FIRE AND FOG (12 page)

The Atlantic was never this beautiful,
I thought. Oh,
dear God, how I loved San Francisco! Often I had felt my heart
would break from the sheer joy of being here. Yes, even now-I
turned my head and forced myself to look down upon the acres and
acres of devastation.

"San Francisco will rise again," I said, "and, by God, so will
I!"

I had been at Alice's for about a week when it became evident
that someone had taken a dislike to one or both of us. This unknown
person was expressing his (or her) dislike by leaving nasty little
gifts on the front steps overnight. Invariably I was the one to
find them. I cannot begin my day-at least not in a decent
humor-without the lift of caffeine, so first thing each morning I
walked to Mickey's Kitchen for a pot of coffee.

The first loathsome present was a dead pigeon. I had picked it
up and carried it around to the trash bin before it occurred to me
that this bird had not died a natural death. Its throat had been
cut almost all the way through. Later in the morning, it took me
quite a bit of time and elbow grease to scrub pigeon blood off the
steps. The next day's offering was a piece of rotten meat, crawling
with maggots, that I was only just barely able to dispose of
without vomiting. The third gift was a strangled cat, its poor head
twisted all the way around backward. This time I left it there and
went on to Mickey's, thinking along the way.

Thus far I had said nothing to Alice. She aroused a protective
instinct in me; I suspected she did it deliberately but I could not
be certain of that. At any rate, I was not averse to assuming some
responsibility in return for her hospitality. I am by nature a
person who takes charge, whereas Alice appeared to be the opposite.
Her state of mind still seemed fragile-indeed, I had begun to
wonder if it had not always been fragile-so perhaps I should
continue to keep mum about the things on the steps. On the other
hand, Alice's situation was far from straightforward. She had lied
about her husband, of that I was certain, even though I had not
attempted to ascertain the exact nature of the lie. Not yet.

"Where is Mickey this morning?" I asked the hefty woman who
filled my coffeepot. She was dressed in black and had a sort of
Mickeyish look about her, as if she might be a relation.

"I dunno. Off somewhere," she grumbled, "up to his tricks, like
as not."

I would have liked to ask about Mickey's tricks, but owing to
her obvious ill humor I asked for a few rolls instead. I paid with
Alice's money and headed back, resuming consideration of the
problem.

If a man had ever lived in the house on Haight Street, he was
long gone. I had not lived with my father for most of my life for
nothing; I knew the signs of a man's occupation, and they are more
extensive than clothes in the closet and a razor, etc., in the
bathroom. For one thing, most men smoke some form of tobacco, and
the smell of the smoke gets into the draperies and furniture. There
was none of that at Alice's. There were no humidors, no ashtrays,
either sitting about or stored in cabinets-I had looked. No large,
comfortable chair with a reading lamp nearby. No big desk full of
cubbyholes and drawers; no stacks of newspapers that could not be
thrown out because he was going to get around to reading certain
articles in their entirety one of these days. Likewise no
periodicals of a masculine nature. The small study, which was the
logical place for a man's sanctum, had furnishings of female scale.
The same was true throughout the house.

As I climbed the steps, the dead cat regarded me with glazed,
reproachful eyes. Again I left it there. I still had not decided
what to do. I held the bag of rolls in my teeth while I unlocked
the front door and went in, locking it again behind me. I went
straight back to the kitchen.

Alice was not down yet; I had not thought she would be. Her
habit was to stay late in bed, and to take a good deal of time with
her toilette. I put two rolls on a plate for her- she did not drink
coffee-and placed it on the table. I opened the back door and
brought in the milk. Then I made a tray for myself and took it into
the family parlor, which was now my office. I closed the door as if
I were working. Since losing my own flat and office, I had
developed a mania for privacy.

The coffee was better than lukewarm, but not by much, as it
always cooled during the walk back. I confess I prefer my coffee
scalding hot. Of course in these times one should be grateful to
have coffee at all, but I would be glad when the inspectors got
around to Haight Street and we could have a fire in the kitchen
stove. Another of my idiosyncrasies is that I prefer my coffee in a
mug; I had found one solitary brown pottery mug among Alice's
dainty cups and saucers. I suspected it belonged to the maid but
had claimed it for my own, at least until such time as the maid
once more put in an appearance. I sipped and slowly munched on a
roll, thinking.

