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Out on the street I cranked Max with a vengeance, and then we
took off. "Pull yourself together," I ordered Frances grimly. "Stop
crying or your eyes will be red."

"But she's
dead,
Fremont! Abigail Locke was-was
murdered
by somebody!"

"Murdered by somebody who arranged for
you
to find her
body! Don't you see, Frances? Somebody wanted you to find her, and
to call the police. Wanted you involved." I turned a corner rather
viciously, and Max's wheels screeched a protest.

"Why do you say that? That's a terrible thing to say!"

"Never mind. Get out your handkerchief and wipe your face. We're
going straight back to your house. Who saw you leave?"

"Well, Cora, I suppose."

"Did she know where you were going? Did you tell her?" I
wondered how I could ever have thought this auto climbed hills like
a goat. We were moving upward with agonizing slowness.

"I . . . don't remember. I don't think so. But it doesn't
matter, she won't tell."

From the corner of my eye I saw Frances daintily wiping beneath
her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief, and she sat straighter.
Good. "This is what we're going to do. You, Frances, are going to
remember that your husband must never, ever know where you went
this morning. Truly, I fear for your safety if he finds out."

I had to, quite literally, bite my lip to keep from telling her
outright that I thought she should get herself away from him. It
was too early, much too early, for me to make a decision in the
direction I was already leaning: That Jeremy McFadden had killed
the medium, or arranged to have her killed, in order to teach his
wife a lesson.

I took my eyes from the road for a moment to fix Frances with
what I hoped was a steely stare. "You must never tell
anyone
¹
.
Do you understand that?"

"No. Frankly, I don't." She sounded petulant, which was better
than teary or terrified. "I think you're being irresponsible,
Fremont. I would have expected more of you."

"I'm going to call the police, but not until I've seen you
safely inside your own front door. I'll use a callbox and report
Mrs. Locke's death anonymously. The police will take over the
investigation, don't worry, and her murderer will not go
unpunished. Think, Frances, think! What good would it do anyone to
know that we were there?"

"We had every right to be there. I was invited!"

"So you were," I said grimly. I lurched the Maxwell up the
McFaddens' steep driveway and screeched to a halt in the
pone
cochere.
"If you can get to the telephone and be sure we're not
overheard, call me and we can talk about this later. Meanwhile,
think on this. I haven't been in the private investigation business
very long, but I have an excellent teacher, and I can tell you
this: Abigail Locke had not intended to get up for any appointment
this morning. She was sleeping late, probably because she had a
late seance last night. She was killed not long before we arrived,
because the blood was still fresh. I could tell by its color, and
by the fact that its smell had not yet settled in to permeate the
room. You were supposed to find Abigail Locke dead, Frances-that is
why you were sent that invitation."

"Oh." She turned very pale. But in her spirited way, still she
protested: "How can that be? My invitation was on her own personal
notepaper!"

I gave her a little push. "Think about it. And believe I have
only your best interests at heart! Now go, and find a way to
persuade your maid to keep silent about your having been out at all
this morning. I must get to a public telephone and report this
murder without further delay."

"Where is Michael?" I asked Wish Stephenson, who was sitting at
my desk when I got back to the office.

Wish looked up and smiled. "He went out somewhere, didn't say. I
told him I'd watch the office since I had to write up my report for
you to type anyhow." He tapped the eraser end of a pencil on the
lined paper he was using, then shook his head from side to side as
a mournful expression claimed his face. "I wish I could've done
more for Mr. Fennelly. He's not satisfied, you know, Fremont. Don't
be surprised if he refuses to pay."

"Nothing would have satisfied that man except our finding his
daughter, Wish. It was an impossible task, and you did the best you
could."

"Uhm." He bent over the desk and went back to his writing.

I took off the heavy garnet sweater and draped it over a brass
clothes tree near the door. Michael's being out was a considerable
relief, as he is altogether too good at "reading" me. I had kept my
emotions in order for Frances's sake, and for her sake I had
decided-though with some difficulty-not to call the police after
all. Then, on the way back home to Divisadero Street, I had begun
to fall apart.

