"No," Dr. Patel admitted, "there really is no reason for you to stay. No medical reasons. Under the circumstances, you're welcome to remain for a while. And we would like for you to come back - in about a week - for a check but you're perfectly healthy. I suppose we can take those last stitches out, if you'd like. I was worrying a little about stretching but the tissues appear to have knitted and I think you'll be fine."

"They do still itch a bit," I admitted. "I really won't miss them."

"Fine then, we'll take care of that and you can think about what you'd like to do." She hesitated for a moment, then added, "Look, this really isn't my business so you don't have to answer if you don't want to - but, do you have anyplace to stay?"

"That depends," I answered. "I've been offered accommodations with a friend but the open question is when they're going to be available."

"Well, if it's just a matter of a few days," Dr. Patel sounded relieved - it appeared she worried about her patients well beyond her medical responsibilities. "As I said, you can certainly stay here."

"Thank you but that wasn't the question really. I mean, I appreciate the option but what I was wondering was how Dan Wills is doing. There's been some mention of letting him go home. Is he well enough? And could you give me some idea what his dietary restrictions should be? Uh, since he's offered to put me up - I'd thought about doing some cooking but I wouldn't want to fix something which would aggravate his condition."

Dr. Patel nodded, considering for a moment. "If you'll keep an eye on him," she agreed, "then, yes, we can probably let him go home. As for food - no heavy spices, no alcohol ..." The list was extensive but not exhaustive.

"What about things like saffroned rice? Rita? Ah, tandori chicken? Somosa?"

"The rita, yes," she agreed immediately. "The tandori chicken will be okay. Samosa if not too spicy. But no papadam, no curries, no chutneys - not for at least two weeks. No garlic, no onions, no peppers. Rice, yes but not too spicy."

"Bina mirch masale ke," I agreed, no curries and not spicy.

"Well, some spices," she smiled. "I'll get you a list. You are good cook?"

"I ... well, I think so ..." The idea of cooking seemed natural - like it was something familiar that everyone was supposed to know how to do. Except, a memory from somewhere reminded me, not everyone did it well. In any case, I'd certainly try.

* * *

The Masters Tourney - as Wills had dubbed our pinochle games - was much less a matter of playing than it was an excuse for conversation - a thread, as it were, to connect disjointed topics and a platform for casual remarks, shaggy-dog stories and reminiscences. Not that I had any font of the latter - reminiscences, that is - since my personal memories extended less than a hundred hours but I found that I did have a fund of general knowledge - sometimes quite unexpected - allowing me to highlight, confirm or comment on the Captain's stories of foreign ports and peoples.

George also had a fund of travel stories although his mostly concerned the southern U. S. and various of the Caribbean islands - areas which, oddly enough, were as strange to me as they were to Wills. But not to the Captain who had visited many ports in the region.

Of the four of us, Wills was the untraveled one and, in effect, Wills was our audience - not passively but more as a critical observer ... with an insatiable thirst for accounts of far away places, unusual customs and anything else which might be counted as adventure.

I'd tried more than once to get Wills to account for his own background but with little success. Instead, what he did recount was mostly complaints of the blandness of his profession and a yearning for change.

"The closest I think I've ever come to adventure," he'd confided on one occasion, "was being threatened by a client when I refused to enter his monthly weekends in Nevada as 'entertainment expenses'. True, I suppose, that they were entertainment but it wasn't the deductible kind. At any rate, the only thing that came of it was that he decided to take his business elsewhere. Not that I missed his accounts - and I certainly didn't miss listening to his stories about Nevada 'ranches' - the kind that are illegal elsewhere."

And that had sent the Captain into a story about brothel customs around the globe while George claimed to know of at least three houses of ill-repute in downtown San Francisco.

The conversation was not - whatever you might expect - about personal sexual exploits or sexual conquest or sexual proclivities ... at least not personal sexual proclivities. Instead, the real topic was cultural - how different cultures .. and different ages ... had viewed sex.

From a personal standpoint, I supposed - being some four days 'old' - I was a virgin in such matters. Certainly I had no personal memories of sex ... for that matter, I hadn't experienced any particular sexual urges. But I did have 'inherited' memories - impersonal for the most part - of inter-sexual conduct in several cultures ... and some of inter-sexual conduct as well though these were entirely impersonal. As near as I could judge, my biological proclivities involved the opposite sex, not my own.

