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"Oh really?"

Frances went on: "And then I woke up. When I first opened my
eyes-of course it was dark in the room-I thought I saw a figure
standing not far from my bed. It frightened the dickens out of me,
of course, but only until I'd realized it could be the good man
from my dream. By then the figure had started to just . . . fade
away. I called for him to come back but it was too late. He was
gone."

I deduced from the way the pink spots on her cheeks burned so
brightly that this ghost had not stayed gone, and said as much.

"That's true." She nodded vigorously, setting her now empty cup
aside. She lowered her voice, leaning toward me, and I leaned too.
Frances's eyes were sparkling. "Fremont, have you heard of
automatic writing?"

With my face only inches from hers, it was all I could do not to
roll my eyes. "You mean where the spirit takes over your hand?
Supposedly? Yes, I've heard of it."

She nodded again, the curls bouncing prettily on her shoulders.
"I tried it, and it works!"

This was too much for me. I could restrain myself no longer. "Of
all the-the-what shall I say-
methods
for contacting the
spirit world, Frances, that one seems to me to be the most open to
self-delusion."

"Not if one's heart and mind are in the right place, Fremont!
Really, he has saved my sanity. When Mrs. Locke was, um"-she bit
her lip, not wanting to say any of the obvious words, until she
settled upon-"rendered unable to help me, I was almost in despair.
You remember."

I nodded. Yes, I remembered how desperate she'd seemed, and how
she'd almost fallen apart when we discovered the body.

"I needed someone so badly."

"Frances, what exactly was it that you needed help with? You
never said."

"I was having these experiences. I didn't understand them
myself. Hearing things right on the threshold of audibleness, but
not able to quite make them out-it was truly maddening. Then I
started losing time."

"Losing time?"

She nodded. "Whole chunks of it. No warning, not even any memory
after."

"Hm," I mused. "As if you'd been in a trance, the way you were
that night we went to the seance together?"

"Yes, precisely, and I was dreadfully afraid of what would
happen if I went into one of those trances when my husband was with
me.

"Yes, you did say that. The automatic writing has helped?
How?"

"Oh yes. He's explaining everything."

"He, who?"

"The Emperor," said Frances, glowing. "His name is Norton."

"Emperor," I said. "Norton." I managed not to hoot, but only
with the greatest difficulty. Really, this was much too much!

She nodded vigorously and smiled an absolutely dazzling smile,
while I feared she had lost her mind.

"Frances, what country-er, empire-was this Norton the Emperor
of?"

My question got rid of her smile, at least; I considered that a
kind of progress.

"He hasn't said," she replied, "but then, I haven't asked him.
We've been conversing about other things."

I placed my cup and saucer carefully on the floor by my feet.
This was no time to be juggling crockery. "I'm very interested in
this. Tell me, Frances, how does one converse through automatic
writing? Doesn't the spirit have to-as it were-take over your hand?
Yet words have their origin in the mind; does that mean this Norton
is taking over your mind too? That hardly would seem to facilitate
two-way communication."

Frances had not been highly educated, but she was shrewd, and
she did not appreciate my skepticism. Her posture before had been
alert, lively, and yearning; but now her backbone turned to steel,
she seemed an inch or so taller, and her voice grew a frosty edge.
She said: "You don't believe me."

"No," I shook my head, "that's not it. I do believe you. I just
am not so sure as you are that this Norton-"

She interrupted me. "That's the second time you've called him
'this Norton' in that tone of voice. He's an emperor, he deserves
more respect, Fremont. He's a good spirit, but I don't think it
would do to make him angry. Emperors are powerful personages. You
never know what he might be capable of."

"All right." I felt as if I were in one of Sutro's deepest
baths, treading water as fast as I could, yet barely able to keep
my nose clear of it. "I apologize to you and to Emperor Norton. I
meant no disrespect. I was about to say, I'm not as sure as you
seem to be that he has come to help you."

She arched her neck and turned her head slightly so that she
regarded me out of the corners of her eyes. "What would convince
you?"

