A Coffin From Hong Kong by James Hadley Chase

for American gentlemen? Forgive the interference, but most American gentlemen prefer to stay at the Gloucester or the Peninsula. The Celestial Empire is for Asians."
    "Yeah, but that's where I'm staying," I said. "Thanks for your help."
    "You are welcome, sir," he said, and taking a limp wallet from his pocket, he presented me wirli his card. "You may need a guide. It is my business to take care of American gentlemen when they visit Hong Kong. You have only to telephone. . . ."
    "Thanks. I'll remember that." I tucked the card under the strap of my wrist watch, then as he stepped back, bowing, I got into the taxi.
    On the flight over I had. boned up on Hong Kong, discovering the mainland where the Kai Tak airport is situated is called the Kowloon Peninsula and across the Straits is the island of Hong Kong, reached by fast ferry-boat service in four or five minutes.
    Wanchai, where Jefferson had lived, was a waterfront district of Hong Kong.
    The drive to the ferry took only a few minutes. The Kowloon waterfront teemed with jogtrotting humanity. There seemed to be about only one European to every hundred Chinese: the scene reminded me of a disturbed ants' nest. Coolies, carrying fantastic burdens slung on duck bamboo poles, trotted in and out of the traffic, oblivious of the risk of being run down. Big American cars, driven by fat, sleek Chinese businessmen, rickshaw boys dragging crates and odd looking merchandise in their two-wheeled chariots and heavy trucks crowded the broad street. Gay red signs in Chinese lettering decorated the shop fronts. Small, dirty Chinese children with babies strapped to their backs played in the gutters. Chinese families squatted on the sidewalk outside their shops, shovelling rice into their mouths with chop sticks.
    At the ferry, I paid off the taxi, bought a ticket at the turnstile and got on the ferry-boat that was already crowded with Chinese business men, American tourists and a number of pretty Chinese girls wearing Cheongsams, slit either side to show off their shapely legs.
    I got a seat by the rail and as the ferry-boat churned through the blue waters of the Straits towards the island of Hong Kong, I tried to orientate myself to my new surroundings. It seemed a long time since I had left Pasadena City. My journey had been delayed a couple of days because of my murderous visitor. I hadn't told Retnick the whole story. I had told him I had walked into my apartment, found the punk there and had started a fight. What he was doing there, I lied, I had no idea —probably a sneak-thief. Retnick didn't like it. Particularly, he didn't like the silencer on the gun, but I stuck to my story and got away with it. At least, I was able to leave for Hong Kong and that was all I was worrying about.
    I was pretty sure the man who had hired the punk to kill me had been the mysterious John Hardwick. I had bought another .38 Police special. I told myself I mustn't move without it in the future: something I promised myself, but quickly forgot.
    The ferry-boat bumped against the landing-stage and everyone, including me, crowded off. Wanchai was nearly one hundred per cent Chinese. Apart from two burly American sailors who were chewing gum and Staring emptily into space, the waterfront was given up to jogtrotting Chinese, coolies staggering under impossible burdens, vegetable vendors squatting on the kerb, Chinese children minding Chinese babies, a dozen or so young Chinese girls who stared at me with inviting, shrewd black eyes and the inevitable rickshaw boys who sprang into life at the sight of me.
    Sandwiched between a shop selling watches and a shop selling cheap toys was the entrance to the Celestial Empire Hotel.
    Lugging my bag, I managed to cross the road without getting run down and toiled up the steep, narrow stairs leading to the tiny hotel lobby.
    Behind the counter at the head of the stairs sat an elderly Chinese wearing a black skull cap
and a black tunic coat. Long straggly white hairs came