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DR. WILLIAM VAN ZANT was a type of man I remembered all too
well, though I had not recently encountered one: a self-assured
intellectual, as well groomed as he was undoubtedly well read. He
would have seemed at home on any of the great university campuses
back East, but out here in the West he appeared somewhat at a loss,
as if he might have forgotten the directions for how to get home to
his ivory tower.

"Miss Jones," he said when I arrived promptly for our one
o'clock appointment, "I recall your, er . . . um,
partner
Mr. Kossoff. Charming fellow, interesting as well. Russian
extraction, I think he said?"

"Yes," I acknowledged, inclining my head and moving to take
possession of a chair to one side of the huge desk that dominated
the room, "but I am here on an entirely separate matter. As you
were so helpful to my partner, I hoped you might prove to be
equally so for me."

Van Zant, who was a man of average height and weight but
excessive neatness-from his carefully waxed mustache down to the
mirrorlike shine of his black shoes-leaned against his desk and
crossed his ankles precisely. The pose appeared studied, affecting
a casualness this man could never hope to achieve. He nodded his
head up and down and made a sound that might have been "Um-hm," or
any number of indistinct offerings of encouragement.

So I arranged the skirt of my cranberry-colored dress somewhat
more prettily about my legs, crossed my own white silk-clad ankles,
which I had taken care should be just visible, and said: "I
understand that you are an authority in the field of-how should one
say-the mesmeric arts?"

"Oh no! My dear woman, you have been sadly misinformed." This
galvanized him into uprightness once more, and quickly, too. He
raised his eyebrows and puckered his mouth in disapproval, which
rounded up his cheeks and chin in an unattractive way. Van Zant was
one of those unfortunate people whose faces are defined more by
flesh than by bone. He raised his arm with index finger pointed
upward pedantically. "I am a scientist, a practitioner of
psychology in the new tradition being pioneered in Europe by the
followers of Dr. Freud. Dr. Freud, you see, has proven the
existence of the subconscious mind. My specialty is the scientific
use of hypnotism to access the subconscious."

As this was exactly the direction I'd intended to lead him in, I
was not distressed by either his words or his tone. Meekly I
ventured, "I do beg your pardon. I'm afraid I haven't the slightest
idea what the difference is between mesmerism and hypnotism. I had
thought them to be identical processes."

Now Van Zant went behind the desk, sat, and folded his hands on
top. He had short, stubby fingers with nails impeccably groomed. I
glanced at him quickly, and then away. As one might have expected
of a hypnotist, or a mesmerist, his eyes did have power once he had
trained them on you in a certain manner. They were such a dark
brown they were almost black, and had a curious intensity of focus
that was compelling, although the orbs themselves were no handsomer
than the man; they were rather too small and too close
together.

So, as he talked, I did not look directly at him but rather in a
subtle manner took in the various accouterments of his office: A
fine carpet of silken wool in shades of muted red fading to rose,
worked in an elaborate pattern with other colors too numerous to
recount; mahogany glass-fronted bookshelves; the huge desk itself,
also of gleaming mahogany; heavy curtains of ivory damask with an
excellent drape that spoke of expensive material; a scent in the
air of fine cigars-which, though I loathe the things, I had to
allow was another indication of no expense spared by this man.

"A mesmerist," he was saying, or rather lecturing, "is not a
follower of the scientific process. The mesmerist seeks to
establish a link between himself and his subject, whom he
deliberately makes dependent upon him. He reduces the subject's
will to compliance with his own will, and while she is in that
state-I say 'she,' you understand, because those with illnesses
that respond to this type of treatment are virtually always
females-he makes the suggestions that are designed to, upon their
adaptation, return her to health.

"Whereas"-Van Zant leaned forward and I felt the intensity of
his gaze sharpen, though still I did not meet it-"the hypnotist
merely induces a trance state in which the subject, or patient, has
access to the contents of his or her own subconscious mind. We
believe, as does Dr. Freud, that once the contents of the
subconscious are brought up into the light, as it were, of day,
where they can be examined and interpreted by experts-that would be
your psychologist and psychiatrist-a cure can be effected."

