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Poor Frances. She had gone pale, and seemed shaken. Well, there
was no help for it. Anything short of severity would never have
obtained her agreement to stay away from Patrick. I hugged her and
kissed her cheek, assuring her that I would be talking with her
daily one way or another.

And then I went downstairs, where Patrick Rule waited outside
not far from the rear door, which I closed and locked behind
me.

There was no point beating around the bush with him. I'd already
tried both courtesy and reason, and neither had done any good.
Therefore, without greeting or other verbal pleasantry, I said,
"You will get that woman killed too, if you don't stay away from
her. Is that what you want?"

If looks alone could kill, I myself would have been dead that
very minute.

Nevertheless, I did walk Patrick to the house he now occupied on
Octavia Street, the former home of the murdered medium Abigail
Locke, and as we walked I wondered again about him. He was the only
person who had benefited materially from Mrs. Locke's death. What
if his vaunted love for Abigail had been only a pose, the flash of
it I'd seen in his eyes a mesmerist's trick?

I watched him from the corner of my eye as we walked along, and
I kept him talking about the uses of crystal balls. For scrying, he
said, either into the future or at a remote distance; this latter
being now called by psychical researchers by a new term, remote
viewing-something that, according to Patrick, Frances was
particularly good at. But all the while he was talking I was paying
attention not really to that topic but rather to my own internal
monologue, which went like this: The newspapers reported that the
police did not consider Patrick Rule a suspect. Wish Stephenson had
found out from his source in the SFPD that Patrick had an alibi, a
witness who placed him at a seance in a private home. The unnamed
source did not say who had been the medium at that seance. And I
wondered. I wondered if I dared ask.

But in the end, as my last chance approached with Octavia Street
and his house, I lost my nerve and did not ask. Perhaps it was
because of his height, which impressed upon me that I would be no
match unless I had a weapon-and foolishly, I had come out without
my walking stick. I vowed never to do that again, at least not when
I was working a case. Or perhaps it was because I was reluctant
even to hear the name of another medium right then, for fear that
person would also become jinxed and fall in harm's way. Some other
things, no doubt, it also could have been.

But it was none of these. In the end, I simply did not think the
killer had been Patrick Rule because he reminded me so much of
Michael.

Of course, Michael in his spy persona no doubt could kill, had
killed, and at this very moment might be planning to kill
again.

After making a perfunctory stop at the little library on Green
Street, only to peruse the new books and find none I wanted to
check out, I returned to the house on Divisadero Street. I felt I
had spent a profitable morning even if I hadn't learned anything
new, because I was certain I'd made Frances McFadden and Patrick
Rule see the error of their ways-at least for now. Frances was
going to get information on her husband for me, which I'd been
unable to obtain any other way. It was so peculiar, really, how the
harder one looked into Jeremy McFadden's affairs, the cleaner the
man seemed to become. Aside from beating his wife-which I happened
to think was a rather large aside-he was, as they say, clean as a
whistle.

I did not really believe that. I believed that Jeremy had
surrounded himself with layers and layers of protection, in the
form of paid people (no doubt well paid) who insulated, covered
for, and defended him. Lied for him, in other words. Maybe even did
very dirty deeds for him-whatever dirty deeds might be required for
a particular occasion. Of course, that was what I wanted to
believe. I did not like Jeremy McFadden. Certainly the only happy
ending I could think of to our drama involved Jeremy's being put
away and Frances's obtaining her freedom, preferably with at least
some of his money to get her a start.

I was heavily preoccupied as I pushed open J&K's door and
heard the little bell ring sweetly.

"Guess what, Fremont!" Edna Stephenson called out as soon as I'd
put my foot in the door.

"I can't possibly, Edna, I've been thinking much too hard on the
way home. So please tell me."

"I got us a coupla things you wanted, while you was out. Copies
of Ingrid Swann's and Abigail Locke's last wills and
testaments."

"How in the world did you do that?" This was good news
indeed.

"Just gotta know who to ask," Edna beamed.

MORE FRIENDS in low places, is that it?" I asked with a chuckle,
reaching for the papers Edna handed to me before I had even shed my
shawl.

"Could be, could be," she nodded. She had taken to wearing her
hair in corkscrew curls, a style I had seen nowhere else, uniquely
her own. It could have been more attractive if she had not screwed
up the curls so tightly that her scalp showed through in
between-but then, Edna was Edna, one made allowances.

"Come on," I cajoled, "who among your army of cleaning persons,
secretaries, nurses and/or nursemaids, file clerks, and so on, was
it this time?"

"Certain file clerk in the Board of Supervisors' office. Has
access to all county records." Edna rocked her round body back and
forth in the chair, hands clasped over tummy, the picture of
satisfaction.

"Um-hm," I said, now lost in perusal as I perched on the corner
of her desk.

By these presents be it known that on this day in the
City and County of San Francisco in the State of California, and in
the company of two witnesses signed here below . . .

Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Reading as rapidly as possible through
the dense legal language, I concluded that the two last wills and
testaments held no great surprises but, unfortunately for Patrick
Rule, some rather damning evidence. I could not understand why the
police were not interested in him as a suspect. Patrick had
inherited all of Abigail Locke's estate, down to the last penny.
She had named no other heir and had excluded certain specific
relatives by name, for
causing me pain and suffering due to
their having shunned me and having cast vile aspersions on the
nature and value of my true calling.

Unfortunately, the documents themselves did not include
information as to the extent of the dead women's individual assets.
Well, I was not a banker's daughter for nothing; perhaps I could
find that out myself.

