Authors: Unknown
Mickey closed one eye in an exaggerated wink. "I fixed it, said
it was for a friend." And then he named a figure that I could
barely afford.
I decided barely was close enough. "Thank you. I will take it.
Shall I give you a deposit, or will you direct me to the
landlord?"
"I vouched for you so's you could skip the deposit. All you
gotta do is go on over there, day after tomorra like I said, and
he'll come around for the first month's rent. Name's Smythe, with a
y.
Hold on a minute, I got the address wrote on a piece a
paper. Yeah, here it is."
I managed to take the greasy slip of paper even though my hands
were full, and thanked Mickey again.
Things are looking up,
I thought as I returned to Max. I ate my breakfast sitting in the
auto, and then drove on to Anson Tyler's house on Valencia
Street.
The transaction with Mickey, and his good food, had damped my
anger but not put it out. As I drove toward the Mission District it
flared up again, then settled down to burn with a steady flame that
I was getting used to. It gave me energy, and purpose, and I
decided that I could do worse than to go around an angry person. Of
course, I should take care not to be entirely offensive.
I knew that Anson saw patients in the morning hours, so I did
not knock but went on in. A bell over his door rang, reminding me
(sadly) of the one I'd had on my own office door. I went into the
waiting room and sat down. It was empty. I had scarcely arranged my
skirts when Anson, wearing a crisp white coat, came from across the
hall. He looked quite the professional.
"Fremont! I did not expect to see you here."
"I did not come as a patient, Anson. I need to speak with you on
a private matter. It will not take long."
"Come into my office." He led the way into a plainly furnished
room that was spotlessly clean. Whatever else one might think of
Anson Tyler, as a doctor he could not be faulted. He took a seat
behind his desk and folded his hands upon it, beaming at me. "Now,
how may I help you? Your wish, as they say, is my command."
I started to sit, thought better of it, and remained standing.
"It has come to my attention that you led my friend Michael Archer
to believe you and I are to be married."
"Oh, that." He looked a little shamefaced. "If you will allow me
to explain-"
"I am not interested in explanations. I don't care why you did
it, I care that you
did
do it. You perpetrated a lie, Anson,
a lie about me."
"It's not really a lie, Fremont. I was upset with you, you know,
that night on Haight Street, and I admit I was hurt by your
refusal. But when you came to your senses and left that house,
which you should have done in the first place, I thought we would
have another chance. I still love you, you see. I had rushed you
before, so I thought I would give you time-"
"Really, I cannot listen to this! You must get it into your head
once and for all: I am the wrong mate for you. Time will never
change that. I am so angry with you for misleading Michael that I
can scarcely speak in a civil tone. I have set Michael straight. If
you have
misled
anyone else, I expect you to set them
straight without delay."
Very quietly Anson said, "He's the one, isn't he?"
I felt color rise in my face. "I take your meaning, and it is
none of your concern. Because of what you did, and the way he
reacted, I am done with both of you! So get that through your head
once and for all. I've found another place to live and will be
leaving Golden Gate Park in two days. Stay out of my way, Anson.
Stay out of my life!"
I swept out of there, borne on an anger so strong that I did not
even think of limping. I left Anson with his mouth hanging open
like a beached fish.
When I had calmed down somewhat, banked the fires of my anger as
it were, I consulted Mickey's greasy note and drove over to
Fillmore. I located my new home and parked at the curb, admiring it
from the outside. Of course it might be a pigsty within, but from
the exterior that seemed unlikely. The house was big, square, and
modern, three stories, with a handsome mansard roof. It had been
painted on the outside since the fire, in a pale gray that gleamed.
The roof was black. The location was perfect. I hoped my apartment
would face the street, so that I could hang my fremont jones
typewriting services sign in a window. I could hardly wait to move
in.
Thank you, Mickey Morelock, thank you, thank you!
As I returned to Golden Gate Park, I reflected that such good
fortune had made me feel less angry but no less purposeful. There
was a kind of hardness, an adamance inside me that had never been
there before. I felt as if the fires of San Francisco and the fire
in my heart had burned away my soft places and tempered me, like
steel.
