Journal Entry: 4 November 1935

         A man died in my arms tonight. I must write down all the details before they recede into the mists of memory. I am now safe at my writing desk in a warm library, but the cold streets are still settled in my bones and my hands are still shaking a little.
         I was walking home after an artist’s journey when I decided to get a cup of coffee at Curly’s, an all-night cafe near the Embarcadero. I am well known on the waterfront and therefore safer than most lone women at night. The danger is sufficient, however, that I remain acutely aware of my surroundings. I strive to be aware at all times--my art demands it--but after midnight I attend closely to every sound, every rustle, every footfall which is not my own. I was protected by the thinnest of disguises, the costume of an ordinary seaman and my hair tightly pinned and covered by a watch cap. Also, I never go out alone without a twelve-shot Beretta in the waistband of my trousers.
         My usual route to Curly's was blocked by street repair, and I was forced to turn back. Cold and tired, I jammed my fists into my pockets and thought about calling Henry to drive out and retrieve me. Taxis are reluctant to come to that part of town at that time of night and the cable cars had long since stopped running.
         Most of the shops on Paradiso Street were shut up for the night. Here and there a pool of light spilling from a shop window illuminated the dark street, making the darkness seem deeper and the November cold even bleaker. I passed a wholesale fabric shop. The placard on the door said "Closed," but two men stood at the counter chatting amicably. I briefly envied them their warmth and light as I trudged on. At the end of the block, I turned right onto Water Street and headed toward Chinatown, hoping to find a public telephone with which to disturb Henry's sleep, or perhaps an all-night taxi stand.
         Just then I heard rapid footsteps coming up from behind. My alertness sharpened and I freed my hands from my pockets in order to have quick access to my pistol if it should be needed. I turned to face whatever came toward me. A small, plump man rounded the corner, running hard. He held his hat on his head with one hand and the lapels of his suit coat flapped as he ran. He passed under a street lamp, and I recognized Avrahm Rosenberg. He brushed by, not slowing down, obviously not recognizing me. A greeting died on my lips. When he drew even with the mouth of the alley, a shot exploded and he halted in mid-step. Then he stumbled, reeled and fell to the ground.
         My heart leapt into my throat and the Beretta leapt into my hand. I ran toward him. "Mr. Rosenberg!" I called. I looked up the alley whence the shot had come. I saw in the light of a doorway, a young man with wild eyes and even wilder hair. "You, there!" I pointed my pistol at him. "Put up your hands!" When he saw my gun, he turned and bolted up the alley. I am not the sort of person who can coldly shoot a man in the back, not even a killer caught red-handed. I fired a shot into the air and called for him to stop, but it was useless. He was gone.
         Then I heard a groan from Mr. Rosenberg. I had assumed he was dead. I immediately ran to him. Even in the dim light I could see he was wounded badly. "Mr. Rosenberg," I said. "It’s Margaret Thompson."
         "Oh, yes,” he seemed surprised. “Lady Margaret, I . . . " his voice trailed off.
         "Rest easy, Mr. Rosenberg, I'm going to call for the police. I think you'll be all right if we can get you to hospital. Hold on--do you understand? I'm leaving to get help, but I'll be right back."
         A lighted shop only a few yards away promised human habitation. I ran to it. The door was locked. I pounded with both fists on the window. A big blonde man came out from the back, looked at me and said "Sorry, we're closed!" and waved me away.
         "No!" I shouted. "Someone's been hurt! Call the police. Tell them to send an ambulance!" He hesitated for a second. "Please! Call the police!" Finally he nodded and picked up the telephone on the counter and began dialing. Satisfied, I ran back to Mr. Rosenberg.
         During the Great War I spent a good deal of time in Flanders as a nurse. The training I received then has proved useful many times. This was one of those times. I had a large handkerchief in my hip pocket and this I applied to the wound in Mr. Rosenberg’s ribs, pushing hard to stop the bleeding. A quick examination revealed that the bullet had missed his heart, but I suspected it had passed through his lungs. I could find no exit wound, so I knew the bullet must be lodged inside. I saw this kind of wound many times in the war and I know an operation to repair the damage and drain the blood from his lungs would save his life--if he could be gotten to hospital very quickly.
         But the police did not come quickly. Mr. Rosenberg drifted in and out of consciousness. When his breathing became laboured I lifted his shoulders and, sitting cross-legged, leaned him against me there in the middle of the alley. This freshened the bleeding and I could feel it soaking into the rough wool blouse of my sailor's costume.
         Unexpectedly, Mr. Rosenberg patted my hand. "Ilse, I am so very sorry," he said. He spoke in German, which I understand fairly well. Then he mumbled something I didn't catch.
"Mr. Rosenberg," I said. "Who did this to you? Did you recognize him?" He didn't answer. I guessed that he had again lost consciousness.
         The face of the killer is vivid in my mind. I have made a few preliminary sketches and they are scattered before me on the desk. A young man looks at me from them. His eyes are large and dark with terror and the knowledge of his crime. I will make a more detailed rendering before I fall asleep. Sleep. It calls to me like a lover in the distance. Henry has just brought me some coffee. Thank you, Darling.
         Now to resume. Time passed. Too much time. The cold, empty alley loomed silent as a sepulchre. No passersby strolled along on the street. The dead of night had literally descended. I held the dying man in my arms, acutely aware that I presented my back to the alleyway down which the killer had fled.
         Mr. Rosenberg woke sometimes, briefly, though never fully. He spoke to his wife. He continued to apologize and beg her forgiveness. I don’t know her well. I’ve met her only once, when he brought her to an art opening. He and I knew each other slightly and were quite cordial. He occasionally bought my smaller, less expensive pieces. I thought him a charming little fellow, with elegant European manners.
