FIRE AND FOG (28 page)

"I'm sure himself would wish you every happiness, Mrs. O. I mean
Mrs. Ryan. As do I." I leaned over and kissed her cheek.

She positively glowed. "I declare, I didn't know an old woman
could be so happy! Fremont, we been on a honeymoon. Went on a train
all the way to Chicago and back. Then I told my Jack there was some
people in San Francisco I wanted to look up before we settle down
for good. We're gonna live in Los Angeles, Jack's already got a
house there."

"You don't know how glad I am to see you. I'd given up looking
for you. Now I understand why I couldn't find you: Those days when
the fire was burning, I was so busy driving for the Red Cross that
I couldn't think about much else. When things calmed down enough
for me to start looking, you and your Mr. Ryan must already have
been married and gone. The two of you didn't waste any time, did
you?"

"Nope." She beamed. "An experience like that big quake makes a
body realize there's not all that much time to waste! I'm glad I
found you, too. So wotcha been up to, Fremont? Seen anything of our
friend Mr. Archer?"

I hadn't the heart to tell her the truth about my activities, so
I made up a gay story of adventures driving for the Red Cross, left
out everything about Haight Street, and concluded by saying that I
was preparing to move to very suitable quarters on Fillmore.

"Write down the address for me, dearie, so's we can keep in
touch." I did, and handed it to her. She tucked it in a handbag
that matched her costume, then put her head to the side (plumed hat
dipping) and gave me one of her old piercing glances. "Ya didn't
say anything about Mr. Michael Archer."

My guard was down, and I believe a bit of something may have
momentarily shadowed my eyes, but I forced a light tone: "Oh, he
went away as usual, and he came back, as usual. He is staying at
the Presidio, if you want to see him. I'm sure he would like
that."

"I'll tell Jack, and we'll go on over there when I get done
visitin' here. Ya know, Fremont, I had some idea as how you and Mr.
Archer might get together, romantically speaking."

I laughed. "Romance does not agree with me, Mrs. O. Forgive me,
I shall have a hard time getting used to you being Mrs. Ryan."

"Well, we can fix that easy enough." She patted my knee. "From
now on, you just call me Maureen. Well, I'd best be goin' but, like
I said, I'll stay in touch. Jack's got a grand place in Los
Angeles, he says, plenty of rooms. Maybe you can come down and see
us sometime."

"I would like that," I agreed, giving her a farewell hug.
Wonders will never cease,
I thought as I watched my former
landlady sail like a pink ship through the sea of tents.

Saturday morning, as I was putting the finishing touches to my
packing, I came across a rolled-up old petticoat that I should have
put in the pile of clothes to be laundered.

When I picked it up, something fell out onto the hard-packed
dirt floor of the tent.

"Botheration," I muttered, bending down, "I forgot all about
this." It was the large blue jewel, the only remaining evidence of
the contraband from Sacramento Street-and a reminder that, in my
decision to give up sleuthing, I had abandoned the Sorensons to the
status of unsolved mystery.

I heard the scratching that passes for a knock when one's door
is canvas, and quickly stashed the jewel in my pocket.

"Miss Jones, may I come in?" a man's voice inquired. I didn't
recognize it.

"Yes, come in," I replied, raising my voice slightly.

The Greek god in Army uniform-otherwise known as Private James
Albright-ducked in. He politely took off his cap and stood at
attention. "Your friend Michael Archer told me where to find
you."

"Oh?" I crossed my arms and regarded him skeptically. Once again
he had come at an inopportune moment (he seemed to have a gift for
doing so), but I decided that this time I would not mention it.

"I, uh, I owe you an apology, and he made me promise to deliver
it to you in person."

"I cannot wait to hear it."

Albright ignored my sarcasm, or perhaps it went over his head.
"You see, I told you a lie when I said I had followed you, and that
was how I knew you were living in the house on the corner of Haight
and Belvedere. What I really did was, I got concerned when I kept
knocking on the door of Mr. Archer's room and you never answered,
so I filched a skeleton key and unlocked the door. I found the note
you had left him on the bed, saying where you'd gone, and I took
it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I know I caused Mr.
Archer a lot of trouble when he came back and didn't know where you
were. I didn't work up the nerve to tell him what I'd done until
yesterday. He was pretty mad, but he's a gentleman. He forgave me,
and made me promise to tell you."