"I see." Now I looked at him. "And which are you, Dr. Van
Zant?"

"Which . . . what?" He frowned.

"Psychologist or psychiatrist?"

"Oh. I am not a medical doctor. Therefore I am considered a
psychologist."

A rather devious answer, I thought, but I let it pass. I was
reminding myself that Michael, who was nobody's fool, had been
impressed by this man. I could not help wondering why Van Zant was
not creating a similarly favorable impression upon me. I pressed
on: "So you would say that mesmerism is . . . what? An inferior
form of hypnotism? A trick?"

"Or a fraud, or charlatanism. Mesmerism has gone the way of
vaudeville, not the way of science, Miss Jones. If that is why you
wished to consult me, because of some misguided interest in an
outmoded, often deceptive practice, then I fear you have come to
the wrong place."

"No, I do not think I have come to the wrong place at all," I
said, summoning a smile, "because I desire to be educated and you
are educating me. Michael, Mr. Kossoff, told me you have acquired
something of a reputation for debunking fraudulent Spiritualist
practices in the East. Have you been involved in any of those same
activities since your arrival in San Francisco, Dr. Van Zant? And
how long is it you've been here in the City?"

He smiled at that, a mere curving of the lips that did not reach
his too intense eyes. "You San Franciscans say that, 'the City,' as
if there were no other on earth. It is arrogant."

"There is no other quite like this one," I said, "and if we are
arrogant about it, well, perhaps we are entitled. But that does not
answer either of my questions."

"Touche. I can see you would make a formidable opponent, Miss
Jones. Or partner-I think one would rather prefer to have you on
one's side. Mr. Kossoff seems to have chosen unconventionally but
well."

232

"Thank you. And my questions?"

"I have been here for a little over six months. I am not at
liberty to discuss the particular, ah, project that brought me
here. And as for exposing fraudulent Spiritualists: They are all
frauds. There is no such thing as the spirit realm. If I were to
spend my time that way . . . well, I should have time for nothing
else." He opened out his hands in a helpless gesture, and again
smiled the insincere, lips-only smile.

"I thought I had read an article in a newspaper or magazine, or
perhaps I only heard it somewhere, that you were investigating
Ingrid Swann?" I had in fact read no such thing, nor had I heard
it; it was only a hunch, but a strong one. A stab in the dark.

A stab in the dark that drew blood. For the intensity went out
of Van Zant's eyes and was replaced by watchfulness of a very
different quality. I could actually feel the difference, sitting
there across the desk from him. "That is true," he said, "but it
was a . . . private matter. You cannot have read about it anywhere.
So how do you come by this knowledge?"

"I'm an investigator. It's my business."
And I am good at
what I do,
I wanted to add, but rather thought I had better
not. I did want William Van Zant to continue to help me, so I had
best go carefully from here on. He did not seem the type of man who
would much appreciate strength in a woman, in spite of his
flattery, so I finished in a deferential tone: "I had assumed you
knew of my involvement with Ingrid Swann, as it was in the
newspapers recently.

"I seldom read the papers."

"It was I who found Ingrid Swann's husband, along with her true
name, Myra Higgins. And I was hoping, if you had indeed scrutinized
Mrs. Swann's situation with your reputed thoroughness, that you
might be able to give me a lead on the whereabouts of her supposed
brother, Ngaio, who seems to have disappeared."

A laugh that was more of a guffaw burst from Van Zant's lips,
whose thinness was mercifully camouflaged by the handsomely kept
mustache. "Ngaio! Such ignorance, it is appalling."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ngaio is a name for a woman, not a man."

"It is a very exotic name, sir, with which most of us are not
familiar-but it does have the sound of a man's name."

"It is aboriginal in origin. From some far outpost, I believe,
in the South Pacific."

"I did not know that," I admitted. I was beginning to feel as if
I had indeed been transported back to Boston, and into one of those
predinner conversations of the most disgusting intellectual
kind.

"European colonists take it as a woman's name. Ingrid Swann's
brother was no brother. They were two females, living in an immoral
fashion."

