Kitobni o'qish: «A Coffin from Hong Kong / Гроб из Гонконга. Книга для чтения на английском языке»

© КАРО, 2015

Chapter One

1

I was just about to shut down the office¹ for the night when the telephone bell rang. The time was ten minutes past six o’clock. It had been a dull, long and unprofitable day: no visitors, a mail I had dropped into the trash basket without even slitting an envelope, and now this first telephone call.

I lifted the receiver and said, “Nelson Ryan.” My voice as alert and eager as I could make it.

There was a pause. Over the open line I could hear the sound of an aircraft engine start up. The din beat against my ear for a brief moment, then faded to background noise as if the caller had closed the door of the telephone booth.

“Mr. Ryan?” A man’s voice: deep-toned and curt.

“That’s right.”

“You are a private investigator?”

“Right again.”

There was another pause. I listened to his slow, heavy breathing: he was probably listening to mine.

Then he said: “I have only a few minutes. I’m at the airport. I want to hire you.”

I reached for a scratch pad. “What’s your name and your address?” I asked.

“John Hardwick, 33 Connaught Boulevard.”

As I scribbled the address on the pad, I asked, “What is it you want me to do, Mr. Hardwick?”

“I want you to watch my wife.” There was another pause as another aircraft took off. He said something that was blotted out by the high whine of the jet’s engines.

“I didn’t get that², Mr. Hardwick”.

He waited until the jet had become airborne, then speaking rapidly, he said, “My business takes me regularly twice a month to New York. I have the idea that while I’m away, my wife isn’t behaving herself. I want you to watch her. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow – Friday. I want to know what she does while I’m away. What will it cost?”

This wasn’t the kind of business I welcomed, but at least it was better than nothing. “Just what is your business, Mr. Hardwick?”

He spoke with a touch of impatience. “I’m with Herron, the plastic people.”

Herron Corporation was one of the biggest concerns on this strip of the Pacific Coast. A quarter of Pasadena City’s prosperity came from them.

“Fifty dollars a day and expenses,” I said, jacking up my usual fee³ by ten bucks.

“That’s all right. I’ll send you three hundred dollars right away as a retainer. I want you to follow my wife wherever she goes. If she doesn’t leave home, I want to know if anyone visits her. Will you do this?”

For three hundred dollars I would have done much harder things. I said, “I’ll do it, but couldn’t you come in and see me, Mr. Hardwick? I like to meet my clients.”

“I understand that but I have only just decided to take action. I’m on my way to New York, but I’ll see you on Friday. I just want to be sure you will watch her while I’m away.”

“You can be sure of that,” I said, then paused to let another jet whine down the runway. “I’ll need a description of your wife, Mr. Hardwick.”

“Thirty-three Connaught Boulevard,” he said. “They are calling me. I must go. I’ll see you on Friday,” and the line went dead.

I replaced the receiver and took a cigarette from the box on the desk. I lit the cigarette with the desk lighter and blew smoke towards the opposite wall.

I had been working as an investigator for the past five years, and during that time, I had run into a number of screwballs. This John Hardwick could be just another screwball, but somehow I didn’t think he was. He sounded like a man under pressure. Maybe he had been worrying for months about the way his wife had been behaving. Maybe for a long time he had suspected her of getting up to tricks when he was away⁴ and suddenly, as he was leaving for another business trip, he had finally decided to check on her. It was the kind of thing a worried, unhappy man might do – a split-second impulse⁵. All the same, I didn’t like it much. I don’t like anonymous clients. I don’t like disembodied voices on the telephone. I like to know with whom I am dealing. This setup seemed a shade too hurried and a shade too contrived.

While I was turning over the information I had got from him, I heard footfalls coming along the passage. A tap sounded on the frosted panel of my door, then the door opened. An Express messenger dropped a fat envelope on my desk and offered me his book for my signature.

He was a little guy with freckles, young and still clinging to an enthusiasm for life that had begun to slip away from me. As I signed his book, his eyes sneered around the small shabby room, taking in the damp stain on the ceiling, the dust on the bookcase, the unimpressive desk, the worn clients’ chair and the breast and bottom calendar on the wall.

When he had gone I opened the envelope. It contained thirty ten-dollar bills. Typed on a plain card were the words:

From John Hardwick, 33 Connaught Boulevard, Pasadena City. For a moment I was puzzled how he could have got the money to me so quickly, then I decided he must have a credit rating with the Express Messenger Company and had telephoned them immediately after telephoning me. Their offices were just across the street from my office block.

