I felt now was the time to spend some of old man Jefferson’s money. I was sure the reception clerk could tell me more than he had told MacPherson if there was a cash inducement.
As soon as I was sure MacPherson had left, I went down to where the old clerk was sitting. He eyed me suspiciously but when I made motions to the telephone, he bowed a reluctant permission.
I called Wong Hop Ho’s number. He answered immediately as if he had been sitting by the receiver waiting for me to call.
“Remember me?” I said. “You gave me your card at the airport. I need an interpreter.”
“It will give me great pleasure, sir,” he said.
“Will you meet me outside the Shanghai and Hong Kong Bank in half an hour?” He said he would be delighted to be there. “I would like a car.”
He said it would be a pleasure to arrange anything for me. He was entirely at my disposal. It didn’t sound as if business was over-brisk for Mr. Wong Hop Ho.
I thanked him and hung up. Then bowing to the reception clerk who bowed back, I left the hotel and took a taxi to the bank.
I cashed some of the travellers’ cheques Janet West had given me and with my hip pocket bulging with Hong Kong dollars, I waited on the sidewalk for Wong Hop Ho to appear. He arrived ten minutes later, driving a glittering Packard. We shook hands and I told him my name. He said he would be happy if I called him Wong. All his American clients called him that and he would consider it an honour for me to do so too. I got in the car beside him.
“We’ll go back to my hotel,” I said. “I want some information from the reception clerk who doesn’t speak English.” As he looked faintly surprised, I went on, “I am a private investigator and I am working on a case.”
He flashed his gold teeth at me in a delighted smile.
“I read many detective stories,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet a real-life detective, sir.”
I lugged out some of my dollars and offered him fifty of them.
“Will this take care of your fees for a day or so?” I said. “I’ll probably need you from time to time in a hurry.”
He said that would be quite satisfactory, but the car would have to be considered as an extra. As I was spending Jefferson’s money, I said that would be all right. I was sure I could have bargained with him, but I wanted his full co-operation and I felt I might not get it if I cut corners.
We drove to the hotel and leaving the car on the waterfront, we crossed the road and mounted the stairs to the hotel lobby.
“This is not a good hotel,” Wong said on the way up. “I would not advise you to stay here, sir. I can arrange for a nice room for you at a distinguished hotel if that would please you.”
“Let’s leave it for the moment,” I said. “Right now I have a job to do.”
We arrived in front of the old reception clerk who bowed to me and looked blankly at Wong who looked blankly back at him.
“Tell him I want to ask some questions,” I said to Wong. “I will pay him if he can help me. Wrap it up so he won’t take offence.”
Wong went off into a long speech in Cantonese with a certain amount of bowing. Half-way through the speech, I got out my roll of money and counted out ten five-dollar bills, made them into a neat little roll and put the rest away.
The old reception clerk immediately took more interest in what I was holding than in what Wong was saying. Finally, Wong said it would be a pleasure for the clerk to answer any of my questions. I produced the morgue photograph of Jo-An. “Ask him if he knows this girl.” After staring at the photograph, the reception clerk got in a huddle with Wong who then told me the girl used to live at the hotel. She left fifteen days ago without paying her hotel bill and was I willing to pay it? I said I wasn’t. After further questions, Wong went on, “She was married to an American gentleman who shared her room here. His name was Herman Jefferson and he died unfortunately in a car accident. It was after this gentleman had died, the girl left without paying her bill.”
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: For my wife, Jo-An. I stared at the hard gangster face, then returned the photograph to the envelope and replaced it where I had found it.
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.