Copyright © 2005 by John T. Cullen. All Rights Reserved.

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Intersect: Danger

a novel

by John T. Cullen

17.

San Francisco—March 15, 1945

Tim Nordhall awoke on his first day in San Francisco lying on the single bed in a square of sunlight barely filtered by lace curtains. As he staggered to his feet and padded to the window, he smacked his dry mouth. He groaned and rubbed one hand up and down on the back of his aching neck. He pushed the curtains aside and slid the window up. Instantly, sweet fresh air blew in and he leaned on his elbows out the window. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply a balmy breeze that ruffled his hair. Then he stared, sighing with contentment, at the compactly elegant city sprawling below the trees and ornate gables. Inhaling the scent of lemons and apricots from the gardens, he noticed the windows of Victorian turrets and bays around him. Below, the rambling five-story masonry structure embraced a small central courtyard. The rooftops of smaller buildings on the next street were visible below, and beyond those the sparsely trafficked streets rolling down toward the harbor.

His window faced south, overlooking commercial area of Union Square and beyond that a distant shadow on the horizon, San Bruno Mountain.

On his left, looking eastward and no doubt toward a stunning view of the harbor, was an open window whose lace curtains blew gently outward in the breeze. As Tim rested in his own window, a woman stuck her head out of the window on his left, a few dozen yards away, and threw something out. She was a stunning young strawberry blonde, almost a redhead, and gamine, with a mischievous face and blue laughing eyes. Seeing him, she laughed. “Caught in the act!”

Tim was too stunned to respond, gaping at her dramatic features.

“Just some bird seed,” she said in a melodious voice, small but throaty. Then she withdrew her head and slammed the window down.

Tim managed to recover from his embarrassment, and stepped back from the window feeling as though he’d been trespassing.

He promptly forgot about the brief incident and went in search of amenities. He found his travel alarm in his bag, unfolded it on the night table, and noted that it was a little after eight in the morning.

Tiptoeing in stocking feet, he went down the hall outside. The floors were of dark, gleaming wood with narrow Oriental rugs down their centers. Potted palms and rubber plants stood in brass pots on low tables in every corner. He found the bathroom at the end of the hall, and returned for his shaving kit. The back of the door and the walls beside the mirror were covered with instructions from the War Department and various military housing agencies. Users were reminded they were guests and must not smoke in the hallways and bathrooms or put out cigarette butts in any but regular ashtrays or in the red sand buckets provided for the purpose. And so on and so forth, he noted idly as he shaved. After a hot shower, he dressed and went downstairs.

The building, apparently a small hotel in peacetime, and now dragooned into military support, had a central wrought-iron elevator. He took this lift down to the ground floor and stepped out into a wide, low-ceilinged, wood-paneled room that smelled vaguely of bacon, toast, and coffee. Two black women were stripping linens from the dozen or so tables, while the elderly Asian man welcomed him with a bow, and indicated a window table. Tim bought breakfast a la carte with coffee and orange juice, tipping as he left.

He had a brief conversation with the man while finishing his eggs benedict. The man spoke fondly and respectfully of a Mrs. Anna Auger, aged 98 and confined to a hospital bed in the private wing below. Mrs. Auger had come to California from Philadelphia as a young woman shortly after the Civil War. She was an Auchinbury, from a well to do family, who had married a Civil War colonel named Auger. Together, they had traveled on a sailing ship, around the Cape of Good Hope, arriving in Oakland in 1872. Auger had made a fortune in shipping and warehousing and had died at age 80 in 1907, right after the great earthquake of 1906. Because it was a well-built masonry structure, the house had survived the quake and the terrible fires that had killed 315, injured thousands, and destroyed 28,000 buildings. The business was ruined, however, and Mrs. Auger had turned this remaining asset of her fortune into a posh smaller hotel. It wasn’t really all that different from the mansions of the likes of tycoons Mark Hopkins and James Flood, only on a smaller scale. The rooms had no telephones. There was, however, a men’s smoking room to one side of the dining room, and in there, among high oak library shelves and under a stained glass window, Tim called his friend at the office to say he was running a bit late.

“I’ll cover for you,” Stan said lightly. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a log.” Tim picked a speck of sleep from one eye. “I’ll be by to pick up my orders and we’ll go from there. Drinks later?”

“You kidding? This city is loaded with leg. Plan on being well-dressed and ready to hop.”

After speaking with Stan, Tim went back upstairs, unpacked his sea bag into the plain light wood dresser that didn’t quite match the darker night table or the even darker bed. Hell, wartime, what did it matter. If he did end up staying here for any amount of time, he’d figure a few ways to dress the place up. And of course the place had a ridiculous and antiquated code of rules dating back to Victorian times, which included the admonition: “No visitors of opposite gender in rooms, hallways, or above the designated sitting rooms on the first floor.” That alone told him he should soon start looking for a private apartment on his housing allowance.