FIRE AND FOG (30 page)

I reached the wall as Mickey gave out a yelp of pain. The Ninjas
had made good on their threat: they were torturing him! I wondered
how long he would hold out. At this point, I would have liked to
know myself where the samurai swords were, but I searched instead
for a way out. My eyes were by then quite accustomed to the
darkness. In the lull that followed Mickey's cry, I heard water
sloshing outside the building.

The side door was huge, a slab of wall. I had no idea how to
open it, or even if I would have the strength to do so, but I had
to try. I glanced over at the pool of light. Mickey still lay on
the floor; at the moment the Ninjas were exchanging remarks in
Japanese while they stood over him.

I pressed my back against the door and slid upward until I was
standing, then grabbed the metal bar that I hoped was a latch. I
pulled with all my might, but the door did not budge. Frantically I
pushed on it, and still it did not budge, and then I understood
that it must move to the side rather than in or out. I shoved once
without result. Shoved again, every muscle straining, until with a
great, roiling rumble the door moved.

"Hey!" yelled Mickey. "Stop, you!"

I had opened a space a few inches wide. The air that rushed in
was full of sea smell, and of fog. Thick, white fog. Waves lapped
below me, unseen. I squeezed through the opening as I heard behind
me the light, running steps of the Ninjas. My bare foot encountered
only empty air; nevertheless, I stepped out . . . and fell through
the fog like a stone.

The icy-cold waters of the Bay closed over my head.

Out of a Nightmare

I feared the shock would stop my heart. I fought against the
voluminous folds of my nightgown, which at first billowed up around
my head and then, as the garment became waterlogged, threatened to
drag me down. Remembering my swimming lessons, I fluttered my feet
and felt myself slowly rise to the surface.

My head broke through; gratefully, I gasped air while
remembering to tread water. My wrists smarted like blazes from the
salt. The fog was as thick as I had ever seen. While I was glad of
the cover the fog provided, it was disorienting in the extreme. I
was afraid to strike out, swimming. What if I went the wrong way
and ended up in the middle of the Bay?

That problem was resolved when one of my moving arms struck
something solid. Aha! I treaded over in that direction and explored
the solid object, deducing it to be one of the pilings that
supported the warehouse. It was covered with nasty-feeling
excrescences-barnacles, I presumed. I presumed further that I
needed only to move from piling to piling to reach dry land.

It was not quite that simple. I did move in the wrong direction
at first and had quite a panicky time until I realized that I could
not find the next piling because there were no more, I must have
passed the Bay end of the building. Therefore I turned around and
went back, repeating the process in reverse. The whole time I was
in fear that the Ninjas or Mickey would come in pursuit of me, but
they did not. I did not even hear them, and wondered what they were
up to. I heard nothing but the lapping waves and, at intervals,
faint and far off, the mournful foghorn over by the Golden
Gate.

At last I reached a corner where two hard, slightly slimy
surfaces met at right angles. I felt along the one in front of me,
moving to the side, until my fingers encountered a ladder. I seized
on it and hauled myself up on the dock, where I lay panting and
shivering.

I did not feel particularly exhilarated by my escape. I was all
too aware that I could be caught again, and for the moment I could
not think how to get help. The fog enshrouded the landscape like a
thick curtain. Finally I sat up and wrung water from my hair and
nightgown.

This was quite the worst mess I had ever found myself in. Here
was I, alone and wet and all but naked, not to mention freezing. I
tried to picture the surroundings I could not see, without much
success. Was there any kind of all-night establishment around here?
I didn't know. I listened, and still heard nothing but the waves
lapping against the docks. There was not much use in lingering. If
for no reason other than to get warm, I should be on the move.

I had heard it said, and can now attest to the fact, that when
one is fighting for survival one does not feel pain. Bum ankle and
all, I walked the entire way from the waterfront to Fillmore
Street. It took a very long time, and I thought more than once that
I was lost. The city's geography helped, for whenever I found
myself disoriented, I kept moving uphill. In the ordinary way of
things, I doubt the ankle would have held up, but my two feet
carried me to the large house on Fillmore where Max was parked out
front.

