FIRE AND FOG (17 page)

He regarded me oddly. "There's nobody at home. I rang the
doorbell several times. When there was no answer I got worried, so
I went around and looked in all the windows. There's no one in the
house."

I gave the private my most withering look, which I had learned
from Boston matrons, who themselves had studied at the School of
the Medusa. "You are in error, and I am appalled to think that you
would peek at windows like a common voyeur. My housemate has been
ill, and in addition she is quite a shy person. No doubt you will
have frightened her out of her wits, so that she is cowering in her
room afraid to make a sound. And now, in addition to my difficult
day, I will have to placate her."

"Hey," he said, backing away, "I apologize. I didn't mean any
harm, I just wanted to see you. You're a really hard lady to get to
know, do you know that?"

"Perhaps that is because I do not wish to be known. Good night,
Private Albright." I swept up the steps and took out my key.

This young man either had more determination, or was more
thickheaded, than any ten other men in the Western world. "May I
come again? Just tell me when would be a better time. If I'm on
duty I'll swap with somebody-"

I turned around in a swirl of skirts. "I do not think there will
be a better time. Now goodbye!"

Night fell soon thereafter, and with the coming of darkness came
a degree of apprehension such as I had never known before. I
checked windows and doors twice over to be sure they were locked. I
drew all the curtains and turned on every electric light in the
house. I cursed myself for having removed the curtains in my office
and was seriously considering rehanging them, when I got hold of
myself.

I had decided, hadn't I, that it should appear as if all were
normal in the house? Therefore I should not rehang the curtains.
But I could no longer remember why I had made that decision. Whom
was I hoping to fool? The neighbors? The police? Not the
murderers-they and I already knew the truth, that Alice Lasley was
dead. Fudge and double fudge! I left the window as it was.

My head felt about to split open. I had to do something to calm
myself, so I took a long hot bath. I tried to relax in the deep
tub, but couldn't keep my eyes from darting continuously to the
bathroom door. I was afraid that, if I closed them even for an
instant, someone would creep in and slit my throat. I could picture
myself naked in the bathtub with streams of scarlet staining the
water . . .

"Ye gods!" I yelped.

I don't know why, perhaps it was only my native stubbornness
reasserting itself, but after that I felt better. I did close my
eyes, I did relax, and when I was done I wrapped myself in my
once-viridian robe and turned off the upstairs lights before going
back downstairs.

I took pen and paper into the kitchen, where I could work away
from the bay window's exposure. I thought I would work on the list
I'd started to help me unravel the mystery of Alice and her death.
Instead, as if the pen had a will of its own, I found myself
writing to Michael Archer.

Dear Michael, I have just spent the most amusing day with
Meiling
-

I put the pen down. I had been thoroughly taught that a female
does not make the first approach to a male, not under any
circumstances. She does not call on him, he must call on her. She
does not send round her card with a note of social invitation. At a
party or a ball, she does not ask him to dance. And she does not
write a letter to him unless he has written to her first.

On the other hand, had I not set out for San Francisco precisely
because I did not intend to live my life a slave to convention? Do
I not go without a corset because it is more comfortable; do I not
habitually wear my hair down even though I am of an age to wear it
up, simply because it takes less time and I do not particularly
care how I look? Had I not already defied convention in many other,
more significant ways? Yes, I had. So why should I care about
writing to Michael first? Yet I did care.

"Fremont, you are being very foolish," I grumbled. "After all,
he is only a friend, so the rules for males and females need not
apply." I picked up the pen again. I would write to Michael, not a
silly, superficial, chatty letter (I crumpled that sheet up) but
what was most on my mind.

I produced a letter of some three pages that sounded entirely
too confused, and somewhat desperate, when I read it over. I put it
aside and chewed on the end of the pen, lost in thought. Vaguely I
was aware of the stillness of the house around me, making its
occasional creaks and groans. The tall-case clock down the hall
marked the half hour with a muffled chime.

I attempted to clarify my thoughts. Why, really, was I writing
to him? In a rush of decisiveness, I seized a fresh sheet of paper
and scrawled:

Michael, please come back. I need you.

