Rogues & Company/Chapter 1

was a very curious and decidedly uncomfortable feeling, and though he had a dim idea that he had felt it somewhere before, he could remember nothing more definite about it. As a matter of fact it was in itself nothing so very unusual—most people experience the same sensations on waking up at dead of night in strange quarters. On such occasions the victim grows hot and feverish in the endeavour to locate the door and window; he cannot remember who he is, where he is or how he got there; he feels painfully lost and helpless. Then, gradually, his faculties rub their eyes and arrange themselves, and the fact that he is Jones, that he is spending the week-end with the Smiths, and that the uncanny apartment is nothing more terrible than their best spare bed-room, dawns on him with comforting completeness, and he turns over and resumes his interrupted slumbers.

But in this case the experience was less pleasant in its development and considerably more original. The more wide-awake he grew the less he knew about himself. The more he said to himself, "My dear fellow, pull yourself together—it's only a dream," the more obvious did it become that he was sitting on the doorstep of an unknown house in an unknown street, with aching limbs and an aching head. Now such a combination of circumstances is not altogether unusual even in the best society, and he sat and patiently waited for an illuminating memory. But none came. If he had, as he at first supposed, supped not wisely but too well, where had he supped and with whom? There was no answer to this natural question. He shook himself.

"Oh, come now!" he said aloud. "Surely you know your own name?"

Again no answer. Evidently it had been a big business. When a man has to resort to his own visiting card to find out who he is one may be forgiven for supposing that this self-forgetfulness is something less than pure altruism. The man on the doorstep resigned himself to necessity and put his hand in his trouser pocket. Nothing. The other trouser pocket was also empty—likewise the waistcoat pocket. This was disconcerting. What was still more disconcerting was the hole in the knee of his trousers as revealed by the light of a street-lamp, and he thereupon made the discovery that far from being in. evening-dress, as his condition suggested, he wore a check suit of vulgar type and ancient lineage, and that he was cuffless and collarless. All this was very surprising and painful. He addressed himself with severity.

"Really, my dear fellow, this won't do—can't sit out here all night, you know—not done—"

At this juncture Constable X. of the D. Division loomed upon the horizon. Constable X. carried a lantern and was evidently on the lookout for burglars and other miscreants, for he did not notice the man on the doorstep until he had stumbled over his legs. What the Constable said is irrelevant. The man on the doorstep apologised profusely.

"I'm sure I'm extremely sorry," he said. His own prompt politeness led him at once to the conclusion that his station in life must be something between a shop-walker and a gentleman, but this opinion was apparently not shared by his victim. Constable X. flashed his lantern onto the doorstep and gave vent to a snort of mingled triumph and indignation.

"At it again! Eh?" he said. "Got you this time, have I?"

"It looks like it," his prisoner admitted. "Were you looking for me?"

"Now then, none of your tongue, young fellow! Wot d'yer mean?"

"I mean," said the man on the doorstep courteously, "that it would be a great relief to me to know that someone was looking for me—even a policeman. The fact is, you know—I'm lost."

"Oh, so you're lost, are you?" The Constable laughed with the rudeness which is born of a shattered trust in human nature. "Sort of lost dog, eh?"

"The designation will do until I find a better one," returned the other, wearily. "But I doubt if even the Dog's Home will take me in. What am I to do?"

"Move on!" said the Constable, from sheer force of habit.

"But I can't keep on 'moving on' indefinitely."

The Constable scratched his head.

"You'd better come along with me," he said.

"Might I ask—whither?"

"Lock-up," was the laconic answer.

"But I haven't done anything."

"Can't be so sure of that—and anyhow, you're sitting on someone else's doorstep."

"You don't know that it is someone else's doorstep. It might be mine."

"It might—but it don't look like it."

"You infer," his captive suggested, "that I do not give you the impression of being a landed proprietor?"

"Can't say as you do," Constable X. admitted frankly. "You gives me the impression of being a very common sort of night-bird."

The man on the doorstep shook his head.

"You judge too hastily," he protested. "If I am, as you suggest, a night-bird, I have none the less the feeling that I may turn out to be one of nature's gentlemen. Now, look here!" He rose stiffly and painfully and conducted the doubting Constable to the lamp. "What do you make of that!" he enquired triumphantly. He extended his two hands. Constable X. considered them with his head cocked astutely on one side.

"Cleanish," he said. "Uncommon cleanish."

"Sergeant, you are a man of perception. Now, glance over me. Do not let yourself be led astray by the vulgarity of my costume. Consider my face, my manner and my speech. What do you think of me?"

"Well, you might be a sort of gent," Constable X. admitted.

"Inspector—" the young man began.

"Not yet, sir—" Constable X. protested with a touch of coyness.

"Never mind, you ought to be an inspector, even if you aren't. I was judging you as you judged me—by deserts. I feel that I ought to be a gentleman, I'm sure you ought to be an inspector. But the trouble with me is that I don't know who or what I am."

"Drunk," suggested the inspector in embryo, consolingly.

"I may have been in the past—but I am certainly sober now."

