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He raised his hand in a halfhearted wave and, to give him
credit, gave a small smile that no doubt was at odds with his
feelings. "Whatever you think is best, Frances. The gift, the
talent, are yours. I am only your connection, the link that would
otherwise be missing."

She smiled then, fleetingly, and set off at a brisk pace. She
had not far to walk, she would be at home within a few minutes, and
then I would rest more easily.

As soon as she turned the corner and passed out of sight, I said
in my normal tone: "Now, Patrick, we must talk. Because your case
is one thing, and Frances McFadden is quite another. She was first
my friend, and I won't have her put into danger."

As he followed me back into the office, he said, "I would not
place that woman in danger for all the world."

I looked back skeptically over my shoulder at him, wondering if
he was speaking that way because she represented his next meal
ticket, or if he genuinely cared. Having once seen them linked as
mesmerist and somnabulist, I could not forget the eerie power they
had in those roles. It made me uneasy about them in a way I had not
been before.

Though it would not be dark for a couple of hours yet, the fog
was coming in and causing an early waning of the light. From the
north windows you could see the thick, burgeoning, insubstantial
bulk of it pour through the strait of the Golden Gate. I began
turning on electric lights, first the desk lamps, then the overhead
chandelier in the dining room.

"Take a seat at the conference table," I directed Patrick,
indicating the chairs grouped around the end of the table nearest
the main office space. The other end, near Michael's office and the
passage to the kitchen, I was now using for a desk. I added, "I'll
just see to the doors. J&K's office is officially closed for
the day, but you and I still have some work to do."

He did not like being ordered about, of course. That proud face
with its hawklike nose lifted, and he glared momentarily at me. I
did not stay to see any further reaction, but went on doing as I'd
said, locking first the back and then the front doors. Both had
heavy new locks, installed at Michael's direction, with bolts one
throws from the inside. The latest thing for security.

Of course it did occur to me that I might be locking myself in
with a murderer. Nevertheless I went back into the conference room
and took my place opposite him at the table. I folded my hands in
front of me. "Now," I said, "suppose you explain to me just what is
going on with you and my friend."

Patrick stared at me for a moment without speaking.

Eyes of a mesmerist,
I thought.
Be careful, Fremont
Jones!

But his eyes, hypnotic though they might be under certain
circumstances, were also tired. So dark-circled they had a hollow
look. And his face was more gaunt now than it had been a week ago.
He looked like a man who has either been working too hard or not
sleeping much, or both.

Finally he said, "Frances McFadden has psychic ability, but it
is of a passive, not an active kind. She fell naturally into the
state that you saw earlier, during my second time of working with
her. Miss Jones-"

"Fremont."

"-Fremont, I have been looking all my life . . . well, at least
for all the part of it since I discovered the excitement of psychic
phenomena for myself, and my own small talents ... for someone like
Frances. There is literally no end to the good we might do
together; and who knows to what heights of celebrity we might
rise!"

"You aren't going to rise very far if Jeremy McFadden beats his
wife to death. And he could, you know. My partner, Michael Kossoff,
was right. I should have listened to him."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Jeremy beats his wife?
A man like that, who is known in this, of all cities, as a
fair-dealing businessman?"

I inclined my head gravely. "The very same."

Patrick could not, apparently, sit still for this. He popped up
out of his chair and began to pace back and forth like a
long-legged, lithe animal trapped in a cage. 'I can't believe
that," he muttered. "No, it can't be!"

"I've seen the evidence with my own eyes, Patrick. She has
admitted it to me. There are times when he keeps her a virtual
prisoner in the house. That is why she has devised this means of
coming and going by a seldom-used door. The one you yourself have
used. You may be sure Jeremy will find out eventually- about you
and about the door."

"How do you know about that?" The hawklike nose went up in the
air, and he looked at me from the corners of his eyes. It was
effective, intimidating.

