On a certain foggy morning in September, 1905, a tall man wearing a
black overcoat and bearing in one hand a small satchel of dark-reddish
leather descended from a Geary Street tram at the foot of Market Street,
San Francisco. It was a damp morning; a mist was brooding over the city
blurring all distinctness.
The man glanced about him; a tall man of trim lines and distinctness
and a quick, decided step and bearing. In the shuffle of descending
passengers he was outstanding, with a certain inborn grace that without
the blood will never come from training. Men noticed and women out of
instinct cast curious furtive glances and then turned away; which was
natural, inasmuch as the man was plainly old. But for all that many
ventured a second glance--and wondered.
An old man with the poise of twenty, a strange face of remarkable
features, swarthy, of an Eastern cast, perhaps Indian; whatever the
certainty of the man's age there was still a lingering suggestion
of splendid youth. If one persisted in a third or fourth look this
suggestion took an almost certain tone, the man's age dwindled, years
dropped from him, and the quizzical smile that played on the lips seemed
a foreboding of boyish laughter.
We say foreboding because in this case it is not mistaken diction.
Foreboding suggests coming evil; the laughter of boys is wholehearted.
It was merely that things were not exactly as they should be; it was not
natural that age should be so youthful. The fates were playing, and in
this case for once in the world's history their play was crosswise.
It is a remarkable case from the beginning and we are starting from
facts. The man crossed to the window of the Key Route ferry and
purchased a ticket for Berkeley, after which, with the throng, he passed
the turnstile and on to the boat that was waiting. He took the lower
deck, not from choice, apparently, but more because the majority of his
fellow passengers, being men, were bound in this direction. The same
chance brought him to the cigar-stand. The men about him purchased
cigars and cigarettes, and as is the habit of all smokers, strolled off
with delighted relish. The man watched them. Had anyone noticed his eyes
he would have noted a peculiar colour and a light of surprise. With the
prim step that made him so distinctive he advanced to the news-stand.
“Pardon me; but I would like to purchase one of those.” Though he spoke
perfect English it was in a strange manner, after the fashion of one
who has found something that he has just learned how to use. At the
same time he made a suggestion with his tapered fingers indicating the
tobacco in the case. The clerk looked up.
“A cigar, sir? Yes, sir. What will it be?”
“A cigar?” Again the strange articulation. “Ah, yes, that is it. Now
I remember. And it has a little sister, the cigarette. I think I shall
take a cigarette, if--if--if you will show me how to use it.”
It was a strange request. The clerk was accustomed to all manner of
men and their brands of humour; he was about to answer in kind when he
looked up and into the man's eyes. He started.
“You mean,” he asked, “that you have never seen a cigar or cigarette;
that you do not know how to use them? A man as old as you are.”
The stranger laughed. It was rather resentful, but for all that of a
hearty taint of humour.
“So old? Would you say that I am as old as that; if you will look
again--”
The young man did and what he beheld is something that he could not
quite account for: the strange conviction of this remarkable man; of age
melting into youth, of an uncertain freshness, the smile, not of sixty,
but of twenty. The young man was not one to argue, whatever his wonder;
he was first of all a lad of business; he could merely acquiesce.
“The first time! This is the first time you have ever seen a cigar or
cigarette?”
The stranger nodded.
“The first time. I have never beheld one of them before this morning. If
you will allow me?” He indicated a package. “I think I shall take one of
these.”
The clerk took up the package, opened the end, and shook out a single
cigarette. The man lit it and, as the smoke poured out of his mouth,
held the cigarette tentatively in his fingers.
“Like it?” It was the clerk who asked.
The other did not answer, his whole face was the expression of having
just discovered one of the senses. He was a splendid man and, if the
word may be employed of the sterner sex, one of beauty. His features
were even; that is to be noted, his nose chiselled straight and to
perfection, the eyes of a peculiar sombreness and lustre almost burning,
of a black of such intensity as to verge into red and to be devoid of
pupils, and yet, for all of that, of a glow and softness. After a moment
he turned to the clerk.
“You are young, my lad.”
“Twenty-one, sir.”