"Well, that's a relief, I must say! I had begun to wonder if
something had gone wrong with my mind when Michael said there was
no note on his bed. You are forgiven, Private Albright. As they
say, it is all water under the bridge now. Thank you for taking the
trouble to come."

He smiled, his equanimity restored, and advanced a couple of
paces. "I had, uh, a kind of hankering for you, if you know what I
mean, but I'm over it now. Maybe we could be friends, and I could
go back to calling you Fremont, and you could call me Jim?"

I smiled too, a little. I had been quite hard on this young man;
likely it was time for a truce. So I said, "Friendship is always a
good thing, if you're sure you can stick to that, Jim."

"Yeah, I'm sure, Fremont. Looks like you're moving again. You
must be pretty sick of moving."

"You are correct on both counts. However, I expect this will be
the last time. I have finally found a place that is highly
suitable."

"I'll bet you could use some help. I've got time. Let me help
you move."

"Why not? It will go all the faster, and I should be glad of
that. Thank you, Jim. Shall we get to work?"

Jim Albright was a strong and able worker. With his help I had
accomplished the move by Saturday noon. Jim didn't linger, he was
not a pest, but went cheerfully on his way.

Mr. Smythe-with-a-y, who said he was not the landlord per se but
the property manager, had been on hand to direct me to the proper
apartment. As soon as Jim Albright departed, Smythe returned for
the rent; from his sudden materializations and dematerializations,
I surmised that he lived in the building. He was a small man with
eyes like black pebbles and a downtrodden air. I should make my
cheque out to Fillmore Enterprises, he said.

My stomach lurched a little at the amount, which came to nearly
half of all that I had left in the world, but the apartment was
worth it. It was on the second floor and, as I had most desired,
faced the street. Even before I unpacked my belongings I hung up
the wooden sign that had last decorated the bay window of Alice's
house.

Then I went outside and looked up. I should have to get yet
another sign made, for from the sidewalk fremont jones typewriting
services was barely legible. Owing to this second-floor location,
larger lettering was required. Perhaps I could obtain permission to
have the sign painted on the window glass, such as I'd had on
Sacramento Street. More expense, but it could not be helped.

I went back to my apartment, cogitating upon my financial
status. Taking this place was a gamble, but one I had every reason
to believe would pay off. Fillmore had become the city's business
district. Being here put me right in the thick of things, and I
anticipated the clients flocking to my door. Yes, it was worth
it.

The rest of the day I spent putting away my belongings and
rearranging furniture. There was no desk, so a table meant for
dining had to serve. I set up my typewriter lovingly, sat down, and
typed a letter to Father and Augusta. The table was the wrong
height for typing, but I could put up with that for a time. It felt
so good to be doing again what I did for a living that I typed
another letter, this one to Meiling.

The only drawback to my new quarters was that, in the hasty
division of this large house into apartments, no bathrooms had been
added. It was necessary to share a bathroom at the end of the hall,
which meant that I would not feel free to indulge in the long hot
baths that were my favorite luxury. There was also something of a
kitchen problem: my apartment did not have one. Rather, it had a
long shelf against one wall of the bedroom, set off by a folding
screen. A gas ring, of the type I'd had in my tiny kitchen at Mrs.
O'Leary's, sat upon that shelf. But since I am not much for
cooking, this arrangement was fine with me.

During my evening ablutions, I reflected that being in a real
bathroom, however briefly, was an improvement over the communal
situation at Golden Gate Park. I wondered about the other residents
of the house. I'd heard them moving about but had not yet caught
sight of any of them. I resolved to go around and introduce myself
the next day.

I went to bed early. Oh, what a treat it was to sleep on a real
mattress in a real bed! I fell blissfully, instantly asleep.

Some sixth sense awoke me. For perhaps the only time in my life,
I was alert even before I opened my eyes, my keen hearing focused
on footsteps so light they were all but inaudible. Running
footsteps.
In my apartment!

17.

