Authors: Unknown
Anson, carrying his black medical bag, took off his homburg and
smiled. "Good evening, Fremont."
"It's good of you to come," I said, stepping back.
He brushed my cheek with cool lips as he passed through the
door. While I closed it, he rummaged in his bag, which he had set
down upon the Monstrosity. He came out with the screwdriver, which
he held up, inquiring, "Where is the patient?"
I laughed. "We will begin in the kitchen. This way, Doctor, if
you please."
I had laid out the locks and keys on the kitchen table. I
gestured to them and launched into my explanation. But I astonished
myself; the words that came out of my mouth were not those I'd
planned, they were just short of prevarication: "We have had some
trouble here. In point of fact Alice has disappeared, and I am
concerned for my safety. Therefore, I decided to change the locks,"
I babbled, "and as you know, every workman in this town is beyond
busy, I'd have to wait days for a locksmith and I dare not. That is
why I asked for your help. Anson, if you would change the locks for
me I would be eternally grateful."
Anson furrowed his brow. He said, "Let us sit down and talk
about this further."
"There is no need to talk about it, only to get it done!"
He, who had always been so courteous and soft-spoken with me,
said severely, "Fremont, I insist. Now sit."
I sat. As did he.
"What do you mean, Alice has disappeared?"
"Just that." I squirmed on my chair. That is the trouble with
prevarication, once you have begun there's no end to it, and
afterward one has the trouble of remembering what one has said.
Anson looked at me as if I were on the dissecting table. I snatched
a breath and went on. "The night we went to dinner, you recall, the
night I wore my green dress-"
He nodded, but his intense scrutiny did not lessen.
"-after you accompanied me to the door, I let myself in and
called out to Alice, as usual, but there was no reply. The house
was dark. Well, that was not so unusual because it was before the
electricity was turned on, but anyway, there should have been a
lamp in the hall, or something. I just, well, the house seemed too
quiet somehow. It felt wrong. I went up to Alice's room, but she
wasn't there. She wasn't anywhere in the house. Nor had she left me
a note."
"What did you do then?"
My mind felt like the Maxwell with its motor racing. "I waited
until it got to be quite late and she still had not come home. Then
I went out and took a cab to the police station, where I reported
Alice missing. The police were no help. They said they aren't
taking any missing persons reports at the moment."
"That doesn't sound right, Fremont."
Oh, dear God, help.
"Exactly what I thought, Anson, but
they said the city is in such disorder, with so many people
homeless and so many others having decided to leave, that it is
impossible to tell who is missing and who is not."
Anson bobbed up like a cork. "I'll go to them myself. Such
treatment of your concerns cannot be tolerated!" For punctuation he
threw down the screwdriver, whose point made a nick in the table
before toppling over and rolling onto the floor.
"Please, Anson," said I, grabbing his hand and holding onto it
for dear life, "do not! I . . . they . . . that is, earlier I had
some dealings with them in which I made a report that they
disbelieved. One of the officers had proof that I was in error, so
I am not in good favor with the police. I'm very much afraid that
if you go to them it will only cause trouble for me. You wouldn't
want that, would you?"
He allowed me to tug him back down into his chair. Then he wiped
his balding brow and mumbled. "I don't know. This just doesn't seem
right. Of course I would never cause trouble for you, but. . .
."
At that moment, I wished heartily that I had never asked for his
help! "I'm sorry to have involved you. Please go. I can take care
of the locks some other way."
"But if your friend comes back-and surely she will come back-how
will she get in, if the locks have been changed? This is not your
property, Fremont. You have no right to alter it."
I do not particularly like to be told that I am in the wrong,
even if I am. I said testily, "I will let her in, of course. Anson,
Alice's keys to the house are missing along with her. What if she
has fallen victim to foul play? Anyone might have those keys now. I
am afraid to stay in this house alone, not knowing who might use
them to get in here. Alice would not want me to live in fear, I
assure you!"
A myriad of emotions played across Anson's open, honest face. He
would never make a successful poker player.
