by Dianne Day
I had bought the clothes at one of the better secondhand shops, telling the sales clerk I was shopping for my twin brother, who was exactly like me in height, weight, and bone structure. The clerk, a mousy older woman with a distracted, weary air, had left me to browse on my own—exactly as I’d wanted. I had chosen well, if I did say so myself.
My suit was a three-piece of dark gray wool, the trousers of the right length, as were the sleeves; its vest came in handy for further hiding bound-up breasts. The stiff shirt collar was a bit too large—and entirely too scratchy—but its looseness was remedied somewhat by tightly knotting the four-in-hand tie. The tie itself was a silk print with a tiny black figure on a maroon ground; completely unmemorable, it would attract no attention. The plain white shirt had seen better days but was still serviceable. My biggest problem had been finding proper shoes, as my feet are rather narrow; I’d had to settle for women’s shoes, black leather, in a clodhopperish style with wide low heels. I thought they looked enough like men’s shoes to get away with it.
I had practiced applying the false mustache, which I’d obtained in a costume shop, but even so it seemed to take forever—not to mention that I hated the acrid smell of the spirit gum one had to use to glue it to the upper lip. The spirit vapors brought tears to my eyes and made me sneeze. But when I’d done, the effect was worth it: I looked quite the man. I turned my head from side to side and speculated how I would look in a full beard. Maybe next time …
The pièce de résistance was the fedora, which I had bought new and to fit, again using the ruse of the twin brother. The hat salesman had not been quite so credulous as the clerk in the secondhand shop, but he’d said nothing and had been quite ready to take my money, so all was well. My fedora was a lovely soft felt, black, with a deep crown (useful for accommodating the hair piled on top of my head) and a brim just wide enough to throw my eyes into shadow. I gave the brim a final tug to get the angle just right, then stood back to admire myself.
From the distance of a few feet, if I had not known it was I in the mirror, I swear I would have wondered, Who is that handsome young fellow? I swaggered a bit. I had not realized my legs were so long. Taking up my walking stick, which fortunately is an item that can be used by either sex, I strolled out of my apartments to the stairs, which I descended with a deliberately long, loose gait, somewhat (I hoped) like Wish Stephenson’s.
The J&K Agency, behind its handsome facade on upper Divisadero, is hardly the kind of place where one can post a handwritten note on the door—which I have been wont to do in my past places of business. Therefore, I simply locked the door behind me and trusted that anyone who could find our discreetly advertised business would also have the sense to figure out that, if we were closed, the thing to do would be to come back later. Then I strolled off, deliberately punctuating my long strides with a downward stroke of the walking stick. I was having a fine time.
The hands of the clock on the tower of the Ferry Building pointed to three-fifteen as I swung down off the streetcar. The offices of the Red Line—that was the name of the shipping company J&K had been hired to investigate—were here along the Embarcadero. I consulted the slip of paper on which I’d written the address, and saw by the numbers that the building I sought was not by the water, but rather on the other side of the street.
All to the good, I thought. Once I’d found the Red Line’s building, which could not be far away, I could watch from across the street. I bought a newspaper from a vendor in a kiosk near the corner of the Ferry Building and moved on. Michael had taught me that it is best, when on surveillance, not to make eye contact with passersby. They are less likely to pay attention to you, or to remember you, if you do not look them directly in the eye.
The street was noisy and disorderly; the air smelled of salt water, and of fish.
Suddenly I felt frightened for no reason. I could not breathe, as if I were a fish out of water myself. The fear had come over me so fast that I was taken completely by surprise. For long moments I stood paralyzed, very much in danger of calling attention to myself. My head was swimming, and I thought I might fall.
I’m in no danger, I told myself, tilting my head down, hiding beneath the brim of the fedora, it’s only Michael I am following, it’s only a training exercise, little more than a game. Groping toward the nearest doorway, where I might lean against something solid, I felt myself losing hold, drowning … in fear and shame.