Nefarious, Precarious

For precious moments I lay frozen in fear. Then I rolled off the
bed; I had begun to wriggle under it, crawling on my stomach, when
a hand grabbed my injured ankle and yanked me out. The pain was
excruciating, but I bit my lip and swallowed a yelp. No matter what
happened, I was determined to be brave.

I twisted around to confront my attacker, who immediately
clamped a hand over my mouth and hissed, "Be quiet or I will kill
you!"

You will probably kill me anyway,
I thought, and then
opened my eyes wide in disbelief. For one insane moment I thought
this was Meiling playing some sort of joke: the face so close to
mine was masked, Ninja-style, with only the eyes glittering in the
room's near darkness. Whoever it was jerked me to my feet, keeping
a hand over my mouth. From the other room, I heard the shades being
lowered-so this person had an accomplice. With the light from the
street blocked off, there was a moment of total darkness; then the
electric lights came on.

Of course, this was not Meiling. But it
was
a Ninja, or
rather two Ninjas, in black costumes subtly different from mine and
Meiling's. The Ninja who had me said more loudly, "Quiet or I
kill!" and removed his hand from my mouth. I began to laugh
hysterically, I could not help it.

My laughter confused them. They glanced at each other. The
second Ninja advanced on me and said menacingly: "Why you laugh?
What so funny?"

"N-nothing," I gulped, trying to get myself under control. "You
would not understand." More laughter gurgled from my throat.

Ninja Number Two slapped me hard with the back of his hand. I
staggered, my cheek burned, and the laughter died. The two of them
nodded at each other. Number One untied a rope from around his
waist and, with it, tied my hands behind my back. Then he prodded
me to walk in front of him into the other room, where he pushed me
down into a straight chair. His buddy came forward with another
length of rope and tied my feet to the chair legs. In doing so, he
noted the bruised condition of my poor ankle and made some remark
in a foreign tongue, pointing at my foot. Number One said something
in reply, and they both bobbed their heads and giggled in quite a
nasty way.

The language they spoke did not have quite the cadence of
Chinese; it was also less guttural. Though I had never heard
Japanese spoken, I assumed that they were Japanese, and were in
fact real Ninjas. A most sobering thought. Meiling, who was not
afraid of much, feared the Ninja. Still, I did not like them
giggling over my infirmity and decided to assert myself.

"I thought there were no Ninjas in San Francisco," I said.

Number Two raised his hand threateningly. "No talk!"

Oh well, I tried.
I sat there, shivering in an old
flannel nightgown without a stitch underneath, unbound hair
streaming down my back, and watched in silence as the two of them
ravaged my new apartment. I could not imagine what they were doing
here. Why Ninjas, why me? They used wicked-looking knives to tear
into the upholstery of the love seat and the one overstuffed chair,
then did the same to the mattress. When one opened the wardrobe,
pulled out my aubergine cape, and raised his knife, I could keep
still no longer.

"If you would only tell me what you are looking for, all this
destruction would not be necessary!"

I might as well have saved my breath. He paid me no mind, just
held up the cape and slashed it to ribbons. He was joined by the
other, and together they shredded every item of clothing I owned.
Including my underwear, which they pulled lastly from the
drawers.

One of them grunted-I could no longer tell which Ninja was
which, for they appeared identical-and held the blue jewel up to
the light. It winked and glowed, and both of them exclaimed over it
in Japanese.

I hoped the jewel would satisfy them, but it did not. Rather the
reverse: finding the jewel seemed to inflame them, and the pace of
their destruction quickened. It was all the more horrible somehow
because they were so quiet about it. People in the neighboring
apartments would not hear a thing.

They slashed all the curtains. They took up the bedroom rug.
They took down pictures and the mirror, punched them with their
fists, and broke the glass. Vicious, pointless vandalism! They came
back into the living room and moved me, chair and all, so that they
could take up that rug. Of course, there was nothing underneath it
except the floor. One of them spied the box that held my files,
dumped it out, and they both set to, shredding papers with their
knives. I shed tears, powerless to prevent them. I clamped my
trembling lips together to keep back a sob. Finally, there was
nothing else for them to shred, nowhere else for them to look. What
would they do now?