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Mr. Jeremy McFadden might call
the McFadden mansion; it was certainly big enough. Being west of
Van Ness, it had received very little damage in the quake and fire
two years before. And while the formerly great neighborhoods like
Nob Hill were still disrupted by the noise and clutter of
rebuilding, this area had come into its own as a desirable place to
live. The view, similar to that from my bedroom window on
Divisadero, was rather spectacular and compensated for the
precipitousness of the house's hillside site.
    After carefully setting the handbrake, for I certainly did not
want the Maxwell to roll away, I climbed the sidewalk and far too
many steps up to the front door. It would have been much easier if
I had driven up their driveway and parked beneath the porte
cochere, as I'd done when Frances was with me, but on this
occasion I thought it wise not to advertise my presence.
    I hadn't thought about the extreme plainness of my dress until
the maid who opened the door to my knock gave me the severest sort
of scrutiny up and down. "I'm Mrs. McFadden's friend, Fremont
Jones," I explained, "and I'd like to see her if she's in."
    "You're not expected." The maid, who was neither young nor
pretty, but rather the opposite, stated this flatly.
    I did not like her tone at all, so I put on my best
Wellesley-educated persona and declared, "Mrs. McFadden is always
at home to me, and I'm sure she would like to be acquainted with
the fact that I am here inquiring after her health. I know she had
a bit of a turn last evening. It was I, in fact, who brought her
home."
    The maid, who was looking to me more like a prison matron every
minute, planted herself quite solidly in the middle of the entry
and said, "No one is expected today. The Missus is not up to seeing
anyone, and Mister said she's not to be disturbed. Not by no one,
all day. So good afternoon." And she started to close the big
door.
    "Just a moment!" I stuck my hand out, risking a sore wrist if
she closed it in my face. But she didn't; she held the door with
her fingers curled around its edge and simply glared at me.
    I reached into the pocket of my long coat. I had no calling
cards-I hadn't thought about needing any, what with everything else
that had gone on since I'd lost my former home on Vallejo
Street-but I did have some of our J&K business cards with my
name at the bottom, and our address and telephone number. I never
went anywhere without them; in business, one should always be
prepared to advertise. "My card," I said, thrusting it in the
woman's face so that she was forced to take it or risk being
blinded, "which I trust you will give to Mrs. McFadden, along with
my most sincere wish that she will be feeling better soon."
    Was it only my imagination, or was there a momentary softening
of the eyes in that hard face? I took advantage by urging quietly,
as if the maid and I had just become confidantes, "Please? Everyone
needs a friend."
    "Huh!" she snorted, and this time she did close the door in my
face.

    WlSH STEPHENSON was sitting at his desk when I returned to
Divisadero Street. Owing to his seniority in the investigation
business, he has the desk with the most privacy- that is to say, it
is farthest from the door. I do not begrudge him this in the least,
but I did wonder why he took so long before looking up when I
entered. Surely he'd heard the bell?
    "Wish?" I inquired, setting my hat down on my own desk and
moving toward him as I began the long unbuttoning. "Are you all
right?"
    "Oh, Fremont, I-" His head jerked up and he regarded me with a
slightly dazed expression, as if I'd brought him out of a deep
reverie. Or as if he'd recently been hit upon the head and lost
some of his wits. He rubbed at his forehead with unusually long,
big-knuckled fingers. "I'm sorry, I forgot to go by that club for
you."
    "It doesn't matter, and was not what I inquired about anyway. I
merely asked if you were all right, because you appeared so, shall
we say, distracted."
    "Oh, yes, I'm