1
I leaned on the rail of the first-class deck of the ferry-boat and watched the third-class passengers fight their way up the gangplank onto the lower deck.
It was a colourful and interesting sight. Everyone, and they were all Chinese, acted as if the boat was about to sail immediately whereas it had at least a quarter of an hour before pulling away from the Star Ferry pier. Coolies, staggering under enormous burdens slung on bamboo poles, rushed up the gangplank, jostling and pushing as if their lives depended on getting onto the already overcrowded deck. Chinese women, babies strapped on their hacks, surrounded by sharp-eyed children in padded coats, pushed and shoved their way along the pier. Two slim Chinese girls in black coats and trousers came up the gangplank at a trot earning between them on a bamboo pole a large sausage-shaped wicker basket in which lay a full- grown and grunting pig. A half-naked Chinese youth, his right shoulder horribly deformed through carrying heavy burdens slung on his carrying pole, grinned happily as he bustled a group of tiny children ahead of him. Two smart uniformed Chinese policemen stood, their thumbs hooked in their revolver belts and watched the scene with a fatherly tolerance.
I shifted my gaze to look at the few first-class passengers who were coming aboard. There was no sign of Stella, but I was sure she would arrive at the last moment. She was the type who timed her entrance. She would never be either too early or too late.
A squat, heavily-built Chinese, wearing a black city suit, a bulky briefcase under his arm came up the first-class gang-plank.
Looking down at this powerful-built man, I had the image of a figure reflected in the mirror at Enright’s hired villa. I was suddenly sure that this was the man I had seen watching me from the darkened lobby.
I watched him come, studying him. He could be any age up to forty, but there was great strength and power in his squat limbs and he moved with the speed and ease of a gymnast.
I told myself all Chinese look alike and I was being cock-eyed to think this was the man who had been watching me in Enright’s villa, but the feeling persisted even when he walked past me without looking at me and sat down, opening a newspaper with a flick of his wrists and hiding himself behind it.
At one minute to sailing time, I saw Stella, wearing an apple-green cotton dress and carrying a straw basket, come along the pier. She paused at the foot of the gangplank and waved to me. She was the last passenger to arrive.
I went down the gangplank to take the basket from her to the irritation of two Chinese
sailors who were about to wheel the gangplank away.
“Hello,” Stella said. “Well, here I am ... as usual I just made it.”
We regained the deck and the ferry moved away from the pier. We sat on the bench seat and talked. The conversation was impersonal and Jefferson wasn’t mentioned. As we came in sight of Lantao Island, Stella asked casually what I had been doing all the morning. I told her I had been exploring the back streets of Hong Kong.
“Well, here we are,” she said as the boat nosed up to Silver Mine pier. “I’ve got to leave these things.” She waved to the basket. “I’ll have to talk to the old dear. I’ll be about an hour and a half. Why don’t you walk to the waterfall? It’s really worth seeing.”
“I’ll do that. Shall we meet here?”
“The next ferry back is just before six. I’ll be here.”
She let me carry the basket down to the pier, then she directed me the way to go.
“You follow the path around Butterfly Hill,” she said, “then you will come to a bridge. Keep on and you will come to another bridge. Beyond the second bridge is the waterfall.” She smiled at me. “It’s one of the most attractive sights here.”
“I’ll find it,” I said.
I watched her walk away to a row of poor looking houses festooned with gaily coloured washing. She moved gracefully, avoiding the jog trotting Chinese peasants and the well-fed, cheerful-looking children who swarmed around the skirts of her green dress.
I looked around for the squat Chinese, but he had vanished. I had seen him get off the boat, but now I had no idea where he had got to.
I had nothing to do until eight o’clock and I felt ready for a walk. It was a warm sunny day and I was in no hurry. I strolled along the path pointed out to me by Stella and after ten minutes or so, I left the waterfront behind and found myself walking along a deserted footway. After I had passed through a village I later learned was Chung Hau, I was suddenly alone with Butterfly Hill on my right and an expanse of open country to my left.
I reached the waterfall without meeting anyone, duly admired it, and then decided to retrace my steps. It was then that it happened. Something that could have been a large sized hornet zipped past my face. It was followed by the distant sound of a rifle shot.
I spread myself flat on the ground with the reflex action I had had drummed into me during my service in the infantry. As I rolled off the road, there came another rifle shot and the dust was kicked up about two yards from me.
I rolled into the thick grass on the side of the path as yet another rifle shot cracked in the still air. This time he nearly nailed me. The bullet zipped past my head alarmingly close.
Sweating, my heart thumping, I kept moving, rolling over, trying to dig myself into the hard ground. I finally came up against a large rock, and with speed, close to panic, I slid around it and lay flat and waited.
Nothing happened and I began to calm down a little. Whoever was shooting at me was up on the hill. He was probably using a telescopic sight. From the sound of the rifle shot, he was a good quarter of a mile away.
I cursed myself for not bringing my .38, but I was wearing a short sleeved shirt and a pair of slacks: no outfit for carrying a gun. He knew where I was. All he had to do was to wait for me to show. Very cautiously, I lifted my head to look behind me to plan an escape route. A rifle cracked and a bullet flicked past my face. I flatttened out.
There were two of them! The last shot had come immediately behind me. The sniper was closer than the other one . . . too damn close!
They must know by the clothes I was wearing I wasn’t armed There was nothing to stop them now they knew they had missed me with their opening shots to come down and make sure they didn’t miss.
I looked at my strap watch. The time was twenty minutes past five. Would Stella come to meet me when I didn’t show at the pier? Suppose she walked into these two? Would they kill her as they were trying to kill me?
I started a slow crawl away from the rock. My combat training was still alive in my mind. I slid through the long grass, snakelike, moving downhill. After five minutes of careful manoeuvring.
I was a hundred feet from where I had been. Then, inch by inch, I lifted my head to try to see where I was.
The hiss of the bullet by my face and then the crack of the rifle made me flatten into the ground. These two were either smarter than I thought they were or I was a lot less good as an infantry man.
I slowly shifted my position. It was as well that I did. Another shot cracked the silence and a bullet zunked into the earth just where I had been lying. I told myself it was a lucky shot. The guy had fired at where he imagined I was, but it was far too close for comfort.
I moved farther to my right, then I saw the long grass ceased to exist. Another four feet ahead of me would bring me to barren rocky ground which dipped sharply to a slope, probably to the side of the hill, running down into a valley.
I lay listening and waiting. I heard nothing. Without raising my head, I could see nothing.
I did the Indian trick of putting my ear down on the ground and listening intently. For several minutes I still heard nothing, then I heard him. I guessed he was about fifty yards to my right. He was crawling towards me, hidden in the long grass and he would be on me pretty soon if I didn’t do something about it.