"Yes, you talks clear enough. Got a wisiting card on you?"

"If I had, frhe matter would be simplified. My pockets are as empty as my head."

The Constable's smile was unflattering.

"Can't you remember anythink?" he appealed.

"Not a thing. I've been trying for the last half-hour. What's to be done? I can't stay on the streets all night and as far as I know I haven't any claim on any charitable institution."

Constable X. rubbed his chin.

"It's a case of lost memory," he announced solemnly. "I've 'eard of it before. I knew of an old lady who wandered over 'alf London before they found out that she was a duchess' It was a big thing for the man who found 'er."

"Nothing like so big as it would be for you if you found I was a duke," interposed the lost one generously. "If I am a duke—solvent of course—I shall raise you to a position of affluency. I swear it by my ancestors—supposing I have any."

Constable X. touched his helmet.

"Thank you, sir," he said with considerably more respect. "It's a case for the doctors—that's wot it is," he went on thoughtfully, "wot they calls a specialist. The duchess was queer in her upper storey—senile decay, as they called it."

"Good heavens, I'm not as old as that, am I?"

"'Tain't always age that does it," Constable X. returned, with a grave and significant shake of the head. "There's decays and decays. You've got 'em young—that's all."

"Suppose we find the doctor?" suggested the young man hastily.

"You're sitting on 'is doorstep."

The prospective patient examined the doorplate.

"Mr. Smedley," he read aloud, "veterinary surgeon. Look here, Inspector, that won't do. I'm not an animal."

"You said you was a lost dog," retorted the Constable, with grim delight in his own jest. "Well, anyhow, there's a Doctor Thingummy round the corner. I calls 'im Thingummy because 'e 'as a foreign name, and I don't 'old with foreign names. Not since that there war. I up'olds the Law myself, but wot I says is, 'When an Englishman sees a foreigner he ort ter bash 'im in the eye,' I don't care who he is—"

"Well, perhaps Dr. Thingummy only sounds foreign," the young man suggested. "Anyhow, we'll give him a call. What time is it?"

"About midnight."

"In that case," the young man reflected, "I fancy that we shall be the bashed ones—bashed and abashed, you know." He chuckled encouragingly, but his companion remained unmoved. "However, anything is better than the lock-up and the cold stone of Mr. Smedley's steps. Lead on, Macduff."

"Look here, young feller, if you start calling names—"

"I'm not. I'm quoting. I can't remember what from—Bible probably. Anyhow, absolutely respectable. Wouldn't insult you for the world. Why—" he exclaimed with a rush of pathos—"you may be my only friend, Constable."

"Well, mind out. It's as likely as not you're under arrest, in which case anything you say will be taken down against you."

"But I'm not a criminal."

"Can't be sure. You couldn't swear to it yourself."

"Well, I don't look like one—at least I don't feel like one."

Constable X. shook his head gloomily.

"Can't go by that. If you knew wot I knew about criminals, you'd be surprised. There was a feller—a nice upstanding chap, as pleasant spoken as you please—murdered his wife, he did. 'Why, Constable,' he said to me going up to the dock, 'I wouldn't 'urt a kitten.' And I believed 'im. But 'is wife she got on 'is nerves—she was always a hummin' tunes to 'erself, and the more he asked 'er not the more she did it. And one day, right in the middle of 'Annie Laurie,' he ups and 'its 'er over the 'ead with 'is beer-mug. Must 'ave caught 'er on 'er soft spot, for she never 'ummed again. But 'e swung for it, poor chap, though the jury did put in extenuating circumstances. No, sir, you believe me, you can't be sure of anyone in this life—least of all yourself."

The young man put his hand to his forehead.

"Constable, I'm a sick man. You don't want me to faint, do you?"

"I'm only doing my dooty, sir. Bound to warn you—"

"I know you mean it kindly," the young man admitted humbly. "But it's all very uncomfortable."

That much, at any rate, was becoming certain. For the first few minutes his position had struck him as entirely humorous. He had expected each minute to bring the desired flash of illumination, but his mind had remained blank, and the pain at the back of his head was becoming troublesomely insistent. Who and what was he? He decided that it was a great deal worse than being born again, because of the additional unpleasantness of knowing beforehand all the awful conditions into which one might be flung by a reckless and indiscriminating Fate. He might be a Duke—he hoped he was—but he felt his appearance was against him. He might be what his clothes suggested, which was intolerable. He might be married, and his wife might be— At this point the possibilities nearly overcame him, and he was thankful for the tonic effect of the Constable's grip upon his arm.

"Hear that, sir?"

"Sounds like someone running," the derelict admitted. "Someone looking for me, no doubt—"

The next instant an extraordinary apparition tore round the corner of the street and was received full in Constable X.'s genially outstretched arms. The constable rose to the situation with the same sangfroid that he had displayed earlier in the evening.

"So there you are I" he said. "Got you, 'ave I?"

His capture showed no intelligent appreciation of the Constable's smartness. He broke into an incoherent torrent of bad language and, disengaging himself with a dexterous twist, revealed himself as a little dark man, of marked Hebraic descent, in a dressing-gown, bed-room slippers and an ungovernable temper.