9
———
Mesmer Eyes
It was my unwillingness to bear the shame that saved me. I simply would not, could not, disgrace myself by doing something stupid, like fainting, right out here on the Embarcadero! Leaning against the building behind me, my head still bowed to obscure my face, I reached into my vest pocket as if to consult a pocket watch. I did not own a watch of any sort—I had lost mine in the earthquake and so far had not been able to afford a replacement—but this little pantomime of time-telling gave me a momentary focus.
As I studied my empty, cupped hand, a visual memory flashed through my mind. It was visceral, as well: shockingly cold, utterly airless, wet, and fishy-smelling. It was a vivid memory of the time I had been kept prisoner on these docks, and subsequently had come all too close to drowning.
Well, I thought, straightening up and returning my invisible watch to its pocket, no wonder! I had read somewhere that the olfactory sense is a great trigger of memory—well, just now I had received firsthand confirmation. As soon as I realized that my fear belonged in the past, it disappeared. My breathing returned to normal, and I no longer felt as if I were drowning. With the kind of shrug that I have often seen men do, to settle their jackets on their shoulders, I struck out again down the street.
In a few moments I had located the Red Line’s suite of offices, which had a row of windows facing front, with a band of red painted smartly along the top, and RED LINE picked out in gold upon a red background over the door. I merely glanced that way, continuing on a few feet down the street where, on my side, a wide wooden railing between two docks overlooked the water. A fine place for a young man to rest with his weight upon his elbows and his newspaper spread out before him. So I did.
By the clock on the Ferry Building it was almost four when Michael came out of the Red Line door. I had gazed upon that newspaper for so long, I’d fair memorized the thing. Michael was walking fast. He usually did; that was one of the reasons he was difficult to tail, one could not hang back too far. At least I could be grateful he had left the Maxwell at home, otherwise I’d have been in quite a pickle. Michael did not appear to be returning home just yet. He headed not for the streetcar stop that would take him toward our end of Divisadero, but back the other way, toward the Financial District.
The streets of the Financial District are flat because they rest on landfill. Beneath all these businesses that keep San Francisco’s economy afloat, the skeletons of abandoned ships lie buried. Mrs. O’Leary, my former landlady, had told me about this—how during the Gold Rush so many people had left their wooden ships in the harbor to rot while they pursued their dreams of gold that the ships became a nuisance, and a health hazard as well. So someone had the bright idea of pushing them up against one another and filling the area between with rubble, then paving the whole thing over. Thus the City obtained this flat “made land” and a new shoreline, and the Embarcadero itself.
For my purposes this afternoon, the flat streets were a boon. Michael left the Embarcadero on Front Street, and so did I. He walked down to Pine, and then up to Sansome; for a moment I thought we were on our way to the Monkey Block—which is really the Montgomery Block, but nobody calls it that. But no, there on the corner he went into a tobacco shop, and I recalled he’d said he needed some for his pipe.
I crossed the street and busied myself among the sweet-scented and colorful wares of a flower vendor’s cart. I longed for some of the purple irises, though I knew I should not buy them. Their long stems in a paper cone would be unwieldy, and the bright color would call attention to me.
On the other hand, I reasoned—or rationalized—if need be I could also use them to hide my face. So I bought the flowers and had just paid when Michael exited the shop. I made a mental note of its exact location and the approximate time. Then we were off again, up Sansome this time, to California, where Michael took his place in the queue waiting for the cable car.
There were enough people milling about that I didn’t think he would pay attention to me, but nevertheless I strolled on by. I went into one of those corner markets that are ubiquitous in San Francisco—helpful for those who want to do their shopping on their way home, or to lurk about and spy on people, as the case may be. Such markets always seem to keep their fruits and vegetables near the window, and this one was no different, so I stood sorting through the apples and potatoes until I heard the clang of the cable car bell and the ratcheting sound of its arrival. Through the window I watched, waiting, waiting …
My heart was beating rapidly to the thrill of the chase. I waited until the last minute, my eyes scanning the passengers as they boarded, but I did not see Michael. Surely he hadn’t given me the slip? There was no time, the cable car had already begun to move, and I must get on or let it go. I ran, jumped, grabbed hold, and was on—irises, walking stick, and all. Quite a feat; in a skirt I could not have accomplished it.
