The Amazing Adventures of The Emperor Number 4
THE EMPEROR IN
THE CITIES OF DANGER
Charles Lee Jackson II
Prologue
I LOVE SAN FRANCISCO.
I mean, Hollywood is home, and I love it, too (at least, my Hollywood, which
is somewhat more 'forties than average). There are maybe a dozen other spots on
the globe I treasure, but there's just something about San Francisco.
Actually, there are
a lot of things about it, not the least of which is the presence of the winner
of the nation-wide "CL's sidekick we want to see more often" contest,
the lovely and talented Shanghai Lil.
After the trouble
I'd had the last time I was in town, I'd bought a new æroplane, and had brought
it down uneventfully at Gashouse Cove, where I'd been met by the beauty herself.
We were strolling
along near Fisherman's Wharf a little later when we stumbled onto a young riot.
Shanghai dragged me into the middle of the crowd, where two old guys were arguing
over a basket-woven crab-trap, the sort of thing with a funnel-shaped opening, into
which, but not out of which, the crustaceans can climb.
"Do something,"
Shanghai chided.
"Owl roight,
owl roight," I spoke up, "whot's all this then?"
The two oldsters
ignored me, but I clapped my hands together very hard. They turned to me. "What's
the problem?"
"He's tryin'
t' steal my crabs," both chorused.
"Wait a minute.
You first," I said to the one on my right.
"I pulled up
my crab pot, and this guy tried to take it from me!"
I turned to the other.
"He try steal
my crabs an' I stop him!"
I addressed the crowd.
"Anybody know whose pot it is?"
Despite the number
of times that question must have been asked in The City, it got the same answer
as always. Nobody knew.
I knelt beside the
pot and opened the front. Three very uncomfortable crabs were jockeying for position
inside.
"Any of you
guys know whose pot this is?"
The crowd backed
away from me. I stood up, and said, "These guys say they never saw either of
you before, and they want to go home."
The two old guys
backed away from me, too. Suddenly Shanghai and I were all alone on the pier. I
looked at her. "Happy?"
She smiled. I hefted
the pot and walked it to the edge of the Wharf, tipping the crabs back into the
Bay. Shanghai and I watched for a moment.
Two of the crabs
popped up to the surface a moment later, one clearly pointing at me before they
vanished into the water.
Shanghai's eyebrows
rose. "What was that?"
I gave her my most
annoying smile and said, "That one crab asked, ‘who was that nice human?’ and
the one that pointed said ‘That was no human, that was... The Emperor!’"
Chapter One
Jurisdictional
Dispute
ON THE NORTH slope
of what used to be called Mount Parnassus is an interesting little modified Queen
Anne house, which, if it were not painted mauve with black trim, would seem perfectly
ordinary. Of course, the place is far from mundane, as is its owner. It's the pleasant
little pied-a-terre maintained in The City by yours truly. At street level
are coach-house and steps to the second floor, wherein are living room, den, dining
room, kitchen, et cetera. The top floor contains the master bath and a combination
bedroom and solarium, depending on whether the drapes are drawn or not.
This morning they
were open, and I lazed over breakfast, watching San Francisco come to life.
I leaned back, thinking
how sensible a nap would be right then, just after breakfast, before I dressed for
the day. But there's so much potential fun in San Francisco that I decided to greet
the day wide awake. And then something happened to justify my choice.
Shanghai Lil waltzed
in. (Shanghai Lil, of course, isn't her real name, but, as regular followers of
these chronicles know, she protects her privacy under this evocative nom de guerre,
the derivation of which, if you but knew her better, would be patently clear.)
She paused, looking
resplendent in a calculatedly casual outfit: snug slacks and an oversized V-neck
sweater made of silk, with her hair in a high ponytail with a big lace bow. What
you'd call the "Gidget" look. I wondered who she though she was fooling.
She gave my outfit – silver pajamas and black silk dressing gown – the once
over, and gave me an appreciative whistle, saying, "My, aren't we grahnd
this morning," in her best Eric Blore impression. "I'll bet you wowwed
the maid."
"Not yet. Actually,"
I groused, "except for you, the only one that's whistled at me so far was some
fellow out on the street, when I stepped onto the porch for the paper."