"How was the dentist?" Wish asked, without looking up. "Not too
painful, I hope."

"What? Oh!" The dentist-I'd forgotten. I put a hand up to my
cheek. "Thank you for asking. In truth, the dentist does not
provide one with an enjoyable experience. I'm somewhat shaken. If
you don't mind sitting there a little longer, I'll go back to the
kitchen and make us a cup of . . . of, well, something soothing."
Coffee didn't seem like quite the thing for nerves already
jangled.

"Cocoa?" Wish suggested hopefully. "My mother makes hot
chocolate for a treat. Maybe you could use some, Fremont. And I
love hot chocolate!"

"Yes." I tried to smile. "That will be the very thing."

Michael was out all day. Frances did not call. Both these things
worried me. So when, in late afternoon, Wish began dithering over
the puzzle of those empty graves on Lone Mountain, I said I'd go
with him to check them out again. Anything, I thought, for
distraction. Even a visit to a cemetery.

We left a note and waited for the streetcar, in case Michael
should return and have need of his auto.

"What's on your mind, Fremont?" Wish asked, looking down at me.
"You've been off somewhere in your head all day."

"Nothing, really. I was just thinking how much I wish-" I
smiled, as one usually did at the intrusion of his nickname into
conversation, only in this case I did it to buy myself time to make
something up-and then I had it: "I wish we could afford to pay a
receptionist. I could still do the typing, we could hire someone
without clerical skills, just to answer the telephone and make
appointments. I hate being tied to the office."

"I feel the same. There are times when it would be good for us
to work in the field together, Fremont. And Michael isn't really
interested in the day-to-day activities of the J&K Agency, in
spite of his name being on it. He seems . . . well, at times he
does seem remote."

I nodded. It was true, but no different from what I had expected
from my partner.

"Just as you've been today, in fact." Wish's eyes twinkled. "You
and he are very much alike, you know."

"We are not! He has all these skills that I am only struggling
to acquire, and he's older, and he's secretive-you can hardly say
any of that about me."

Wish grinned openly. "Still, there's some quality in both of you
that's the same. Maybe I can't put a name to it, but it's
there."

This pleased me inordinately, so I smiled back, but said
nothing.

"So-o-o . . . what's been on your mind today, are you going to
tell me?"

I clung to my former story. "As I said, I've been thinking how
to get some more help in the office. I want to be out working on
cases more. I want someone to look after things when we leave
early, as we did today, for example. That's all."

"Do we have any new cases?"

"No." I shifted uncomfortably and looked down the street for the
streetcar. "But we could have more if we advertised. And another
thing," I went on, warming to this diversion. "I feel I've been in
training long enough, I want Michael to cut me loose, stop this
infernal choosing of what cases I may work, but he says I'm not
ready yet."

Wish's eyes narrowed, but the look in them was kind. "Then you
must let him teach you how to shoot. He's not going to cut you
loose, as you put it, until you can defend yourself more
effectively than you can with that blade of yours."

I nodded again, miserably this time, and stared down at my feet.
The truth was, I had more familiarity with guns than either Wish or
Michael knew, and I did not want to hold one of the things in my
hand ever again. Much less pull the trigger. I forced myself to
continue: "He also says I have to be able to follow his trail
without detection, at least once. I'm beginning to think I'll never
accomplish that."

Yet even as I uttered those words, and Wish commiserated with me
on Michael's uncanny ability to elude pursuit, I had an idea. An
absolutely splendid idea, which I filed away for future reference,
for at that moment the streetcar came.

We had a brief ride to California Street, where we changed cars
and went on, climbing slowly but steadily. I commented about the
amount of construction going on, because I'd thought this part of
San Francisco to be relatively undeveloped. Wish said something
about a lot of this land belonging to the Church-by which I knew he
meant the Roman Catholics. His family of course is of that
religious persuasion; they would hardly have given him a name like
Aloysius otherwise.