“You are fortunate. You live in a wonderful age. It is as wonderful as
your tobacco. And you still have many great things before you.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man walked on to the forward part of the boat; leaving the youth,
who had been in a sort of daze, watching. But it was not for long. The
whole thing had been strange and to the lad almost inexplicable. The man
was not insane, he was certain; and he was just as sure that he had not
been joking. From the start he had been taken by the man's refinement,
intellect and education. He was positive that he had been sincere. Yet--
The ferry detective happened at that moment to be passing. The clerk
made an indication with his thumb.
“That man yonder,” he spoke, “the one in black. Watch him.” Then he told
his story. The detective laughed and walked forward.
It was a most fortunate incident. It was a strange case. That mere act
of the cigar clerk placed the police on the track and gave to the world
the only clue that it holds of the Blind Spot.
The detective had laughed at the lad's recital--almost any one had a
patent for being queer--and if this gentleman had a whim for a certain
brand of humour that was his business. Nevertheless, he would stroll
forward.
The man was not hard to distinguish; he was standing on the forward deck
facing the wind and peering through the mist at the grey, heavy heave of
the water. Alongside of them the dim shadow of a sister ferry screamed
its way through the fogbank. That he was a landsman was evidenced by his
way of standing; he was uncertain; at every heave of the boat he would
shift sidewise. An unusually heavy roll caught him slightly off-balance
and jostled him against the detective. The latter held up his hand and
caught him by the arm.
“A bad morning,” spoke the officer. “B-r-r-r! Did you notice the Yerbe
Buena yonder? She just grazed us. A bad morning.”
The stranger turned. As the detective caught the splendid face, the
glowing eyes and the youthful smile, he started much as had done the
cigar clerk. The same effect of the age melting into youth and--the
officer being much more accustomed to reading men--a queer sense of
latent and potent vision. The eyes were soft and receptive but for
all that of the delicate strength and colour that comes from abnormal
intellect. He noted the pupils, black, glowing, of great size, almost
filling the iris and the whole melting into intensity that verged into
red. Either the man had been long without sleep or he was one of unusual
intelligence and vitality.
“A nasty morning,” repeated the officer.
“Ah! Er, yes--did you say it was a nasty morning? Indeed, I do not know,
sir. However, it is very interesting.”
“Stranger in San Francisco?”
“Well, yes. At least, I have never seen it.”
“H-m!” The detective was a bit nonplussed by the man's evident evasion.
“Well, if you are a stranger I suppose it is up to me to come to
the defence of my city. This is one of Frisco's fogs. We have them
occasionally. Sometimes they last for days. This one is a low one.
It will lift presently. Then you will see the sun. Have you ever seen
Frisco's sun?”
“My dear sir”--this same slow articulation--“I have never seen your sun
nor any other.”
“Hum!”
It was an answer altogether unexpected. Again the officer found himself
gazing into the strange, refined face and wonderful eyes. The man was
not blind, of that he was certain. Neither was his voice harsh or testy.
Rather was it soft and polite, of one merely stating a fact. Yet how
could it be? He remembered the cigar clerk. Neither cigar nor sun! From
what manner of land could the man come? A detective has a certain
gift of intuition. Though on the face of it, outside of the man's
personality, there could be nothing to it but a joke, he chose to act
upon the impulse. He pulled back the door which had been closed behind
them and re-entered the boat. When he returned the boat had arrived at
the pier.
“You are going to Oakland?”
It was a chance question.
“No, to Berkeley. I take a train here, I understand. Do all the trains
go to Berkeley?”
“By no means. I am going to Berkeley myself. We can ride together. My
name is Jerome. Albert Jerome.”
“Thanks. Mine is Avec. Rhamda Avec. I am much obliged. Your company may
be instructive.”
He did not say more, but watched with unrestrained interest their
manoeuvre into the slip. A moment later they were marching with the
others down the gangways to the trains waiting. Just as they were seated
and the electric train was pulling out of the pier the sun breaking
through the mist blazed with splendid light through the cloud rifts. The
stranger was next to the window where he could look out over the water
and beyond at the citied shoreline, whose sea of housetops extended and
rose to the peaks of the first foothills. The sun was just coming over
the mountains.