"Oh." I felt a slight shock. This had not occurred to me, I had
thought only . . . Well, I could not very well examine what I'd
thought, at the moment. Only that morality, or the lack thereof,
had had nothing to do with it. "This is something you know for a
fact? And so you were able to investigate Mrs. Swann, I take it?
Then why did you not publish your findings and expose her as a
fraud? It would have made quite a splash, I should think, and I
myself would like very much to know how she did the manifestation
of extruding ectoplasm!'' I leaned forward, hoping my enthusiasm
did not sound as false to him as it did to my own ears.

Van Zant looked away, turning his profile to me. I observed that
his nose was disproportionately short for his face, but rather
daintily molded, like a girl's. On the surface of the desk, one of
his fingers tap-tap-tapped very softly, making only the slightest
sound. That was the only sign of his disturbance, which I sensed
was much greater than he wished to acknowledge, perhaps even to
himself.

When at last he spoke, he did not look back at me but rather
seemed to address the corner of the room: "I regret I did not have
the opportunity to proceed far enough to learn any of the tricks of
Mrs. Swann's trade. Someone, shall we say, 'got to her' first. It
was most unfortunate, both for me and for my . . . for the sake of
my project."

"And surely," I interjected, "for Ingrid Swann!"

"Yes." Now he looked full at me; severely, too. "Of course. I
should have thought that went without saying."

I locked gazes with him. "In my business, Dr. Van Zant, nothing
goes without saying."

For a few moments there was silence on both our parts. Then, as
he began to stir in a manner that might have led to my dismissal, I
quickly asked: "Can you suggest where I might find Ngaio
Swann?"

To my surprise, he immediately recited an address out in the
avenues of the newly forming Richmond District-in fact, he almost
spat it out, as if the name of the street were distasteful to him.
I wondered what that was about but did not ask, not wanting to
press my luck. I was not quite done with him yet.

"And one final thing, if I may, Dr. Van Zant," I said. "Can you
tell me anything at all about this practice called traveling
clairvoyance?"

"Hah!" he said in an explosively sharp fashion. I was hard put
not to jump in reaction, but I kept my composure. He continued,
"You have some very strange tastes, Miss Jones. And you have not
been very forthcoming. Why is it you want to know about these
ridiculous practices? Answer me that and I may satisfy you."

"As I believe I said, I am looking into the deaths-the
murders-of two prominent mediums. In order to understand why they
were killed, I need to understand what it was they did, in case
there is any connection."

Van Zant cocked his head to one side, as if a new idea had
suddenly occurred to him. "I am not aware that either Mrs. Swann or
Mrs. Locke-surely that is the other medium to whom you refer?"

I nodded.

"That either of them claimed to practice traveling
clairvoyance."

"You were not?" I asked, injecting a note of the highest
incredulity into my voice, as if I were completely astounded by
this omission on his part. Of course, I had no evidence along these
lines either; it was merely something I wished to know a great deal
more about for Frances's sake. And after all, it had been she who'd
gotten me so involved in all these things in the first place. I
went on in similar vein, "But it is newly all the rage, or so I
have been led to believe."

Van Zant calmed down and assumed his pedantic pose again,
tucking fingers under both lapels of his jacket and leaning back in
his chair. "Actually, traveling clairvoyance is quite an old
practice, though it has been called by various names throughout the
ages. It is merely a process by which the seer, the see-er, the one
who sees, puts himself or herself into another place. Sometimes
with the aid of a reflective surface, such as a calm pool of water,
or a basin of the same, or a mirror, or a crystal ball. Though
increasingly these days it is done-or claimed to be done-without
any such aids, just by the power of the mind alone."

"And the purpose is . . . ?"

"It varies. But it is always suspect."

"Nevertheless . . . ?"