Or, to put it less clinically, I found several of the nurse and doctors - of the female variety - attractive but did not feel any particular interest in any of their male counterparts. Of course, attractive is a relative term and I hadn't experienced any particularly strong feelings of any kind. Not that I was feeling any particular lack either ... it was just, for a moment, I had a horrible vision of having to go through puberty a second time.

Of course, for the present me, it would be a first and only a second biologically. But then, since puberty was a biological change in the first place, I decided a recurrence was unlikely.

But it did raise the ghost of the previous 'me' - had he left a family? Where? What were they like? Were they looking for him. Missing him?

For that matter, did 'he' have parents somewhere? Or brothers and sisters?

There wasn't much I could do about it at the moment ... but it did worry me - more on an intellectual level than anything else, but still a worry.

Returning from my reverie, I found George describing a wedding ceremony involving a lot of dancing, a spirit or goddess named Maitresse Erzulie and a large and elaborate feast.

* * *

After lunch, saying good-byes was harder than I'd imagined. The hospital was the only place I'd known ... at all. I made a list of addresses and phone numbers in the back of the stenopad, including Caesar's. Naturally, Captain Donavi's only address was c/o the shipping lines but, since he was also going to stay with Wills - just as soon as the hospital would let him go - that wasn't too much of a problem.

George had high hopes of being out within a day or two and his doctor - provisionally - was agreeing. In the mean time, he assured us, he'd keep the pinochle games going ... and even try his hand at tivoli as long as the Captain was incarcerated.

Still - Wills and I promised, collectively and individually - we'd be by at least once a day to succor to the less fortunate ... meaning George and the Captain.

* * *

In the taxi, actually outside the hospital, I found my heart rate and blood pressure both rising. Almost an anxiety level. Unexpected. Also somewhat annoying.

I spent a few minutes regulating my breathing and reducing the pulse and pressure, then settled back to look around.

"Are you okay?" Wills asked. "You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine," I willed the rush of blood to drain away. My adrenaline levels were high also. Not a good beginning. I collected ice for my forehead and summoned a cool breeze from the sea to carry off the anxiety and the excitement. All metaphorical, of course, but the imagery was sufficient.

"Where are we?" I queried. To the stranger, on street of stores and businesses is very much like another and one of the first things I was going to have to do was to create a mental map of the city.

"South on 19th," Wills answered. "We're headed toward Daly City. We're not the best part of town right now but it gets better." He stopped for a moment, then resumed. "Now, see, that's what's the matter with me. Not the best part of town! I suppose if I was in Gdansk, I'd be looking for a Hilton Hotel!"

"Probably is one," I laughed. "In Gdansk, it might even be the best choice."

"No, really," Wills insisted. "I know it's silly but ... I'd like to do something different. Get out of this rut. Look, that's one of the reasons I offered you a place to stay. And the Captain, too. I'm not going back to playing with other people's ledgers - not all the time. I'm too old for that - and I feel like I've never done anything."

"Well, the beard's a start," I offered. "But the first thing is to clear up this ulcer business. Speaking of which, any ideas what you'd like for dinner?"

"Sure," Wills smiled wryly. "All the things I'm not allowed. Look, I've got an assortment of frozen dinners in the fridge - there ought to be something there that's okay."

"The first thing," I directed, "after we dump things, is to find a market. For some real foods."

"Uh, I'm not much of a cook," Wills shook his head. "If there's nothing in the freezer, we could always go out to dinner."

"You find the market," I emphasized. "I'll cook." I reached in my pocket for the list Doctor Patel had supplied, checking the 'permitted' side.

* * *

"This is the place," Wills announced as we stopped in front of a pleasant-enough California ranch-style. The neighborhood was upscale suburbia, trimmed lawns, mixtures of palm trees and evergreens, mostly late model vehicles, some kids ... and rows of different - but still similar - homes. The BMW in the drive was dusty with a 'wash me' and a smiley face drawn in the rear window. One tail light was cracked.

Next door, a neighbor paused, arms filled with grocery sacks, for an awkward wave and a smile. "I'll have Tommy bring your mail over," the woman called. "Glad you're back."

"Thanks," Wills returned the wave, then fished for his keys to open the front door. "Have to get you a spare set," he reminded himself as much as me. "Come on in. Make yourself at home." He turned to wave the driver - with our minimal luggage - to follow.

"I'm a terrible housekeeper," he continued, leading the way into the living room. "But I do have a housekeeper - a service, really - come in once a week and take care of everything."

The living room was spotless - much more so than a cleaning service could account for. The kitchen, likewise.

