The Simeon Chamber (12 page)

“That desk set was placed on consignment with the shop only last week,” said the woman. “If you like I can check our books to see what the owner is asking. I know they are quite anxious to sell it.”

“No, I’m sure it’s well beyond my budget, at least at present.”

The shopkeeper smiled graciously.

“Actually, I’m looking for information on an item sold by your shop some time ago.”

“What item is that?”

“Some pages of rare literature sold back during the war, in the early forties.”

The woman smiled. “I’m sure I 127

would know nothing about that. My father owned the shop back then and he has been dead for more than thirty years. What information do you want?”

It was an obvious question, but Pat had not really anticipated it. She wasn’t precisely certain what she wanted, except to tell Sam that the parchments delivered by Jennifer Davies were worthless, a cheap fraud. Sam had to know that he was wasting his time, that he should return his attention to more important things—the practice of law and the woman who was his partner.

“Well,” Pat stammered, “I wanted to know if perhaps your shop kept records on sales that far back, so that I might be able to trace the authenticity of these documents that have come into the possession of a friend of mine. You see, they bear the stamp of your shop.”

The woman looked perplexed. If the records existed at all it would take days poring through dusty files in the basement to locate them. She had better things to do.

“I don’t think I can help you.” The Asian civility turned brusk.

Pat continued to discuss the matter, oblivious to the presence of a large man who had entered the shop only seconds behind her. The man strolled slowly up and down the aisles of furnishings and studied the glass cases containing jade figurines and other handcarved items. He looked out of place in the shop. It was his clothing as much as his build that belied his interest as a shopper. The man wore a uniform of sorts with a visored cap carried under the crook of his arm.

“I am certain there are no records going back that far. We would have no reason to keep them. What exactly are these documents?”

Pat shrugged. She knew that the parchments were valueless; she was merely humoring her partner.

There was little point in discretion. But it was embarrassing. When it was all over she would make Sam pay for putting her through this.

“According to my friend, they are part of a journal written by Sir Francis Drake.” Pat laughed. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but you have to know my friend to understand. I think he’s being taken for a ride by another party but he won’t believe me. Let us just say that you have an opportunity to save him from a foolish mistake, that is if you’ll take the time to look. I’d be quite happy to help you”—Pat hesitated for an 9

instant—”and perhaps even pay you for your time.”

Pat could sense that the shopkeeper was beginning to soften. If she persisted there was a chance that the woman would at least look for the records.

The shopkeeper thought for a moment and finally asked Pat to wait. She walked over to the big man in the uniform and asked if she could help him. Without looking up the man replied in hushed tones.

Pat couldn’t hear his words, but a few seconds later the young woman returned.

“If you’ll follow me, please.”

The shopkeeper led Pat through the maze of aisles to the rear of the shop and through a curtain hanging from an arched doorway that passed into a small, private work area. An assortment of hand tools littered a workbench. The wood frame of an antique chair rested on the bench, locked in the embrace of a large clamp.

The two women negotiated the narrow passage between the bench and the wall and arrived at the foot of a stairway. Pat followed the other woman up the steps and lost sight of her in the blanket of darkness that swallowed the two figures as they climbed. Sightlessly she followed the click of the woman’s heels on the wooden stairs until, without explanation, they stopped. Suddenly a door at the top of the stairs opened and the stairwell was bathed in bright light. The woman beckoned Pat to follow and led her down a short hall into a living room furnished in oriental antiques. Pat was invited to take a seat and wait, as the other woman disappeared through a door at the opposite end of the room.

Pat sat on a velvet couch and fingered the intricate design of the wood filigree on the headrest. She took in the thick Persian carpet covering the floor in the center of the room and the delicate inlaid writing desk set against the opposite wall.

Like an applicant for employment with second thoughts before an interview, Pat fidgeted with the hem of her skirt and allowed her eyes to wander toward the coffered ceiling of the room.

