FIRE AND FOG (14 page)

"What?"

"That you'll take it easy. Don't be running all over the city
wearing yourself out. I've seen how you push yourself. By all means
start your business, just do it slowly."

I leaned over and gave Nurse Bartlett a hug. "I will, I promise.
If you're sure you don't need me."

"I'll miss your company, but I don't need you. And one other
thing."

I raised my eyebrows.

"It's about Dr. Tyler. He's a nice young man and he's fond of
you. He asks after you every single day. It wouldn't hurt for you
to see more of him. How do you feel about that?"

"I have no objection, but I think you may exaggerate. I believe
he knows where I am living, so he would have only to pay a social
call. Which he has not done."

"He will," said Bartlett, tucking her chin into a cowl of
wrinkles, "you mark my words, Fremont, he will."

With no more need of the Maxwell, I thought I might as well
return it without delay. In a way I would miss the auto, which
seemed to have taken on a personality, as if we were old friends
who had been through a lot together; but in another way I would
gladly be quit of it, for it reminded me constantly of Michael
Archer. I did not like to think about him because my thoughts on
that subject were confusing.

I headed out of Golden Gate Park toward the Presidio, but then,
on an impulse, turned to the right. The Maxwell and I descended
hills like giant stairsteps, going downtown. We passed an
impressive amount of work in progress. In some areas whole blocks
had been cleared, and scaffolding rose high into the air. I must
say it did give one hope, like seeing the way new green growth
pokes up through the blackened earth after a forest fire. Hopefully
I chugged along, having taken it into my head to pay a visit to the
remains of my building on Sacramento Street.

I had to count the blocks after crossing Van Ness, because the
old landmarks were no more. Having been through the devastated area
so often with Meiling, I no longer became disoriented, and soon
found the place I sought. It was deserted; neither clearing nor
construction had yet taken place here. A wave of sadness swamped my
hopeful mood and drowned it dead. I stopped the Maxwell and got
out.

With no preconceived notion of what I might find, I began a
random search. In the ruins of the Li compound Meiling and I had
worked methodically, one square foot at a time, but I wasn't
prepared to do anything like that tonight. Not unless I found
something really interesting, in which case I should return under
cover of darkness with a shovel. I wasn't even sure what I was
looking for. . . .

Ghoulish as it might sound, I suppose I was looking for the
Sorensons' bones. I believed they were dead-Sergeant Franks had
been most convincing-I just did not believe they had died in the
earthquake. If he had found them, as he said he did, before the
fire, then what other choice was there but to believe someone had
killed them? Especially considering the contraband in the back room
. . .

I coughed, took a handkerchief out of my pocket, and held it
over my nose and mouth. I had dislodged a blackened lump that in
turn set off a cascade of noxious rubble. There are few things that
smell worse than old burnt stuff; sometimes I smelled it in my
dreams. Bad dreams.

As I had already ruined the hem of my skirt anyway, I knelt down
to make a closer examination. Books. Blackened pages, thinner than
their original paper, crumbled and dissolved in the air. I moved
deeper into the ruins, stirring the rubble carefully with my
foot.

No bones; at least, not so far. I had been at this for some time
when that all too familiar prickly feeling of being watched came
over me. I turned around far more casually than I felt, but I saw
no one in the entire block. Nor was there anything left standing
that was substantial enough to hide a watcher. My imagination,
again.

I did not notice that the fog had come in until it swirled
around me. I welcomed its damp freshness, and its concealment, but
it cut the light and made my search more difficult. I wasn't
finding anything anyway, and that puzzled me. What had become of
all that treasure? So much of it had been metal, which might melt
into lumps, but the lumps should still be here. They weren't.

"Aha!" I cried, rather too loudly, and pounced. In my grubby
fingers I held a hard, round object much larger than any of
Meiling's pearls. I rubbed it clean on my skirt and transferred it
to my other hand, where it filled the palm. It was the dark blue
jewel, perhaps a sapphire, that had graced the hilt of the strange
knife. In my mind's eye I could see the squiggly writing on that
knife's wickedly curved blade. I thrust the jewel into my pocket,
squatted down, and began to dig with both hands, oblivious to how
filthy I was getting. There must be some metal here, there must!
The curved blade, melted, its squiggles gone; those two huge
swords-I had only seen their hilts, but I was certain they were
swords; all those brass or gold or whatever vases . . .