"Your choice of bedrooms," Wills let the way down a short hall. "I use this one" - he indicated the bedroom at the back of the house where glass doors looked out on the yard - "but the other two are empty except when the kids drop in. Not that they do that often. Take your pick and the Captain can have the other." He turned to the cabbie and took the small suitcase. "Thanks, just a moment," setting the case squarely on the end of the bed he'd indicated was his. The room was neat, tidy ... even down to the books on the bedside tables.

The only unusual item was a large framed photograph - or print, I suppose - of a rushing stream deep in a canyon of water-worn reddish-brown rock. Some five or six feet wide and only half that in height, the panoramic canyon-scape dominated the wall opposite the bed where it would be the first thing visible in the morning and the last thing seen at night. It was illuminated by a row of track-mounted mini-spots.

Next to the bed, one table held a half-dozen paperbacks - with bookends. The opposite table held hard covers - also neatly held by bookends.

While Wills paid the fare, I took the garment bag into the corner bedroom and hung it in the empty closet.

The room was nice enough - with two twin beds, bed-side tables, a dresser and a comfortable appearing easy chair - but still had an empty air. An assortment of pictures - with no particular theme - occupied wall space between the windows. A small TV sat on top of the dresser. In short, the room had all the personality of your average hotel room. I had the impression the Wills' kids didn't visit that often ... or stay that long.

The third bedroom was almost a mirror of the one I'd chosen.

The living room was better. A large room, it was broken into separate areas by the furniture and furnishings. Assorted comfortable chairs and a broad couch with a low table in the center formed one grouping while the end adjoining the kitchen had a large drop-leaf table and dining chairs. The walls were dominated by ranks of bookshelves holding both paperbacks and hardcovers with a medium-sized television in the center. Beyond the dining table, sliding glass doors revealed a patio and yard.

The best point of the house was beyond the patio and yard ... where the grass gave way to low succulent plants and shrubbery before falling away steeply to the ocean visible - from my location - as a distant blue with rippled waves stretching to an invisible horizon where sea, clouds and sky blended without demarcation.

"No beach," Wills apologized, "unless you like rocks. And it's a pretty steep climb. There are stairs but you need to be careful - I haven't used them much and they're a bit weathered."

"I'll check them out later," I considered - sounded like good exercise and I needed some. "Right now, Wills, we need to visit a grocery store."

"Uh, sure, but ... uh ... you could do me a favor, Alex."

"Sure, what?"

"Maybe you could call me Dan - I think Wills is the guy I'd like to leave at the office."

* * *

San Francisco's - or Daly City's - markets were excellent. Where Dan's instinct was to head for the freezer section, I dragged him to the fresh produce for a start, selecting small bananas, mangos, mint and avocados as well as assorted citrus, baby bok-choy and cucumbers.

Dan took it well enough, following with the cart while I picked out chicken and lamb shoulder chops from the meat counter, then added a small assortment of spices and a quart of un-flavored of yogurt before asking for the gourmet and ethnic sections. Peanut sauce was easy. And dried saffron threads were a fraction of the price of the ground saffron in the spice racks. Better too.

When I asked for a small mortar, the supermarket struck out but one of the clerks referred us to a kitchen shop a few doors down.

Finally, with what Dan regarded as a thoroughly strange assortment - and with two sets of duplicate keys, one for me and one for the Captain when he was released - we headed back to the house.

"I've got a spare computer and modem at the office I can pick up tomorrow," Dan listed future errands. "I don't have an extra car ... but I don't guess you have a license," he chuckled. "Anyway, the BART terminal's not very far from the house and that gets you downtown - or you can ride in with me."

"I should've looked for a map," I remembered.

"We can get one at the service station," Dan assured me. "Uh, no offense," he used one hand to reach in his jacket pocket and produced a fold of bills. "I thought you might need a little cash. Just a loan - pay me back when it's convenient - you know, in a year or two, no rush. Uh, and there's more when you need it, okay?"

I accepted the folded bills, counting them briefly. Ten crisp twenties - $200. I had another ninety plus in my pocket ... and the seven hundreds in my belt ... but, under the circumstances, I figured I'd better accept. I didn't know what my expenses were going to be or how long it was going to take to generate some income. "Thanks," I kept it brief - it was a guy thing. Dan's attitude told me that too much gratitude would just embarrass him. "I'll keep track," I added. "What's the usual interest rate? Eighteen annual?"