The maid was another puzzle. For the past week, Alice had gone
out soon after coming down in the morning. She said she wanted to
find out what had happened to her maid; if the woman were in need
of assistance, Alice declared an intention to help. When I offered
to drive her, she refused. I might have insisted, but told myself
it would do Alice good to get out of the house. That was my excuse,
but the truth was rather that I appreciated having the place to
myself for a while.

Also, there was the question of that lacy nightcap I'd found.
Alice did not wear a nightcap. I knew this because not a night had
yet gone by when she did not cry out in her sleep; my first couple
of nights in the house I had gone rushing up to her room to see
what was the matter. I no longer did that-there was nothing I could
do about Alice's nightmares-but at least I had learned that the
nightcap was not likely hers. So whose was it? Had it been
overlooked by a visitor departing in haste? Somehow I did not think
so.

If the maid comes back,
I thought,
I
can
perhaps get some answers from her.
I hesitated to question the
neighbors, for the obvious reason that I was new here and did not
want to get a reputation for being what that awful policeman had
called me, a busybody. Perhaps I might approach Alice's former
coworkers at the library. . . . But the library had
burned-something I truly hated to think about-so where would I find
them?

"Oh, fudge!" I said, an expression I had recently acquired. It
felt somehow like a swear word without actually being one, which I
found most satisfying.

Alice was an enigma within a conundrum. If not for the vile
things being left on the steps, I might have decided, for once, to
ignore it all. Without information from somewhere, one could not
possibly know whether Alice had invented her husband out of whole
cloth, or whether there had actually been such a person here
briefly, though not long enough to make an impression on the
property. The latter explanation seemed the most likely. But, in
that case, this large house would have to have belonged to Alice
before the marriage, and why would a shy woman who owned such a
house force herself out into the world to work as a librarian?

My ruminations were interrupted by a knock and Alice's voice. "I
don't mean to disturb you, Fremont, but I thought you might like to
know that I'm going out."

I leapt up and snatched open the door. "Good morning," I said.
"There is something I must show you before you leave, though you
are likely to see it in any case."

"Oh?" Alice wrinkled her brow in pretty confusion. She had done
her pale hair up in a pouf, and wore a rose-colored dress with a
small bustle and a high lace collar centered by a cameo. She had a
lacy white wool shawl about her shoulders and carried white gloves.
A reticule on a thin gold chain completed her ensemble.

I by contrast was wearing a flared blue skirt (I do despise
bustles, they are such a bother when one tries to sit), a brown
leather belt, and a white shirtwaist with no ornamentation other
than a few pleats. My own brown hair (which has a reddish glint if
one tries hard enough to see it) I had pulled straight back into a
clip at the nape of my neck, in my usual style. No wonder I felt
plain around Alice.

"What I want to show you is on the front steps," I said.

"Oh." Alice turned to the door and grasped the doorknob, which
did not budge. She glanced over her shoulder at me, pouting.
"You've locked it again. I always forget."

I took keys from my pocket, unlocked the door, and held it for
Alice, following close behind her.

"Eeuw," she said, pausing on the second step, "a dead cat! Well,
it isn't mine, Fremont, if that's what you were thinking. Get rid
of it. It's nothing to do with me." She held her skirts daintily
aside.

I moved quickly around and onto the step below her. As I am so
much taller, this put our heads on a level, and I looked her
straight in the eye. "This is not just a dead cat."

"Whatever can you mean by that?"

"It is a threat, and it is not the first," I said flatly,
watching her reaction.

"A th-thr-threat?" Alice's already pale skin blanched, and she
cowered, shrinking, swaying on her feet.

Interesting reaction! I took her by the elbow. "Come inside. We
should talk about this."

