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"Lazarus!" I exclaimed. "Did you say Lazarus?"

"Why yes," said Michael, looking puzzled, "that was the name of
one of Norton's two dogs. They went with him everywhere."

"Even in death, they are still with him, apparently," I said.
And then I told Michael about the medium's barking, and how the
voice had come out of Frances's mouth at the seance, saying,
Lazarus, come away from there
¹
.

I went chilly all over as I said it. Perhaps Michael did too,
for the depths of his eyes seemed to swirl and became unfathomable,
as they do when he does not want anyone to know what he is
thinking. And then he said, "That is very, very strange."

These odd developments with Frances gave me an added incentive,
as an investigator with the J&K Agency, to carry through on my
plan to free myself of Michael's supervision. I needed freedom to
do investigations on my own. To invent a case even, if necessary,
to give me time away from the office.

An opportunity presented itself much sooner than I could have
hoped. That very afternoon, in fact. Over our lunch at home of soup
and bread, Michael casually mentioned that he had made an
appointment, under an assumed name, to meet with Wish Stephenson at
the shipping company at 3 p.m. Wish had managed to get hold of some
papers he wanted Michael to see, but did not dare to bring them out
of the building.

"That's nice," I said idly, as if my mind were elsewhere. Which
in fact it was-I was already mentally running through the various
pieces of my new disguise, making sure I had forgotten nothing.

Michael left in due course, and at two-thirty I went upstairs to
my own part of the house. I began to get ready, while keeping my
ears, as it were, cocked for the sound of either telephone or
doorbell. I did have to go down and answer the telephone once, but
otherwise I was not interrupted. When I had finished, the
transformation was astounding.

"Fremont," I said to myself in the mirror, chuckling, "you are a
rascal!''

Fremont Jones had become a young man.

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
piece de resistance
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
itemthat 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.

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.