I kept at it for a long time but found nothing else. Not a scrap
of metal, not the Sorensons' bones. I sighed, swiping hair that had
come loose from its clasp out of my face with the back of one hand.
Time to give up. The blue jewel would have to be treasure enough
for me. Too bad I couldn't keep it, but it was not rightfully
mine.

As I picked my way back to the auto, I wondered what in the
world to do with the gem.
Michael would know,
I thought
before I could stop myself. Since he had intruded into my thoughts
anyway, I allowed myself to wish he were here. More than ever I was
convinced that the Sorensons had met with foul play, but I could
not see how I would get to the bottom of it. No doubt the real
Sherlock Holmes could still be Holmes without his Watson, but I
could not.

I cranked the Maxwell and got in, surveying my filthy self with
some dismay. I could not go to the Presidio like this, not even
under cover of fog. I would have to return the auto tomorrow.

"Fremont! Good heavens, what happened to you? Where have you
been? It's so late. I've been worried sick!"

"Hello, Alice." She had apparently been pacing the hall, waiting
for me, and was now wringing her hands. Alice was good at things
like that; I doubt I have ever wrung my hands in my entire
life.

"Oh dear, oh dear," she said, "I knew something awful had
happened to you, I just knew it!"

I took the watch from my pocket, feeling as I did so the heavy
weight of the blue jewel there. "It is only a few minutes past
seven, not so late."

"Well, you didn't say you'd be late and you usually get home
much earlier than this. Just look at you! Aren't you going to tell
me what happened?"

"Nothing happened. I went back to Sacramento Street, where my
old office used to be. I was looking for something, which is how I
got so grubby. I did not find it." I pushed past her into my
office. "If you'll excuse me-"

"Oh. You could at least have told me."

"I went there on an impulse, Alice, it wasn't something I'd
planned."

Alice's concern, which had not been for me in any case, became
indignation. "That was most inconsiderate of you, Fremont. You know
how I hate to be in this house alone."

"I'm sorry." I was saying that a lot these days. My patience,
which I was sure I owed her, had grown exceedingly thin. I turned
my back on Alice and began to unbutton my blouse. I could not close
the door because she was standing in it; perhaps if I began to
undress she might take the hint.

"Someone gets in here, I am sure of it," she said nervously. "I
hear them moving around, but when I look, there is no one."

So now Alice was adding paranoia to her little bag of tricks. I
didn't for a minute believe her. It was only another ploy to gain
my sympathy. I continued to undo buttons, then removed my belt, my
back still to her.

"Really," Alice pleaded, "I do hear someone, Fremont. Really, I
do!"

I suppressed a sigh and turned around. "If you keep the doors
and windows locked there is nothing to worry about. No one can get
in. In any event, intruders do not operate in the light of day. I
can't always be here, Alice. I have my own life to conduct."

"I know." For a moment she looked contrite. Then she tipped her
head to one side and had one of her lightning-fast changes of
facial expression. From soft to hard, from contrite to accusing.
"Where's our supper? Didn't you bring it?"

Now I did sigh; I couldn't help it. "I confess I forgot. Anyway,
I could hardly stop at Mickey's looking like this."

Alice sniffed, her turned-up nose in the air. "I suppose you
couldn't. You do look quite disgraceful, I must say. But what are
we to do about supper? I'm hungry."

I flung my blouse off rather viciously. "Couldn't you go and get
it, Alice, just this one time, while I bathe?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't. I couldn't go there all by myself.
Especially not at night. It's not safe. A lady doesn't go out alone
at night."

There were a thousand things I could have replied to that, but I
said none of them. Instead I jerked open my desk drawer and removed
a fistful of dollar bills. "Tonight, I will pay and you will go.
It's only a couple of blocks in your own neighborhood. Trust me,
you'll be fine. There's a little fog, but it's not too bad up
here."

