The Simeon Chamber (4 page)

“What makes you say that?”

The woman crushed her cigarette in the ashtray on Sam’s desk and opened her purse, producing a large manila envelope bulging with papers. She handed it across the desk to Bogardus, who removed the papers and spread them out. They took several seconds to unfold. There were four large pieces of heavy paper. Sam placed the ashtray on the corner of one page and his desk lamp on the other to keep the papers from folding up like an accordion.

“About a year after my mother died I received a letter in the mail, unsigned and with no return address.” She reached across the desk and pointed to a single piece of plain bond paper clipped to the larger pages.

Sam passed his eyes over the brief typed lines. THESE PARCHMENTS TELL AN ANCIENT TALE, A LEGACY FROM YOUR FATHER WHO LIVES AND PASSES THIS GIFT TO YOU AS A REMEMBRANCE.

Sam removed the paper clip and tried to read the larger stiff pages. He could make out individual words, but the context made no sense. The edges of the papers were tattered and some of the lettering was faded and worn. He had seen documents like these before, but always under glass cases in museums.

They were old and, he assumed, of some value.

He looked at the postmark on the envelope. It had been posted in San Francisco and addressed to a post office box in Saint Helena, Napa County, and the date was clearly legible. There was no return address.

“Is this your post office box number?”

“It actually belongs to my stepfather—for his business. Family mail sometimes comes there.”

Sam turned the papers over on his desk and examined the back side. The texture of the paper was brittle and it had a translucent sheen. In the upper corner of one page Sam saw a faded ink stamp. He took a magnifying glass from the center drawer of his desk and turned the light of the lamp toward the mark. He ran the glass over the letters.

THE JADE HOUSE

OLD CHINATOWN LANe SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIa Under the stamped letters was a faint pencil scrawl: Simeon C.

“What do you make of this?” Sam pointed to the stamp. She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head.

He turned the pages over and examined the script again. On the last page his eyes caught a name, unmistakably a signature, written in a bold hand unlike the delicate text that preceded it. He didn’t dwell on it but returned his eyes to the woman.

“Have you shown these to your stepfather?”

“No.” Jennifer expelled a soft sigh.

“It wouldn’t do any good. It would only lead to another argument and I don’t know if I can handle that right now.”

“But maybe he can answer your questions.”

“I think he probably can, but he won’t.”

Bogardus scanned each of the heavy pages with the magnifying glass but could not make out the script. It was composed of uniform letters, precisely drawn. From a distance they could pass for printing, but closer examination revealed minute wisps of ink where the writing instrument had been lifted between words.

“My stepfather has given me a good life, everything that I could ever ask for,” said Jennifer. “When I first asked him questions about my father, after these papers came, all he would say was that the man died in the war. He told me he never met or knew my father and that my mother never talked about him.”

“Your mother must have talked to you about your father, told you who he was.”

“For whatever it’s worth. She said his name was James Spencer. According to my mother he was a naval lieutenant stationed at Treasure Island.”

Sam listened to her story. James Spencer had disappeared without a trace during the war. To longtime residents of San Francisco the unsolved mystery of the Ghost Blimp had become part of local mythology and the story was embellished with each telling. In August 1942

a naval blimp on routine antisubmarine patrol off the coast drifted back over the city, its engines silent. Following

hours of aimless wafting on the updrafts of ocean breezes the craft had turned the serenity of a quiet residential district into chaos as it settled onto Bellevue Avenue. The blimp was abandoned. The two-man crew who had boarded at Treasure Island only hours before were never found.

Jennifer finished her story and looked intently across the desk at Bogardus. There was a momentary silence. Sam wasn’t sure he could really do anything for the woman. And yet the story of her father’s disappearance and the seemingly ancient papers spread before him offered a curious diversion from the monotony of legal memoranda, depositions and interrogatories. And then there was Jennifer Davies herself. He had certainly wasted his time on less provocative enterprises in the past.

He rose from his desk, pushing both hands deep into his pockets, and walked slowly toward the window overlooking the bay. It wasn’t really a legal matter. She could just as easily have consulted a private investigator; in fact, she probably should have. But Bogardus was intrigued by the papers and most of all by the signature on the last page.

