FIRE AND FOG (15 page)

I knew I had locked the front door, but I checked it anyway:
yes, locked-I went on to the back of the house. The back door from
the kitchen was also closed and locked. There were no other outside
doors, so I went upstairs, rustling all the way, and feeling a
breeze where my dress gaped in the back.

I called out, "Alice?" No reply. I tapped on the closed door of
the bathroom; still no reply. I tried the knob, found it unlocked,
and opened it. The bathroom was empty.

The doors to all the bedrooms were closed. I went first to
Alice's, repeating the knocking and the calling and again getting
no reply. Odd! I opened the door, holding the candle on high.

Alice was not in her room; for the first time I felt a tingling
of alarm. Rapidly I checked the other bedrooms, then returned to
hers, where I put the candle down and riffled through the clothes
in her wardrobe. Perhaps she'd gone out-I should be able to
determine this by the absence of one of her wraps. But Alice had so
many clothes that I couldn't tell if anything was missing.

Besides, I thought as I grabbed up the candle and hurtled down
the stairs, she was extremely unlikely to go out at night. Her
paranoia had made her a veritable recluse. . . .

The last place I looked was the small study. I pushed the door
inward, my candle casting eerie shadows before me. I gasped: the
room had been torn apart! In the midst of the wreckage lay Alice in
her blue dress, the one with the sweet smocking, and around her
neck was a broad band of scarlet. Blood-smell tainted the air. I
threw down my walking stick with a clatter and ran to her. Whoever
had done this was gone now-that sound I'd heard must have been
their leaving. There was always a chance that she was still alive.
. . .

She was warm, her arm limp as I took her wrist and felt for a
pulse. I couldn't find one. Oh, dear God, there was so much blood!
The scarlet about her neck was a blood-soaked rag; more blood had
pooled behind her head and spread down beneath her upper body.
Blood was in her hair. The taste and smell of it stuck in the back
of my throat and I gagged, but I did not turn away from Alice now
as I had so often turned away from her before. Poor, pathetic
Alice.

In order to see better I lit the kerosene lamp, which remained
on the desk, though its Tiffany-style shade had been smashed.
Alice's violet eyes were open, staring at nothing. Her mouth was
also open, giving her too white face a startled look. She did not
appear to be breathing. I placed my hand flat on her chest; it did
not move. Alice was dead.

"Oh, God, oh, Alice, oh, God!" I cried. Then I ran into the
kitchen and vomited into the sink the excellent dinner Anson had
bought me.

I tore out of the house and through the streets, yelling for a
taxicab. I don't know how long I ran before finding one; when at
last I did it was not an auto but the old horse-drawn kind.

"Take me to the police station," I gasped, "and if you see a
policeman along the way, stop. This is an emergency!"

The cabby said, "Right-o," and clucked up his horse. I performed
contortions in the carriage, getting my buttons buttoned. I'd left
the house without a wrap, without a purse, without keys, without
anything. I had also, probably, left the door unlocked-but it no
longer seemed to matter.

We did not pass any policemen-they seem never to be about when
one needs them-and the trip to the police station took an
unbearably long time. I was used to the Maxwell's speed. How I
wished I'd kept it! How I wished my telephone had been installed so
that I could have called them!

I told myself it did not matter, Alice was dead now, but still
it was I rather than the horse who was champing at the bit when at
last we reached the police station. I jumped out of the cab, only
then realizing that I had no money to pay. "I am so sorry," I
babbled, "but something truly awful has happened, so I wasn't
thinking about anything except that I must get the police."

"That's all right, miss," the cabby said, "never mind."

"No, it's not all right. Please, if you will come tomorrow to
the house on the east corner of Haight and Belvedere, I'll pay you
then. Please?"

"If you say so. Good night, miss, and good luck," he said, and I
called out my thanks over my shoulder, already running into the
station.

The policeman at the desk was not nearly so polite. He growled,
"I thought I told you not to come in here again."

Just my luck; it was Sergeant Franks. I took a deep breath,
determined that he would not intimidate me this time. "My housemate
has been murdered," I said.