I tried to judge just where he was, but that wasn’t possible. At least I knew from which direction he was coming. I waited a minute longer, then feeling naked and pretty scared, I rose out of the grass with a quick jinking movement, jumping first right, then left to throw the other joker’s aim off. I was aware of a distant crack of a rifle shot. The bullet went wide by yards. I saw a movement in the grass six yards from me and I started for it.
A Chinese, wearing a blue coat and trousers with a baggy black cap rose out of the grass and grinned at me. He was small, thin and wiry. The sun flashed on the knife he held in his hand. I didn’t give him a chance to get set. I dived for him, my right hand groping for the knife hand, my left hand for his throat.
I hit him in the chest with my shoulder and we went down into the high grass with a bone shaking impact. I had his wrist and him by the throat. He tried to get his fingers into my eyes, but I slammed the top of my head into his face. I heard him grunt. He didn’t stand a chance. He was half my weight and half my strength. I got the knife away from him, then I fastened both hands around his throat. He squirmed under me, but not for long. I squeezed into his skinny throat until I saw his eves roll up and felt him go limp. Panting a little, I heaved myself off him, keeping flat, wondering if the other joker was on his way down.
I waited some minutes until the Chinese began to move. I crawled around him and sat him up by shoving against his shoulder blades, but keeping flat myself. His cap had fallen off in the struggle. From where the sniper lay my man could have been me and that’s what the sniper thought or maybe he didn’t care. A rifle cracked and suddenly my man’s face was a mask of blood. It was good shooting. I let the limp body drop back into the grass, then I crawled backwards until I was about fifteen yards from the body.
I waited. From time to time I pressed my ear to the ground. It was a long wait. The hands of my watch showed half past six before the sniper lost patience and decided to come down and find out what had happened.
He came with plenty of confidence, knowing I was either dead or harmless. By parting the grass a little I was able to see the hillside from where the last shot had come. I caught sight of him coming down the hill, a rifle under his arm, squat, powerfully built, incongruous in his black city suit . . . the man who had been watching me in the Enright villa and who I had seen
on the ferry-boat.
Watching him come, I had a creepy sensation. It had been Stella’s idea for me to come to this lonely island. I had been invited to the Enright villa, and this squat Chinese, walking so confidently towards me, had been there to take a look at me. It seemed to me as I lay in the long grass that I had walked into a prepared trap from which I wasn’t supposed to escape.
At the rate he was moving, he would be with me in less than ten minutes. I crawled through the grass to collect the long-bladed knife. It didn’t give me a lot of confidence. A knife against a rifle isn’t fair odds. I looked around and found a flat, heavy stone larger than my hand. I collected that too.
By now the squat Chinese was walking along the path. He had slowed his pace and was moving more cautiously, but he still seemed to have plenty of confidence because he carried the rifle under his arm.
By now I had squirmed farther from the body . . . twenty yards of high grass separated us. The squat Chinese would come on the body before he came on me.
He was now too close for me to watch him. I lay flat, gripping the stone in my right hand and the knife in my left.
I could hear him. I heard him give a little grunt. Cautiously I lifted my head. He had found his pal and was standing over him, staring. He jerked his head up and we looked at each other. The rifle slid from under his arm into his hands. As I threw the stone, he squeezed the trigger. The flying stone spoilt his aim but it wasn’t all that bad a shot. The bullet scraped the top of my shoulder. My stone was luckier. The edge of the stone caught his right hand, splitting the skin. He dropped the rifle, and as he bent to pick it up, I was on him.
It was like charging against the side of a house. He had twisted i sideways, his legs spread to take the shock of my charge. His hand flashed up and grabbed my wrist. He had fingers like steel. I went flying over his head to land on the ground with a jar that shook the breath out of my body. I was dimly aware I had lost the knife. I was also aware that my fall had brought me to the side of the hill. Letting myself go limp, I started to roll. I heard him coming after me. After I had rolled fifty yards or so, I dug my heels into the soft ground and stopped. I was dizzy and breathless. I saw him coming, a vicious grin on his fat, yellow face, but without the gun.
I was on my feet as he reached me, below him and at a disadvantage, but he was coming too fast to stop. I swerved aside at the moment of impact. He tried to grab me, but his hooked fingers slid off my arm as he went careering past. I swung around and planted my shoe in his fat behind. He pitched forward and slid down the hill on his face.
I found another flat, heavy stone which I snatched up and threw after him. The stone caught him on the back of his head and blood flew. He went on down the hill, kicking up the dust, but limp. Maybe I had smashed his skull. I didn’t care. All I knew he wouldn’t worry me for some time ... if ever.
Breathing heavily, feeling a burning in my shoulder, I set off down the path, walking unsteadily, towards the Silver Mine Pier.
2
I walked into the bar on the Wanchai waterfront at exactly eight o’clock. I had showered and changed and had put an adhesive plaster on the bullet graze on my shoulder. It felt sore and hot, but I was lucky it was no worse.
The bar was full. There were about twenty American sailors drinking and dancing and some thirty Chinese girls, all wearing Cheongsams, crowding around the bar or dancing. There were a few Chinese businessmen in the booths, drinking whisky and talking earnestly.
The juke-box was blaring jazz loud enough to break a sensitive eardrum. I stood just inside the door, looking around. The Chinese Madame came out of the noise and the cigarette smoke, smiling. She led me to one of the few vacant booths and sat me down.
“What will you drink?” she asked, standing over me, her hard glittering eyes avoiding my stare.
“A Scotch . . . and you?”
“I’ll get you a Scotch.”
She went away and I lost sight of her behind the screen o/ dancers. After a five-minute wait, a waiter come to my table and put down a Scotch and soda. I waited. It was another ten minutes before the Chinese woman came back to my table and sat down. She looked a little worried.
“Mu Hai Ton will see you,” she said, “but not here. She wants you to go to her apartment.”
Another trap? I wondered. I was still a little shaky after my experience of the afternoon. I was now wearing a suit and had my .38 police special in its holster out of sight but ready for business.
“Where is she?”
“It is not far. I can arrange a taxi for you.”
I hesitated, then nodded.
“Okay . .. but how do I know she is the right girl?”
“She has her papers. She will show them to you. She is the right girl.”
“Do I go now?”
“She is waiting.”
I finished my drink and got to my feet.
“After I’ve talked to her and after I am satisfied she is the right girl I will pay you fifty Hong Kong dollars.”
She smiled stiffly.
“That’s all right. I will get you a taxi.”
I waited. After a few minutes she returned.