The fog was not so thick here. I hung back, watching the house,
thinking perhaps Mickey or the Ninjas or someone in their
employ-Mr. Smythe, for instance, who had taken half of all the
money I had in the world-might lurk in the area. When I was ready
to risk it, I ran across the street and up the steps, into the
house, and up to my apartment on the second floor. I hardened my
heart against the sight that awaited me.

My poor typewriter! I did not cry again. Instead I turned away,
flinging the wet tails of my hair back over my shoulder. The Ninjas
had dumped the contents of my leather bag onto the living-room
floor, but they had not taken anything. The bag was slashed, but
not clear through, so it was usable. I gathered up a coin purse and
a few scattered dollar bills, plus other odds and ends, and stuffed
everything back into the bag. Max's key I held in my hand . . .
then I looked down at myself. My gown was still soaking wet,
plastered to my body. Suddenly I felt the cold, and my teeth
chattered until I thought I was in danger of biting my tongue in
two.

At least,
I thought,
I can put slippers on my
feet.
I did not recall them cutting up my slippers. I went into
the bedroom. One pair of slippers and four pairs of shoes were all
that remained of my clothing. There was nothing,
nothing,
with which I might cover myself. I put on the slippers and
deposited three of the four pairs of shoes in my bag, not having
room for the fourth. Then I left Fillmore Street, and my decimated
hopes and dreams, behind.

Dawn was breaking as I drove Max in the direction of the
Presidio. I had to tell Michael not to fire that pistol! What if he
already had? What if he, like Alice, was already dead-because of
me? No, surely not, never! "Faster, Max," I said under my breath,
"faster!"

I sailed through the Presidio gates without stopping, on the
assumption that whoever stood guard would recognize the auto, if
not me in my disreputable state. Fortunately, at this early hour
there were no soldiers about the grounds. I did not go to the
garages but stopped as close to Michael's building as possible and
sprinted across the grass. Just as I reached the door, my ankle
buckled and I fell; but I picked myself up and went on.

A minute later I rapped softly on Michael's door, praying he was
there and would hear me. I did not want to rouse the whole
building. Spies must be light sleepers, for he heard.

He opened the door in his pajamas, his hair standing up at the
crown of his head. "Fremont! Dear God in heaven, what's happened to
you?"

Simultaneously I said, "Michael, thank God you're all
right!"

He pulled me inside and closed the door. "Of course I'm all
right, which is more than can be said for you. You're soaking
wet!"

"I have been swimming in the Bay. Michael, you must not fire
that pistol you took from me."

"I suppose you have come here at this early hour, and in such a
condition, to tell me that?" His mouth curved with a hint of a
smile.

"Yes! And also"-I crossed my arms over my breasts as a paroxysm
of shivering set in-"to use the telephone, if you will be so good
as to take me to the nearest one."

"Not until you get some dry clothes on. Here"-he threw a sweater
and a heavy woolen robe onto the bed- "put these on. I do not think
my trousers would fit you. I'll turn my back."

Modesty was my last concern. I stripped the wet gown off and
pulled the sweater over my damp skin. It, and the robe, felt
deliciously warm and soft-a great improvement. While I was putting
these things on, Michael said, "I know the barrel of your Deringer
was jammed-I found that out when I cleaned it. I would have told
you, but you said you had no further use for the pistol. I have to
wonder, though, if you have rethought your decision as regards
sleuthing. Why else would you be swimming in the Bay in the middle
of the night?"

"It was entirely involuntary, I assure you. But most
informative. Kindly lead me to the telephone, and then you shall
know all."

"Fremont Jones," said Michael, shaking his head as he led me
down the hall, "you never cease to amaze me."

"Elementary," I said lightly. At the moment I was amazing
myself, with the oddest combination of exhilaration and exhaustion.
I felt positively giddy.