He turned and looked at her. “I seriously doubt if there’s anything I can do for you. From what you tell me this really isn’t a legal matter.” His tone was more in the nature of a disclaimer than a rejection. “What did you hope to discover from adoption records?”

“I’m not really sure. Maybe to find where my father was born. A place to begin looking. I’m not even sure that James Spencer was my father. It’s only what my mother told me. With this …” She pointed toward the note on the lawyer’s desk.

“I think I am more confused than anything else.

I thought that perhaps you could help.”

“You’re assuming a lot. First of all that these papers are in fact a link to your father. For that proposition all we have is an unsigned typed note. It could be a hoax. Do you know anyone who might do something like this as a joke?”

“Not that I can think of.”

His gaze passed from the parchments spread on his desk to the woman seated across from it. He was hooked and he knew it. There was a considered pause, a show of sound professional judgment to remove the appearance of whimsy from his words.

“Tell you what. If you’ll leave the

papers with me for a few days I’ll make some inquiries and see what I can find out.” He paused for an instant. “But I can’t promise anything. I should be back to you within a week. Can we get together then?”

“Thank you. You don’t know what a relief it is just to be able to talk to someone about this. Yes, i can meet with you next week.” She paused for a moment. “But there is one thing.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want my stepfather to know that I’ve been to see you.”

“Is there any reason why he should?”

“No.” Her tone was abrupt and defensive.

“Well, then, this is a confidential matter, between attorney and client. It will remain that way unless you choose to change it.” Bogardus smiled.

“You have to understand. I just don’t want to hurt him.”

“Fine.” His tone conveyed assent without agreement, and Jennifer Davies was left to shoulder responsibility for the decision alone.

She took a pen from the marble stand on Sam’s desk and scratched an address and phone number on the back of one of his cards. “This is my work number and office address. If you have to contact me, please do so at this location, not the phone number in the file.”

Sam shot her a quizzical glance.

“I live with my stepfather. And I’m afraid if you call … well, I’d rather you didn’t. Now, about your fee?” Jennifer reached for her purse.

“I normally charge eighty-five dollars an hour for my time and usually require a minimum retainer.” Sam paused. “But given the nature of your problem and the fact that it doesn’t appear to involve any real research or litigation, I’ll waive the fee for now. If there are any expenses I’ll send a bill.”

“I couldn’t let you do that,” she protested.

“Tell you what, if I turn up anything we can discuss fees later. If it’s a dead end you can buy me dinner. A deal?”

“For the time being.” She moistened her lips with her tongue. Bogardus couldn’t be sure if it was a seductive signal or merely a nervous gesture. He hoped for the best.

She took his lead and rose from her

chair.

“Thank you very much for your time and your interest. I know you will do what you can for me.” Jennifer extended her hand and Sam took it. There was something strangely sensuous, almost intoxicating about the woman.

Jennifer Davies walked from the room, leaving only the lingering fragrance of her perfume in the air and the tattered parchments on Sam’s desk.

He dropped back into his chair and returned his gaze to the strange pieces of paper and their unintelligible script.

“Very nice.” His trance was broken by a sultry voice.

He looked up at Pat’s thick brunette mane and curvaceous figure as she presented her back to him, leaning her hip against the frame of his half-open door to study the form of Jennifer Davies as she walked from the office.

“A new case—domestic, criminal?”

“More of a favor for a friend,” said Sam.

“I see. And who is supplying the favor?” She looked at him from under dark arched eyebrows, a smirk on her lips.

“I’m supplying the favor,” he said, “and my dear old mother has generously agreed to provide the friend.”

“Generous indeed.” She winked. While their relationship had long since become platonic, Pat could still mimic the jealous lover with sufficient panache to make even Sam sometimes wonder if there wasn’t some lingering romantic remnant. Or was it just his own stirrings?

“Is there some problem?”

