The Hong Kong Airbase Murders by F. Van Wyck Mason

Author:F. Van Wyck Mason [Mason, F. Van Wyck]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2019-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XV

A watery pink-and-gray dawn was sketching the Peak’s bold mass in silhouette when Hugh North hailed an early double rickshaw and rode away from the house on Robinson Road. Beside him the secretary, her reserve badly cracked at last, could not cease shivering.

Hugh North himself felt a thousand years old. The C.I.D. had said no reports concerning the engine serial numbers could be expected for another half or three quarters of an hour. The operations manager had had a close call; at that, Swazey didn’t seem entirely collected, even when a constable escorted him back to his hotel. Um. The more he considered Swazey’s story, the more thoughtful he became.

Once the rickshaw had begun to roll noiselessly over Hongkong’s rain-scoured streets Hugh North instructed the coolie to slow to a walk and wisely postponed further conversation. Trina, he felt, needed to regain her bearings. As if lost in heavy thinking, she sat quite still, her gaze only mechanically registering shop signs which, brave with scarlet and gilt, whirled by in endless succession and afforded North no end of amusement. Tavern of Harmonious Hearts, Hang-On Buildment & Contraction Co., the Golden Ox, Glove & Fan Makers, Crystalized Prosperity Deparmen’s Store.

Street hawkers vending hot water, tea, noodles and rice cakes began to appear, some of them blowing into miniature portable stoves, all of them scratching at the night’s accumulation of bites. High above them a thousand chimneys sent thin spirals of smoke climbing towards flocks of pigeons gaily rioting about the sky.

After its drenching Hongkong presented a strangely refreshed aspect. Somebody’s “small pigeon”, dispatched on an early errand, whistled impudently at pole porters jogging by under heavy loads, but they only grinned and went on munching a breakfast of toasted melon seeds and shelled peanuts.

“Feel better?” North smilingly queried when at length they stood on the cable tram’s empty platform.

“I do. The air’s so fresh. I love the streets in early morning,” she confessed with a sort of forlorn perkiness. “The city seems so intimate then. Ever notice it?”

North said he had—many times, and from a ragged Chinese moppet he purchased a bunch of dewy violets, offering them with a deep bow. “Permit me, mademoiselle, in appreciation of your invaluable assistance.”

“Oh-h! All for little me-e-e?” she trilled, clasping ecstatic hands.

“Aye, my good wench, each and every little blossom is intended to remind you of me—and of the fact I’ll be calling on you later.”

Her slipper grated on the platform, and her light mood evaporated. “Oh, then you aren’t c-coming up with m-me? I—I—”

“No,” he explained quietly. “I’d like to, but, well—you can imagine I’ve a few things to do. However, if you’re uneasy—”

“Of course I’m not afraid. I’m just silly, but...” She buried her nose among the violets and sighed.

His eyes feeling as if their linings had been sanded, he led her to a far corner of the deserted shed and sat down.

“Hang onto your nerve, my dear. You’re going fine,” he pleaded. “Will you notify the right people at T.P.A. of Tipton’s death?”

“Yes.

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