“He knows where to take you. The apartment is on the top floor. You will have no difficulty in finding it.”
I said I would be seeing her and I went out into the hot night. The taxi-driver grinned cheerfully at me as I opened the cab door. I got in and he drove off. It was a six-minute drive through the crowded back streets of the Chinese quarter. The taxi pulled up outside a jeweller’s shop. The driver pointed to a side door, grinning happily. I paid and over tipped him and watched him drive away before I pushed open the door and began to mount steep , stairs that brought me to a landing. Facing me was an elevator. I took it to the top floor. As it came to rest, I slid my hand inside my jacket and eased the gun a little in its holster. Then I stepped across the landing to a red-painted door. I rang the bell.
There was a slight delay, then the door swung open. A Chinese girl looked inquiringly at me.
She was tall and slim and very pretty. She wore a cream silk, heavily embroidered Cheongsam and scarlet sandals. Her black hair was adorned with two lotus blossoms.
“I’m Ryan,” I said. “I think you’re expecting me.”
She smiled, showing brilliantly white teeth.
“Yes . . . come in.”
I moved into a large room full of flowers and furnished with modern light oak furniture.
The big windows had a view of the sea.
“You’re Mu Hai Ton?” I asked as she closed the door and walked with easy grace to an armchair.
“That is my name.”
She sat down, resting her slim hands in her lap, her eyebrows slightly raised, the smile in place.
“How do I know that?”
The question seemed to amuse her. She waved a hand to the table.
“My papers are there.”
I checked her identity card. She had arrived in Hong Kong five years ago. Her age was twenty-three. Her profession was that of a dancer.
I relaxed a little and sat opposite her.
“You knew Herman Jefferson?” I asked.
She nodded, continuing to smile.
“Yes, I knew him. He died two weeks ago.”
“You knew his wife?”
“Yes, of course. I was a witness when they married.”
“Do you know what Jefferson did for a living?”
“Perhaps now I have answered some of your questions, you will tell me who you are and why you have come here,” she said, still not losing the friendly smile.
“I’m making inquiries for Jefferson’s father,” I told her. “He wants to know more about how his son lived out here.”
She lifted her eyebrows inquiringly.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He’s paying me to get the information so I’m trying to get it. I’m willing to
pay you for any information you can give me.”
She cocked her head on one side.
“How much will you pay?”
“It depends on how much you can tell me.”
“You want to know how he made a living?” She grimaced. “He didn’t make a living. He took money from Jo-An.”
“Ever know a girl called Leila?”
“Yes ... she lived with Jo-An.”
“Leila told me Jefferson rented a luxury villa out at Repulse Bay.”
She threw her head back and laughed. She had a nice laugh and her throat was very beautiful.
“He couldn’t even afford to pay the rent at the Celestial Empire. He was no good ... a bum.”
“I heard he was tied up in the drug trade,” I said casually.
That got a reaction. She stiffened and her smile went away. She stared at me, recovered herself, and shrugged.
“I know nothing about the drug trade.”
“I didn’t say you did. Did you ever hear he was running heroin from Canton into Hong Kong?”
“No.”
“Frank Belling did it.”
“I don’t know anything about that.” She was watching me closely now, a little frown furrowing her forehead.
“You knew Belling, didn’t you?”
“I met him once ... at the wedding.”
“He was Jefferson’s friend?” “I suppose so. I don’t know anything about him.”
“I heard after the marriage, Jefferson left his wife and hired this villa at Repulse Bay.”
She moved restlessly.
“He lived with her at the Celestial Empire until he was killed,” she said. “He never had a villa at Repulse Bay.”
I offered her a cigarette, but she refused. As I lit up I asked myself why I was pursuing this line of questioning. Everyone I had met and questioned had said the same thing except Leila. Why should I instinctively feel Leila was telling the truth and all the others were lying?
“Let’s talk about Jo-Ann,” I said. “Did you know her well?”
She nodded.
“She is one of my best friends. I am very sad she has gone to America. I hope soon to hear from her. She promised if she could arrange it for me to go there too.”
I hesitated for a moment, then decided to go all the way.
“You haven’t heard then?” I asked.
She looked inquiringly at me.
“Heard . . . what?”
“She’s dead.”
She started back as if I had slapped her face. Her eyes opened very wide and she put her hands to her breasts. I was watching her carefully. She wasn’t play-acting. What I had just told her had come as a violent shock.
“Dead? How can she be dead?” she said huskily. “What happened?”
“She was murdered a few hours after arriving at Pasadena City.”
Her face suddenly fell apart. There was no other description for it. Her face crumpled and she didn’t look pretty any more.
“You’re lying!” she said in a muffled strangled voice.
“It’s a fact. The police are trying to find her killer.”
She began to cry, holding her face in her hands.
“Go away,” she moaned. “Please go away.”
“Take it easy,” I said. “I’m sorry to have given you a shock. I’m trying to find her killer myself and you could help me. Now, listen . . .”
She jumped to her feet and ran into another room, slamming the door. I stood for a moment hesitating, then I went out and closed the front door. I got in the elevator and rode down to the next floor, then getting out I waited, listening. I heard her front door open, there was a pause, then it shut. I went up the stairs silently and listened outside the red-painted door. After a few minutes I heard the tinkle of the telephone bell. I heard her talking softly and rapidly, but too softly to hear what she was saying. When she hung up, I went down the stairs to the elevator and took it to the ground floor. I walked out onto the crowded bustling street. Across the way was an arcade of shops. I entered and stood looking at various complicated cameras offered at give-away prices, my eyes from time to time looking at the door to the apartments opposite I could see reflected in the mirror in the showcase. I was acting on a hunch, but after ten minutes of waiting, I began to wonder if the hunch was going to pay off. Then just as I was about to give up, I saw her come out into the street. If I hadn’t been watching carefully I wouldn’t have recognised her. She was now wearing the drab black costume of the working peasant: the short coat and the baggy trousers. She looked to right and left and then walked quickly away towards the waterfront. I went after her. She was easy enough to follow. She reached a taxi rank, spoke to the driver, then got in. The taxi edged its way into the traffic.
I was lucky. The driver of the second taxi in the rank could understand a little English. I told him to follow the taxi ahead and showed him a twenty-dollar bill. He grinned cheerfully, nodded and as soon as I was in his cab, he went after the taxi which was now fifty yards ahead.
Mu Hai Ton got out at the Star Ferry station. I gave her a head start, then paid off my driver and went after her. She went third-class and I went first. The ferry-boat took us to the Kowloon City pier which is close to the Kai Tak airport.