"I just do. I'm a detective," I said with more than a little
satisfaction. I leaned forward and patted the table in front of the
chair where he'd been sitting. "Sit down again, please, and I'll
tell you why I think it's entirely possible Jeremy McFadden killed
Abigail Locke-or had her killed. About Ingrid Swann, I'm not yet
sure. However, if you want Frances free to work with you, the best
and fastest way is to let me continue to work this case and hope I
can find evidence enough on Jeremy McFadden to have him arrested.
If money is a concern-"

"Of course it's a concern," he snapped as he resumed his seat,
"money is always a concern. But more than that, I'm appalled by
this theory you're putting forth. Whatever makes you think such a
thing?"

"Jeremy found out that Frances was leaving the house to go to
Mrs. Locke's seances. He was so unhappy about it that he . . .
became violent with her, then kept her locked in the house a
virtual prisoner for days."

"Nonsense! She has her own way out. We have seen that."

"Why are you defending him? Because he's a man, a husband, is
that it?"

"Because . . . because, it's just so damn unreasonable. And she
does have her own way out, you can't argue that."

"He locked up her clothes, Patrick. Frances came to me one
morning in her dressing gown, under a thoroughly disreputable rain
slicker. I'm telling you, if you aren't careful you're going to get
her in a lot of trouble."

I could see credulity growing, though slowly, on his face. "And
you think her husband would . . . kill Abigail, just to keep his
wife from going to her seances ever again? That sounds so . . .
bizarre."

"Yes, I grant you that. But he's powerful enough to do almost
anything he wants. I don't think McFadden did the actual killing
himself, I think he paid someone else to do it." Maybe even you? I
wondered, even as the other words were coming out of my mouth. "And
more as a lesson to Frances than to the medium herself. Sort of a
warning, in the manner of suggesting that if anyone or anything
came before himself in his wife's affections he would see that it
was taken from her."

Patrick's eyes opened wide, as if to capture the maximum light;
then he let his head fall loosely on his neck, slowly, gravely
shaking it back and forth. When finally his voice rolled out, it
sounded sepulchral. "I didn't know. I had no idea. If you had any
idea how special Frances is, how potentially great her talent . . .
that was all I could think of."

I was reminded that he seemed to have forgotten Abigail Locke
and
her
talent pretty quickly, but I did not say so aloud.
What I said was: "So you see why I must continue the investigation.
But about the money, tomorrow I'll make up a bill for what you owe
so far, and we'll go over it together. Any time I put in from now
on, I'll work at half the rate I quoted you. Does that sound
fair?"

"Yes. The money is coming from Abigail's estate anyway. I've
barely two pennies to rub together on my own. And it's true Abigail
may not like my spending her hard-earned dollars to set myself up
with another medium."

"Medium? I thought you said Frances was a natural
somnambulist."

"She is, but a somnambulist is a particular kind of medium."

"One who requires a partner," I said somewhat acerbically.

"That is true," he acknowledged.

"Mrs. Locke could have worked without a partner?"

"Indeed, yes. She had no need of anyone except her spirit guide.
I simply made things more convenient for her, established some
order in her life. And I"-he put his hand over his eyes for a
moment-"loved her."

When Patrick Rule removed his hand, that emotion blazed from his
face. Only briefly, like the last bright flash of a guttering
candle, and then it was gone. But I did not doubt that I had seen
it, or that I had understood what I'd seen. From that moment on,
Patrick Rule was off my list of suspects.

"Thank you for telling me that," I said softly.

He merely nodded, then passed his hand over his eyes again. In
that position, with his eyes closed, he said, "Now perhaps you'll
tell me what you meant by invoking Emperor Norton."

"I meant only to buy us time," I said, "to give Frances
something to do while I try to get solid evidence that her husband
is Abigail's murderer. And besides, Patrick, if you are going to
believe in Spiritualism, then you certainly wouldn't want to slight
the Emperor. Frances truly believes he is a kind of, well,
avuncular figure of the spirit world for her."

