I had had a little trouble getting to him, but by bearing down on old man Jefferson's name, I was finally and reluctantly admitted to his office. He was a fat, smooth-looking bird, surrounded by an atmosphere of diplomatic immunity. He read my card which lay on his desk by peering gingerly at it as if he felt by touching it he might pick up an incurable disease. "Nelson Ryan . . . private investigator," he intoned and then sat back and lifted supercilious eyebrows. "What can I do for you?" "I'm working for J. Wilbur Jefferson," I said. "I'm making inquiries about his son, Herman Jefferson, who died here in a road accident about seventeen days ago." He fed a cigarette into his fat face. "So?" "He was a resident of Hong Kong. I take it he would have had to register here." "That is correct." "Can you tell me his last address?" He moistened one fat finger and smoothed down his left eyebrow. "Well, I suppose I could give it to you, but is it necessary?