From the ferry station she took a rickshaw. I decided it would be safer and easier to follow her on foot, but I had misjudged the speed a rickshaw boy can travel and I nearly lost her. By running hard, stared at by the Chinese who must have thought I was crazy, I just managed to hang on to the rickshaw, but only just.
She left the rickshaw in a narrow street, swarming with vendors, rickshaws and coolies trotting along with their heavy burdens and I watched her enter an alley that I knew led into the old walled City of Kowloon.
This pan of Hong Kong was in actual fact Red Chinese territory. At one time the British authorities had no right to enter it, and it had become a sanctuary for criminals and drug addicts. But now, conditions having become so bad, the police made a regular patrol, and there had been no protest from the Red Chinese Government. But it wasn’t a place where any European would want to go.
I went after her. In the narrow crowded alleys with their stinking open drains, there was no hope of quick concealment.
If she had looked back she would have seen me, but she didn’t. I kept twenty yards behind her, jostling the filthy-looking Chinese who stared at me with drug bemused eyes, moving away from me as if I were something untouchable.
We walked some distance through a maze of horrible alleys, then she paused at a door, pushed it open and went into a house. I waited a moment, aware I was being watched by a number of Chinese who either squatted or leaned against the wall of the alley, their faces the colour of mushroom fungus, the pupils of their eyes like pinpoints. I didn’t believe they even saw me, but their fixed stare gave me the creeps.
I pushed open the door. Facing me was a steep, narrow flight of uncarpeted stairs. I moved in and closed the door. I listened. Somewhere above I could hear a woman’s voice. I eased my gun in its holster, then went silently up the stairs to a landing. Facing me was a door. To my right was another door.
I paused, listening. I heard a man say, “Listen, you yellow bitch ... if you’re lying to me, I’ll kill you!” The accent was American: the tone vicious.
“That’s what he said!” Mu Hai Ton’s voice was shrill. “He said she was murdered a few hours after she had arrived in Pasadena City!”
A gentle voice said behind me, “Don’t move, Mr. Ryan. Just keep your hands still if you please.”
A familiar voice with a heavy Chinese accent that I couldn’t place.
I remained still because in spite of the polite tone, the threat was there.
“Please open the door and go in. I have a gun in my hand.”
I took a step forward, turned the door handle and gave the door a little push. It swung wide open.
It was a bare room. The floor was uncarpeted. There was a broad wooden bench that served as a bed with a wooden headrest to serve as a pillow. On an upturned packing case stood a metal kettle burned black, a small teapot and some small dirty tea bowls. Hanging on a hook on the wall was a filthy hand towel and below it was a basin and a large water jug
The two figures squatting on the floor turned to stare at me. One of them was Mu Hai Ton. The other was a narrow-shouldered, lean-faced man, wearing a dirty black Chinese costume and a baggy black cap pulled down over his face.
For a brief moment I took him for Chinese, but a closer look told me he was European.
Mu Hai Ton gave a startled scream. The man swung his arm and the back of his hand caught her across the mouth, knocking her sprawling at my feet.
“You stupid bitch!” the man snarled, getting to his feet. “You led him right here! Get out!”
“Go on in, please,” the voice said behind me and I received a gentle prod in the back.
The girl scrambled to her feet, sobbing. She darted around me and I heard her clattering down the stairs.
I moved into the room. The man was staring at me, a vicious, cold gleam in his eyes.
I took a chance and glanced over my shoulder. Wong Hop Ho, the English-speaking guide, smiled apologetically at me. In his right hand he held a .45 Colt centred on my spine. He closed the door and set his back against it.
I examined the man before me. He looked half-starved and ill. He was unshaven and dirty and I could smell him.
“See if he has a gun,” the man said.
Wong pressed his gun into my spine. With his left hand he patted me over, found my gun and removed it. He then stood away.
I decided this man in front of me could be no one else but Frank Belling. If he wasn’t then nothing else made sense.
“Are you Belling?” I said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Okay, so you’ve found me,” the man said. “It’s going to do you damn little good.”
I looked at Wong who continued to smile apologetically at me.
“I certainly fell for you,” I said ruefully. “You were waiting at the airport to pick me up. That was careless of me. Who tipped you off I was coming?”
Wong giggled.
“We hear these things,’ he said. “You shouldn’t have been so curious, Mr. Ryan. You certainly shouldn’t have come here.”
“Well, I’m here,” I said. “I can’t help it if I’m curious ... it’s my business to be curious.”
“What do you want?” Belling demanded.
“I’m trying to find out why Jo-An Jefferson was murdered. The idea was I should start from here and work back.”
His eyes glittered wolfishly in his thin pale face.
“Is that straight . . . she’s dead?”
“Yes ... she’s dead.”
He took off his baggy cap and threw it aside. His sand-coloured hair needed cutting. He ran filthy fingers through his hair and his mouth tightened into a thin line.
“What happened to her?” he said. “Come on . . . give me the facts.”
I told him about the mysterious telephone caller, John Hard-wick, how I had been fooled into leaving my office, how I had found her dead on my return. I told him old man Jefferson had hired me to find her killer.
“He said his son would have wanted to find the man who killed her. He felt it was the least he could do to do what has son would have done.”
Belling said: “What are the police doing? Can’t they find him?”
“They’re getting nowhere. I’m getting nowhere either. That’s why I was looking for you.”
“Why the hell do you imagine I could help you?” he demanded, glaring at me. Sweat way running down his thin, white face. He looked frightened and vicious.
“You could tell me something about Jefferson,” I said. “Was he hooked up in this drug organisation you belong to?”
“I don’t know a thing about Jefferson! You keep out of this! Now get out! Jefferson is dead. Let him stay dead. Go on, get out!”
I should have been more alert, but I wasn’t and I suffered for it. I saw Belling look past me at Wong. I spun around. Wong stabbed me in the belly with his gun barrel. As I jerked forward in agony, he slammed the gun butt down on top of my head.
I heard myself saying silently, “Frank Belling is English, isn’t he?” and a voice that sounded like the voice of Chief Inspector MacCarthy replied, “That’s right. . . he’s English.”
And yet the thin, dirty specimen who said he was Frank Belling had spoken with a strong American accent. Was it possible an Englishman could have picked up such an accent? I didn’t think so.
A sudden stab of pain in my head concluded these thoughts and I heard myself groan.
“All right ... all right,” I said aloud. “You’re not hurt all that bad. You’ve just had a bang on the head. You have to expect that in your business. You’re lucky to be alive.”