He leaned back and looked me up and down contemptuously. "Is
that a fact?"

"Yes, it is." I went right up to the desk and stared him in the
eyes. "I know, Sergeant, that you have taken an unreasonable
dislike to me, but I beg you to put it aside. My housemate, Alice
Lasley, is this very minute lying on the floor of her house on the
corner of Haight and Belvedere with her throat cut. We must go
immediately. It did not happen long ago, because her body was warm
when I touched her to be sure that she was dead."

"These things just happen to you, that right, Miss Jones?"

"You accused me before of wasting police time; I won't waste any
more of it by responding to that remark. I insist the police return
with me to Haight Street to begin the investigation."

A more senior policeman than Franks, to judge by his bearing and
silver hair, came up to the desk and asked, "What's this all
about?"

"Murder," I said.

"Probably nothing," said Franks, but he lumbered to his feet and
buttoned the top buttons of his jacket. "I'll take care of it,
Lieutenant, I know this lady."

"Very well," said the lieutenant, "and take Stephenson with
you."

Stephenson, whose rank was not mentioned, was dark-haired, thin,
and wiry. He looked to be about my own age and never spoke. His job
was to drive the police wagon, whose horses might as well have been
mules for all the speed they mustered. I sat behind the two
policemen, going wild with impatience. As I did not have my pocket
watch with me I did not know the time, but it felt late. The
streets were for the most part deserted, though as well illuminated
as they had ever been, pre-earthquake. There was not a trace of
fog, and it was still warm for the time of year. If any softness
remained in the air, I could no longer feel it. I strove for
composure, which I outwardly achieved, but my nerves were screaming
beneath the skin.

Lamplight glowed through the bay window of Alice's house on
Haight, giving it a falsely welcoming appearance. I had left my
lamps burning, and the front door not only unlocked but standing
partway open. "I did not lock up because I was in such a hurry," I
explained, entering ahead of the two policemen. I ducked into my
office and grabbed the burning lamp from my desk, holding it on
high. The hallway was black as pitch. "If you will follow me, Alice
is in the study toward the rear of this hall. The room has been
ransacked. By the killer."

"Yeah, sure," said Franks.

The study door was shut. Surely I'd left it open? I opened it
now. I had also left a lamp burning in here, but now the room was
completely dark. I held my lamp out before me; my hand shook,
making the light flicker across the room.

"No!" I exploded. "This is impossible!" Franks shouldered past
me through the doorway. Alice's body was gone. The room had been
put back to rights. I could not believe my eyes. I advanced a few
paces and set the lamp down before I dropped it.

Sergeant Franks shoved his hands in his pockets, whistling
through his teeth, then pivoted on his heel and glared at me.
"Murdered housemate, is it? Well, why is it I don't see no body?
Room ransacked by the killer, is it? And everything neat as a pin.
Miss Jones, I have a mind to arrest you for making a false
report."

"I swear she's dead, Alice is dead!" I rushed past the sergeant,
into the middle of the room. "She was right here, right in this
very spot . . . Wait a minute. The rug. The rug is gone! They must
have taken it when they took her body. There must have been more
than one of them, don't you think? One person alone couldn't have
handled both the body and a rug the size of the one that was in
this room, and also have had time to clean everything up."

Stephenson spoke for the first time. "There was a rug in here
until recently, Sarge. Look, you can see where the wood floor is
lighter in the middle than it is around the edges."

"That don't mean a thing," Franks sneered. "I know this lady,
she's a few bricks short of a load. Hell, she's worse'n that. She's
one of them kind that likes to draw attention to herself, ain't
that right, Miss Jones?"

"It certainly is not." I cast my eyes about desperately, seeking
anything that could persuade Sergeant Franks I was telling him the
truth.

He was relentless in his dislike and disbelief of me. His voice
took on a smarmy tone. "Well now, I don't see how I can help you.
First you come to the station and tell me that somebody's not dead
who I know for a fact
is
dead, and then you come-in spite of
my telling you to stay away- and tell me that somebody's dead who
isn't
dead." Franks turned to his colleague, his huge hands
open in mock appeal. "I ask you, Stephenson, is that any way for a
nice woman to treat a public servant?"

