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like The Golden Dragon, or was it the Golden Lotus? Grand Palace or perhaps Imperial Palace or Imperial Emperor. Some of the shops selling spices, herbs, meat, chicken and fish were still open. The odors could be overwhelming to the delicate western nose.
    Store windows contained fantastic sculptures carved in jade and other semi-precious stones. And enough ivory was on display to supply most of the elephants remaining in the world with tusks. Luggage stores offered steep discounts on a variety of bags—where did they get them?—and the ubiquitous souvenir shops peddled poorly made miniature cable cars and tons of T-shirts.
    I hummed "Grant Avenue" from Flower Drum Song as I walked diagonally left on Columbus, at Broadway, where, I had been told by my father, topless dancing was popularized at the Condor Club in the sixties by a woman named Carol Doda who danced on top of a piano. She had also reportedly had her breasts enlarged, which may have started another trend. The Condor Club was still there, but Carol Doda was long gone.
    I was soon in a quieter part of town, with fewer people about, but I wasn't apprehensive. San Francisco has never struck me as being a dangerous place.
    I had time so I walked up Lombard, including the section that has earned it the title of "the crookedest street in the world." A few cars were still wending their way slowly down the steep curves, as if they were on a slow-motion ride at a theme park. I was puffing hard by the time I got to the top. I didn't have far to go, however.
    James Buchanan's home faced north and had a clear view of the lit-up Golden Gate Bridge. The room with the large picture window on the front of the house was also lit as I approached, but I couldn't see anybody inside.
    Ned had told me not to attempt to enter the house until he arrived. My watch showed ten minutes of ten. The house was large by San Francisco standards and sat on a hillside lot, above the street level. A brick stairway led up to the front door. Several luxury cars and SUVs were parked in the sloping driveway.
    I didn't want to be arrested for loitering so I walked slowly along the street, admiring the view of the bay and the bridge. After 15 minutes of this, no cars had stopped at the Buchanan house. Maybe Ned had been held up at his business meeting. I started to get restless, but I decided to give him ten more minutes.
    By 10:20 I was really restless. I am not a good waiter. I didn't know where Ned's business meeting was. I could call his hotel to see if he was there, except that since I didn't have a cell phone I would have to walk down to the commercial area at the beach where there would be pay phones. If I did that and he arrived while I was gone I would miss him.
    On impulse, I walked up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. After a few seconds a disembodied male voice said, "Yes?"
    I located the intercom beside the door and said, "This is Ned Mackay."
    There was a pause. A video camera probably monitored me; I would be found out. I waited to be rejected.
    However, in less than a minute the voice said, "Here is the puzzle for today. A ship and its boiler have a combined age of 49 years. The ship is twice as old as the boiler was when the ship was as old as the boiler is now. What is the age of each? When you know the answer, buzz me."
    What the hell was he talking about? He couldn't be serious. Was this just a subtle form of rejection? I stared at the intercom, thinking up a sharp retort. But I wasn't in any position to make sharp retorts. Besides, how hard could the puzzle be? I was good at puzzles.
    I had a pen in my pocket and a small notebook for jotting down anything I learned. I pulled them out. Let X equal the age of the ship and Y equal the age of the boiler. The problem could be solved with simultaneous equations. One equation was easy; X + Y = 49. The other was a little more complicated and required untangling the terminology. Something about X = 2 times Y minus some