I opened my eyes. I could see nothing. It was as dark as a tunnel, but the familiar smell told me I was still in the room where Wong had coshed me. I sat up slowly, wincing at more stabbing pains and I gently felt the bump on my head. I sat there for some minutes, then I made the effort and got to my feet The door would be behind me and to the left. I groped my way to it, found the door handle and opened the door. A feeble light burning on the landing made me blink. I stood in the doorway listening, but heard only the gentle murmur of many voices in the alley below. I looked at my strap watch. The time was five minutes past midnight. I had been unconscious for about half an hour . . . quite long enough for Belling and Wong to have got well away.
My one thought now was to get out of this evil-smelling hole.
As I started towards the stairs, I heard someone coming up. I slid my hand inside my coat. The gun holster was there still strapped to my side, but it was empty.
The beam of a powerful flashlight hit me in the face.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” a familiar Scottish voice demanded.
“Slumming,” I said and relaxed. “What are you?”
Sergeant Hamish, followed by a uniformed Chinese police officer, came on up the stairs.
“You were spotted coming in here,” he said. “I thought I’d better see what you were up to.”
“You’re a little late. I’ve been holding a one-sided conversation with your pal Frank Belling.”
“You were?” He gaped at me. “Where is he?”
“He’s skipped.” I fingered the lump on the back of my head. “A Chinese pal of his boffed me before we had time to exchange confidences.”
He moved the beam of his flashlight so he could see the back of my head, then he whistled.
“Well, you asked for it, coming here. This is the toughest spot in Hong Kong.”
“Would you take that goddam light out of my eyes? My head hurts,” I growled at him.
He moved past me into the room and swung the light around. Then he came out.
“The Chief Inspector will want to talk to you. Let’s go.”
“He’ll want to talk to a Chinese girl named Mu Hai Ton too,” I said and gave him the girl’s address. “You’d better get after her. She’s likely to have skipped.”
“What’s she got to do with this?”
“She led me to Belling. Hurry it up, friend. You could miss her.”
He said something in Cantonese to the policeman with him who clattered off down the stairs.
“You come on,” he said to me and we followed the policeman into the dark, evil-smelling alley.
Half an hour later I was back on the island and sitting in Chief Inspector MacCarthy’s office. They had got him out of bed by radio-telephone and he looked none too pleased. We had cups of strong tea in front of us. My head was still aching but the tea helped.
Sergeant Hamish leaned against the wall, chewing a tooth-pick, his cop eyes blankly staring at me. MacCarthy sucked at his empty pipe while he listened to my story.
I didn’t tell him about the Silver Mine Bay outing. I felt if I had told him he might have turned hostile. I told him how I had wanted to talk to Mu Hai Ton, how I had found her through the Madame at the Wanchai bar and how I had seen her surprise and distress when I had told her Jo-An was dead.
“I had an idea she might want to pass on the news,” I said, “so I waited across the road and followed her into the walled city.”
I told them how Wong had suddenly appeared, what Belling had said and how Wong had coshed me.
After a long pause, MacCarthy said, “Well, you asked for it. You should have come to me.”
I let that one go.
He sat for some moments thinking over what I had told him, then before he could say what was on his mind, the telephone bell rang. He scooped up the receiver, listened, then said, “Well, keep after her, I want her,” and hung up.
“She didn’t return to her apartment,” he said to me. “I have a man watching the place and we’re looking for her.”
I hadn’t expected she would have been there waiting for them to pick her up. I wondered if they would eventually find her in the harbour the way they had found Leila.
“Have you a photograph of Frank Belling?” I asked. “I have an idea this guy wasn’t Belling. He was an American.”
MacCarthy opened a desk drawer and took out a fat file which showed he was taking more interest in Belling than he had led me to believe. He opened the file and took out a half-plate glossy print which he flicked across the desk so it fell right side up in front of me.
I looked at the photograph and felt a queer creepy sensation crawl up my spine. It was the same photograph that Janet West had given me: the hard gangster face Janet West had said belonged to Herman Jefferson.
“You sure this is Belling?” I said.
MacCarthy stared blankly at me.
“That’s a police photograph. We distributed a number of them to the newspaper agencies and to the newspapers when we were trying to pick him up. Yes . . . that’s Frank Belling.”
“That’s not the man I talked to . . . the man who said he was Frank Belling.”
MacCarthy drank some of his tea and then began to fill his pipe. I could see by the expression in his eyes he was beginning to dislike me.
“Then who was the man you talked to?”
“Did you ever meet Herman Jefferson?”
“Yes . . . why?”
“Got a photograph of him?” “No ... he was an American citizen. Why should I have a photograph of him?”
“Can you describe him?”
“Thin, sharp-featured with thinning sand-coloured hair,” MacCarthy said promptly.
“Sound like the man I talked to ... the man who said he was Frank Belling.”
There was a long pause, then MacCarthy said heavily, “Jefferson is dead. He was killed in a road accident and his body was shipped to America.”
“Jefferson is alive . . . anyway, he was alive two hours ago,” I said. “That description of yours fits him.”
“The body in the car matched Jefferson’s size,” MacCarthy said as if trying to convince himself. “The body was so badly burned identification wasn’t possible but his wife identified him by the ring on his finger and the cigarette case he was carrying. We had and still have no reason to think he was anyone else but Jefferson.”
“If it wasn’t Jefferson and I’m damn sure it wasn’t, who was it?” I said.
“Why ask me?” MacCarthy said. “I’ve still no reason to think Jefferson is alive.”
“A tall thin man with pale green eyes, thin sandy hair and thin lips,” I said. I thought for a moment, then went on, “He had a crooked little finger on his right hand, come to think of it, as if it had been broken at one time and had been badly set.”
“That’s Jefferson,” Hamish said. It was the first time he had said anything since I had come into the office. “I remember the crooked finger. That’s Jefferson all right.”
MacCarthy puffed at his pipe.
“Then who was buried?” he asked uneasily. “Whose body was sent back to America?”
“My guess is that it was Frank Selling’s body,” I said. “For some reason Jefferson tried to kid me he was Belling.”
“Why should he do that?”
“I don’t know.” I touched the bump on my head and grimaced. “If it’s all the same to you, Chief Inspector, I’ll go to bed. I’m feeling like something the cat has dragged in.”
“You look like it,” he said. “Let’s have a description of Wong.” “He looks like any other Chinese to me. Squat, fat with gold teeth.”
“That’s right,” MacCarthy said and stifled a yawn. “They all look alike to us just as we all look alike to them.” He turned to Hamish. “Take as many men as you want and go through the walled city. See if you can find Jefferson. You won’t, but we’ve got to try.” To me, he said, “Okay, Ryan, you go to bed. You can leave this to us.”
I said I would be glad to and went out of the office with Hamish.
“Looking for Jefferson in the walled city is like looking for the invisible man,” Hamish said bitterly. “No one knows anything. Everyone covers up for everyone. I might have Jefferson right next to me and I wouldn’t know it.”