First, distrust: "You say you've had a run-in with the
police-"
I nodded, feeling anxious.
Concern: "But you did go to them again, about Alice, and they
declined to become involved."
I nodded again.
Worry: "Keys are missing. Of course you would be afraid. How
well do you know Alice, Fremont?"
"Not well. She has proven hard to get to know, so that I haven't
a clue how to proceed with looking for her on my own. I am trying,
of course, and will continue to do so."
Anson's face cleared, and his jaw hardened, by which I surmised
that he had come to some conclusion.
Good,
I thought,
he
will help me change the locks and we can put all this behind
us.
But that was not what happened.
He reached out and captured my hand, which he then held so
tightly that I found it difficult not to wince. "Fremont," he said,
"this is a questionable situation, but it has made me bold. Indeed,
we are living in an unusual time, which may very well call for
unusual measures. You know that I think you are an admirable woman.
The skills you displayed when you were driving for the Red Cross
would be put to good use in a medical office. You are not
squeamish, and you have a true compassion for the sick and the
injured."
I wondered where this was going. Did he intend to offer me a
job?
"You would make an excellent helpmeet for one of my profession.
In addition, I feel a true affection for you that in time can only
grow. I do not know what you feel for me, and I realize that we
have not known each other very long. Nevertheless, I could not bear
for anything to happen to you here in this house while I proceed in
the conventional fashion. As I said before, these are unusual
times. The obvious solution is for you to come to my house, without
delay."
I tried to take back my hand, but he held it fast. "Anson," I
said firmly, "that would not be proper. Nor is it necessary. We
have only to change the locks and I'll be quite safe."
He closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth. "No, no,
no. You misunderstand me." When he opened his eyes, they showed a
new emotion. Imploring: "Fremont, I am asking you to be my
wife!"
11.
A Possibly Premature Prothalamion
I was struck dumb.
Taking my silence as encouragement, Anson pressed on. "We are
well matched, you and I. I already care for you, and I think you
care for me. I am sure that in time I will grow to love you.
Probably in no time at all!"
I found my tongue and uttered a prophecy: "More likely you will
grow to hate me."
"I could never hate you!" He pulled me to my feet and into his
arms. Anson was surprisingly strong, especially his hands. But
then, I supposed doctors need strong hands for the setting of bones
and so forth.
I placed my own hands against his chest and pushed away, but he
did not allow it. He kissed me, earnestly if not quite
skillfully.
When our lips parted I said, "I do believe you mean it."
His eyes bored into mine so intently that I began to wonder if
he were trying to plot the anatomy of my brain through my pupillary
openings. "Fremont," he said, "I am not in the habit of making
proposals-of any nature-that I do not mean. You have a problem, and
I have the solution. Marry me. Say that you will."
My throat went dry. "I, ah, I have to think about it."
"For how long?"
"I don't know." I pushed at his chest and this time he released
me. I walked over to the back door, held back the curtain, and
looked out. But I was not seeing anything; it was merely a delaying
tactic. "I suppose until I'm satisfied that I've done all I can to
find out . . ."
Anson strode over and put his hands on my shoulders, his chin
against my hair. "In all likelihood your friend will be back soon,
though it is odd that she did not say where she was going.
Nevertheless, after what you've told me, you should not stay here.
Isn't there someone else-"
"No, Anson." I turned around and skirted past him, back to the
kitchen table. "I am going to stay here for the time being. If you
prefer not to help me with the locks, I expect I can do it
myself."
His face took on a reddish tint, as if he were about to become
belligerent, but he changed his mind, the color faded, and he
smiled instead. "Has anyone ever told you, Fremont Jones, that you
are the most stubborn woman in all creation?"
I smiled too. "Yes, Doctor. Many times."
He changed the locks.
Mickey Morelock will have a gun for me this morning,
I
thought as soon as I opened my eyes the following day. He'd said to
come early; I got out of bed with more alacrity than usual.
The novelty of being able to make my own coffee had not yet worn
off, so I had no desire to drink Mickey's. Mine was better, in any
case. I poked up the stove and set the percolator on it to brew
while I dressed. Delicious coffee smells soon wafted down the
hallway to tease my nose and to lead me, still fastening my hair,
back to the kitchen.