Shanghai surveyed
the wreckage of my repast, and took up one of the extra cups from the breakfast
service. She poured herself a cup, and gestured with the pot. "Tin-fresh cocoa,
Emperor?"
"Thank you,"
I acceded. As she poured me one, I added, "But no buttered toast: you spread
it on a little too thick."
Shanghai made a face,
and went to the window, looking out toward distant Telegraph Hill as she sipped
her cocoa. I left my cup and stepped up behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder.
She turned her head
slightly, looking at me in her periphery. "Did you have plans for today, Emperor?"
I took a deep breath,
trying to decide how to phrase my answer. But I never got to deliver it.
For just then the
telephone chimed. That was puzzling. Very few people had the number, and
if it had been business, surely I would have simply heard the dulcet tones of my
communications chief Richmond, intruding upon my shell-like ears – my hearing is,
well, better than average – directly.
Shanghai knew this
as well as I. She gave me a quizzical stare. My return expression said, don't ask
me. I gestured to indicate she was free to answer if she wanted. She did.
"Shanghai Lil's
Palace of Amusements," she said with a straight face. I suppressed a chuckle.
After listening a moment, she held the handset out to me.
"It's Ed Green."
I took the instrument
with interest. Certainly my old pal Ed had the number: among other things, he was
the liaison officer between the US military and The Empire. What could this be?
His familiar voice
came over the wire. "Are you busy, Sire?"
"That's... not
a question I like to answer."
"Well, I've
been told to secure your coöperation on a matter of great importance."
"Skip the officialese,
Sport. What's cookin'?"
"The old need-to-know,
CL. They didn't tell me. But if you can make a meeting this afternoon, it'd be a
swell gesture of inter-governmental good will."
I snorted. I'm sorry,
but that's what I did. Ed's been my pal for a long time, but he's done an excellent
job of fitting into the military establishment, and that includes slinging their
particular brand of verbal hash. "OK," I said. "Where and when?"
He gave me the particulars,
and I rang off.
Shanghai's big bright
eyes gleamed. "Something interesting?"
"Don't know
yet. Whatever I had planned for today will have to wait. Something's cooking. Could
be trouble."
"Trouble's my
middle name."
"I thought it
was—." (I actually said a name here, but that would be a clew to her true identity.)
She made a face.
I made for the closet to pick out a wardrobe. The housekeeper never got to
see my outfit, at least not on me.
THE PALACE OF Fine
Arts loomed artistically in front of me as I arrived for my rendezvous. That's sort of its point, these days,
looming, that is. The original building had been built as part of the nineteen fifteen
Panama-Pacific Exposition, a sort of World's Fair celebrating the City's recovery
from the big 'quake. The vast complex had filled what is today the Marina district,
with palaces of machinery, arts, and amusement. It was the last flower of an innocent,
pre-World War America.
Today, painstakingly
duplicated from castings of the original, a new Palace stands facing the wonderful
Exploratorium, with a swell pond at its back, just east of the Presidio.
This was the spot
selected as the location for a singular meeting with a prestigious collection of
dignitaries. It was an amazing group, and about to become more so.
As Shanghai Lil and
I approached, Ed Green broke from the pack and came up to us. He was in mufti, presumably
so as not to attract attention. Just as well: His dress uniform, with sergeant's
chevrons, doesn't reflect his actual rank, but is an official pretext to cover up
his specialized duties. He had hardly changed in the years I'd known him, still
fresh-faced and stocky. Oh, his hair is shorter these days, but after all, he is
in the service.
Naturally, I had
changed into something more suitable, black shirt and trousers, grey jacket and
tie. Shanghai hadn't changed, except to don sunglasses.
As I performed introductions,
I scanned the crowd he'd left. I recognized a man from the Mayor's office and a
guy from Sacramento. Uniforms indentified a Coast Guardsman, a sheriff, and a US
Marshal. Two women in suits were so obviously from the FBI that I couldn't believe
their supervisor let them out into the field.
What could have brought
together such a group? And what did they expect me to do?
THEN, FINALLY, THE
last member of this group showed up, as one of the federal girls opened the door
of a limo that pulled up. That G-girl stayed back at the curb, becoming a lookout,
while her partner accompanied the last member of our group when he approached and
shook my hand.
