Part 6 (1/2)

Connecting cable-cars rose up into Pacific Heights, but I continued on foot, caught in reverie. Names that shouldn't have been familiar, but were: Larkin and Polk, the wide Van Ness-I paused, to flow across the busy street with the other pedestrians-and the quieter reaches of Franklin and Gough. There was a park over to my left, I knew without looking, and down the hill to my right was a place where cattle were brought, although I could not remember if I had actually seen them, or if it was merely a story told by my father. But I did know that had I remained on the cable-car, I would have come to a busy waterfront smelling peculiarly of fish and chocolate.

I had been here. I had walked these pavements with my hand in my nanny's iron fist, and later with my adolescent head held high. I once had a friend in this house here, a friend named . . . Iris? No-Lily. Lily with the black hair that her mother insisted on curling, torturously and regularly, Lily with the red lips that always made her look as if she had been eating cherries. Lily with the dollhouse I had both scorned and secretly envied. She had moved away, to . . . where? Los Angeles, I thought, and as her farewell gift had given me-yes, the doll-family's porcelain baby, the figure I had found in my bedroom that fit so nicely into the hand. We had sworn undying loyalty, Lily and I, and I had never written to her after the accident.

As I walked through the gathering dusk, with each beat of my heels on the pavement the neighbourhood came more alive around me. Here was where I had been terrified by a dog that had bared its teeth until driven away by a delivery boy. And the strange old woman here had owned a pet monkey, letting it out in a big cage on the porch where it flung itself about and screamed curses at pa.s.sers-by. And next to her, the man with the parrots, two of them that competed with the monkey in screams, so that my mother thanked heaven that we did not live any nearer. And behind those lighted curtains, a child had died of the polio; there, a woman had been rushed to hospital when she had fallen down the stairs (and the whispers that followed, saying she was pushed-my first experience with criminality); at the now-boisterous house next door had lived a boy with pale green eyes who talked to himself and . . .

And then without warning the slow unfurling flower of my past was hacked away, with a sudden fast scuttle of feet behind me and an urgent shout that I should Get down, get down! Get down, get down!

I whirled, prepared for battle, but he was too close, and ploughed straight into my diaphragm with a sharp banging noise, driving all breath from my lungs and sending me flying backward. I struggled to do battle, in spite of a desperate lack of oxygen and the dizziness throbbing out from the back of my skull, but before I could so much as get my hands raised, my attacker was up and away. Completely confused, I fought to sit upright against the dizziness of the impact and the panic of no breath. After far too long, my compressed lungs finally remembered their function and, with a great whooping noise, sucked in several gallons of glorious cold night air.

Seated, my hands holding a head that threatened to fly off, I heard footsteps approach again. They seemed too slow to be threatening, so I simply sat and took pleasure in the act of breathing. A hand came into my vision, holding a pair of gla.s.ses; my gla.s.ses. I took them, straightened them on my nose, and squinted up.

Not very far up. The man was short. And Chinese.

”You're the bookseller.” My head hurt, raised like that, so I allowed it to fall back into my supporting hands.

”I am. Are you all right?”

”I will be. What the h.e.l.l did you do that for?”

”A man across the street was aiming a pistol at you. I feared that if I merely yelled, you would turn to see and he would hit you.”

I reflected that I was probably the only woman in San Francisco who, if she heard someone yell Get down! Get down! might actually obey first and look around to ask questions later-unless, of course, the swift approach of footsteps took precedence. Still, he had no way of knowing that. might actually obey first and look around to ask questions later-unless, of course, the swift approach of footsteps took precedence. Still, he had no way of knowing that.

”That was a shot I heard?” The impact of shoulder to diaphragm had come simultaneously with the bang, creating a more direct link in my mind than in fact there was. I craned my neck again, trying to see him. He was holding his left shoulder, casually but firmly.

”G.o.d, you're hit,” I exclaimed.

”An insignificant wound, I believe. If you can walk, perhaps we should do so.”

With the impetus of someone else's blood to drive me, I staggered to my feet, stifling curses as my head swam and pounded.

By this time, three other men had come onto the street from their houses, all of them with the look of soldiers about them-men who would perceive instantly the difference between a motorcar's back-fire and the sound of a handgun. The nearest came to where the bookseller and I stood, and asked, ”Ma'am, is this fellow bothering you?”

”Oh, no, this fellow has just saved my skin, thank you. And at the cost of his own. Mister . . . I'm sorry,” I said to my rescuer, ”I don't know your name.”

He flung at me a series of Oriental syllables that found no foothold in my rattled brain, but I decided that here was not the place for proper introductions. ”Yes,” I said vaguely, and looked around me, trying to remember which way my house lay. ”Down here, I think. We'll see if we can find some bandages that the mice haven't nested in.”

Leaving three men to stare at our retreating backs, Mr Whosit and I made our wavering way up the street and around the corner to the familiar jungle-backed wall. Luckily, Holmes had left the drive gate open; in fact, he was standing in the front door-way, watching us approach.

”A bit of first aid, Holmes,” I greeted him with. ”Mr Something here took a bullet for me, and needs patching up. I could use a couple of aspirin for my head-ache. And I seem to have lost another hat.”