“Cheer up,” I said unfeelingly. “It’ll give you something to do.”
Leaving him swearing, I picked up the Packard and drove back to the Repulse Bay Hotel. I felt old, tired and worn out.
I left the elevator on the fourth floor where my room was. The night boy, a grinning, bowing Chinese, wearing a white drill jacket and black trousers, bowed to me as he handed me my key. I thanked him and walked to my room. I unlocked the door and entered the sitting-room. Most of the rooms in the hotel had sirting-rooms. The bedroom was beyond drawn curtains that divided the two rooms. I turned on the light and pulled off my jacket. The air-conditioner made the room pleasantly cool.
My one thought was to take a cold shower and then go to bed, but it wasn’t to be. As I parted the curtains and moved into the bedroom, I saw the bedside lamp was on.
I saw a woman lying on the bed. It was Stella Enright. She had on a gold and black cocktail dress. She had kicked off her shoes that were lying by the bed.
The sight of her gave me a shock. For a moment I thought she was dead, then I saw she was breathing by the rise and fall of her breasts. I stood there, staring at her, aware of the pain in my head and wondering what the hell she was doing here and how she got in. Then I remembered the grinning night boy and guessed she had bribed her way in.
As I watched her, she slowly opened her eyes and looked at me, then she lifted her head. Sitting up, she swung her long legs off the bed.
“I’m sorry,” she said and smiled. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I just got bored waiting for you.”
“Have you been waiting long?” I asked, more for something to say. I sat down in an armchair, watching her as she slipped into her shoes. She patted her hair and then stood up
and came into the sitting-room.
“I’ve been here since ten o’clock,” she said. “I was worrying about you. I hope you don’t mind me coming here.” She hurried on before I could say anything. “What happened to you? I nearly missed the ferry. Why weren’t you waiting for me?”
“I was delayed,” I said, thinking of the thin Chinese with his knife and the squat Chinese with his rifle. “Now I’ll ask you something. Was it your idea that you and I should go to Silver Mine Bay?”
She sat on the arm of the armchair facing me,
“My idea? What do you mean?”
“It’s not so hard, surely? When you suggested I should see the waterfall . . . was it your idea or did someone else suggest it to you?”
She frowned, staring at me for a moment, then she said, “I don’t know why you ask, but my brother told me to invite you. He said you were lonely and would be glad of company.”
“Is he your brother?” I asked.
She stiffened, stared at me and then quickly looked away.
As she said nothing, I repeated the question.
“You’re asking the most extraordinary questions,” she said, still looking away from me. “What makes you ask that?”
“There’s no likeness between you,” I said, “and it seems odd to me that a girl like you should want to live with her brother.”
I watched her hesitate, then she shrugged.
“No, he isn’t my brother. I’ve only known him a couple of months. Now, I’m sorry I ever met him.”
I gave up the thought of going to bed. I took out my pack of cigarettes and we both lit up. She slid off the arm of the chair into the chair itself and leaning back, she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.
“Where did you meet him?” I asked.
“In Singapore. I was doing a strip act at a night club there,” she told me. “I’d come all the
way from New York . . . like the dope I am. The night club was raided and I never got my money and I was strapped. Harry turned up. He had seen my act several times and he propositioned me. He had plenty of money, certain charm and . . . well, I went to live with him in a bungalow near the MacRitchie reservoir. It was nice out there. I had a good time with him until people began to talk, then it wasn’t so good.” She opened her eyes to stare at the burning tip of her cigarette. “I decided to go home, but Harry wouldn’t give me the fare. Then suddenly he had to come here. He got me a false passport. We came here as brother and sister.” She looked at me. “I still want to go home. Could you lend me the money? I’ll pay you back in a couple of months.”
“How did he get you a false passport?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know . . I didn’t ask. Will you lend me the money?”
“I never lend that kind of money.”
“If it would make any difference, we could travel together.” She smiled stiffly at me. I had a sudden idea she was frightened. There was a bleak, scared expression in her eyes. “You know what I mean . . . value for money.”
“I want a drink,” I said. “Will you have one?”
She sat bolt upright, her eyes widening.
“Don’t let anyone in here,” she said, her voice going shrill. “I don’t want anyone to know I’m here.”
“The boy knows. He let you in, didn’t he?”
“No. I got the number of your room and took the key off the board. There were two keys. He doesn’t know I’m here.”
I wished my head would stop aching.
“What are you scared about?”
She relaxed back in the chair, looking away from me.
“I’m not scared. I just want to get away from here. I want to go home.”
“Why the sudden urgency?” “Must you ask so many questions? Will you lend me the money? I’ll sleep with you now it you’ll promise to give me the money.”
“I’ll give you the money if you’ll tell me all you know about Harry Enright.”
I saw her hesitate, then she said, “I know very little about him really. He’s just a playboy having himself a good time.”
I was too tired to be patient.
“Well, if that’s all you know I’ll keep my money,” I said and getting to my feet I crossed to the telephone. “I’m going to order a drink and then I’m going to bed . . . alone. You’d better get out before the waiter comes.”
“No . . . wait.”
I called room service and asked for a bottle of Scotch and ice. As I replaced the receiver, she got to her feet.
“Will you really give me the money if I tell you what I know about him?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I think he is a drug smuggler,” she said, clenching and unclenching her hands.
“Why do you think that?”
“People come to see him at night. When we were in Singapore he used to go down to the docks and meet sailors. The police once raided our bungalow in Singapore and they searched the place, but they didn’t find anything. Here, we get night visitors. They are always Chinese. He goes out in the early hours in his boat.”
“Jefferson did live in your villa before you came?”
“Yes. Harry told me not to tell you. When Jefferson was killed, Harry was sent from Singapore to replace him. The villa is conveniently situated for receiving drugs.”
There came a gentle tap on the door.
“That’s the waiter,” I said. “Get into the bathroom and stay quiet.”
As soon as she was in the bathroom and had shut the door, I went across the room to let the waiter in.
Just outside ‘the door, smiling, was Harry Enright. He had a .38 automatic in his hand which he pointed at me.
“Don’t start anything smart, pal,” he said. “Just back in and keep your hands still.”
I backed in, keeping my hands still.
“Don’t look so hopeful,” Enright said, closing the door and leaning against it. “I told the waiter you had changed your mind . . . he’s gone away.”
“Okay for me to sit down?” I said. “The excitement is getting too much for me.”
I sat down, keeping my hands on my knees and I studied him. The smile was fixed. There was a cold, vicious expression in his eyes that warned me to be careful. The gun was steady in his hand and the sight was centred on a spot just between my eyes.