"I hate him," Alice wailed, "that Mickey Morelock gives me the
creeping heebie-jeebies!"

I shrugged, standing in my camisole, and began to unbutton my
skirt. "Suit yourself. I'm perfectly happy with bread and
cheese."

Finally Alice got the message: no go, no food. She took the
money and stomped out the door. Of course she returned safely, with
far more food than I would ever have bought. I thought this a
victory of sorts, but Alice did not act like one victorious.
Instead, her paranoia grew and grew.

Only it was not paranoia: one week later, Alice was dead.

9.

Sweet Little Alice Blue Gone

During that week before I found Alice's body, everything seemed
to be taking a turn for the better-both in my own life and in
post-earthquake San Francisco. The electricity had been restored
and was being turned on neighborhood by neighborhood as fire
inspections were completed. Streetcars ran, and so did the few
cable cars that had anywhere left to run to. Telephone service was
reinstated, and I ordered one for my office because Alice did not
have a phone in the house. The fire inspectors had not yet reached
the Haight but were expected any day. My sign was finished, and I
hung it proudly in the window: fremont jones typewriting
services.

I still had not heard from either Michael or Mrs. O'Leary, but I
no longer expected to. They were no doubt getting on with their
lives, as I was with mine. I returned the Maxwell to Michael's
garage space in the Presidio, on the way encountering Private
Albright, who was surprisingly civil. I went to a moving picture
show with Anson, who did not like it at all, whereas I found it
quite exciting; we had a lively discussion afterward. A few of my
old clients heard about my office on Haight Street by word of
mouth, and they told others, so that a slow but steady trickle of
business began to find its way to my door.

After the dog, no more nasty gifts were left on our front steps,
which, I suppose, is one reason I had let down my guard. In
addition, whatever time I had to devote to mysteries I spent
puzzling over the Sorensons and the vanished contraband. I could
not very well force Alice to confide in me, or so my reasoning
went; and as our two natures seemed always at cross-points, I found
it easiest to placate her without really listening.

Then, on a fine, fateful night at the beginning of June, I
returned to Haight Street from a dinner engagement with Anson. It
was not late, for Anson does not like to keep late hours. He
accompanied me up the steps and at the top kissed me chastely on
the cheek.

I was pleased; he behaved toward me like a suitor, a novelty I
quite enjoyed even though nothing was likely to come of it. I did
not ask him in, but stood on the step and waved him out of sight.
The night air had a softness that felt like a caress. I stretched
my arms out and drew in a deep, delicious breath. I had not, I
realized, felt so content for a long time.

At last I turned, unlocked the door, and went in. My jaw
clenched involuntarily; I knew Alice would be waiting to bombard me
with questions and probably a few accusations for good measure. But
the house was silent and dark. So I was not to be accosted tonight,
so much the better. My jaw relaxed.

"Alice, I'm home," I sang out, then fled into my rooms and shut
the door. I lit the oil lamps in both office and bedroom and began
to undress.

I had worn one of my better outfits this evening, a dress of
dark green taffeta that is most becoming to my eyes. I also like
the way it rustles when I move. I began the tedious process of
undoing a multitude of tiny buttons down the back, but in the
middle of my shoulder blades I paused. I thought I heard something.
I listened. Alice coming down the stairs? No, it had been more of a
click, a one-time-only sound. Like a door closing. Hastily I redid
the top two buttons-I should look into this.

Alice had continued to insist that someone was getting into the
house when I was away, so much so that I'd done a thorough
investigation a few nights ago. I'd found nothing, no sign of
forced entry, no objects out of their usual place. After my
investigation, she changed her tune and began to complain of a
feeling of being watched. With exaggerated patience I had explained
to her that I'd often felt the same thing of late, both in and out
of the house, but had concluded that it was only my imagination. As
no doubt, I'd said, was the case with her.

I struck a match and lit the candle that I carry at night when
going upstairs to the bathroom. Probably Alice herself had gone
into the bathroom and closed the door. But no, it had sounded
closer than that. In the unlikely event that there really was an
intruder, I should be armed; I grabbed my walking stick and rustled
out of my rooms.