The Chinese Jars Read Free

wouldn’t do it to get out of repaying $200. Surely he owed more than that or had other serious problems. What did he know about the guy? Not much, really.
    He got off the bus when it stopped in front of the newspaper office, went downstairs, and sought out a friend of his who was a reporter on the police beat. He found him pounding away on his typewriter, his fingers smudged with black ink from the carbon paper. He explained to him what he’d found out.
    â€œTry the medical examiner. They investigate deaths,” the reporter said.
    Twenty minutes later, Samuel was at the medical examiner’s office right behind the new Hall of Justice, where all the criminal courts were located.
    â€œIs the boss in?” he asked the clerk, an emaciated young man with yellow teeth.
    â€œHe’s with someone right now. It’ll be about fifteen minutes. Who should I say is calling?”
    â€œSamuel Hamilton. I was sent over here by the reporter on the police beat; I work for the newspaper.”
    â€œMaybe I can help you?”
    â€œWe’re looking into the death of Reginald Rockwood III. Does the name ring a bell?”
    â€œYeah, it sure does. I was fussing around with that one for a while, but the boss took it over personally. They say the guy was a socialite.”
    â€œWhat d’ya mean, ‘they say’?” asked Samuel.
    â€œTake it up with the boss,” said the clerk. “He’s free now.”
    Samuel walked into the medical examiner’s office. He was a tall, shabby-appearing man, with the melancholy air of a turtle, dressed in a white medical jacket with a nameplate. There were anatomy charts displaying different parts of the human body, and in one of the corners stood a real skeleton, on which he’d placed a French beret.
    â€œThe clerk tells me you’re inquiring about Reginald Rockwood,” the examiner said.
    â€œHe’s the one. Some things about this guy just don’t make sense,” Samuel confessed. “You know, he planted his own obituary a few days before he died.”
    â€œWell, the body we’ve got here is him, all right. The fingerprints check out.”
    â€œWhat was the cause of death?” asked Samuel.
    â€œSuicide. He jumped in front of a trolley bus. But he needn’t have bothered; he was a pretty sick young man. The autopsy showed that he had a liver the size of a football. I guess he knew what was coming and took a shortcut.”
    Samuel shook his head in disbelief. “I went to the address he left as his own, but the maid said he never lived there.”
    â€œReally? We haven’t found a home address yet. Did they know who he was?”
    â€œOnly that he went to a party there three months ago,” answered Samuel.
    â€œWe called the Haskell woman, the one he claimed was his sister, but she never heard of him,” said the examiner.
    â€œI’ll cross her off my list,” said Samuel. “Do you know if and where he worked?”
    â€œNot a clue,” said the examiner. “He was admitted to San Francisco General on Friday night, but he was in a coma, according to the records. He died on Saturday morning without regaining consciousness. No one’s claimed the body yet. And from what I gather, no one will.”
    â€œYou have his body here?” asked Samuel, surprised.
    â€œThis is the morgue. Where else would it be?”
    â€œCan I see it? He was a special friend of mine, and it would mean a lot to me.”
    The turtle face expressed doubt for a moment. “This is a little out of the ordinary, but I suppose we could use a physical ID for the record. Follow me.”
    Together they walked down the hall, through some swinging double doors, and entered the morgue. They went through another door on the right side of the hallway into a room full of what looked like stainless steel boxes stacked four high along three of the walls. Each was eighteen inches square and had a