Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [9]
“Miss Russell? Oh, I am so terribly sorry at the delay—the boy I sent to watch for the ship's docking appears to have a girl-friend in the vicinity, and he became distracted. Why didn't you have someone 'phone me? Have your bags been taken off? Hello,” he inserted, his hand pumping mine, then moving to Holmes. “Good afternoon, Mr Holmes. So good to meet you. Henry Norbert, at your service. Welcome to San Francisco. And to you, Miss Russell, welcome back. Come, let's get you off the ship and to your hotel.” He clapped his soft hat back onto his head, scooped up my bag, and urged us with his free hand in the direction of the doors.
“Why an hotel?” I asked. “Surely we can stay at the house?”
Norbert stopped and removed the hat from his head again. “Oh. Oh, no, no, I wouldn't think that's a good idea. No, you'd be much more comfortable at a hotel. I've made reservations for you at the St Francis. Right downtown, just around the corner from the offices.”
“Is there something wrong with the house?”
The hat, which had been rising in the direction of the sandy head, descended again. “No, no, it's still standing strong, no trouble there. But of course, it's not terribly habitable after all these years.”
I opened my mouth to protest that he'd been told to get it ready for us, then decided there was little point: Clearly, I should have to see for myself, and decide if the house was in fact uninhabitable, or simply uncomfortable after ten years of standing empty. Probably hadn't had the dust-cloths cleared away. I closed my mouth again, Mr Norbert's hat resumed its head, and we allowed ourselves to be herded gently from the ship and into a gleaming saloon car that idled at the kerb.
Eighteen years ago, I reflected as we drove—almost exactly eighteen years ago—this city had been reduced literally to its very foundations. There was no sign of that catastrophe now. The busy docks gave way to a land of high buildings and black suits, then to the commercial centre. We passed between shop windows bright with spring frocks and alongside a square that had patches of spring flowers around a high pillar with some sort of winged statue at the top. Then the motor turned again, dodged the rumbling box of a cable-car, and drifted to a halt before a dignified entranceway. Liveried men and boys relieved us of our burdens, and we followed Mr Norbert through the polished doors to the desk.
The equally polished gentleman behind the desk greeted us by name, with professional camaraderie, as if we were longtime guests instead of newcomers known only through our local escort. Another, even more dignified, man lingered in the background, casting a gimlet eye on the desk man's efficiency. While Holmes signed the register, I asked Mr Norbert if his office had received any messages for me.
“Hah!” he exclaimed, and dug into the breast pocket of his suit for a thick packet of letters. “Good thing you asked, I'd have had to come back across town with them when I got home.”
I flipped through them—three from Mrs Hudson, Holmes' longtime housekeeper although more of an aunt to me, several from various friends that she had sent on for us, a post-card from Dr Watson showing Paris. Norbert noticed the disappointment on my face.
“Were you expecting something else?” he asked.
“I was, rather. It must have been delayed.”
Back in Japan I had decided that the one person I wished to see in San Francisco was Dr Leah Ginzberg, the psychiatrist who had cared for me after the accident, in whose offices I had laboriously begun to piece together my life. I had written to tell her that I was going to be passing through the city, and asked her to write care of Mr Norbert.
Perhaps the mail from Japan