"A demonstration," I said suddenly, with conviction. "I should
like to observe the automatic writing. Also I think it would be a
good idea for us to find another authority in the field, now that
Mrs. Locke is no longer available. You mentioned Ingrid
Swann-''

"Yes, but she's a charlatan, or so they say. She's a celebrity,
and charges quite a lot of money for anything she does. Mrs. Locke
was supposed to be the most honest and reliable. But really, I
don't think I need an intermediary any longer, Fremont. I'm sure
the Emperor himself will teach me, through the messages in the
automatic writing. We have made a bargain, you see."

Oh Lord, this was getting worse and worse. Dr. Faustus
bargaining with the Devil could not have worried me more.

Frances continued: "He is to teach me about the spirit world,
and I am to do something he was unable to do when he left the land
of the living."

"Which is . . . ?" It gave me chills to ask.

"I don't know yet, he hasn't said. The Emperor has very
graciously decided to teach me first what I need to know, to
perfect our communication. Then he will tell me what it is that I'm
to do."

"Very gracious indeed,'' I said, and if Frances heard the irony
in my voice she gave no sign of it. Talking about the Emperor had
restored her serenity. "So, Frances," I asked, "may I be allowed to
observe when you next attempt the automatic writing?"

She smiled again, very sunny. "Well of course, Fremont. You're
my friend, I'm sure you can be his friend too."

"And when might we do this?"

"Tomorrow after luncheon, I should think. Jeremy is seldom at
home at that time, and I can say to Cook and Cora that I've gone to
my room for a rest. There's just one problem . . ." Her voice
trailed off.

I waited impatiently, thinking there were far more problems than
just one, and how I could solve any of them I had no idea
whatever.

Frances rose from her chair. "Come and stand by me at the
window, Fremont. There is something I want to show you." Beckoning,
she went to a long casement window that looked out over a narrow
strip of grass between her house and the one next door. Though the
houses along this section of Broadway are rather grand, they have
no yards to speak of.

When I was standing next to her, she put her hand on my shoulder
and her face near mine. "I don't really have anything to show you,"
she said softly, "but I want to tell you something that absolutely
no one else must hear."

I nodded, my eyes fixed on a leafy bush clipped into a round
shape just outside the window. A tiny bird, a finch with gray and
yellow markings, landed in the bush and began to sing, but I could
scarcely hear him through the glass.

"I have my own key to a side door," Frances said, "the one the
gardener uses. No one else comes or goes that way. It's how I was
able to get out the day I came to you."

I nodded again. I could hear the bird better now, but still
faintly. It stopped in mid-trill, hopped a bit, and cocked its
head, fixing me-or so I fancied-with its beady black eye.

"I carry the key to that door with me always." Turning slightly,
she darted a glance over our shoulders toward the door, then
plunged her hand deep into the pocket of her skirt. She whispered,
"Give me your hand!"

I did as she asked, and felt the cool slickness of metal in my
palm. My fingers closed over the key, and I looked into Frances's
hazel eyes, so close to mine.

She continued swiftly, "You can have a copy made, and return the
key to me when you come tomorrow. I want you to come in secret,
through that side door."

"If you are completely certain it's necessary," I agreed, also
whispering. "Where, precisely, is the door? And when I am through
it, where do I go?"

"You will enter the small room I told you about, with a sink and
storage for outdoor equipment and so on, where I arrange flowers.
That room is at the end of the backstairs hall, at right angles to
the kitchen. If you're careful, you can go quickly to the stairs
without being seen. As for how to find the door from the
outside-"

Frances stopped abruptly. For a moment I thought I was again
hearing the little bird, but much more clearly; then I realized it
was Michael, whistling as he came down the hall . . . and very
considerate it was of him to warn us, too.

"Come tomorrow at two o'clock!" Frances quickly concluded. "Now,
I'll draw you a diagram for finding the outside door."

She could be quite an actress when the occasion required. I
watched with an odd mix of concern and admiration as Frances became
the considerate hostess, warmly welcoming Michael again to the
room, inquiring as to how he had enjoyed the library and listening
to his reply with a rapt expression on her face. Then with a
graceful gesture toward the little lady's desk beside that same
window where we'd just stood, she said, "If you will excuse me, Mr.
Kossoff, there is a recipe I've promised Fremont. I'll just take a
moment to write it down and then you can be on your way."