I pulled the telephone book towards me and turned up the Hardwicks. There was no John Hardwick. I eased myself out of my desk chair and plodded across the room to consult the Street Directory. It told me Jack S. Myers, Jnr., and not John Hardwick, lived at 33 Connaught Boulevard.

I stroked my six o’clock shadow while I considered the situation. I remembered that Connaught Boulevard was an out-of-the-way road up on Palma Mountain, about three miles from the centre of the city. It was the kind of district where people might rent their homes while they were on vacation: this could be the situation as regards John Hardwick and his wife. He might possibly be an executive of Herron Corporation, waiting for his own house to be built, and in the meantime, he had rented 33 Connaught Boulevard from Jack S. Myers, Jnr.

I had only once been to Connaught Boulevard and that was some time ago. The property there had been run up just after the war: nothing very special. Most of the places were bungalows, half-brick, half-timber. The best thing about Connaught Boulevard was its view of the city and the sea, and if you wanted it, its seclusion.

The more I thought about this assignment, the less I liked it. I hadn’t even a description of the woman I had been hired to watch. If I hadn’t been paid the three hundred dollars I wouldn’t have touched the job without first seeing Hardwick, but as I had been paid, I felt I had to do what he wanted me to do.

I locked up my office, then crossing the outer office, I locked the outer door and started for the elevator.

My next-door neighbour, an Industrial Chemist, was still toiling for a living⁶. I could hear his clear, baritone voice dictating either to a recorder or to his secretary.

I took the elevator to the ground floor and crossing the street, I went into the Quick Snack Bar where I usually ate. I asked Sparrow, the counter man, to cut me a couple of ham and chicken sandwiches.

Sparrow, a tall thin bird with a shock of white hair, took an interest in my affairs. He wasn’t a bad guy, and from time to time, I would cheer him up with a flock of lies about adventures he liked to imagine happened to me.

“Are you on a job tonight, Mr. Ryan?” he asked eagerly as he began to make the sandwiches.

“That’s right,” I said. “I’m spending the night with a client’s wife, seeing she doesn’t get into mischief.”

His mouth dropped open as he goggled at me, “Is that a fact? What’s she like, Mr. Ryan?”

“You know Liz Taylor?” He nodded, leaning and breathing heavily. “You know Marilyn Monroe?”

His Adam’s apple jumped convulsively. “I sure do.”

I gave him a sad smile. “She’s like neither of them.”

He blinked, then realising I was kidding him, he grinned. “Poking my nose where it shouldn’t be poked, huh?⁷” he said. “I guess I asked for that one.”

“Hurry it up, Sparrow,” I said. “I have my living to earn.”

He put the sandwiches in a paper sack.

“Don’t do anything you’re not paid to do, Mr. Ryan,” he said, giving me the sack.

The time was now twenty minutes to seven. I got in my car and drove out to Connaught Boulevard. I didn’t hurry. By the time I was driving up the mountain road, the late September sun was sinking behind the peak of the mountain.

The bungalows in Connaught Boulevard were screened from the road by box hedges or flowering shrubs. I drove slowly past No. 33. Big double gates hid the property. Some twenty yards or so further up the road was a lay-by which commanded a splendid view of the sea. I pulled in there, cut the engine and shifted from the driver’s seat to the passenger’s seat. From this position I had a clear view of the double gates.

There wasn’t anything for me to do but wait. This was something I was reasonably good at. If you’re crazy enough to pick on a career such as mine, patience is the main necessary ingredient.

During the next hour, three or four cars drove past. The drivers, men returning from the toils of earning a living, glanced at me as they went by. I hoped I looked like a man waiting for a girl friend, and not like a dick watching a client’s wife.

A girl, wearing skin tight slacks and a sweater, walked past my parked car. A poodle trotted along just ahead of her, visiting the trees enthusiastically. The girl glanced at me while I let my eves browse over her shape. She found I was a lot less interesting than I found her. I watched regretfully as she disappeared into the gloom.

By nine o’clock it was dark. I took out the paper sack and ate the sandwiches. I gave myself a slug of whisky from the bottle I kept in the glove compartment⁸.

It had been a long, dull wait. The double gates of No. 33 had been as active as a stuffed pike. But now it was dark enough for me to take the initiative. I left the car and crossed the road. I opened one of the double gates and looked into a small neat garden. There was just light enough to make out a lawn, flowers and a path that led to a compact bungalow with what looked like a veranda.