"No interest," Dan corrected. "Look, I'm not broke - and my expenses are negligible. I charge my clients enough that I could quit tomorrow and not miss a meal for decades. The house is paid for - actually, I own a couple of houses - rental properties. So, don't worry about it. Okay?"

"Okay," I agreed, dropping the subject. I was looking around as we drove - partially trying to map our surroundings, partially looking for something. I wasn't sure exactly what but I had a feeling I'd recognize it when it appeared.

"I wanted to show you where the station was," Dan picked up the conversation. "The area around the BART station's safe enough - it's patrolled regularly. The section down that way," he gestured, "might be a little rough after dark. But maybe you're used to ... ah ... rough neighborhoods." He shook his head rather wistfully. "Anyway, there's a bus that runs up Skyline from the terminal, drop you off two blocks from the house." We turned into a Chevron station and Dan got out to find a city map.

The 'rough section' Dan had indicated might be just exactly what I was looking for. Maybe I could persuade Dan to take a 'walk on the wild side' one evening. Without the alcohol, of course - his ulcer didn't need aggravation but just visiting a few of the noisier establishments might help him break out of his rut. Not that I was feeling any strong attraction for a drink but there was one item which I did need and a good bar was an excellent place to start looking. Or did I mean a 'bad' bar?

At any rate, not tonight. There wasn't that much hurry and I was going to see what I could do about improving Dan's diet ... and keeping his mind off hamburgers with all the trimmings.

* * *

"John Dickenson Carr," Dan was awkwardly wielding the mortar and pestle, trying to crush a few peppercorns, "was the master of the locked room mystery. Unfortunately, it's a style - or a theme - that's gone out of favor."

"Not entirely," I reminded him. "What about the Banachek mysteries some years ago? Sure they were a TV series rather than novels but the theme was there. The Book of Hours vanishing from a locked, guarded case, the jet engine vanishing from a crowded convention hall, the flat car from a moving train, the massive statue ... It's the same theme - a how-dun-it more than a who-dun-it. It's just that it's a hard theme to do in a story but it's easier to show in a film."

"Well, maybe so. And I guess some of the Jessica Fletchers - Murder She Wrote - were like that. But I think it's more than that. Old style mysteries, the author would have everybody in a house party ... or on an island or something - now days, it's always wide open - takes in an entire city ... or more. It must make it harder to keep track of which characters belong and which don't."

"The English house party theme? Not exactly a feature of contemporary society," I reminded him. "And even Christie had to keep finding new ways to gather a group of suspects in semi-isolation. In Death On The Nile, she used a boat. For Orient Express, it was a train. Which is still a good device. For that matter, Dick Francis used a train in what was it? Ah, The Edge, right. Anyway it worked to keep everyone together and limited the scope of his story by excluding extraneous characters."

"I suppose so. Are these fine enough?" Dan asked.

I looked at the peppercorns and nodded. "Now, crush a good handful of mint and then squeeze a lime in with it." I was using just a hint of pepper for flavor but not enough to aggravate an ulcer. And the mint would offset the pepper.

"Okay. Maybe you're right, there's Sister Carol Anne O'Marie who's used a college to gather her characters. And what about Cook's Tour - putting the characters together in a foreign country where they're the only Americans isolated in the midst of a bunch of people who speak another language and look different."

"Not entirely," I disagreed. "Remember, the guilty party wasn't really a member of the group. And not all of the group were really 'foreign'. But, yes, it was a similar device - using cultural and linguist differences to isolate a group of people. But you could do the same thing with a business - make your detective an auditor or something - you know, from outside the company. But the company itself - and the office structure - would limit the number of people involved. Almost an English house party setup. Think about it."

"Okay, okay, I'll think about it," Dan acquiesced. "Still, I'd rather be thinking about something like the series Gregory Thorn writes where his Paul Robeson's always involved in lots of foreign intrigue, strange cities and all that."

"Those are more espionage thrillers than mysteries," I reminded him. "Same vein as Manning Coles, just a half-century later."

"Yeah, I know he's suppose to be counter-espionage - and thank heavens he doesn't act like James Bond or Derek Flint - but there's always a strong mystery element involved."

"Funny you should mention Bond and Flint," I laughed. "Sometimes it seems like Robeson has so many gadgets that you'd expect him to sink if he fell overboard."

"What do I do with this now," he held out the mortar.

"Pour it over the chicken and mix them up for a moment. Just enough to distribute it well. Uh, here, I'll clean the mortar. Then, when it's dry again, the saffron'll need grinding."