At the word "recipe," Michael flashed me a skeptical look, with
one side of his mouth curving and one eyebrow arching upward. I
merely smiled enigmatically and shrugged, as if to say, "Who knows?
Maybe I've suddenly become interested in cooking."

I decided, on the way home, that I should have to confide in
Michael. Selectively, of course. I said, "I'm concerned about
Frances. I fear we were on firmer ground when she was going to
seances at night, even if that did mean leaving the house against
her husband's wishes."

"What do you mean, Fremont?" Though his attention had to be
primarily upon his driving, as the Maxwell had a steep section of
hill to climb, he turned his head toward me for a moment.

"She is making contact without the medium now," I said,
stressing the "without." "Frances has taken up automatic
writing."

"Well, I can't see the harm in that."

"She believes she is being visited by a spirit, who calls
himself Emperor Norton."

"Did I hear you right? Did you say Emperor Norton?"

"Yes, as odd as that may seem, it is what I said."

To my great surprise, Michael burst out laughing. He laughed so
hard that, at the top of the hill, he did not keep enough pressure
on the brake and we began to slide backward.

"Michael!" I said sharply. "I cannot imagine what's so funny,
but if you don't pay attention to your driving we shall crash."

He rolled his eyes, still laughing, and performed some maneuvers
with hands and feet that had poor Max bucking back up and over the
top of the hill. As we proceeded down the long slope at the other
side, Michael's laughter subsided to snorts and burbles. By the
time he had turned left, to take us up to Divisadero and home, I
was wanting to laugh too-laughter being catching, like a disease-if
only he would let me in on the joke.

"Well," I urged, "are you going to tell me?"

"I'm sorry." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "It's
just that the idea of that old reprobate coming in spirit to visit
your fair friend Frances ..." Michael gave one last whoop and then
sobered. "You know, if she's making it up, she's made an
exceedingly odd choice."

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about."

"Emperor Norton was a real person, though not, of course, a real
emperor. He lived here in San Francisco during the previous
century; arriving, I think, during the second wave of Gold Rushers.
He made a lot of money somehow. I'm not up on all the details. He
got in over his head, though, on some speculation- having to do
with rice. And he lost all his money, after which he disappeared
for two years. When he reappeared, he was wearing an outlandish
sort of military costume with epaulets and gold braid and a
crosswise sash, a high hat with ostrich plumes in it, and a sword
in his belt. He said he was Norton I, Emperor of the United States
and Protector of Mexico. He'd lost his mind, poor fellow."

I began to smile. Though of course there is not much to smile
about in a man's losing all his money and then his mind, still
there was something amusing in the story.

Michael continued: "The whole city adopted Norton. He printed
his own currency, and merchants and restaurateurs accepted it as if
it were legal tender. He used to write proclamations, and would
stand in Union Square and read them to all passersby. He kept up a
correspondence with various politicians and heads of state,
including Tsar Nicholas, as I have good reason to know." At this
point, we pulled up alongside our double house on Divisadero and
Michael tugged at the hand brake and cut the motor.

I did not inquire how Michael would have known that this Norton
fellow had written to the Tsar, as I have not at all made my peace
with his continuing Russian connections. I simply sat where I was
and waited for Michael to finish the story.

Which he did: "Norton even traveled by train regularly to
Sacramento, and had a seat reserved for him in the gallery in the
state senate."

"Perhaps he was not so crazy after all," I said.

"Some people said the same," Michael acknowledged, "and after
his death there were those who insisted he had not lost all his
money but merely, in his madness, misplaced it. But I'm getting
ahead of myself. I wanted to say that he was, by all accounts, a
good fellow. One of his proclamations was that the children of San
Francisco should have a Christmas tree in Union Square every
year-it was Norton who began that custom, which of course we still
follow. And he was devoted to his two dogs, Lazarus and
Bummer-''