16.
Wonders (and Horrors?) Will Never Cease
It is easy to lose track of the days when anything like a
regular schedule has vanished from one's life. I stopped on my way
back to the park and bought a
Chronicle,
both for the news
and to be sure that it was (as I thought) Thursday. It was, which
meant I would be moving to Fillmore on Saturday. I was highly
satisfied.
I spent the afternoon in my tent with my foot up for the ankle's
sake, since my talking to it had not done a bit of good. First I
read the paper, which was full of extremes: at one end of the
spectrum lay the building boom, and on the other a good deal about
crime and graft and so on. I suppose it is ever thus, people being
what they are.
Then I read Gertrude Lasley's diary. She must have been a sweet
old lady; certainly she had done her best to keep her spirits up
even as her condition deteriorated. One could read her steady
decline through the quality of her handwriting alone: in the early
pages she wrote a fine hand, but by the end it had become a shaky
scrawl that was difficult to decipher. Throughout, she chronicled
an illness characterized by painful gastric disturbances, with
frightening episodes of paralysis toward the last.
Gertrude's attitude toward Alice progressed from an initial
enthusiasm to a long period of making charitable excuses for her
niece's behavior, and finally-when she was too weak to do
anything-to complaint. She complained not of being poisoned, which
she never suspected, but of neglect. Alice had dismissed the maid
for stealing (so that was what had happened to her! but I doubted
it was she who stole) and was slow to hire another; Alice left
Gertrude alone for long periods of time; Alice allowed the bed
linens to go soiled, and did not often enough provide clean gowns
and caps; finally, and most pathetically, Alice would not call a
doctor. Gertrude knew she was dying. The last entry said, "I have
no more strength to write."
I closed the diary and wept for Gertrude Lasley. I no longer
felt guilty about Alice being murdered. To go swiftly with one's
throat cut had to be an easier way to die, and after what she had
done to her aunt, Alice had not deserved to live.
On Friday morning Michael came to my tent. I was refreshed after
a relatively good night's sleep, clearheaded, and sure of myself,
though I knew that what I had to say would be a surprise to
him.
"I thought," he said, "that we should discuss how to proceed in
this Lasley business."
I handed Gertrude's diary to Michael. "I believe there are
enough details about the progression of the unfortunate old lady's
illness here to make a case for poisoning. Also, there is no
mention of Alice having acquired a husband; indeed, the diary sheds
no light on the question of who might have killed Alice. As for our
having a discussion, that will not be necessary. I turn the entire
matter over to you, Michael. I have decided that my sleuthing days
are over."
He raised one eyebrow, looking at me critically. "You have the
right, of course, to make such a decision. Nevertheless, because
you have been so closely involved-"
"I've thought of that. When it is necessary to do so, I will
cooperate with the police. If I have to defend myself, I shall
retain a lawyer, even if I have to ask my father for help with the
expense. I am hoping that won't be necessary. I know you have
contacts on the police force-you seem to have them all over the
place. If your own contacts fail, you might want to make the
acquaintance of a young rookie officer by the name of Stephenson. I
do not know that he can be trusted, that is a judgment you must
make for yourself. The reality is, Michael, that you are quite good
at this sort of thing whereas I am out of my depth."
"I disagree," he said softly. "You have made an excellent Holmes
to my Watson, and I had hoped we might go on."
I raised my chin. This was harder for me than I had envisioned.
"You are only being charitable. My life is in a shambles, Michael.
Beginning tomorrow, I have an opportunity to put it back together,
and that is what I intend to do."
"May I inquire as to the particulars?"
"I will be advertising my new office, so the police will have no
difficulty in finding me if they need to. As for the rest, you may
as well know that I am still angry about the way you and Anson
treated me. As a result, I do not wish to have anything to do with
either of you. I have told Anson, and now I am telling you."
Michael released a breath through his teeth in a soft hiss; he
rubbed at his head, rumpling and then smoothing his hair. He said,
"Damn!"