”Why does it not surprise me that the sound of a pistol would herald the arrival of my wife,” Holmes drawled, and stood away from the door so we could enter.

Chapter Six.

Holmes had better luck with the bookseller's name, and was soon addressing the small man as Mr Long, which when I heard it caused a somewhat light-headed giggle to try to surface. I suppressed it firmly-he wasn't that tiny, really, just far from Long-and focussed on the tasks at hand.

We were sitting in the kitchen, bright lights pulsating off the white walls, as Holmes methodically a.s.sisted our guest in removing enough of his upper garments to allow treatment. He seemed uncomfortable with my presence, so I closed my eyes against the glare.

”Clever of you to get the power on, Holmes.”

”It was simply a matter of locating the mains,” he said. ”The power company had not shut it off, just the caretaker.”

”What about the water and gas?”

”I rang both companies from the watch-dog's telephone.”

”Was Miss Grimly rea.s.sured to find you were a respectable English gentleman?” I asked.

”She telephoned to Mr Norbert's offices before she would allow me past the threshold; her nephew stood at the ready with a baseball bat.”

”And did she have anything to offer on our intruders?”

A moment of silence served to remind me of our visitor, whose presence I had forgotten. To cover my mistake, I went on. ”I took the photograph around Chinatown and must have asked a hundred or more citizens, none of whom recognised the two people. Or said they didn't. Although I had a very fine if somewhat recherche recherche meal in a tiny cellar cafe haunted entirely by Orientals, and asked them to ring the hotel if they had any information for me.” My brain, slowly subsiding into its proper setting, finally emitted an original idea, and I opened my eyes to squint at Mr Long. ”One of the people whom I questioned was this gentleman, who runs a bookshop that sells, among other things, volumes on the Chinese art of feng shui. I trust I am p.r.o.nouncing it correctly?” I asked. Mr Long nodded fractionally, then stifled a wince at Holmes' ministrations; I continued. ”However, he has yet to tell me what he is doing rescuing me from a.s.sa.s.sins on my doorstep.” meal in a tiny cellar cafe haunted entirely by Orientals, and asked them to ring the hotel if they had any information for me.” My brain, slowly subsiding into its proper setting, finally emitted an original idea, and I opened my eyes to squint at Mr Long. ”One of the people whom I questioned was this gentleman, who runs a bookshop that sells, among other things, volumes on the Chinese art of feng shui. I trust I am p.r.o.nouncing it correctly?” I asked. Mr Long nodded fractionally, then stifled a wince at Holmes' ministrations; I continued. ”However, he has yet to tell me what he is doing rescuing me from a.s.sa.s.sins on my doorstep.”

The bookseller stirred. ”I have to say, Miss Russell, that your display of English-do they call it 'phlegm'?-is most impressive. I would have thought most young ladies would display more of a reaction to such an attack. Unless you think, sir, that she is suffering from a concussion?”

Holmes snorted. ”Her brain wouldn't dare. No, the only time Russell becomes upset is when those near and dear to her are threatened.”

”Is this-eh!” Long grunted.

”Sorry,” Holmes muttered, and pulled more gently at the s.h.i.+rt.

”Is this common among the English?”

”Russell is not common among anyone. Good, it's merely winged you in pa.s.sing-no permanent damage, I shouldn't think. Do you suppose there are any bandages in the house, Russell?”

”They would be either in the cabinet in my parents' bath-room, or in the nursery. Do you want me to go?”

”You sit.”

So I sat, as his stride went up the stairs, and a few minutes later came down again. His search was successful, even to the presence of a bottle of Merthiolate. He sniffed it, then painted away at the bookseller's seeping upper arm, wrapping a length of gauze around the whole and tying it off in a neat bow. He handed Mr Long back his s.h.i.+rt, but carried the coat over to the sink, turning on the taps with an air of experiment. Nothing.

”I can't even offer to salvage your coat from the bloodstains,” he apologised.

”That is of no importance,” the bookseller said, gingerly inserting his arm into the ruined sleeve. Holmes moved to a.s.sist him, and between the two of them they got the man clothed without too much discomfort. The small man moved his shoulder experimentally, testing the limits of comfort, then turned to me.

”I am pleased that I could, as you say, rescue you from your a.s.sa.s.sins, but I cannot claim I came here with any such intention. No, I came to speak with you about your photograph, and as I paced the sidewalks in indecision, you came around the corner and the man with the gun showed himself. Pure felicitous accident. May I ask, are a.s.sa.s.sins a commonplace in your life?”

I might have returned his earlier question aimed at me, for his own demonstration of phlegmatic behaviour made me wonder if it was his own nature, Orientals in general, or a result of living in San Francisco, which after all was not so very far removed from its Wild West roots. But it was difficult to know how to answer his question, so I decided to consider it rhetorical rather than requiring an answer. Instead, I asked, ”Why were you coming to speak with me?”

”The photograph you showed me. It is of my parents.”

”Ah,” Holmes said, and reached for his pipe.

”Mah and Micah were your mother and father?” I asked, with a dubious glance at the length of the man's legs.