Several moments later the woman returned, followed by an elderly man. He wore a goatee closely cropped to the chin, and wire-rimmed spectacles. His straight white hair lay like strings of alabaster sculptured by a recent combing. His face was not Asian but Caucasian. As they approached he 131

stepped in front of the woman and extended his hand toward Pat, who rose from the couch.

“Hello, I am Phillipe Lamonge, Jeannette’s uncle and the owner of this shop. Perhaps I can help you.”

He spoke with a strong and unmistakable French accent. Pat looked at the man and the woman standing next to him and saw a distinct family resemblance. The curiosity registered in her eyes and the Frenchman laughed.

“Yes, Jeannette is my niece. She is the daughter of my brother and his wife, who was Chinese, from Canton. Jeannette was born here in San Francisco.” He looked at his niece. “You should go down and attend to the shop.”

She gave a gentle smile and nod to Pat, whose eyes followed the young woman as she disappeared down the hallway.

“Jeannette says you seek information. Perhaps I can help you.”

“I hope so.” Pat summoned her most sober tone, aware that in the business ethos of Chinatown, women are not often accepted on anything approaching equal terms. “I am trying to save a very close friend from the embarrassment of dealing in what are obviously fraudulent documents.”

In the reflex of his generation he searched her fingers for a ring and found none. “What makes you think they are fraudulent, mademoiselle?”

The quick reply coupled with the Frenchman’s icy stare left little doubt that he had been rapidly briefed on the Drake parchments by his niece.

“Well—the party offering them to my friend claims they’re an original portion of a journal written by Francis Drake—the English pirate.”

The Frenchman’s face registered no expression. He stared in cold silence at Pat.

“Perhaps you don’t understand. These documents bore the stamp of your shop. I assume at one time they belonged to the owner of this shop.”

“Oh, I understand. But I cannot help you.”

“Why not?”

“Mademoiselle, let me give you some advice. First, while it is true, as they say, that things are not always what they seem, after nearly seventy years I have quelled my cynicism sufficiently to learn that deception in life is the exception rather than the rule. And 3

second”—the Frenchman paused as if to emphasize the point—”you should stop asking questions of strangers regarding these papers.”

Pat was stunned by the rebuke. She had been prepared for disinterest. She had even anticipated the refusal of any assistance as a result of inconvenience or other proprietary concerns of the shop owner. But she was totally unprepared for this—the casual confirmation that the documents might be authentic.

“I don’t understand. Why won’t you help me?”

“Because I will not,” said the Frenchman. “And do yourself a favor. Use some discretion in choosing with whom you speak concerning this matter.”

Before Pat could respond she found herself ushered toward the hall and was staring down the flight of stairs as the Frenchman held the door open.

“Good day, mademoiselle.”

Pat descended the stairs and walked briskly through the work area and out through the shop, still trying to unravel the message conveyed in the old man’s words. She was unused to such cavalier treatment by those of the opposite gender. His brusk manner had been a distraction, and she was angry with herself for not being more insistent.

As she swung the shop door closed behind her, the man in the chauffeur’s uniform suddenly lost interest in the bone china he’d been studying for several minutes and headed for the door.

Upstairs, the Frenchman walked back to his study, his movements slow as if in a trance. He opened the handcarved doors on a large walnut hutch and from a drawer in the upper right-hand corner he removed an envelope, yellowed and musty with age. He made no effort to open the envelope or remove its contents. He had long since committed the terse lines of the single-page document to memory. Instead he stood motionless, his cold gaze fixed on the printed lettering in the corner of the envelope—and the black swastika embossed above the words.

The pointed end of the pick reached the apex of its arc and started down toward the head. Each degree of movement was frozen in time like a frame of action illuminated by a strobe light. Alternating blackness one moment, then stark white light glinting off the razor-sharp point, the 5

pick inched toward his skull. Powerful hands and forearms roped by sinuous muscles propelled the piercing metal toward his head. Every effort at movement was thwarted. His body was locked in place by some invisible force. Straining to see past the bloody point of the pick, Sam searched the darkness for the face of his assailant. As he fought to focus, an unseen power rocked his body and a voice penetrated the silence of his assault.

