The Chihuahua from the house across the street looked picturesque, if such a thing was possible. But then, anybody peering around cherry red drapes and out of a window of a pastel-colored Victorian-style house overlooking the bay on Mason Street in San Francisco had an unfair advantage in the looks department. I returned its curious gaze forlornly, for I was heartbroken. I had known that summer romances never lasted, but this one had been all too short. It had blazed with sun and passion for four unforgettable days and now it was time to say goodbye. I sighed and perched myself uncomfortably on the peculiarly narrow swivel seat in the bus shelter. A cable car lumbered by. The operator recognized me and waved. I grinned at him, feeling like the butt of a cosmic joke. Someone out there had known that I was a pushover when it came to random whimsical behavior and had woven up an elaborate web of seduction. How else can one explain the curious incident of the Singing Chinese Lady? I