He removed his hand and looked at me resignedly. "I've read her
automatic writing. It's an ability of a far lower order and will
only drain her energy to no purpose should she go back to it. On
the other hand, the Emperor is not a harmful spirit, as I had at
first feared. I am at least satisfied on that point. I do believe
now that Abigail Locke was killed by some human hand, without
theinfluence of the spirits. And you may be right, Fremont Jones,
her husband may be responsible. I can't say you yea or nay." He
unfolded himself and stood up.

"Now, I'll say good night. I believe I could sleep for a week,"
he said, and murmuring assurances that this was a good idea, I
accompanied him to the front door. Then breathed a sigh of relief
when he had gone and I had locked it behind him. I was safe, and my
case was safe as well.

Within twenty-four hours it became obvious that Frances did not
want a breathing space during which to commune with her Emperor-or
any other kind of space. Having tasted . . . what? Danger?
Excitement? The power of being linked hypnotically with Patrick
Rule? Having tasted these things, it seemed Frances could no longer
be still. All traces of timidity and docility had been erased from
her character; and while I was naturally enough glad to see
this-for I am entirely in agreement with Susan B. Anthony on the
subject of the subjugation of wives to their husbands, i.e., that
there should not be any-nevertheless I did worry about Frances.

Greatly daring, she had called me from her husband's study the
very next morning. "Jeremy isn't here, Fremont," she explained when
I asked how she'd managed it. "I made Cora open the door so that I
could use the telephone. She has a key. Keys. Cora has all the
keys."

I heard from Frances a little gasp, as of indrawn breath, and
then a slightly hysterical laugh. She said, "I should have them,
you know. I'm the wife. But no, not in this house. The housekeeper
has all the keys. I could just make her give them to me, couldn't
I? I could just do that. I wonder why I never thought of it
before?"

"Frances," I put in quickly, "do get hold of yourself. Just now,
it's very important you not do anything unusual at all. Promise
me."

"Oh, all right, I promise. I do see your point."

"I am very glad to hear it. What were you calling me about?"

"Oh, about Emperor Norton. I talked to him last night.
Everything is fine, really. But he does want me to do that, that
thing
for him. You know? That I wrote in the automatic
writing?"

I knew. I found myself nodding as though she could see me. "I
remember," I said.

"Fremont, I just can't ... I mean, I've got to work with
Patrick. I've simply got to. You don't know what this could mean to
me."

"I think I do," I said cautiously. "But if you could see your
way clear to waiting just a few days, I think you'd be safer."

"I'll leave him! Jeremy, I mean," Frances hissed into the
telephone in a heavy whisper. "We'll just go away. Run away.
Patrick and I can make money together, he told me we could."

This was serious. I had to dissuade her. "Don't do anything, go
back up to your room, wait for me. I'm coming over."

"But- "

"Don't argue, Frances. I'm coming over! I'll be there
shortly."

By the time Wish Stephenson and his mother arrived, I was ready
to leave. "I could be out all day," I said to them both. "Something
important has come up."

"A break in the case?" Wish inquired.

"No, not exactly. More like the possibility of something really
bad happening, and I have to do what I can to prevent it." I turned
away from Wish to his mother. She had removed her hat and coat and
was hanging them on the clothes tree near the door.

"Edna," I said, "I have a job I think you're going to love."

"Well now, dearie," she said brightly, "that's a fine way to
start the day."

That was how the news of Ingrid Swann's, shall we say highly
colorful, husband came to the attention of San Francisco's press.
Edna immediately got on the phone, told a friend, who told a
friend, who told a friend, who
was
a reporter for the
afternoon paper, the
Examiner.
And a photo of the charming
fellow subsequently appeared, along with a speculative article,
that very afternoon.

To think they must have held the presses for such a visage! It
was a bit much. But the J&K Agency, which figured prominently
in the article, came out sounding every bit as sharp and promising
as I'd hoped we would.

Midafternoon: I was wandering the streets and hills of San
Francisco, bent on an impossible task that had been set for me by a
ghost. The ghost of a madman, Emperor Norton. Actually the task had
been set for Frances, but she had hired me to do it. Not that I
would actually accept pay from a friend, but we could work that out
later.