Emperor Norton's Ghost

by Dianne Day

  “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.”

  “Touché. 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.”

  “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 an exciting 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.

  The darkness outside seemed to call to me, to lure me on, first to the window to look out on a typical San Francisco night: swirls of fog, no stars. One of the two street-lamps I could see from where I stood had burned out. I narrowed my eyes and shielded them with cupped hands against the glare from the light behind me in the room, yet I could see no one abroad on either side of the street.

  My extreme physical restlessness escalated. I left the window and went downstairs, forcing myself to move slowly, telling myself every step of the way that this was ridiculous, that I would only go to the door, open it, look out, and of course see nothing at all unusual. And that was what I did.

  Yet I heard something. Very faint at first, so that I had to strain every nerve in order to be sure I’d heard it, and strain yet further to discern from what direction it came. And there! Again. From the bottom of the steps and to the right, where up against the house, because of the burned-out streetlamp, lay an area of deepest shadow, I heard it … the sound of someone crying.

  22

  ———

  Naked We Come Forth

  Ifollowed the sounds, blindly at first; then as my eyes adjusted I managed to see a form huddled up against the house, behind a row of low-growing juniper bushes that screen the foundation. Its human shape was discernible only from its paleness, which reflected what precious little available light there was. And as I drew nigh I knew with a sinking certainty to whom that shape belonged.

  “Frances,” I whispered, “is that you?”

  She whimpered once and recoiled. Crouching, she had wrapped herself into the smallest possible shape. Yet she did manage to say: “F-Fremont?”

  “Of course it’s Fremont. Who else, on these premises?” I said, intentionally a bit harshly, as I took a last sweeping glance around to be absolutely certain there was no one hanging about. T
here was not. So I went on in a no-nonsense manner, as my experience with traumatized people after the earthquake had taught me—for why would she be hiding in the bushes if she were not traumatized, and I had only too good an idea by whom: “What in the world are you doing back there in the bushes when we could be inside? Why ever didn’t you just ring the doorbell, you silly ninny? Come on, then!”

  Frances took the hand I extended and allowed me to pull her to her feet. Only then did I realize that she was entirely naked. I sucked in my breath but was able to prevent myself from saying a word, or indeed from making any sound, while I led her as quickly as possible up the steps and into the house.

  Once inside I ordered her, again in that no-nonsense voice, “Go on up the stairs to my apartment. I’ll just lock the door and then I’ll be right along.”

  “I c-c-can’t!” Frances said through chattering teeth. She had crossed her arms over her breasts, as I supposed I should have done in her place, but that did not hide the rather spectacular sight of her other red-gold hair.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course you can.”

  “C-c-close your eyes then, if I g-go up first.”

  “I promise I won’t look,” I said, making a fuss over locking the door, which was a mere matter of throwing a bolt. “And don’t worry, the first thing I’ll do when we get up there is provide you with one of my bathrobes, and then I’ll run you a nice, hot, relaxing bath, and only after that will you have to tell me what has happened.”

  “Thank you, Fremont,” Frances managed to say with some dignity. I did not look, and she did go on up the stairs.

  ———

  Frances seemed to recover her spirits quickly. In body she had not suffered—Jeremy McFadden had spared her, for once, and although I was glad, I wondered why. She sat in the other wing chair, wearing my best bathrobe and sipping the tea I’d made for us both.

  I thought it prudent not to ask questions. Surely she would tell me all I wanted to know, in time. I was right about that; it was not long before she started to talk.