The bungalow was in darkness. I came to the conclusion that there was no one at home. To make sure, I walked around the back, but no lights showed there either.

I returned to my car, feeling depressed. It appeared that as soon as her husband had left for the airport, Mrs. Hardwick had left home.

There was nothing I could do now but to sit there in the hope she would return sometime during the night. With three hundred dollars still nagging at my conscience, I settled down to wait. Sometime around three o’clock in the morning, I fell asleep. The first rays of the sun, striking through the windshield of the car brought me sharply awake. I had a crick in my neck⁹, a nagging ache in my spine and a guilty feeling when I realised I had slept for three hours when I should have been earning my three hundred dollars. Coming up the road was a milk delivery truck. I watched the milkman stop and start as he delivered milk to each bungalow. He drove past No. 33, then stopped just opposite me to deliver milk to No. 35.

As he came out, I joined him. He was an elderly man whose face showed much background of hard living and toil. He looked inquiringly at me, pausing with his milk bottles in their wire basket clutched in his hand.

“You forgot No. 33,” I said. “Everyone’s got milk but No. 33.”

He looked me over, his old eyes curious. “They happen to be away”, he said. “What’s it to you¹⁰, mister?”

I could see he was the kind you don’t take liberties with. I had no wish to have a cop on my neck so I took out my professional card and handed it to him. He examined it carefully, then whistling gently through his teeth, he returned the card to me.

“You don’t call on No. 33?” I asked.

“Sure I do, but they’re away for a month.”

“Who are they?”

He considered the question for a moment. “Mr. and Mrs. Myers.”

“I understand Mr. and Mrs. Hardwick live there now.”

He put down the wire basket and shifted his hat to the back of his head.

“Right now no one lives there, mister,” he said, scratching his forehead. “I would know if there was anyone there. People have to have milk and I’m the one who delivers it up here. I don’t deliver milk to No. 33 because no one lives there this month.”

“I see,” I said, but I didn’t. “You don’t think Mr. Myers rented his place to this other guy?”

“I’ve served Mr. Myers for eight years,” he told me. “He’s never hired out his place to anyone. He always goes away this month for a month.” He picked up his wire basket. I could see he was bored with me now and wanted to get on with his good work.

“You don’t know of any John Hardwick in this district?” I asked without much hope.

“Not up here,” he said. “I’d know. I know everyone up here,” and nodding his head, he went off to his truck and drove up the road to No. 37.

My first reaction was to wonder if I had got the address right, but I knew I had. Hardwick had written it down, besides telling me.

Then why should he have paid me three hundred dollars to sit outside an empty bungalow? Maybe the milkman was wrong, but I didn’t think he was.

I walked back to No. 33 and pushed open one of the double gates. In the light of the early morning sun, I didn’t have to go up the path to prove to myself the bungalow was empty. Wooden shutters concealed the windows; something I hadn’t seen in the darkness. The bungalow had a deserted, shut down appearance.

I had a sudden creepy feeling. Could this mysterious John Hardwick, for reasons best known to himself, have wanted me out of the way and had sent me on this wild goose chase¹¹ just for that reason? I couldn’t believe anyone in his right mind would have squandered three hundred dollars to get rid of me for twelve hours. I felt I couldn’t be that important, but the idea nagged. I suddenly wanted to get to my office more urgently than I wanted a shave, a shower and coffee strong enough to lean on.

I hurried back to my car and drove fast down the mountain road. At this hour of the morning there was no traffic and I reached my office block as the street clock struck seven. Leaving the car, I entered the lobby where the janitor was leaning against a broom, breathing heavily and sneering to himself. He gave me a dull, stony look and then turned away. He was a man who hated everyone, including himself.

I rode up to the fourth floor and walked fast down the corridor to the familiar door bearing the legend in flaking black letters: Nelson Ryan, Investigator.

I took out my keys, but on second thoughts¹², reached for the door handle and turned it. The door wasn’t locked although I had locked it when I had left the previous evening. I pushed open the door and looked into the small outer office that contained a table on which lay some dog-eared magazines¹³, four well-worn leather lounging chairs and a strip of carpet: a gesture to anyone with tender feet.

The inner door, leading to my office stood ajar.

This too had been locked before I had left. Again aware of the creepy feeling, I crossed to the door and pushed it wide open.