I rang Central and asked to be connected with the police. When
someone answered, I assumed a high, rather querulous tone: "I'd
like to speak to Aloysius Stephenson. This is his mother calling."
I doubted the rookie officer would be there at that hour, and
further, I supposed I was making a mistake to trust him.

But my string of bad luck had at last run out. Wish Stephenson
was there, and subsequently he proved to be entirely
trustworthy.

I finished the conversation and hung up the telephone. Then I
turned to Michael, opened my mouth to explain . . . and collapsed.
For the second time in my life, I fainted.

Once again, I was living in a tent in Golden Gate Park. My ankle
was quite all right now, but I could not say the same for my mental
state. I was, not to put too fine a point on it, depressed. I knew
that I should have to return to Boston, but the District Attorney
would not let me leave until I had served as a witness at the trial
of Mickey Morelock.

As it turned out, Mickey had long been suspected of shady
dealings, particularly of the import-export variety, using contacts
he'd made during his years in the merchant marine. The odious
Sergeant Franks was a corrupt policeman in league with him. The
Sorensons had provided storage space, for a price, but they'd got
greedy, tried to haul away the stuff themselves after the quake,
and been killed for it by either Mickey or the policeman-each
accused the other. Officer Stephenson's work in bringing Morelock
and Franks to justice (with some quiet help from Michael) had
brought him a promotion. He was a detective sergeant now, no longer
just the Rookie.

The Ninjas had disappeared, gone back to Japan probably, with or
without their samurai swords. I would never know. Nor, unless by
purest chance, would Alice Lasley's body ever be found. Gertrude
Lasley's bones had been laid to rest in a service arranged by her
neighbor, Lola Weeks. I had not attended, as I could not bear the
thought of the woman's questions. Gertrude had had no kinfolk other
than Alice, so the house on Haight-with all contents, including the
money hidden in the mattress-had passed into the limbo of public
domain.

On a rare sunny afternoon in early July, Nurse Bartlett and I
sat at a card table outside my tent. We were cutting and rolling
clean, soft, old diapers to make bandages-a soothing occupation. I
was in need of something soothing; I had been feeling quite
despondent, in spite of everyone's being so kind to me, providing
me with clothes and so on.

"I keep thinking about Alice," I said.

"What about her?" Bartlett asked, raising her eyebrows.

"I had a dream about her the other night. A nightmare, really.
In it I saw Alice tie up her aunt's body in a blanket and drag
it-bump, bump, bump-down the stairs. You know, Mrs. B, in reality I
have often wondered how she accomplished that. Alice was a tiny
person. But come to think of it, she was strong."

"Um-hm. That type's usually stronger than they let on."

I mused for a moment. "I know she had strong hands. Well,
anyway, the dream went on. Alice dumped poor Gertrude's body into
the root cellar, and then the dream became really horrible. She was
sprinkling lye down on the body, which we know she did do, when she
went quite insane. As if what she'd done had gotten to be too much,
driven her over the edge, so to speak. She slammed the trapdoor
down and went tearing out of the house.

"This next part is really the worst, because in the dream I
became one with Alice. She-or I-no longer knew who she was, or
where she was. She, or we, wandered through the streets, with fire
and smoke all around, like walking through hell. You know how it
can be in bad dreams, when you walk and walk without getting
anywhere-the most awful feeling. Mrs. B, do you suppose that's what
did happen to Alice, before I found her outside the train station
that day?"

"Maybe. On the other hand, people like her don't seem to have
conscience enough to drive them batty."

"I think Alice had some conscience. She did act guilty, on more
than one occasion. I believe the guilt was, in part, what made her
paranoid."

Bartlett shook her wattles. "There's no telling what was going
on in that girl's head. What the medical profession understands
about the workings of people's minds would just about fit in a
thimble, if you ask me."

We worked on in companionable silence. At length Mrs. Bartlett
said, "What're your plans now, Fremont?"

I sighed. "I have to go back to Boston when Mickey's trial is
over. I really should write to Father, but I keep putting it off. I
have almost no money left, and without my typewriter I cannot earn
a living. Michael Archer has offered me a loan, but of course it
would not be proper to accept."