Then I looked at what I'd written and knew I could never send
it. Never in a million years. So I tore up both letters and burned
them in the stove, after which I went early to bed with the kitchen
knife for a companion. I hid in sleep; I slept as if I had been
drugged.

It is really quite remarkable how a couple of nights of sound
sleep can restore a person. I woke early, and upon opening my eyes
I knew what I should do. Perhaps my sleeping brain worked better
than my waking brain did of late; or perhaps Sherlock Holmes had
paid a visit during the night and shot me up with a seven percent
solution of cocaine. Whatever the cause, I was glad to discover
that my brain cells had not completely turned to mush.

First, after a requisite amount of coffee, I addressed the
problem of how the murderers had gained entry to the house. Feeling
Holmesian, I examined every inch of both back and front doorframes
and all the windowsills with my magnifying glass. There was no
evidence that any opening to the outside had been forced.

As Nurse Bartlett would have said,
Hmmm.
This made me
think of Alice's absent husband, who presumably would have had a
set of keys. If he existed, about which I had my doubts. Keys! Oh,
dear God, I must look for Alice's keys.

They were not in the hall drawer, where I always put them
whenever I found them lying about, which was often; Alice was
notoriously careless with her keys. I hastened up the stairs. A
quick glance around her room showed me that they were nowhere in
sight. I put up the window shade to let in the light so that I
could see better, and while I was at it opened the window-might as
well air out the room-then turned out all of Alice's purses and
reticules and even a small carpetbag, all without finding the keys
I so frantically sought. I went through all the drawers, with
similar results.

Hmmm, again. Of course Alice could have lost them, but I did not
think so. If she'd lost them she would have told me. She would have
wailed about it. To be thorough, I must search the rest of the
house. I did that, with an apprehension that increased as I went
from room to room without result. Just as I finished, the doorbell
rang, announcing my first customer of the day.

Actually, it was more than one customer: a group of women from
the tents in Golden Gate Park, all of them wanting me to type the
letters they dictated, to relatives in far-flung places like
Scotland and Alabama. Such letters constituted the bulk of my
business at present, and though I do not charge much for this
particular kind of work, I was glad to have it. As they say, every
little bit helps.

Around noon the women departed in a flurry of smiles and thanks,
after which I put up a sign announcing that I would be closed two
hours for lunch. I walked to the market, where there was a public
telephone, and called Anson. He answered, and I identified
myself.

"I know your voice, Fremont," he said warmly. "I hope there is a
pleasant reason for your call, although to speak with you is always
pleasant, whatever the circumstances."

A pretty speech! I said, "You are too kind. I was hoping, if it
would not be too much trouble, that you could help me with
something at the end of the day."

"Certainly. When I'm done in the office I have a few house calls
to make, but after that I could come to Haight Street. May I know
what it is that you need help with?"

"It is a private matter, better not discussed over a public
telephone. Do you own a screwdriver, Anson?"

"Of course, but what a non sequitur!"

"I would be obliged if you could bring it with you. Alice
probably has one, but in the event she does not, it would be
prudent for you to bring yours."

"You're very mysterious."

"Not really. Upon your arrival, all will be revealed."

Anson made the chuckle that always surprised me with its buttery
warmth. "My dear, I shall hang upon tenterhooks until then."

We said our mutual goodbyes. I depressed the hook, then rang
again and asked the operator to connect me with the telephone
company's business office. When the connection was made, I canceled
my order for a telephone on Haight Street. I didn't know how much
longer I could remain at Alice's house, but surely it would not be
long enough to justify the expense of having a telephone installed.
With those two things accomplished, I asked the market's proprietor
if he knew the location of a hardware store.

He obliged by giving me directions. I was soon the owner of two
new locks of shiny brass, one for the front door and one for the
back, plus their keys. A close examination of the locks led me to
believe that their installation would not be terribly difficult.
Likely I could do it myself, if I had not already asked Anson. I
could have hired a locksmith, but I did not want anyone around the
house whom I did not already know and trust.