         He muttered and gestured incoherently. My German is not as good as my French, but I understood nearly everything he said. He sometimes spoke to someone who was not his wife. "You are a cannibal . . . " he said. I am sure of the word "Kannibale." "You are a cannibal! How can you do this . . . " Then he muttered something I couldn't make out. After that he fell silent again. He struggled for breath. His life ebbed away in the dark and there was nothing I could do but hold him upright as well as I could and watch him go.
         The police did not come. No ambulance. Mr. Rosenberg continued to call for his wife and talk to the monster who had killed him. I pretended to be his wife and while tears rolled down my cheeks, I assured him of my love and forgiveness. I don't know if I fooled him, but he seemed to be comforted a bit.
         I was weeping when a patrol car finally rolled by the mouth of the alley. I cursed them and their indifference, then pulled out my pistol and fired three shots into the air. I heard their tyres shriek to a stop, and then the car turned sharply around. Two policemen emerged and edged toward me with their guns pointed at me.
         "Don't shoot you idiots! Radio for an ambulance immediately!" They hesitated and looked at each other.
         "What's going on?" said the taller of the two.
         "A man is going to die if you don't call an ambulance!"
         "You’re a dame!" the taller man remarked astutely.
         Mr. Rosenberg stirred. "Mein Liebchen . . . My Darling Ilse . . . Ilse . . ." and then I felt the sudden weight of a lifeless body. I held him as the police slowly advanced.
         "Peterson, call for an ambulance," said the taller one.
         I shook my head hopelessly. "He's gone. It's too late."
"Push the gun over to me and stand up," said the one who wasn't Peterson. Later I discovered his name was Ferelli. "You're under arrest."
         "Under arrest? What is the charge?"
         "Shove that gun over here right now." Ferelli's voice was flint. One of the things I have learned in my life is how foolish it is to frighten a policeman. I pushed the Beretta toward him. It skittered to a stop a few inches from his feet.
         "What is the charge?" I asked. I laid Mr. Rosenberg gently on the pavement. I tried to stand, but my legs were numb.
         "Murder!" said Ferelli.
         "Murder!" I am embarrassed to report that I lost my temper. "Do murderesses often summon the police, tend their victims’ wounds and weep over their dying bodies? How dare you! You murdered this man as much as the monster who pulled the trigger! The police were called over half an hour ago and you are just now getting here! He would have survived if you had come immediately." I went on in this vein for quite some time, struggling to my feet and standing in front of the policeman with his pistol pointing at my belly. Finally, to my extreme annoyance, I was weeping so hard I could not continue.
         I must have convinced him. Ferelli holstered his pistol and took out a small tablet and the stub of a pencil. "Tell me your name," he said.
         I took several deep breaths and got hold of myself. "I am Lady Margaret Thompson, Countess of Chesterleigh." Both men laughed. It was a reaction I had come to expect in the States when introducing myself to common folk. I sometimes call myself just Margaret Thompson, but this was an official situation.
         "And I'm the Queen of Romania," he said. "Get into the car, sister. Peterson, stay with the stiff. I'll radio for the meat wagon." I climbed into the patrol car, too tired to argue. Soaked with drying blood, I trembled with exhaustion and cold. At least it was warm in the car.
         When we arrived at the station, I telephoned Henry, waking him, and asked him to retrieve me. Henry is a very cool customer. He didn't quiz me about the situation. He has rescued me times without number over the years, and he knew I would eventually tell him all the details. My life's adventures are never complete until they have been told to Henry. I warned him that I was bone weary and would wish to go home the instant he arrived.
         About forty-five minutes later I could hear a row going on outside in the public area of the police station. Someone shouted and a door slammed. I stood.
         "That will be Henry," I said to Ferelli. He had been questioning me in a small, dingy office. "I'm too tired to continue. Send someone around tomorrow about four o'clock and I will provide a drawing of the killer and answer any further questions."
         "Sit down, sister," said Ferelli. "We ain't done with you."
         "But I am finished with you for the moment," I said. I dug in the trousers of my sailor's costume and pulled out a calling card. Across one corner, the card was stained with Mr. Rosenberg's blood. My eyes stung with fresh tears when I saw it. My blouse was saturated with his blood and sticking to me as it dried. I had been ignoring it. I wiped the tears away and handed the card to the policeman. The door burst open and Henry stood there, gripping his hat with white knuckles. Another policeman hung onto his shoulder.
         "Now wait a minute!" Ferelli exclaimed as he jumped to his feet.
         Henry ignored him, looking me up and down. "Are you all right, Maggie?" he said, his voice shaking a little.
         "Yes, Darling," I replied. Ferelli said something but I don't remember what. Henry filled my eyes.         
         "Do you remember Mr. Rosenberg?" Henry hesitated and then nodded.
         "The pudgy little art dealer," he said. "He was at the charity show last month."
         "That is he," I said. "He’s dead." Relief spread across Henry’s face.
         "Then that blood isn't yours!"
         "Oh, Heavens, no! Oh, Darling!"
         Henry shook off the officer's hand which still restrained him and threw his arms around me. I wanted very much to weep, but I knew if I did I wouldn't stop for quite some time, and I could hear Officer Ferelli shouting something. I presumed he was speaking to me.
         "Please stop shouting," I said to him. "You have my card. Send someone around tomorrow at four. Good night."
         Henry brought me home and helped me out of the blood-soaked clothes and into a hot bath while I told him the whole story. Then I set to work on the sketches that are before me now. I am so tired now that my hands are trembling and my eyes keep closing on their own.
         However, I must write down one more thing. The man in those sketches has good reason to look frightened. I swear I will find him and bring him to justice.