Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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do you ask people how they feel about these things? Shouldn’t it be obvious?”
“In my experience, Mister Chan — and it is considerable, hmm? — most people need to talk about these things in order to get over them. It is very seldom that I don’t get a quote of some kind.”
“Did you quote the grandfather?”
Jinnah smiled a crooked smile, twisting his skinny, brown lips in amusement.
“I wrote that he was too overcome by grief to share his feelings with reporters.”
There was a pause. Jinnah was still standing, coat on, notebook tucked inside his pocket. This was the moment of truth. He was either shit out of luck or in like flint. He would know which in a second. Finally, Chan broke the silence.
“Funny. I sure didn’t feel better telling my story to the cops.”
Jinnah glowed inwardly. He was in. He put an exploratory knee back on the chair.
“Oh?” he said. “Why’s that, my friend?”
Chan hung his head down.
“They wouldn’t let me talk, really. Kept interrupting and asking questions. Hardly therapeutic.”
“The police have a job to do, Robert. You don’t mind if I sit down? Thanks. For them, exact times, dates, and distances are crucial. For me, what’s crucial is how you risked your life to save a complete stranger.”
“Kathy’s the one who saved me,” said Chan. “You should write a story about her.”
Jinnah took out his notebook.
“With your help, I could easily do so.”
Chan hesitated.
“Kathy’s not big on the media,” he said. “She says publicity means trouble.”
Jinnah arched an eyebrow.
“Trouble? What sort of trouble could you possibly get into?”
“I don’t know — crank calls, stalkers. There are a lot of nuts out there.”
“Let me tell you something, Robert,” said Jinnah, leaning over the back of the chair. “You’d be amazed how many decent, good people are out there. I am constantly astonished at the outpouring of affection and sympathy that follows a hero story —”
“Outpouring?” asked Chan.
“— the calls, the letters, the gifts —”
“Gifts?”
“— money donated to cover medical expenses, especially for young people without adequate medical benefits —”
“Yeah, well, that’s really great but as I said, Kathy is the hero here.”
Jinnah opened his notebook and took out his pen. He slowly took his jacket off. He looked at Chan with what he hoped was an overpowering intensity.
“Now, Robert — I believe you and your wife Kathy were out for a walk on the night in question, hmm?”
The story came out hesitantly at first, then gushing forth in great, excited torrents. Jinnah let Chan talk, confining his own interruptions to exclamations of amazement and admiration. He ran down the mental checklist of questions in his head when Chan digressed to unimportant matters. Nearly half an hour had elapsed before Jinnah decided it was time to clarify a few niggling points.
“You say this poor man had sunglasses on?” asked Jinnah. “Are you sure?”
“Well, no,” admitted Chan. “It might have been a trick of the light and shadows. I think I saw all sorts of things —”
Chan stopped dead and his dark eyes widened. Oh-ho, thought Jinnah.
“What is it, Robert?” he asked, oozing concern. “Something troubling?”
“I just remembered something,” said Chan, looking down. “I thought it was a shadow or something, but I just had a flash.”
“Was it a living something or a dead something?” Jinnah prompted.
“Living. A man. Running away towards the river …”
Jinnah’s heart-rate doubled, he started sweating and his breath was short — sure signs that his inherent instincts were tingling.
“Ah, Robert, you have told the police about this, yes?”
“Sort of,” said Robert. “I mentioned that I thought I saw someone, but wasn’t sure. Now, going over it again, I can see him clearly. It’s funny.”
Not funny, just usual, Jinnah thought. The interview had just moved up several notches from standard hero stuff to the far better “brush with a killer” story.
“Can you describe this man?” asked Jinnah gently. “Take your time.”
Chan did. He closed his eyes and, not for the first time, Jinnah noted how odd they looked without either lashes or eyebrows.
“He’s just the outline of a man,” he said finally, opening his eyes. “Medium-height. In an overcoat of some kind. Pale skin, I think — probably white. Running from behind the car to the river. That’s all I remember before the second blast took me out.”
Jinnah put down his pen and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes for just the right effect of the seasoned professional who has seen it all. If he handled this correctly, he would not just blow that bastard Grant off the front page, he’d force Sergeant Graham to sing like a bird. But it had to be dealt with carefully.
“Robert, my friend, you do know what this means, don’t you?” he said seriously.
Robert Chan did know. But he wasn’t about to admit it.
“It means I saw someone else out for a walk, probably,” he said grudgingly.
“Robert, not many people go for a walk in an abandoned sawmill site at the same instant a car explodes into flames.”
Jinnah looked at Chan with his dark eyes, but Chan said nothing. Tact, Hakeem, lead him gently …
“Do you really think the man was just out for a walk, Robert?” he asked quietly.
Chan looked up at Jinnah, sweating.
“That’s what I’d like to think,” he said quickly. “But —”
“But you can’t help thinking maybe you came this close to Sam Schuster’s murderer, hmm? Isn’t that right?”
It was right. And at that moment, the perils of talking to the press came home to Robert Chan quite clearly and he cursed himself for being so stupid. Kathy was right after all: he wasn’t a hero, he was a dope.
“I think you’d better go,” he said, rising from his bed. “And all that interview stuff I told you? That was off the record.”
Chan reached for the nurse’s call button. Jinnah’s experienced hand got there a fraction of a second ahead of him. He smiled reassuringly.
“Robert, Robert,” he chuckled. “Relax! Do you know who Sam Schuster was?”
Chan shook his head.
“A stock promoter. A con-man. He’d burned more investors than the noon-day sun at a nudist colony bereft of tanning lotion,” said Jinnah.
“Really?”
“Yes. His killer is almost certainly an investor who lost money on one of his share ventures. That’s his motive — personal revenge. What are the chances he’ll go after you?”
“Pretty high, I’d say,” said Chan emphatically.
“Not to be insulting, Robert, but don’t flatter yourself,” said Jinnah, putting his glasses back on. “It’s probably the first murder