“Just looking out for my proprietary interests.” She flashed a smile, exposing uniform, pearly white teeth, the envy of any cover girl. “After all, I wouldn’t want one of us dipping the quill in the company ink without some benefit flowing to the firm.”

“Well, I’ll be certain to make a full accounting at the appropriate time.”

Pat laughed and headed for her office.

As the door closed Sam reached for his telephone index. His eyes scanned the card labeled J until it found the name Jorgensen, Nick. He picked up the receiver and dialed a campus number at the University of California. It rang three times and was answered by a young man who was still laughing and talking 27

to someone else as he spit out the words, “Western Civ Section.”

“Is Nick Jorgensen there?”

“Professor Jorgensen? I don’t know. Let me see.”

Sam heard the suction of a hand being placed over the mouthpiece. “Has anybody seen Professor Jorgensen?” There was a faint reply from another more distant voice.

The student returned to the phone. “Yeah, I think he’s just down the hall talking to another faculty member. Can I ask who’s calling?”

“Just tell him it’s Sam Bogardus, that I want to take him to lunch. That should get his attention.”

He waited while the message was relayed down the hall. A minute later Sam heard Nick’s familiar voice over the line.

“Samuel! Haven’t heard from you in almost a month. Where have you been?”

“Just the usual. Pollinating local hospitals with my business cards, lecturing the terminally ill on the need for a will. The usual acts of mercy as required.”

Bogardus and Jorgensen went back nearly twenty years, to a time when Sam was an undergraduate and Nick a teaching assistant.

After college the relationship had continued, and over the years the two had become fast friends who never let more than a few weeks go by without a telephone call or conversation over drinks.

“You got time for lunch today?” asked Sam.

“Well, that depends on who’s paying.”

“It’s on me.”

“Well you know me, I can always make time for my friends,” said Nick.

“Yeah,” Sam smiled. “Particularly when they have a wallet full of credit cards.”

Nick laughed. “Well as they say, an appetite is a terrible thing to waste.”

“Let’s make it a late lunch; I’ll have to pick up my car from the garage before I can make it to the bridge. Say I meet you at Jack London Square at about twelve forty-five, near the old bar. There’s something I want to show you.”

“Good, see you then.”

Sam hung up, gathered the Davies parchments from his desk and dropped them into his briefcase.

He placed the card with Jennifer’s

office number and address in his wallet and made several notations in the file. Then he reached for a set of interrogatories in his “In” basket and began to scan the documents. But his mind was elsewhere—on the parchments sealed in his leather briefcase and the dark, imperious signature scrawled there.

There was a stiff breeze blowing off the ocean on the bluffs overlooking the Pacific at Fort Funston. The hang gliders were out en masse, floating above the beach on the updrafts rising off the faces of the sheer rock cliffs. They dipped their wings and plunged with their human cargoes toward the rocky beach below, only to glide out over the water and climb again. The ruffle of fabric wings could be heard snapping as the delicate crafts soared fifty feet overhead.

Two men stood against the wooden railing, oblivious to the aerial acrobatics. They were dressed warmly against the stiff winds, one wearing an expensive camel hair coat, the other a sheepskin jacket with tufts of wool at the seams.

“I tell you she knows something. I followed her to the county hall of records this morning. She was looking for adoption records, and after that she went to a lawyer’s office. She was in there for a long time. You know her as well as I do. She probably fed the shyster some cock-and-bull story. There’s no telling what she might have said.” The taller man was in his fifties, a bit stooped, with wisps of thin gray hair and dark brooding eyes. He leaned heavily on an ornate walking cane, and moved with a pronounced limp as he stepped away from the railing and toward some empty wooden benches erected over the aging concrete dome of an abandoned coastal gun emplacement.

The other man listened, running the fingers of one hand over the seams on the other arm of his expensive sheepskin coat as he leaned on the railing.

You’re an alarmist, he thought.

“I tell you we have to do something before it’s too late. She can bury us both. I don’t know about you, but I’m too old to go to prison.” He studied the face of his colleague for some sign of agreement. There was only silence. Then, slowly, as if to emphasize the deliberation, the shorter man pursed his lips and removed his