telephone and called J. Wilbur Jefferson’s residence. The voice of the gloomy butler asked who was calling. I told him. There was a delay, then Janet West came on the line.
“This is Mr. Jefferson’s secretary. Is that Mr. Ryan?”
I said it was, then, “Can I see Mr. Jefferson?”
“Yes, of course. Will you come at three o’clock this afternoon?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Have you found out anything?” I wasn’t sure if her voice sounded anxious or not.
“I’ll be there,” I said and hung up.