He was an assistant
to the Secretary of State.
"Mister Jackson,"
he began, "my apologies for the delay. And my thanks for coming."
"I was beginning
to wonder whose party this was," I commented.
"Actually, that's
the problem. It's no one's party – and everyone's."
The inboard FBI woman
cocked an eyebrow at Shanghai and her flouncy costume. "This is a rather sensitive
matter. Should she be here?"
Shanghai bristled
slightly. I sighed. "Well, I'm a very sensitive person myself. Anything too
sensitive for my associate would, I'm sure, be too much for me." I gave my
head a little shake. "Fiddle-dee-dee."
"Excuse me?"
The Federalette asked.
"My associates
are the most trustworthy and worthwhile people you'll ever meet." I mentioned
Shanghai's real name and explained that she, "has taken time out of her busy
schedule to be here. Anything you tell me I'd simply have to repeat, and excluding
her now would be rude."
Ed Green spoke up.
"She's worked with The Emperor on several occasions. I'm sure the Joint Chiefs
would have no problem with her participation." That shut up the G-girl.
"Now,"
I asked, "what's the situation?"
The marshal spoke
up. "The situation is what you'd call a jurisdictional problem. Over the last
three months we've had a series of raids by some sort of pirate."
"Pirates are
a Coast Guard matter."
"Until they
strike the Sacramento waterway – and until they hit an FBI cargo – and until they
attack a foreign freighter off the Farallons."
"We couldn't
agree on who should supervise the investigation," the gentleman from State
explained. "Someone suggested that you frequently visit this area, and might
have an interest in the matter. We were able to agree to see if you'd let
us pass you the buck."
I frowned. This was
one trip to the City that had been entirely motivated by social intentions. Both
Shanghai and I had some free time and had decided to spend it together. The last
time we'd tried this, we’d ended up in the Bay, by way of Nevada. It had certainly
been a fun time, but rather more of a work-out than I'd intended. I looked over
at her. "Sounds like a sailor's lot. What d’ you think?"
"I think you'll
look adorable in a Donald Duck suit."
I pondered that one
a moment. Disney's duck doesn't wear pants. The assorted officials looked puzzled.
"She means that
a little investigation won't interfere with our intended vacation. Let's hear the
back-story."
They gave me a few
pages’ worth of exposition, about a series of raids staged in the fog by a crew
of modern pirates. Boiled down, it seemed that it had started with a small sailboat,
which had been boarded by a half-dozen men in crisp blue uniforms – sans
insignia – who had relieved the owners, husband and wife, of money, food, water,
clothing, kitchen utensils, and chandlery.
Private boats at
dock had been similarly burgled. County-supervised ferries had been stopped and
shaken down. The Red-and-White to Alcatraz was next. Then bigger vessels were included
in the circle. Osaka Maru, a freighter out of Japan, had been knocked over,
and not without difficulty, by a force of fifty.
Easily stored, non-perishable
foodstuffs had topped the list of items stolen, with tools, rope, haberdashery,
and fuel oil close behind. Drinking water and some currency had been taken, but
seemed incidental.
Whenever possible,
life had been preserved. No one had been killed, though one man was reported missing,
and only three people had been shot, brave men who had opposed the pirates.
The pirates all wore
beards, and blue uniforms. They sounded like the crew of Disney's Nautilus.
Descriptions of the pirates all included these facts, but tended toward vagueness
on other points.
Since the various
authorities all had an interest, each had tried to take charge. And each had resented
the same action on the part of the others. They'd been arguing for a week – well,
they said discussing – when somebody suggested me. Thanks, somebody.
"...Sounds like
we're going sailing, Shanghai."
That G-girl gave
Shanghai a rude stare and pointed out, "We can't be responsible for injury
to civilians, Mister Jackson."
Shanghai cocked her
head to one side, flouncing her ponytail, and pulled down her shades with one finger,
eying the Government woman over the frames, and frowned.
I shot her a sidewise
glance and addressed the Federalette. "Nobody's responsible for Shanghai but
herself, and maybe me, slightly," I said. "She'll be of considerable assistance
in this matter."
"How do you
know?"