Van Zant sighed heavily. "Very well. In the previous century,
the mesmerist and somnambulist most often used traveling
clairvoyance to diagnose illnesses. This is still done
occasionally. There is a fellow here in this country by the name of
Edgar Cayce, who claims to be able to do it on his own, by putting
himself into a hypnotic trance, and no doubt he will
single-handedly make it into a craze again. Unless someone shuts
him up. Discredits him. The medical profession should certainly be
concerned; it is a mystery to me why they have not moved against
him. I may just do it myself, when I return to the East Coast where
he is located."

"How does traveling clairvoyance work?"

"It works, my dear young woman, by the simple power of
suggestion. In the case of the mesmerist and the somnambulist, the
latter reads the former's mind."

I made a mental note to ask him about that later, when it
wouldn't interrupt his train of thought.

"In the case of Mr. Cayce," he continued, frowning severely, "I
don't yet know how he does it. But I suspect the man has
confederates who scout the territory and feed the relevant
information to him."

"If you will be so kind," I urged, as sweetly as I knew how, "I
really have very little idea just what you're talking about. I am
at a loss to understand the process itself."

"The, shall we call him the clairvoyant, the one who sees
clearly, goes by telepathic means to another place and observes and
reports what he sees there. We are talking about a specific
geographic place. And in the case of someone ill to be diagnosed, a
person in this specific place, who then becomes the object of yet
another level of study by the clairvoyant."

"It sounds so . . . fascinating," I commented honestly.

"Incredible is a better word." Van Zant's lips curved in an
unpleasant fashion beneath his mustache.

"But tell me, because of what you said about it working in your
first example through the somnambulist reading the mesmerist's
mind: Do you then believe in telepathy? I thought you denied the
existence of all of these things."

"Without a doubt one person can influence another. We all see
this every day. Humans are sensitive to the nuances of one
another's behavior, and it is this, not magic or spirits, that
shapes us. I do not mean to say that one person reads another's
mind, you understand, but maybe, through concentration of the
mental faculty, those who have a close tie or bond can come to the
same conclusions."

"But how would the mesmerist know what was going on in this
other place?" I persisted, though I could see Van Zant's tolerance
for me had by now worn very thin indeed.

"Through fraud of some sort, of course. I told you, Miss Jones,
these people are all crooked. None of them is honest. They are not
to be trusted, and don't you forget that. Lovely young woman like
you"-his eyes swept me up and down, once only-"should be doing
other things. If I may say so. I fear if this is the level of
investigation you are involved in, your partner is doing you a
disservice after all."

I stood, taking that as my cue to go. "Of course you may say so,
if you wish, Dr. Van Zant-but you must leave my partner out of it.
This investigation is mine entirely. You have a right to your
opinion, sir, and you have been very helpful to me this afternoon.
If you will send a bill for your services-''

He interrupted by coming around the desk to take my hand warmly,
smiling. With joy to see me leave, no doubt, he said, "Professional
courtesy, Miss Jones, professional courtesy. I wouldn't dream of
billing you. I may need to ask a favor of you in exchange
someday."

I thanked him profusely and left, after pausing long enough in
the rather odd vestibule of his building to write down that address
in the Richmond District. I was not quite sure what I'd learned.
Nothing was really very clear to me about anything at the moment. I
could only keep going on, and hope for the best.

That night I was in the living room of my upstairs apartment on
Divisadero Street, reading a rather lurid novel I had obtained from
my favorite branch of the public library on Green Street, when the
strangest feeling came over me. I went prickly all over, not
outside but in, as if muscles and nerves were quivering beneath the
surface of my skin. It was most unpleasant.

I shifted in my chair, thinking this must be yet another-though
admittedly extreme-form of my basic apprehension over Father's
impending visit. I tried to continue reading, as I was in
anexciting part of the book. Ordinarily it would easily have held
my complete attention. But not tonight. That inner quivering
continued, and escalated, until I simply could not sit still, could
not remain in my chair. I placed a bookmark at my page, closed the
book with a deliberately slow movement-for I do not like to give in
to irrationality-and arose. As is my wont in the evenings, I was
not dressed but rather had taken a relaxing bath and afterward put
on my robe and nightgown. I certainly did not expect to be going
out of doors at that hour, which was nigh onto eleven o'clock, and
in such garb . . . yet that was what I did.