A pretty girl, no more than fifteen or sixteen, I guessed, smiled at me; I had to pretend I hadn’t seen, but I was pleased nonetheless. Her smile gave me confidence that my disguise was as good as I thought it was. My end of the car was so crowded that only the women were sitting, the men were all standing, and I had an awkward moment of juggling my stick and the flowers while reaching into my pockets for the carfare, but I managed.
At last, I caught sight of Michael’s silver-shot dark head and could breathe more easily, knowing I had not lost my quarry. Ever the aristocrat, he had somehow obtained a seat in the middle section of the car, which has glass windows and a sliding door, and is sheltered from the wind. I was in the back, in the open. I didn’t mind the wind, I liked it, as long as it didn’t blow off my fedora. And as the cable car climbed Nob Hill, the view behind us, out over the Bay, became increasingly glorious.
There was still a great deal of rebuilding going on in this section of the City, even two years after the Great Quake. One presumed that was because the homes here were large and expensive, and thus took more time to complete. I wondered who would live in them. The great palatial homes of Stanford and Hopkins and their ilk were, alas, no more. All around us, the noise of pounding and sawing, and workmen calling back and forth, was so great it could be heard even over the screeching of the cable car’s brakes as it ground to a halt at every corner.
In my preoccupied exhilaration I’d forgotten to count streets, but we had gone past the crest of Nob Hill when I saw Michael rise and turn. He intended to get off by the back, my end, of the cable car. Bad luck. I tugged down the brim of my fedora while I wondered what to do. Getting off right behind him would be far too obvious. I should just have to go on to the next stop, and hope I could come back and pick up his trail.
Thankfully, I was able to do both. Michael was easily spotted, about a block and a half ahead of me going downhill on Larkin. He was walking more slowly than usual, and looking up at the house numbers. These streets had also been destroyed during the earthquake, and had been rebuilt in a combination of apartment houses and office buildings, much as before. It was easier here to follow him without fear of detection because of the stoops and doorways, which made good hiding places. In the block between Bush and Sutter, Michael stopped, looked up at the house in front of him, down at something in his hand, put that something back into his pocket, and began to climb the steps.
I judged the time, at this point, to be between four-thirty and four forty-five. Quite likely this would be Michael’s last stop before heading back to Divisadero Street. When he had gone into the house and did not reappear, I quickened my steps until I came to the house he had entered. At least I thought this was the one, but as it was almost identical to those on both sides …
Oh, botheration! I thought. I shall never get the hang of this! I should have looked for some sort of identifying object in the vicinity of where Michael had been standing before he went in. Well, I hadn’t, and it was too late now. All I could do was hope I’d gotten it right. It would be too bad if I were to ruin my delicious surprise when I had come this far.
These houses all had steps leading up to an entry beneath a small portico—the exact number of steps for each being related to the downslope. Thus each house also had a basement level, with access through a lower door in a well beneath the steps. I could wait, sheltered there, until Michael came out—that would be the safest course, particularly if I’d judged wrong and instead he came out of one of the houses next door. But that was not what I wanted to do. I wanted desperately to surprise him, and had planned it all out; for my surprise to work, I would have to arrive back at Divisadero Street before him. I decided I would rather risk being wrong than give up my cherished plan.
I climbed the steps—in this case, five—and paused beneath the portico. The place had more the look of apartments than offices, and I found myself reluctant to trespass. There was a glass in the door, in a large diamond-shaped pattern, but it was pebbled and when I looked through it the effect was much the same as opening one’s eyes underwater. Everything looked blurred and a bit murky. The door itself was oak with a golden sheen, and the doorknob was brass. No knocker—that seemed odd. I turned the doorknob, the door was unlocked, and I entered.