“You’re smart,” Enright said. “You don’t know how goddam smart you are. You did something I haven’t been able to do for the past three weeks.”
“What would that be?” I asked.
“You found Jefferson. I’ve been hunting for that son-of-a-bitch until I thought I’d go crazy. To think I nearly had you killed ! Then you go out and find him . . . just like that.”
“I’m not following you,” I said. “Do you have to point that gun at me? I’ve had a heavy day and that gun looks lethal.”
Still keeping me covered, he moved farther into the room. He sat on the same chair arm on which Stella had sat not ten minutes ago.
“Don’t worry about the gun,” he said. “Just so long as you don’t start anything smart, you won’t get a bullet in your head. What did you tell the cops?”
“What makes you imagine I told the cops anything?”
“I’ve had a man on your tail from the moment you started showing interest in the villa. I spotted you in the pedallo. From that moment we haven’t taken our eyes off you.”
“We? You mean this drug traffic organisation?”
“That’s it, pal. It’s a big thing . . . too big for you. It makes me sweat to think those two might have killed you. That was my mistake. I should have left you alone. I had no idea you were after Jefferson.” “I wasn’t ... I thought he was dead.”
“We thought he was too. He nearly had us fooled. We were hunting for Belling. Then you come along and you led us right to Jefferson.”
“So you found him,” I said, wondering what Stella was doing, shut in the bathroom.
“Yes, we found him.” His smile was vicious. “We found Wong too.”
“Who is Wong?”
“He was one of our group, but he made the mistake of throwing in with Jefferson. Right at this moment they are getting the treatment, then what’s left of them will be dumped in the sea.”
“What did they do to you then?”
“That’s the wav we treat hijackers,” Enright said. “It’s the only way. What did you tell the cops?”
“Nothing they didn’t know already,” I said mildly.
He stared at me for a long moment, then he stood up.
“You and me are going for a little walk and then a little drive. There are four of my men outside. You make one move out of turn and it’ll be your last move. My boys carry knives. They can kill a guy from forty feet. By the time anyone knows you’re dead, they’ll be miles away: so watch it. Come on, let’s go.”
“What happens after the walk and the drive?” I asked.
He grinned at me.
“You’ll find out. Up on your feet, pal, and watch it.”
I stood up as he backed to the door. He opened it and stood aside.
“The night boy won’t help you. He works for me, so don t act foolish,” Enright said. “We’ll walk down the stairs. There’s another of my boys in the lobby. Just keep moving if you want to keep alive.”
We went out into the passage. Enright had put the gun in his pocket, his hand gripping the gun. The night boy grinned at me as we walked to the head of the stairs.
“Go on down,” Enright said. “I’m right behind you.”
I plodded down four flights of stairs and into the big lobby.
It was strangely deserted. Only two men sat in lounging chairs. One of them was Sergeant Hamish. The other had cop written all over him. I hadn’t seen him before. I took one look at them and then flung myself face down on the plush carpet a split second before a gun roared behind me. I lay there, my heart hammering as more gunfire crashed above me.
After a while, a shoe prodded me.
“You can get up,” Hamish said.
I rolled over and looked up at him, then I got slowly to my feet. Enright was lying on his back, blood running from a wound in his face His jacket was smoking. A second look at him told me he was dead.
“Did you have to kill him?” I asked.
“If I hadn’t he would have killed you,” Hamish said indifferently. “Maybe he would even have killed me.”
“There are others and the night boy on the fourth floor is one of them.”
The other cop started for the elevator as Hamish said, “We’ve bagged the others. Who was the woman who telephoned us?”
I looked blankly at him.
“Was there a woman?”
“How the hell should we be here if she hadn’t told us what was going on?” Hamish said irritably. “A woman telephoned. Who was she?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “Maybe one of my fans.”
Half a dozen Chinese policemen came into the lobby. Hamish spoke to them, then jerked his head at me.
“Come on,” he said. “You’ll have to talk to the Chief Inspector.”
As the Chinese policemen were gathering up what was left of Enright, Hamish and I went out to the waiting jeep.
I remained in a room at police headquarters for more than three hours. It had a couch in it and I slept. Around four o’clock in the morning, Hamish, looking bleak and tired, shook me awake.
“Come on,” he said.
I groaned, aware my head was still aching, and sat up.
“What’s cooking now?” I asked.
“The Chief Inspector is ready to talk to you. Why should you be the only one to sleep?”
MacCarthy was puffing away at his pipe, a cup of tea within reach. A police officer put a cup of tea by me as I eased myself stiffly onto the upright chair. Hamish, struggling with a yawn, lolled against the wall.
“The marine police picked up a man trying to get away in Enright’s speedboat,” MacCarthy said. “We had some trouble with him, but he’s finally let the cat out of the bag.”
“An American?”
“Chinese ... he comes from Canton. As you’re working on the Jefferson case I thought I’d fill you in.”
“Thanks. Has Jefferson been found yet?”
“He was fished out of the bay about half an hour ago,” MacCarthy said and grimaced. “I bet he wished he had died the first time. They certainly roughed him up before they killed him. We now have the facts of the case clear. The way I see it is this: ever since Jefferson arrived here he has been living on the immoral earnings of this girl, Jo-An. I don’t know why he eventually married her unless it was to stop her mouth, but anyway, he married her a few weeks after he first met Frank Belling who, as I told you, was one of the chief operators in this drug smuggling racket. Belling had this villa at Repulse Bay, rented from Lin Fan. Whether Lin Fan had any idea how the villa was being used is something I don’t know, but I intend to find out if I can. The villa was convenient for landing consignments of drugs. There was a harbour, a speedboat, and it was isolated. But things began to get too hot for Belling. We were getting a warrant for his arrest. He was tipped off that we were closing in on him and he decided to skip to Canton until things cooled off. But someone had to be at the villa to take care of the delivery of drugs. He persuaded Jefferson to go there. Not that Jefferson would have needed much persuasion. By going there, he would be living in luxury. He walked out on Jo-An and moved into the villa. Belling went to Canton. An arrangement was made to bring in over two thousand ounces of heroin. Belling came to the villa by night to
explain to Jefferson how the delivery was to be made. That amount of heroin is worth a fortune in the right hands. Jefferson began to wonder if he could steal it, but he didn’t know how to get rid of it once he had it, and he was also scared the organisation would catch him. However fate, if you like to call it that, played into his hands. The heroin arrived and was stored in the villa. Belling and Jefferson drove out to Lecky Pass which is a jumping-off place into Canton. On the way, there was an accident and Belling was killed. Jefferson saw his chance. He put his ring on Selling’s finger, planted his cigarette case in Selling’s pocket and then set fire to the car. The scene of the accident was a lonely spot and the time was four o’clock in the morning, so no one disturbed Jefferson. He got back to the villa by stealing a bicycle and he removed the heroin which he took possibly to the Celestial Empire Hotel. I’m talking more or less off the cuff now, but I am sure he persuaded his wife to identify Selling’s body as his. Then he went into hiding in the walled City of Kowloon.”