To his credit, Stephenson did not answer. He hung his head and
studied his shoes.

"I am telling you for the last time," I said through clenched
teeth, "Alice Lasley was murdered in this room tonight. I
believe-though I cannot say for certain, you will need the coroner
for that-that her throat was cut, because there was a bloody rag
around her neck. The killer or killers must have returned when I
left the house to go to the police station. They took her body
away, and the rug because it was covered with Alice's blood. They
cleaned up the room, their obvious intent being to make it appear
that no crime had been committed. If you don't believe me, look
through the house. You will
not
find Alice here. You
will
find all her clothes, all her things. This is her
house, not mine; I only rent two rooms from her."

"I'll go look," said Stephenson.

"No, you won't, you stay put," Franks commanded. Then he
addressed himself to me. "You said you touched her to be sure she
was dead. Right?"

"Yes, I did."

"Then how come there's no blood on you?"

I looked down at myself, until this moment not having thought of
whether or not I'd gotten Alice's blood on me. He was right, there
was none. My mind worked frantically. "I touched her wrist, to see
if there was a pulse, and her chest to see if she was breathing.
The blood wasn't in those places, it was at her neck and all down
behind her."

"Humph! You got an answer for everything, don't you? Well, get
this, lady:
no body, no murder.
You understand?"

I nodded. The words reverberated in my head, as if struck from a
gong: no body, no murder!

"I could arrest you for falsely reporting a crime, but I won't.
You should be grateful for that."

"I am grateful. However, I would like to report a missing
person: Alice Lasley."

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

I remained silent. Stephenson fidgeted near the doorway.

Franks leaned toward me. His last meal had been full of garlic
and his breath was foul. "The police ain't taking no more missing
person reports right now. Things're in such a mess nobody can tell
who's missing and who just decided to get out of town, so we don't
bother with them no more. You can understand that, can't you?"

I nodded once more.

"All right. Just to show you what a nice guy I am, Miss Jones,
I'll make you a little deal. You find the body of this Alice
Lasley, then you can come back to the police station and maybe
we'll believe she was murdered. Otherwise, you stay away. Come on,
Stephenson, we're leaving."

I followed them to the front door. I was numb all over, body,
brain, nerves, heart. At the door Franks turned back, and I
retreated a step, thinking,
What now?

"I guess it's only fair to tell you, if you did happen to find
Alice Lasley's body, you would be at the very top of my list of
suspects. Good night, Miss Jones."

I closed the door after them without a word. Then I leaned back
against it and slowly slid to the floor.

The next morning I sat gritty-eyed at my desk, making a
list.

#1. Go through the study and the rest of the house
to see if anything is missing. They were looking for
something. What? Might be a motive.

#2.
Try to determine how the killers gained entry.

#3. Construct a list of suspects.

#4. Should I stay in this house?

I tapped the end of my pen on the desk, thinking about #4;
probably I should have made it #1. Obviously, with Alice dead, I
had no right to be here. On the other hand, I could not prove that
she was dead without her body. Nor did I feel entirely right about
leaving the house empty. I wondered to whom it belonged now. She
had never mentioned any relatives, other than the supposed husband,
nor had she seemed to have any friends. Now that I thought about
it, I found it highly unusual that no one had called at the house
to see Alice in all my time here.

I tossed the pen aside and poured more coffee, which was tepid
by now. Owing to my sleepless night, I'd been first in line at
Mickey's Kitchen this morning. Mickey himself was serving, which I
was glad of, because I did not particularly like his surly mother,
or whoever that woman was. I suppose I must have looked a fright,
because he'd cocked his head to one side and asked, "Everything all
right with you this morning, pretty lady?" I'd felt the most absurd
impulse to blurt out the whole story to him, but of course I did no
such thing. I even had the presence of mind to purchase the usual
number of rolls. For the time being it seemed prudent to go on as
if Alice were still in the house.