Sitting, facing me in the clients’ chair was a lovely-looking Chinese girl, her hands folded rather primly in her lap. She was wearing a green and silver Cheongsam, slit up either side to show off her beautiful legs. She looked peaceful and not even surprised. From the small bloodstain over her left breast, I guessed she had been shot quickly and expertly: so quickly, she had had no chance even to be scared. Whoever had shot her had done a good, swift job. Moving as if I were wading through water, I entered the room and touched the side of her cold face. She had been dead some hours.

Taking in a long deep breath, I reached for the telephone and called the police.

2

While waiting for the cops to arrive, I took a closer look at my dead Asian visitor. At a guess she had been around twenty-three or four and apparently not short of money¹⁴. I assumed this since her clothes seemed expensive, her stockings sheer nylon and her shoes nearly brand new. Also she was well-groomed: her nails were immaculate and her hair impeccable. I had no mean knowing who she was. She had no handbag. I assumed the killer had taken it. I couldn’t imagine a woman as well turned out as this one would go around without a handbag. Having satisfied myself that she was anonymous, I went into the other room and waited for the sound of trampling feet that would tell me the boys were arriving. I didn’t have to wait long. Within ten minutes of my telephone call they came swarming over me like ants over a lump of sugar.

The last to arrive was Detective Lieutenant Dan Retnick. I had known him off and on for the past four years. He was an undersized bird with thin, foxy features and a snappy line in clothes. The only reason why he held his position on the city’s police force was because he had been lucky enough to have married the Mayor’s sister. As a police officer he was about as useful as a hole in a bucket¹⁵. Luckily for him there had been no major crime in Pasadena City since he had got his appointment. This affair would be the first murder case since he had been upped to Detective Lieutenant from a desk sergeant in a small, unimportant cop house along the Coast.

But I’ll say this for him: even though be hadn’t the brains to solve a child’s crossword puzzle, he certainly looked the pan of an efficient tough cop as he breezed into my office with Sergeant Pulski, his side kick, trampling along in his rear.

Sergeant Pulski was a big man with a red fleshy face, small vicious eyes and two fists that seemed to be itching all the time to connect with a human jaw. He had less brains than Retnick if that is possible, but what he lacked in mental equipment, he made up in muscle. Neither of them looked at me as they came in. They went into my office and stared for a long time at the dead woman, then while Pulski was going through the motions of being a police officer, Retnick joined me in the outer room. He now looked a little worried and a lot less breezy.

“Okay, shamus¹⁶, give with the story¹⁷”, he said, sitting on the desk and swinging his immaculately polished shoes. “She a client of yours?”

“I don’t know who she is or what she’s doing here,” I said. “I found her like that when I opened up this morning.”

He chewed on his dead cigar while he stared his hard cop stare. “You usually open up this early?”

I gave him the story without holding anything back. He listened. Pulski who had finished acting the police officer with the boys in my office, propped up the door-post and listened too.

“As soon as I found out the bungalow was empty, I came straight back here,” I concluded. “I figured something was going on, but I didn’t expect this.”

“Where’s her handbag?” Retnick said.

“I don’t know. While I was waiting for you to arrive I searched for it, but couldn’t find it. She must have had one. Maybe the killer took it away with him.”

He scratched the side of his jaw, took the dead cigar out of his mouth and looked at it, then put it back into his face again.

“What did she have in it, shamus, that tempted you to kill her?” he demanded finally.

There was never anything subtle about Retnick. I knew when I telephoned for the police, I would be his suspect number one.

“Even if she had had the Koh-i-Noor diamond¹⁸, I wouldn’t have been that dumb to knock her off here,” I said patiently. “I would have tailed her back to where she lived and fixed her there.”

“How do you explain what she was doing here and how she got in if you had locked up?”

“I could make a guess.”

His eyes narrowed and he cocked his head on one side. “Go ahead and guess.”

“I think this woman had business with me. A guy calling himself John Hardwick didn’t want her to talk to me. I don’t know why nor do I know what she wanted to talk to me about – I’m just guessing. It’s my guess Hardwick sent me to sit outside an empty bungalow to be sure I wouldn’t be in my office when she arrived. I think he was waiting here for her. My locks are nothing special.¹⁹ He wouldn’t have any trouble opening the doors. He was probably sitting at my desk when she walked in. The fact she doesn’t look scared makes me think she didn’t know this guy and thought he was me. After she had said her say, he shot her. It was a quick expert shot. She didn’t have time even to change the expression on her face.”

Retnick looked at Pulski. “If we don’t watch out, this shamus will be stealing our jobs.”