I said, "I will leave Max in the garage at the Presidio on
Sunday. Of course I can't accept the auto as a gift, it would not
be proper. In the heat of the moment, I misspoke when I said I
intended to keep it. I believe that concludes our business,
Michael, and so I will ask you to leave now."
"How did we go so wrong?"
The expression in his eyes caused me pain, but I steeled myself
against it and said nothing.
"I had hoped," said Michael, "once this Lasley matter was
cleared up, and since you are not after all engaged to Tyler, that
you would think seriously about Carmel."
For a moment I wavered; I did not recall his saying anything
about this Carmel-whoever or whatever a Carmel might be-and so, of
course, I was curious. But I got myself in hand and shook my head.
"I want only to be left alone so that I can conduct my life in an
orderly and profitable manner. That is all. Goodbye, Michael."
"If you insist," he said slowly, "goodbye, Fremont." He turned
to leave, then turned back. "I almost forgot. About your
pistol-"
"Keep it," I said quickly. "In my new life I will not need
it."
Michael's blue eyes were clouded with gray, his expression
troubled. He said not another word, but ducked and backed out
through the tent flap.
Yes, my soft places had burned away. I watched him go and felt
nothing: not sadness, not anger, not vindication. Nothing.
I had work to do. For once, I would pack carefully so that all
would be ready on the morrow for my final move. In my hasty
departure from Haight Street most of my clothes had become
wrinkled, and the wrinkles had not hung out. I decided to sort the
clothes that merely needed pressing from those that needed
laundering, and was doing so when Nurse Bartlett poked her nose
into my tent. "Fremont, there's someone here to see you." I looked
over my shoulder as I continued sorting. "I am not particularly in
the mood for company, Mrs. Bartlett. Could you put them off?"
Bartlett shook her wrinkles and withdrew her head, and through
the tent flap popped a plump pink person who said, "Wotcha up to,
Fremont?"
"Mrs. O'Leary!" I cried, flinging myself into her bosomy
embrace.
"There, there," she said, patting me, "it's lovely to see you,
dearie, but watch out for my new hat."
I took both her hands and moved back at arms' length. "Mrs. O.,
you look very grand."
"You're a sight for sore eyes yerself, Fremont, and no mistake."
She nodded, and her new hat, which boasted a quantity of pink
ostrich feathers, bobbled atop her faded red hair.
"A new hat, and if I am not mistaken, that is a new dress also.
A traveling costume, is it not?"
"That it is. Oh, Fremont, I've got so much to tell ya, I hardly
know where to begin."
"Do sit down." I gave her the one chair and pushed aside a pile
of clothes so that I could sit on the cot. "I am all ears."
"Looky here," she said, thrusting her left hand in my face.
"Oh my. Could this be a
wedding
ring?" The ring was an
extravagance, a circle of diamonds. Her traveling costume was pink
shantung, beautifully cut to fit her large body.
"It surely could, Fremont, it surely could. Why, it's like a
fairy tale! See, I was sittin' in a tent in this very camp, all
snivelin' and sorrowful, and outside the fire was raging and all,
when up comes this handsome gentleman and says to me, 'Maureen, is
that you?' And I says, 'Who's askin'?' But already I thought I
reconnized him. Fremont, it was Jack Ryan, who I knew before
himself and me was married. Hadn't seen Jack in all these years. He
was visitin' San Francisco when the quake hit, stayin' in one of
them hotels wot burned, and he got evacuated to Golden Gate Park
same as me. Well, one thing led to another, you know how it is, or
maybe you don't-"
My former landlady broke off, actually blushing.
I smiled. "I think I can imagine. Do go on."
"Long about the time the fires stopped, Jack says to me,
'Maureen, what say we do what we shoulda done a long time ago?' and
I says, 'Wot's that, Jack?' and he says, 'Let's get married and
blow this town.' That's the way he talks, Fremont: 'blow this
town.' Jack's a big tycoon, got some kinda business down the south
part of the state. So I thought, why not? But I did have me a quiet
conversation with himself of blessed memory before I said yes."