“Mr. Bogardus. Wake up.”

His body stirred and his eyes blinked open.

He was staring into the face of Jennifer Davies. He fought to control the panic evident in his expression.

“I’m sorry. I must have been dreaming.”

“More like a nightmare I’d say.”

Sam felt beads of perspiration trickle down his face. The sheets of the hospital bed were soaked with the sweat of his turbulent slumber.

“I must have dozed off. Couldn’t sleep much last night.” He struggled to pull one of the pillows toward the top of the bed and searched for the hand controls to raise the head. “Too many things to think about, I guess. Please have a seat.” Sam gestured toward the chair next to the bed and Jennifer settled into it. He patted the perspiration from his face with a corner of the top sheet.

“What’s this all about? On the phone you said whoever did this to you was looking for the parchments.”

“I can’t tell you everything right now. I don’t have any hard evidence, but I believe the pages are authentic and could be quite valuable.”

He studied her expression. It was stonelike. Her eyes drifted toward the unbandaged wound on his forehead and the naked stitches.

“What do you mean, authentic?”

“A friend of mine, who must for the moment remain nameless but who is expert in such matters, has managed to translate the text of the parchments.

He believes they are part of a larger book or journal that is of significant historic interest.” Sam hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to reveal the rest of Nick’s translation. He opted on the side of caution. He wasn’t entirely certain why he couldn’t bring himself to disclose the information.

“I should know if the parchments are authentic within a day or so. For the moment they are in a safe place.” 7

“That’s very interesting,” said Jennifer. Her voice was detached, her mind distracted. “But what have you discovered concerning my father?”

“I’ve asked my secretary to make a check for certain records that may give us a lead.”

“I see. Can I make a couple of suggestions?”

“Certainly.”

“According to everything I know there were two men on board that blimp the day it crashed. One was presumably my father, James Spencer. The other was a man by the name of Raymond Slade. I’d like to find out a little more about Mr. Slade.

Before I came to see you I tried to do a little checking on my own with the D.M.V. Thought i might get lucky and turn up a set of latents or a picture on Slade. i struck out.”

A pained expression came over Sam’s face. “Why did you hire me, Ms.

Davies?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it sounds like you know precisely what you’re looking for—and how to go about it.”

She laughed nervously. “Not at all. You can see how much success I had.”

It was a shallow attempt at feigned ignorance.

“I just wanted to find out a little about Slade in hopes that it might lead to my father.”

“Like what?”

“Like where he came from. How long he’d served on the crew with my father. Perhaps you can find a picture of him?”

“I already have.”

“What! Where is it?”

“Relax. I have it. It’s locked away in your file back at the office.” He wasn’t about to tell her he’d jobbed it from the navy.

Sam had had Jake search microfilm records in the morgues of the two remaining newspapers for stories of the Ghost Blimp in hopes that he would turn up a picture of James Spencer. None had ever been published. All he had was the single picture of Slade.

“What did he look like?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Average-looking.

I thought we were looking for your father. Why this sudden interest in Raymond Slade?”

“Like I said, maybe if we find out 139

what happened to Slade we’ll find out what happened to James Spencer.”

“I’ve got a question for you.”

She looked at him, her face a picture of innocence.

“How do you explain the fact that the parchments were sent to your mother under cover of a letter from the navy in 1942?”

“What?” Jennifer Davies might make a top-flight fashion model, but she would never make it in the movies. Her expression was as transparent as cheesecloth. She already knew about the letter, but Sam played it out.

“There’s a letter in the navy files that itemizes the four pages of parchment as part of James Spencer’s personal belongings after the crash.”

“Then they did belong to my father.”