Pulski removed something from a back tooth and spat it on my carpet. He didn’t say anything: it wasn’t his job to talk. He was a professional listener.

Retnick thought for a moment. It was a process that apparently gave him some pain. Finally, he said, “I’ll tell you what makes your guess stink, bright boy. This guy called you from the airport which is two miles from here. If you’re not lying, you left your office just after six. He couldn’t have got here much before seven-thirty the way the traffic is on that highway at that time, and anyone, even a yellow skin, would know that’s after business hours. She wouldn’t have come here on the off-chance of finding you here. She would have telephoned first.”

“What makes you so sure she didn’t? Maybe she did and Hardwick was in my office to take the call. Maybe he told her he would be waiting for her and for her to come right along.”

By his change of expression I knew he was irritated with himself for not having worked this out for himself.

The M.O.²⁰, plus two interns, plus the usual stretcher appeared in the doorway.

Pulski reluctantly pushed himself off the doorpost and took the M.O., a fussy little guy with a lemon-sour face, into the inner room to view the remains. Retnick adjusted a pearl stickpin in his tie.

“She shouldn’t be difficult to trace,” he said as if he were talking to himself. “When a yellow skin is as pretty as this one, she gets noticed. When did you say this guy Hardwick was going to call on you?”

“Tomorrow – Friday.”

“Think he will?”

“Not a chance.”

He nodded his head.

“Yeah.” He looked at his watch, then yawned. “You look like hell. Suppose you go get yourself a cup of coffee? Don’t go far and don’t flap your mouth²¹. I’ll be ready to talk to you in about half an hour.”

I wasn’t kidded for a moment. He wasn’t being considerate: he wanted me out of the way.

“I guess I can use some coffee,” I said. “Okay for me to go home and take a shower?”

“Who cares how bad you smell?” he said. “Just coffee and where you can be seen.”

I took the elevator to the ground floor. Although it was only twenty minutes to eight o’clock, a small crowd had collected to stare at the waiting ambulance and the four police cars parked in front of the building.

As I walked to the Quick Snack Bar I heard heavy footfalls behind me. I didn’t bother to look around. I expected to drink my coffee under police supervision.

I entered the bar and eased myself up onto a stool. Sparrow, his eyes bugging, tore himself from the window where he was watching the ambulance and looked expectantly at me.

“What’s cooking, Mr. Ryan?’ he asked, his breath hissing between his teeth.

“A coffee, strong and black and fast,” I said, “then two fried eggs on ham.”

The big plain-clothes man²² who had followed me didn’t come into the bar. He stood just outside where he could watch me.

Containing his patience with an effort that brought dark circles to his armpits, Sparrow drew coffee and then got busy with the eggs and ham.

“Someone dead, Mr. Ryan?” he asked as be broke the eggs onto the hot-plate.

“What time do you shut down for the night?” I asked, watching the cop outside who scowled at me through the plate-glass window.

“Ten o’clock sharp,” Sparrow said, doing an unconscious little jig with impatience. “What’s going on across the way?”

“A Chinese woman got herself murdered.” I drank some of the coffee. It was hot and strong and good. “I found her in my office half an hour ago.”

His Adam’s apple did a rock ’n’ roll. “No kidding, Mr. Ryan?”

“Gospel truth.²³” I finished the coffee and pushed the cup towards him. “And again.”

“A Chinese woman?”

“Yeah. Don’t ask questions. I know as much as you do about it. Did you see a Chinese woman go in my office block after I had left?”

He shook his head as he refilled my cup.

“No. I think I’d have seen her if she had gone in before I shut up. I hadn’t much to do last night.”

I began to sweat gently. I had an alibi up to half past eight: the time the girl and the poodle had passed me. I had reckoned the Chinese woman had been in my office at that time. After half past eight, I had only me to say I had been sitting all night outside Jack S. Myers Jnr.’s empty bungalow.

“Did you notice any stranger going in there from the time I left to the time you closed?”

“Can’t say I did. Around nine the janitor locked up as usual.” He served the ham and eggs. “Who killed her?”

“I don’t know.” I had suddenly lost my appetite. The set-up now began to look bad for me. I knew Retnick. He was essentially a guy who clutched at straws. If I hadn’t a cast-iron alibi that would convince an idiot child, he would pounce on me.

“You could have missed seeing her, couldn’t you?”

“I guess that’s right. I wasn’t looking out of the window all the time.”