I was standing in a small foyer, perhaps nine feet square. Directly opposite the door by which I’d entered, a console table had been placed against the wall. Behind the table, where ordinarily one would have hung a mirror, there hung instead a dark blue velvet curtain. That seemed in questionable taste, a tad theatrical; of course I wanted immediately to look behind it, but I did not. To my left and right there were doors, now closed. From the right rear corner of the foyer a staircase curved upward and disappeared through an opening in the high ceiling. In the other direction, beneath my feet, the hardwood floor showed a high polish. The whole place smelled faintly, pleasantly, of wax.
Uncertain how to proceed, I stood listening intently. I could hear nothing—the doors were too thick. I walked carefully, so as not to make noise on the bare floor, over to the console table.
Aha! Here was something useful.
In the center of the table sat a decorative bowl, but it was being used for more than decoration. I gathered this bowl served in lieu of a guest book and that one was supposed to leave one’s card: It contained several, of both the personal and the business kind. I did not add mine. I did not need to in any case, because Michael had already left a J&K card right on top. Better yet, flat upon the table right in front of the bowl—one could not see it at all from a distance—lay a plaque with intaglio carving: WILLIAM VAN ZANT, DOCTOR OF PHENOMENOLOGY AND HYPNOTISM, SUITE 4, SECOND FLOOR.
Quickly I set down the paper cone of flowers and tucked my walking stick under my arm so as to free up my hands. Though I trust my memory for most things, I wanted to be sure I got this absolutely right. I copied the details about Dr. Van Zant in the small notebook I carried for that purpose, then put it away, and in a state of combined curiosity and jubilation, I left. Luck held—I was able to hail an auto-taxi on Sutter Street, and very shortly I was back at home, which is to say, at the office of the J&K Agency.
———
The little bell on the front door jingled. I swiftly assumed my planned position: feet up, leaning back in the chair. I wished I had a cigar; even though they are nasty, smelly things they do create a certain effect.
“I beg your pardon!” Michael said, in a tone that did not sound as if he were doing any such thing.
I pushed up the brim of the fedora in back, so that it slid down my forehead toward the bridge of my nose, and said in the deepest voice I could muster: “Sez who?”
“I don’t know w
ho you are, and I don’t care, but if you know what’s good for you, young man”—Michael advanced as he spoke—“you’ll take your feet off that desk and get out of here this instant. Otherwise I’m calling the police. I suppose you’re some friend of Wish Stephenson’s, is that it? Well, you can tell him—no, I’ll tell him—that we don’t appreciate cheeky fellows putting their feet up on our desks. Where’s Miss Jones?”
I had to suck in my cheeks to keep from laughing out loud. With my feet still on the desk, I took up the notepad and began to read in my normal voice—quickly, because from the tone of Michael’s voice, another few seconds was all he would tolerate the cheeky fellow who was really me. “At 3:55 P.M. the subject, Michael Kossoff, came out of the Red Line offices on the Embarcadero. He walked south, leaving the Embarcadero at Front Street …” and so on.
He came right up to my desk. I could feel his eyes moving back and forth over me, examining this new creature he had never seen before. I continued my reading without missing a beat, until finally I concluded: “For follow-up—obtain more information about Dr. Van Zant and subject’s connection to the doctor.”
Now I looked up and said, straight to Michael, “Submitted for your consideration by this investigator, Fremont Jones.”
His smile began as a twitch at the corners of his mouth and spread from lips to cheeks, to a dawn breaking in his eyes. It was worth waiting for, worth risking almost anything for: that smile.
“I don’t believe it,” he whooped, “I simply cannot believe it!”
I swung my feet down off the desk, pushed back in the chair, and made a little bow from the waist while still seated.
“The fellow with the flowers, on the cable car, that was my Fremont?”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” I said, stroking my false mustache with my index finger like a dandy, “but quibbles aside regarding your use of the word ‘my,’ then yes. The fellow with the flowers was me. I mean I.”