I stood leaning against the sink, sipping from the brown mug in
a kind of morning daze. I was thinking vaguely about Anson's
proposal when I heard the clank of bottles on the back stoop. I
looked over my shoulder out the window and saw the top of the
milkman's head go by.
There was something related to the milkman that I had been
forgetting to do. Caffeine had not yet sharpened my wits enough for
me to recall it; but as is so irritatingly often the way of things,
as soon as he was gone I knew what it was.
I set down my mug and opened the back door. As always, he had
left two bottles of milk, doubtless Alice's standard order. Even
when she had been here, it was more than the two of us drank. I
brought them in and put them away. Tonight I must remember to leave
a note for the milkman, reducing the order to one bottle-that was
what I'd forgotten. I do not like to waste things, and since the
earthquake, I can no longer take for granted the availability of
even the simplest things. Food, for instance. There had been days
when I would not have eaten were it not for the charity of others.
Including Alice. I sighed; at least I had repaid her- in money, if
not in sufficient care.
With my second cup of coffee I cogitated upon those two bottles
of milk. Were they evidence of a husband formerly in the house?
Perhaps, and of the missing maid also. More and more I was inclined
to believe that I had misjudged Alice. She had certainly behaved
strangely about her supposed husband, and there were no traces that
I could find of a man about the place. Yet someone had got in, torn
the study apart looking for something, killed Alice in a brutal
way, etc. This husband made a likely candidate. I resolved to do
everything in my power to find out more about him. I would begin as
soon as I had kept my appointment with Mickey.
"How much do I owe you?" I asked, turning the pistol over in my
hands. It was exactly as I had imagined, small and silver, and I
was quite pleased. I knew better than to ask where he got it. I did
not know the laws about sale and possession of firearms, and
considering the unreasonable treatment I'd had from the police, I
did not care to learn.
"Oh, nothing," Mickey replied, waving a hand like a ham hock. "I
got it from a buddy who owes me, so it didn't cost me a nickel.
Glad to do it for you."
"If I do not pay you for it now, then
I
will owe you," I
said, not keen on the idea. Mickey seemed an agreeable person, but
one can never be too sure.
"I wouldn't know what to charge you, and that's the truth. So
you just run along, pretty lady, and think no more about it." He
grinned, stuck his hands into pockets beneath a flowing apron, and
ambled back to his customers. Viewing Mickey from behind, I
observed that he had a vast sort of roll to his walk, as if at some
point in his life he'd spent a long time at sea.
I stuck the pistol-which he'd told me was a single-shot
Deringer, whatever that was-in my bag, where I'd already stashed a
box of bullets also courtesy of Mickey. The pistol did not come
with instructions, and I hadn't thought it wise to reveal my
ignorance, so I would have to figure it out by myself. One thing
was certain: I wouldn't ask Anson's help.
The morning passed quickly and profitably, with the advent of a
new client, a writer who was living in Golden Gate Park. He had
hastily (not to mention untidily) written a book entitled
The
Great San Francisco Quake,
and was in a fever to get it in the
hands of a publisher as quickly as possible. He gave me an advance
payment and promised a bonus if I produced the typed manuscript in
three days. I told him I would try, and that I would make more
rapid progress if he left me to it, rather than looking over my
shoulder while I typed.
At one o'clock I hand-lettered a sign: new hours: nine a.m. to
one p.m. closed afternoons until further notice..
This I posted on the door. If I were to get anywhere with the
Alice Investigation, I would need some time to myself.
I took my lunch-a hard-boiled egg and an apple-upstairs to
Alice's room. I had an idea that a woman who writes poetry would
also have kept a journal, and that I would find it if I looked
diligently enough. I munched as once again I went through her
drawers. In my previous search for the keys, I hadn't seen anything
like a journal or a diary, but there was always the chance I'd
simply overlooked it. In my formerly mush-brained state I hadn't
gone about anything very well.