“Why did he do that?” I asked.
“This was a rushed job. The opportunity presented itself and he grabbed at it, but he found he was stuck with it. The organisation was quick off the mark. As soon as the accident was reported they sent one of their men to the villa to find the heroin had vanished. Naturally, they thought Belling had hijacked the consignment and they began searching for him. This was a piece of luck for Jefferson. So long as the organisation thought Belling was their man, Jefferson was in the clear. But he had to get out of Hong Kong. This he found impossible. He was supposed to be dead and he hadn’t the means of laying his hands on a false passport. So he was stuck.”
“And the heroin?” I asked.
MacCarthy frowned.
“I have an idea we’ll never find it. It’s my bet from the state of Jefferson’s body when we found him, they had persuaded him to tell them where he had hidden it.”
“What puzzles me is why Jo-An took the trouble to take Betting’s body back to Jefferson’s father,” I said.
“She had to get out of Hong Kong. She had no money. By bringing the body back, she got the fare from old man Jefferson,” MacCarthy said.
“Yeah ... I guess that’s right. How about Wong?”
“He was one of them of course and he made the mistake of throwing in with Jefferson.”
“He was there to meet me at the airport. How did he know I was coming? He must have been tipped off by someone—but who? When I used him as an interpreter, he led me right up the garden path. His job was obviously to keep me away from Jefferson and he nearly
succeeded. If it hadn’t been for Leila we would never have got onto Enright.”
“Will Jefferson want the body sent back?”
“I guess so. I’ll see Wilcox at the American Consulate and fix up the necessary papers. Has Wong’s body been found?”
“We’re still fishing for him. This Chinese we caught said both bodies were jumped in the same place.”
I looked admiringly at him.
“You must have been very persuasive. This guy seems to have sung like a skylark.” MacCarthy rubbed the side of his nose with the bowl of his pipe.
“The Chinese aren’t kind to each other,” he said. “The marine police had him for half an hour before they turned him over to me. He tried to stick one of them with a knife. They got a little rough with him.”
“That’s pretty fast work to have softened him to that extent.”
“Yes, they work fast.” He seemed bored with this topic. Casually, he asked, “By the way, you wouldn’t know about a Chinese found shot out at Silver Mine Bay, would you? He was shot through the head with a Lee-Enfield rifle.”
“He was? I haven’t handled a Lee-Enfield since I left the infantry.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you shot him. You were out there this afternoon?”
“Come to think of it, I was. I had a look at the waterfall.”
“That’s where the body was found.”
“Isn’t that extraordinary?”
“You heard no shooting?”
“Not a thing.”
MacCarthy stared at me, then shrugged his shoulders.
“I was pretty sure you would have reported a shooting if you had known about it.” “You’re absolutely right.”
There was a long pause while Hamish took out his pipe and began to fill it.
“Enright had a sister,” MacCarthy said. “Rather a glamorous piece. Would you know where she is?”
“At the villa I suppose, in bed where I’d like to be.”
“She’s not there . . . we’ve looked. When did you last see her?”
“On the ferry-boat going to Silver Mine Bay. She was taking groceries to an old ex-servant. We travelled together.”
“You haven’t seen her since?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“I had the idea she was the woman who tipped us that Enright was in your room.”
“She could have done. She has a nice nature.”
MacCarthy suddenly smiled.
“Come off it, Ryan. We’ve checked on her. Her name is Stella May Tyson. She is a stripper who worked at a night club in Singapore. She and Enright joined up. She came here with a forged passport.”
“And so?” I asked, looking steadily at him.
“When she telephoned we traced the call to the hotel. They told us she called from the bathroom in your suite. She was seen going up the stairs towards your suite at ten o’clock. I think she’s still in your suite.”
“She probably is ... I hope so,” I said. “She saved my life. What do you expect me to do . . . hand her over to you?”
“It’s not a wise thing to tell lies to police officers,” MacCarthy said as he began to clean his pipe with a gull’s feather, “but as she saved your life and as she has given us the opportunity of breaking up this drug organisation, I think we can forget about her. Tell her if she gets out by tomorrow night and stays out, we won’t make trouble for her. She has twenty-four hours to get out. If she is still here after that time, then we’ll have to do something about her.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll tell her. I’m getting out myself. There’s nothing more here I can do.
I’ve still to find out who murdered Jefferson’s wife. Whoever did it is in Pasadena City. With what I have found out here, I should be able to find the killer. Okay for me to leave now?”
“It’s all right with me,” MacCarthy said.
“I guess I’ll go back to the hotel now and get me some sleep.”
“If that girl is still in your room, I don’t imagine you’ll get much sleep,” MacCarthy said with a sly grin.
“What a mind you’ve got,” I said, getting to my feet. “How about sending me back by car?”
MacCarthy turned to Hamish.
“Send him back by car. He’s in a hurry,” he said, and pulling a file towards him, he settled down to work.
I got back to the Repulse Bay Hotel as the sun was beginning to creep up behind the mountains. I went up to my room, took the key from a grinning Chinese I hadn’t seen before and unlocked my do
The light was on. Stella was dozing in an armchair. She started up as I came in, her eyes scared.
“Relax,” I said, shutting and locking the door. “There’s nothing now for you to be scared about.”
“What happened? I heard shooting. I thought they had killed you.”
I flopped into an armchair.
“You did me a good turn . . . thanks.”
“I had to do something. I was terrified he would hear me telephoning.”
“Well, you’ve got your wish . . . you can leave for home within the next twenty-four hours. I’ll pay the fare. The police won’t worry you. You’d better use your own passport. Have you still got it?”
She drew in a long deep breath.
“Yes, I’ve got it. And Harry?” “He was unlucky. The police were better shots. It’s the best way out for him. He wouldn’t have taken to jail life.”
She shuddered.
“He’s dead?”
“Yes, he’s dead. I want some sleep. I’m going to take a shower and then I’m going to sleep. You have the bed. I’ll take the settee.”
I shut myself in the bathroom and took a shower. I was feeling pretty old and pretty worn out. I put on my pyjamas and came out of the bathroom.
She was waiting for me. She had stripped off her clothes and was lying on the bed. We looked at each other, then she held out her arms. She was still holding me in her arms, sometime later, when I fell asleep.