With an hour still remaining of my lunch break, I thought I
might replace my trusty weapon. In an upbeat frame of mind, I
boarded a streetcar and rode it all the way downtown. A prodigious
amount of building was going on, to the accompaniment of an equally
prodigious amount of noise. I was very glad to see it; also to hear
it, even though my acute aural sense is usually offended by loud
sounds. At the end of the line I debarked.

The waterfront and docks had been preserved from the fire, by
dint of heroic effort and water hauled and pumped from the Bay. The
Ferry Building rose up, undamaged by the earthquake, with its clock
still stopped at twelve minutes past five. Along here there were
vendors, such as the woman from whom I had bought my walking stick
last year. She had left her accustomed place outside the train
station after the earthquake and I hoped to find her again. I went
into this rough area unafraid, for our disaster had so upset daily
affairs that a woman alone could go almost anywhere now, without
remark. Everyone was far too busy to care, or even to notice.

Concealed weapons were no longer in vogue, it seemed. The
hastily thrown-up stalls that I passed were trafficking in more
mundane wares, such as clothing and household goods and, in one
case, live chickens. I did not see the snaggle-toothed Chinese
woman who'd sold me the walking stick. There was nothing for it but
to return home.

As I rode the streetcar back, a radical idea began to form in my
head. Forget walking sticks with secret blades; I would rather have
a pistol. A small pistol, silver perhaps, sized for a woman's hand.
One heard that such things existed, and surely I could learn to
shoot it. I was quite good with a rifle-my father had taught me to
shoot traps at an outdoorsmen's club he belonged to on Cape Cod.
Now, how would I go about acquiring a pistol?

Michael would know,
a small voice inside me piped up. I
told it firmly to hush and, furthermore, not to utter those three
words ever again. My stop was coming up; I slung my bag, heavy with
door locks, over my shoulder and hopped out.

On an impulse that I was sure was a good one, I walked a block
in the opposite direction from Alice's house. As I'd hoped, Mickey
Morelock was still in the outdoor kitchen business. He seemed an
eminently streetwise sort of person, the sort who would know about
pistols.

Completion of the inspections in this part of town had not
noticeably diminished Mickey's customers, because many from the
tent city bought their food from him. He greeted me
enthusiastically as I stopped to one side, without joining the
line. "If it isn't one of my favorite young ladies!" he said.
"Where've you been keeping yourself?"

"I can cook at home now," I explained, "but I thought I might
ask your advice on another matter. I'll wait until you are
free."

I waited, shifting my weight from one foot to the other and
having second thoughts. My stomach rumbled in response to a
delicious chicken-and-dumpling smell, but my mind was too full of
doubts about pistols to recognize hunger. I had almost decided
to make an excuse and leave when Mickey ambled over, wiping his
hands on the splattered apron that spanned his considerable
girth.

"Well now," he said, grinning, "when it's advice you want you
couldn't come to a better place than old Mickey. So how can I help
you, darlin'?"

In the face of his good humor, my doubts evaporated. I lowered
my voice confidentially. "I would like to buy a pistol, for
protection, and I do not know how to go about it. I want something
small, that I can handle easily."

He winked broadly. "Nothing to it. I'll be glad to take care of
that for you. You just come on back here tomorrow morning, early,
and we'll see what we've got."

I felt an enormous flood of relief, as if the pistol were mine
already.

My intention was to tell Anson the truth about Alice. I planned
what I would say while I changed into a rose-sprigged dress, more
feminine than the tailored skirts and blouses that are my habitual
daily garb. When I was dressed and he still had not arrived, I
brushed my hair upside down for fullness and pinned it in a pouf on
top of my head. I stood back and examined my appearance in the
cheval glass, part of the bedroom suite brought from upstairs. I
had lost weight, when already I had none to lose. My dress was
loose at the waist, but not enough to be concerned about. I would
gain it back eventually. I was also too pale. The doorbell rang and
I pinched my cheeks to give them color before answering it.