I escorted Alice into the formal parlor, where I knew there was
a collection of decanters on a butler's trolley. "Sit down," I
said, mentally adding:
And don't you dare faint while my back is
turned!

By the silver sign hanging on its crystal neck I identified the
brandy and poured some into a rather dusty goblet. "Drink this." I
wrapped Alice's fingers around the glass. "You need it. You must
keep your wits."

She downed the brandy swiftly, without coughing as I would have.
I hate the way the stuff tastes and burns going down, but I do like
how I feel afterward.

"Now, then." I leaned forward in the chair I had taken opposite
her. "Tell me. Who do you think would do this?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. It must be that . . . that the cat just
. . . just happened to die there."

"No. The cat was strangled, Alice. Someone killed it and put it
there deliberately." I told her about the bird and the maggoty
meat, and once again she paled, putting her hand to her heart. Her
eyes closed and she slumped sideways.

I have often thought that women faint when it is convenient for
them; or else they do it because their corsets are too tight. I
find the habit tedious in the extreme. I sighed, picked up the
goblet she had dropped while crumpling, and filled it with another
inch of brandy. Alice opened her eyes when I shoved it under her
nose. She seized the glass and again drained it right down.

"Do you suppose," I asked, "that this harassment is somehow
related to your missing husband?"

"I don't know. I must go to my room. I don't feel at all well."
She wobbled on the edge of her chair.

I gritted my teeth, once more pulling out the only trump card in
my pack when it came to dealing with Alice: "I don't know that I
can stay here unless we deal with this."

"Fre-e-e-mont!" she wailed.

Oh, fudge, now I'd done it. "Shush, don't take on so! Talk to
me, Alice. If you will only tell me the truth, I can help you. But
if you continue to deny that anything is wrong, there is nothing I
can do."

"The truth?" She blinked her violet eyes innocently, as if she
had no acquaintance with the term.

"The truth about your husband, and why the maid has not
returned, and why you have nightmares."

"Those things have nothing to do with that cat. They can't
have!"

"Tell me the truth, and we will decide together whether they do
or do not."

With her little chin trembling, Alice got to her feet. "The
truth is my husband left me for no reason, and so did the maid. I
didn't do anything, it's not my fault. And I don't have nightmares,
you made that up. I think you are being quite cruel to me, Fremont,
to persecute me in this way." She walked unsteadily to the parlor
door.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to persecute you."

"I shall try to forget it. I am much too upset to go out today.
I'll be in my room." In the doorway she turned. Bright spots of
color burned high on her pale cheeks. "Maybe the cat, and the other
things, have been left here because of
you,
Fremont. Have
you thought about that?"

She did not wait for an answer. It was my turn to blink. No, I
had not. Because I had so many unanswered questions about
Alice, I had made an assumption that suddenly seemed unfair. I felt
like a monster. I went out and removed the cat, and from then on I
questioned Alice no more.

The fourth gift, which arrived the next morning, was the
chopped-off head and feet of a chicken. That evening as I worked
alongside Meiling, I told her the whole complicated story.

She straightened up and stood leaning on her shovel. "This woman
is taking advantage of you, Fremont."

"More likely it's the other way around. After all," I said,
keeping my eyes on the ashes I was sifting, "I am living in her
house. Not to mention that, until the banks opened this morning,
Alice was paying for the very food I ate."

"You, too, are paying, but not in coin." Meiling went back to
shoveling.

"Your point is taken." I discarded some unrecognizable bits and
scooped up more ashes. I had begun to despair of ever finding
Meiling's pearls.

"You will have noticed that all the things left on your steps
were in a lifeless state," said Meiling.

"Quite."

"It is a form of curse."

I shuddered, and quickly looked around. This evening, like the
one previous, was clear. People in oriental garb had been working
in other parts of the ruins when we arrived, but nowhere near. We
appeared to be quite alone, and at the moment I did not have that
being-watched feeling. I had more than half decided it was in my
imagination, anyway. "I suppose I may have made an enemy or two," I
confessed, "but not recently. You don't think these threats-this
curse-are because I am helping you, do you, Meiling?"