I let that go by, as the Catholic Church is a mystery to me, and
I already had another mystery on my mind. The excuse I'd made up
for Wish, and my real preoccupation, had come together in my mind,
and I was trying to figure out how I could get away from the office
to do whatever must be done to help Frances McFadden. She was going
to need help, in some form or other, I was sure of that.

I was equally sure I didn't want to hear whatever Michael would
have to say about my helping. But how-

"This is it, I think," Wish said, tapping me on the shoulder and
interrupting my thoughts. 'We get off at the next corner."

I swung down off the high streetcar step with a little hop and
looked around. I had never been here before, that much was certain.
There was a hint of sea smell in the air, and a stiff breeze that
skimmed the top of our hill without a hint of movement in the huge
gray clouds massed above. I took a couple of steps away from the
curb and then stopped, for Wish was looking about and rubbing his
chin. A scraggly line of houses ran along a sidewalk that was
mostly dirt. Gritty dirt, with a lot of sand in it, that made a
scrunching sound as I walked over to where Wish stood
indecisively.

"What is this place?" I asked. "Is this where we're going?"

"No, we have to walk a couple of blocks. But it seems different
somehow."

I turned and looked at the intersection just behind us, squinted
and stared harder, as if I could somehow bring into existence a
street sign that was not there. I knew the streetcar we'd been on
ran out all the way to the Cliff House at the beach, but . . . "Why
is there no sign at the cross street?" I asked. The founders of San
Francisco had been such sticklers for planning their city in a
strict grid pattern that streets marched straight up and down hills
with no consideration for topography. And they were always named,
always.

"I don't know," said Wish, beginning to walk south along the
unnamed cross street.

"Where is the cemetery?" I did not see tombstones, only a few
houses and some of the construction that was going on everywhere.
Reconstruction, new construction-most of the time it was impossible
to tell one from the other.

"In this direction we're walking," Wish said. He was moving
along so slowly, quite unlike his habitual lope, that I could
easily keep up with him. He continued, "On the day I saw, um, what
I thought I saw, I'd already talked to the caretakers and examined
the books of the major burial grounds. I hadn't found Fennelly's
daughter that way, so I was just wandering around, reading the
tombstones, the way you do in cemeteries. It was pretty
interesting, Fremont."

"I'm sure." As we crossed another unmarked street I looked back
toward the east-or at least so I thought, I was beginning to feel
quite turned around-and had one of those unexpected glimpses of San
Francisco that take your breath away. Even on such a gloomy day,
the sweep of the vista down the hills to a dark gray blur of Bay
was spectacular.

"No, really," Wish insisted, "it was. From the names on the
tombstones I could tell I'd come across a section of family
graveyards, and they were old. In one part, the names were all
Chinese, written in Chinese characters and English, both."

"Fascinating," I remarked.

"You sound annoyed with me," Wish said, stopping. He had a
single frown line creasing his clear young brow, just to the right
of his nose. "You think I've brought you on a wild goose
chase."

"Not exactly. Forgive me, Wish, I've been short-tempered all day
today. It has nothing at all to do with you, I promise. Let's just
go and find what it is you want to show me, because it will be
getting dark soon."

So we went on. We walked another block, and then another, which
brought us right up to the iron-spiked precincts of a cemetery.
"Well?" I inquired.

"I'm looking for the gate."

I did not want to find a gate. I didn't want to go in there one
bit. Certain places of the dead are peaceful and dignified; one may
stroll about them with some serenity, particularly if the day
happens to be sunny. But this was not such a place. This place
definitely did not invite strolling. It had a doleful, dark
atmosphere, enhanced by tall cypress trees bearing an uncanny
resemblance to ancient, desiccated, gray-bearded men.

"Here it is, I thought sol" Wish said in a satisfied tone. He
opened the iron gate. It creaked, of course.