"Robeson's gadgets really aren't that improbable," Dan protested. "You can find a lot of them over at the Sharper Image store. And I've got a couple of catalogs that have a lot of that stuff, too. Did you read 'Rubles Are Red'?"

"Sounds familiar," I nodded, slicing a mango. "A Russian counterfeiting ring producing U. S. currency and funneling it through off-shore banks?"

"Yeah, that's the one. I enjoyed it but one thing bugged me. I never did understand the business about the seals on the hundreds. Why they were supposed to turn red under ultraviolet."

"Oh," I reached for the avocados, "you must have read the first edition, right?"

"Uh, probably. I bought it when it first came out. Why?"

"A couple of pages were lost - a discharged editor had hacked the system and trashed some files and nobody caught it. Anyway, remember the package Robeson had couriered in from Milan?"

"The cigars? The ones delivered to General Parkov."

"Right, they contained tubes of UV-sensitive photo-reactive dyes. You remember the business about the color changing 100 on front of the new hundreds - one of the security features in the new design?"

"Sure, the figures change color as you shift the bills, changing from black to green. Special inks, right?"

"That's right ... and that was what had been stolen from the manufacturer when it was enroute to the US mint - enough ink to turn out several billion dollars in queer. Since that's the only part of the bill that uses the color changing ink, a few thousand pounds of ink can go a long way. But, the part you missed was where Robeson doped the drums of special ink with the photo-reactive dyes. Because the dyes didn't become photo-reactive until after they'd dried thoroughly - which takes a day or more ... longer if they're buried in a stack - they wouldn't be reactive until they were being circulated ... and passed under a UV lamp. Then the special imprint would turn a dark red. Simple." For just a moment, I wondered if I should find a UV lamp and check the bills concealed in my belt.

Then I shrugged the thought off as too silly for consideration.

"I think I see your point," Dan considered. "Then the whole point of having General Parkov involved in the plot was to make it impossible for the Russian police to raid the operation - therefore, Robeson had to use subterfuge to sabotage the printing operation."

"Not entirely," I reminded him. "Parkov was also the head of the defunct apparat behind the original robbery as well as the man with the Cuban connections to smuggle the inks into Afghanistan so they could be brought to Kiev. But that's beside the point - if you want to check, get the paperback.

"Oh, you might hang on to the first edition - some of them become quite valuable as collectors' items. And it was corrected in the second printing.

"Anyway, what we were talking about was a detective plot, not espionage. Some things are the same but not all. Let's stick to mystery plots. As a CPA, don't you know an awful lot about what your clients are doing? More so than most people in the company?"

"More so than anyone in the company at times," Dan admitted. "Maybe you're right - a good auditor does know where all the bodies are buried ... if he's willing to read between the columns, anyway. But you're wrong about it not having been done before. What about Emma Lathen's John Putnam Thatcher?

"Senior Vice President, Sloan National Bank? Sure, they're financial mysteries. There've been a few others as well. But that doesn't mean that you can't use a CPA. And, as for a locked room mystery - what about all the security features high-tech companies use now days? All you've got to do is figure out where the holes are - the ones no-one notices because they're too obvious ..."

* * *

Dinner went well enough - jelled consume (from a can), avocado and mango salad, grilled chicken marinated in yogurt mint and saffron with rita - a cool yogurt and cucumber sauce - on the side, saffroned rice with peas ... and ice cream for desert. I had, finally, let Dan hit the freezer section ... but only for deserts.

And Dan was kind enough to admit that the meal was a more than suitable substitute for a burger with everything.

* * *

"You know, Alex? I've thought of another example of your 'isolated group'."

Since I'd cooked, Dan insisted on washing up - and I hadn't argued too hard - not that there was that much to be cleaned. Besides, there was a dishwasher to handle the bulk of the job. "Go ahead," I invited.

"Have you read 'Buddy, Can You Spare A Crime?'"

"San Francisco? Homeless man is stabbed and one of his street buddies sets out to find out who did it?"

"That's right," Dan nodded.

"I'm not sure I see the point - were there quite a few San Franciscan's involved in that plot. And some Federal heat as well?"

"Sure," Dan agreed. "But it wasn't the police or the feds who solved the crime. It was the street community. An isolated sub-group, right?"

"Okay, can't argue with that," I conceded.

"I've got an idea as well - and a title: 'Murder on Account' ..."

We spent the evening discussing his plot ideas ... but the locked room element was still a problem - and Dan was adamant that we had to have one.

Except I wasn't sure if 'we' came in to it - it was Dan's plot.