Ingrid Swann had left nothing to her husband, but she had not
excluded him by name, either-which could present a problem at some
time down the road for her principal heir, Ngaio, the supposed
brother.

I sighed, told Edna I'd be taking the papers back to my desk,
and accepted several little note slips with her telephone messages.
In a rather unhappy daze I went into the conference room. I was
thinking that by finding Conrad Higgins I might have caused a
significant problem for Ngaio, whom I had not yet met (he or she
seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth or at any rate
off the streets of San Francisco), but was predisposed to like. I
found myself quite partial to the idea of Ngaio Swann as a woman.
The problem was, since Ingrid aka Myra Higgins had never divorced
Conrad, as husband and therefore legal next of kin, he had an
excellent case for breaking the will, particularly if Ngaio were
not only not really a brother but not even a male. And even if
Conrad was in too drunken a stupor himself to do it, he could
always hire someone, some sharp lawyer probably, to accomplish that
very thing for him. Which would put poor Ngaio out in the cold.

Of course, he-Conrad-would have to think of it first, and to
tell the truth, the thinking department had not seemed to be his
forte.

How to track down Ngaio Swann? What would he or she know? Was it
a good idea to try? Or would I be going down yet another false
trail, taking precious time, getting nowhere?

"Fremont!" Edna yelled out.

I did not reply; I had asked her many times not to yell between
the rooms, but to no avail. I knew my lack of reply would not deter
her as long as her son was not at his desk. If Wish were in the
room, all he had to do was look at his mother with the tiniest of
frowns and she would stop whatever it was that she happened to be
doing that bothered him. Then as soon as his back was turned, or he
had left the house, she would be back at it. Edna Stephenson was
quite incorrigible.

"Wish is coming back here at noon, said he'd bring lunch. Should
be here any minute," she said at the top of her big voice. "Thought
you'd want to know."

"Thank you!" I called back. I did indeed want to know that.

There was something I had been thinking about ever since Wish
told me about his guest status at the various men's clubs around
town and, by God, I was going to do it.

"Strike while the iron is hot," I muttered; then winced as it
came out sounding such a bland platitude. However at the moment I
couldn't think of one more original that was also apt.

And then, because Edna was such a champion overreactor that I
never, ever wanted to take her by surprise, I went and told her
what I intended to do.

I'd felt uncertain how Edna would react. She was, after all, an
older woman and somebody's mother. But I needn't have worried. As
she had declared on her very first day at J&K, Edna Stephenson
was a modern woman-with the added fillip of a delightful sense of
mischief.

"Oooh, Fremont, I think that's just dandy. I can't wait to see
the look on my son's face. You run along upstairs and change. He
could show up at any minute, so you go on now, you scoot, and we'll
see you after a little while back in the kitchen for our noon
meal."

"You're a dear," I said, bending down and giving her a quick
hug.

Then I went upstairs and began the process of turning myself,
once again, into a young man: Trousers, shirt, stiff high collar,
suspenders, vest, socks and shoes. And then, a new addition to the
outfit: a wig, bought at the same theatrical shop where I'd
obtained the mustache, because after all a man cannot keep his hat
on at all times.

"Thank heavens I thought of that," I said to my reflection in
the mirror as I began to wind my long hair around and around the
crown of my head, pinning it down tightly as I'd been shown. The
wig was a good one, of human hair (one did not like to think whence
it might have come, but at least it did look natural) in a reddish
brown quite close to the shade of my own. Rather than attempt to
approximate today's predominantly sleek male hairstyle, the shop's
makeup artist (whom I had taken into my confidence, explaining that
I was in the private investigation business) had suggested that I
play up the impression of myself as a youth, with the wig's hair
being a little longer, slightly unruly, to more readily accommodate
the bulk of my own hair underneath.

It did take a bit of pulling and tugging, and was none too
comfortable, especially considering I did not even like to wear
hats; but eventually I had the wig in place and was sufficiently
pleased with the results that I decided I could forgo the mustache.
And that would be a blessing, because the latter was far less
comfortable than the wig; also probably more likely to be
detectable should anyone subject me to serious scrutiny.

As I was tying my tie, from downstairs I heard the front door
open. Wish called out a tentative "Ma?" and Edna returned an
effusive, cackling greeting. True to her word, by the time I was
donning shoes and socks I heard the sound of their footsteps as she
shepherded her son back to the kitchen. Minutes later I joined them
there.

Wish's face underwent several transmogrifications in succession,
before his voice at last issued from the round, gaping hole that
had previously been his mouth: "It can't be
¹
. But it is.
It
is
you, isn't it, Fremont?"

"The very same,'' I allowed with a small bow. Then I took my
place at the table and calmly began to fill my plate. The food was
Chinese today, but it could have come from anywhere for all I
tasted of it. With the donning of my disguise, a more fundamental
change had come over me: I was out to catch a killer, and I wanted
to do it in the worst possible way-with a vengeance.

Wish's guest passes carried the name Aloysius Bell. I became
Timothy Bell, another cousin. I gathered that the man Wish had been
paid to track must be yet another Bell . . . and if so, then so
must be the wife. All these Bells. I wanted to make a joke of it,
whisper
Ding-dong
in Wish's ear or some such, but I
refrained.

"You'll do just fine," Wish reassured me as we boarded the
California Street cable car. "The disguise is good enough. Just
watch how you walk, and try not to talk. Leave the talking to me.
You can be a country cousin, a young man just at that awkward stage
of leaving adolescence. Boys that age always act goofy and gawk, so
do a little of both. And at that age there isn't necessarily much
facial hair. All right?"