Two men came in and ordered breakfast. They asked Sparrow what was going on. After a glance at me, he said he didn’t know. One of the men, a fat fellow wearing a Brando leather jacket said, “Someone’s got knocked off.²⁴ That’s the blood-wagon outside”.

I pushed aside my plate. I just couldn’t eat food right now. I finished the coffee and slid off the stool. Sparrow looked unhappily at me. “Something wrong, Mr. Ryan?”

“Just too ambitious I guess,” I said. “Put it on the slate²⁵”, and I went out onto the street.

The big cop closed in on me. “Where do you imagine you’re going?” he demanded.

“Back to my office,” I told him. “That worry you?”

“When the Lieutenant’s ready for you, I’ll tell you. Go sit in one of them cars.”

I went to one of the police cars and sat in the back. The forty-odd people standing staring, stared at me instead of the ambulance. I lit a cigarette and tried to ignore them.

I sat there smoking and letting my mind work on the past and the present without allowing it to move into the future. The more I considered my position the less I liked it. I had a feeling of being in a trap.

After nearly an hour the two interns came out carrying the stretcher. The Chinese woman, under the sheet, looked small and child-like. The crowd made the usual noise a crowd makes when it is being morbid. The interns loaded the stretcher into the ambulance and drove away. A few minutes later the M.O. came out, and getting in his car, drove after the ambulance. There was another long wait, then the Homicide boys came out. One of them signalled to the big cop who was standing watching me. They all crammed into their cars and drove away. The big cop opened the car door and jerked his thumb at me. “Get moving,” he said. “The Lieutenant wants you.”

As I started across the sidewalk, Jay Wayde, the Industrial Chemist, who had the office next to mine came from his car. He joined me in the elevator.

He was three or four years younger than myself: a big, athletic college type with a crewcut, a suntanned complexion and alert eyes. Every now and then we would meet as we left our offices and would ride down in the elevator together to our cars. He seemed a pretty regular fellow and like Sparrow, he had shown an interest in my way of life. I guess most respectable people can’t resist the so-called glamour of an investigator’s life. He often asked me what excitement I had had, and in the short time we were in the elevator and walking to our cars, I fed him the kind of lies I fed Sparrow.

“What goes on?” he asked as the elevator began its slow climb to the fourth floor.

“I found a dead Chinese woman in my office this morning,” I said. “The cops are getting excited about it.”

He stared at me. “Dead?”

“Someone shot her.”

This piece of information appeared to stand him on his ear²⁶. “You mean she’s been murdered?”

“That’s the technical term for it.”

“Well! For the love of Mike!²⁷”

“I’ve been saying exactly that since I found her.”

“Who killed her?”

“Ah! Now that is the question. What time did you leave your office last night? You hadn’t gone when I left.”

“Around nine. The janitor was closing up.”

“You didn’t hear a shot?”

“For God’s sake… no!”

“When you left did you notice if there was a light on in my office?”

“There wasn’t. Didn’t I hear you leave about six?”

“That’s right.”

I was getting rattled now. This Chinese girl must have been murdered after nine o’clock. My alibi was looking sicker than a wet hen.

The elevator came to rest at the fourth floor. We got out. Coming from my office was the janitor and Sergeant Pulski. The janitor looked at me as if I were a two-headed monster. They got into the elevator and sank out of sight.

“Well, I guess you’re going to be busy,” Wayde said, eyeing the cop standing at my office door. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”

Leaving him, I walked past the cop and into the outer office. Apart from match ends on the floor and cigarette butts anywhere but in the ash-trays, the room had a lonely empty look. I went into my office.

Lieutenant Retnick was sitting behind my desk. He regarded me with the usual cop stare as I came in, and then waved me to the clients’ chair.

There was a smear of dry blood on the back of the chair. I didn’t fancy to contact with that so I sat on the arm of the chair.

“You got a gun permit?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s your gun?”

“A .38²⁸ police special”.

He laid his hand, palm up, on the blotter. “Give.”

“It’s in the top right-hand drawer.”

He stared for a long moment, then withdrew his hand. “It isn’t. I’ve looked through your desk.”

I resisted the temptation to wipe away the trickle of cold sweat that began to run down the back of my neck. “That’s where it should be.”

He took a cigar from a pigskin case, stripped off the wrapping, pierced the cigar with a match end, then fed the cigar into his face. All the time his small hard eyes locked with mine. “She was shot with a .38,” he said. “The M.O. says she died around three o’clock this morning. Look, Ryan, why don’t you come clean²⁹? Just what did this yellow skin have in her handbag?”