The detective watched. There was sincerity in the man's actions. It was
not acting. When the light first broke he turned his eyes full into the
radiance. It was the act of a child and, so it struck the officer, of
the same trust and simplicity--and likewise the same effect. He drew
away quickly: for the moment blinded.
“Ah!” he said. “It is so. This is the sun. Your sun is wonderful!”
“Indeed it is,” returned the other. “But rather common. We see it every
day. It's the whole works, but we get used to it. For myself I cannot
see anything strange in the 'sun's still shining.' You have been blind,
Mr. Avec? Pardon the question. But I must naturally infer. You say you
have never seen the sun. I suppose--”
He stopped because of the other's smile; somehow it seemed a very
superior one, as if predicting a wealth of wisdom.
“My dear Mr. Jerome,” he spoke, “I have never been blind in my life. I
say it is wonderful! It is glorious and past describing. So is it all,
your water, your boats, your ocean. But I see there is one thing even
stranger still. It is yourselves. With all your greatness you are only
part of your surroundings. Do you know what is your sun?”
“Search me,” returned the officer. “I'm no astronomer. I understand they
don't know themselves. Fire, I suppose, and a hell of a hot one! But
there is one thing that I can tell.”
“And this--”
“Is the truth.”
If he meant it for insinuation it was ineffective. The other smiled
kindly. In the fine effect of the delicate features, and most of all
in the eyes was sincerity. In that face was the mark of genius--he felt
it--and of a potent superior intelligence. Most of all did he note the
beauty and the soft, silky superlustre of the eyes.
We have the whole thing from Jerome, at least this part of it; and our
interest being retrospect is multiplied far above that of the detective.
The stranger had a certain call of character and of appearance, not
to say magnetism. The officer felt himself almost believing and
yet restraining himself into caution of unbelief. It was a remark
preposterous on the face of it. What puzzled Jerome was the purpose;
he could think of nothing that would necessitate such statements and
acting. He was certain that the man was sane.
In the light of what came after great stress has been laid by a certain
class upon this incident. We may say that we lean neither way. We have
merely given it in some detail because of that importance. We have
yet no proof of the mystic and until it is proved, we must lean, like
Jerome, upon the cold material. We have the mystery, but, even at that,
we have not the certainty of murder.
Understand, it was intuition that led Jerome into that memorable trip to
Berkeley; he happened to be going off duty and was drawn to the man by
a chance incident and the fact of his personality. At this minute,
however, he thought no more of him than as an eccentric, as some
refined, strange wonderful gentleman with a whim for his own brand of
humour. Only that could explain it. The man had an evident curiosity
for everything about him, the buildings, the street, the cars, and the
people. Frequently he would mutter: “Wonderful, wonderful, and all the
time we have never known it. Wonderful!”
As they drew into Lorin the officer ventured a question.
“You have friends in Berkeley? I see you are a stranger. If I may
presume, perhaps I may be of assistance?”
“Well, yes, if--if--do you know of a Dr. Holcomb?”
“You mean the professor. He lives on Dwight Way. At this time of the
day you would be more apt to find him at the university. Is he expecting
you?”
It was a blunt question and of course none of his business. Yet,
just what another does not want him to know is ever the pursuit of a
detective. At the same time the subconscious flashing and wondering at
the name Rhamda Avec--surely neither Teutonic nor Sanskrit nor anything
between.
“Expecting me? Ah, yes. Pardon me if I speak slowly. I am not quite used
to speech--yet. I see you are interested. After I see Dr. Holcomb I may
tell you. However, it is very urgent that I see the doctor. He--well, I
may say that we have known each other a long time.”
“Then you know him?”
“Yes, in a way; though we have never met. He must be a great man. We
have much in common, your doctor and I; and we have a great deal to
give to your world. However, I would not recognise him should I see him.
Would you by any chance--”
“You mean would I be your guide? With pleasure. It just happens that I
am on friendly terms with your friend Dr. Holcomb.”