Read Online A Coffin From Hong Kong by James Hadley Chase - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Hadley Chase
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anything you think of you need before you leave, please telephone me." "Don't you ever relax?" I asked, smiling at her. "Do you never take rime off from being an efficient secretary?"
Just for a brief moment there was a flicker of surprise in her eyes, but it was quickly gone. She opened the door of the car and got in. It was neatly done: there was no show of knees.
She slammed the door shut before I could put my hand on it.
"Good night, Mr. Ryan," she said, and stabbing the starter button, she slid the car into the traffic and was away.
I watched the car out of sight, then looked at my strap watch. The time was thirty-five minutes past eight. I would have liked to have had her as a companion for dinner. The evening stretched ahead of me: empty and dull. I stood on the edge of the kerb and thought of the four or five girls I knew who I could call up and have dinner with, but none of them were in Miss West's bracket: none of them would amuse me this night I decided to eat another goddam sandwich and then go home and watch television.
I wondered what Jay Wayde would have thought if he knew I was planning to spend this kind of evening. He would probably have been shocked and disillusioned. He would have expected me to have been at some clip-joint talking tough to a blonde or wrestling rough with some redhead.
I walked into a snack bar. The juke-box was blaring swing. Two girls in jeans and skintight sweaters were perched on stools at the bar, their round little bottoms pushed out suggestively, their hair in the Bardot style, their grubby fingers red-tipped.
They looked at me as I came in, their hard worldly young eyes running over me speculatively, then they looked away. Too old, too dull and obviously no fun.
I ate a beef and ham sandwich, feeling depressed. Even going to Hong Kong in the morning failed to light a spark. I took out the photographs of Herman and Jo-An and studied them. They made an ill-assorted pair. The man worried me. I couldn't understand how a girl like Janet West had not only fallen for him but had produced his baby.
I thought the hell with it and put the photographs away. Then paying for the sandwich, I went out onto the street, aware the two girls were staring after me. One of them laughed shrilly. Maybe she thought I was funny to look at. I didn't blame her. There were times when I was shaving I thought so too.
I drove back to my top-floor apartment that consisted of a reasonably large living-room, a tiny bedroom and an even tinier kitchen. I had lived there ever since I had come to Pasadena City. It was central, cheap and convenient. It had no elevator, but I didn't worry about that. Walking up five flights of stairs kept my figure in trim and kept anyone but a good friend away.
I was panting slightly by the time I reached my front door. As I fumbled for my key, I told myself I'd better cut down on the cigarettes, but I knew I was just kidding myself.
I unlocked the door and walked into my living-room. I didn't see him until I had shut the door. The room was very dim: it was dusk and he was in black.
There was a big neon sign advertising a soap powder across the way and its gaudy blue, green and red tubes made a reflection on the ceiling. If it hadn't been for the sign, I wouldn't have seen him at all.
He was sitting in my best armchair that had been moved close to the window. He sat with his legs crossed, his hands on a folded newspaper on his lap and he seemed relaxed and at ease. He certainly gave me a shock that set my heart thumping. The light switch was just by me. I snapped it on.
He wasn't much more than a kid: around eighteen or nineteen, but powerfully built with thick lumpy shoulders. He, had on a black greasy leather jacket, a black woollen cap with a dirty red tassel, black corduroy trousers and a black cotton handkerchief knotted at his thick throat.
You can see the type any night hanging around in gangs outside bars: a typical product of the streets: as vicious and as
Just for a brief moment there was a flicker of surprise in her eyes, but it was quickly gone. She opened the door of the car and got in. It was neatly done: there was no show of knees.
She slammed the door shut before I could put my hand on it.
"Good night, Mr. Ryan," she said, and stabbing the starter button, she slid the car into the traffic and was away.
I watched the car out of sight, then looked at my strap watch. The time was thirty-five minutes past eight. I would have liked to have had her as a companion for dinner. The evening stretched ahead of me: empty and dull. I stood on the edge of the kerb and thought of the four or five girls I knew who I could call up and have dinner with, but none of them were in Miss West's bracket: none of them would amuse me this night I decided to eat another goddam sandwich and then go home and watch television.
I wondered what Jay Wayde would have thought if he knew I was planning to spend this kind of evening. He would probably have been shocked and disillusioned. He would have expected me to have been at some clip-joint talking tough to a blonde or wrestling rough with some redhead.
I walked into a snack bar. The juke-box was blaring swing. Two girls in jeans and skintight sweaters were perched on stools at the bar, their round little bottoms pushed out suggestively, their hair in the Bardot style, their grubby fingers red-tipped.
They looked at me as I came in, their hard worldly young eyes running over me speculatively, then they looked away. Too old, too dull and obviously no fun.
I ate a beef and ham sandwich, feeling depressed. Even going to Hong Kong in the morning failed to light a spark. I took out the photographs of Herman and Jo-An and studied them. They made an ill-assorted pair. The man worried me. I couldn't understand how a girl like Janet West had not only fallen for him but had produced his baby.
I thought the hell with it and put the photographs away. Then paying for the sandwich, I went out onto the street, aware the two girls were staring after me. One of them laughed shrilly. Maybe she thought I was funny to look at. I didn't blame her. There were times when I was shaving I thought so too.
I drove back to my top-floor apartment that consisted of a reasonably large living-room, a tiny bedroom and an even tinier kitchen. I had lived there ever since I had come to Pasadena City. It was central, cheap and convenient. It had no elevator, but I didn't worry about that. Walking up five flights of stairs kept my figure in trim and kept anyone but a good friend away.
I was panting slightly by the time I reached my front door. As I fumbled for my key, I told myself I'd better cut down on the cigarettes, but I knew I was just kidding myself.
I unlocked the door and walked into my living-room. I didn't see him until I had shut the door. The room was very dim: it was dusk and he was in black.
There was a big neon sign advertising a soap powder across the way and its gaudy blue, green and red tubes made a reflection on the ceiling. If it hadn't been for the sign, I wouldn't have seen him at all.
He was sitting in my best armchair that had been moved close to the window. He sat with his legs crossed, his hands on a folded newspaper on his lap and he seemed relaxed and at ease. He certainly gave me a shock that set my heart thumping. The light switch was just by me. I snapped it on.
He wasn't much more than a kid: around eighteen or nineteen, but powerfully built with thick lumpy shoulders. He, had on a black greasy leather jacket, a black woollen cap with a dirty red tassel, black corduroy trousers and a black cotton handkerchief knotted at his thick throat.
You can see the type any night hanging around in gangs outside bars: a typical product of the streets: as vicious and as
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