"You jackass—never anywhere where you're wanted—deaf as a door-post—didn't you hear my whistle? What's the good of whistling if you don't listen? My house—broken into—all my silver gone—and you stand there—like a—like a—" He ran his fingers through his long black hair till it stood straight on end, adding a comically devilish touch to his unusual appearance. "My God—this country!" he exclaimed finally, as though overwhelmed by some culminating grievance. "My God—!"

"Now don't you go getting abusive," the Constable warned him coldly. "If you've 'ad burglars, we'll see after 'em all in good time." Then with a wink at his first captive, he remarked in a stage whisper—"That's 'im!"

This cryptic observation drew the new-comer's attention to the presence of a third person. He swung round and stared at the young man with his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his dressing-gown.

"So you did catch him. Your prisoner, eh?"

Constable X. scratched his chin.

"'E is and 'e isn't," he explained. "'E's mad."

The doctor's manner changed instantly. He drew out a pair of tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles, adjusted them on the bridge of his thick nose and considered the young man with a dispassionate interest, which seemed as out of place as the purple dressing-gown.

"Mad?" he said. "Rubbish. What does an idiot like you know about madness? Don't talk nonsense."

"Thank you," the young man interjected warmly. "I felt sure that our friend here had overstated my case. I'm not exactly mad—at least, I hope not. But I don't know who I am. In fact, I've lost my memory—"

"Rubbish! There isn't such a thing. You can't lose your memory. You can hide it, you can suppress it, you can put it away and turn a key on it, but you can't lose it. If I told you what I knew about memory, I should be standing here till to-morrow morning and then you wouldn't have understood half I said. But though you express yourself inaccurately, I recognise your condition. It is not uncommon, but, to a certain degree, it is interesting—"

"—and uncomfortable."

"Possibly—for you. That"—he wagged a long reproving finger in the young man's face—"that, sir, is where the scientific and the untrained mind differ. You are concerned with trivial personalities, I with large issues, with cause and effect and the relation of one phenomenon to another. You, frankly, consider your identity as the main consideration. To me it is not of the slightest importance. How long have you been in this state?"

"I don't know. The Constable here found me on a doorstep about half an hour ago."

"Very brilliant of him. And you have nothing on your person—no obvious clue—"

"Nothing. I haven't even a brass-farthing. That's what's worrying me chiefly. You see, doctor—"

"Frohlocken, psycho-analyst," the doctor interrupted with a slight bow.

"Thank you. I'm sorry that for obvious reasons I cannot introduce myself. Well, doctor, I want your help, but as I've already mentioned I am penniless and for all I know I may remain so and I feel—"

"That," said the doctor, "is a second illustration of my point. In the very midst of what no doubt to you seems a catastrophe, your mind turns to money. What in God's name do you suppose I care about your money? You interest me. Microbes interest me. Do you think I request a newly discovered germ to pay me consulting fees? Don't be a fool."

The young man smiled ruefully.

"Well, thank Heaven I've got a value even if I haven't got an identity," he said. "May I count then upon your assistance? Without it I'm afraid I shall have to accompany our friend here to the police-station. It's the only invitation I've had so far—"

The doctor's answer was to take the young man by the arm and lead him by long, unhurried strides down the street whence he had come. Burglars, policemen, and stolen silver alike seemed to have been swept from his memory. But Constable X., not to be forgotten, ponderously brought up the rear. Five houses down the trio came upon an open door, at the moment blocked by a small crowd of excited domestics, scantily attired and armed with pokers, who welcomed their appearance with a murmur of triumph. The young man held back.

"Obviously they take me for your burglar," he said. "It would be perhaps better if you explained—"

"Rubbish," said the doctor firmly. He bustled his patient up the steps, and a person whom the latter judged by his waistcoat to be a butler—the rest of his costume was unrecognisable—made a fierce clutch at the supposed captive. Dr. Frohlocken warded off the attack with a sweep of the arm.

"Don't be a fool, James! You've done enough stupid things for one evening. Go to bed, the lot of you. This gentleman is my patient. Come in, sir, come in."

"Look 'ere," said Constable X. from the doorstep.

Dr. Frohlocken looked.

"Well? What at?"

"Look 'ere," the Law repeated undeterred, "that's my man, if you don't mind, sir."

"Your man? Is this a slave-country? What right have you to call him your man?"

A shadow of bitter disappointment stole over the Constable's round red face.

"I found 'im," he said.

"Suppose you did? What do you want to do with him? Take him to the Lost Property Office as though he were an umbrella? My God—and you call this a civilised country? Go away with you—"

"Well, wot about them burglars and the silver wot they took?" Constable X. persisted doggedly.

The doctor pressed his finger to his nose.

"Damn your burglars and your silver too," he said. He slammed the door in the aggrieved face. "That," he said, "is the lowest example of the type of mind that governs this unfortunate country. Entirely concerned with obvious and insignificant trivialities. Utterly untrained. But for me he would actually have taken you to the police-station, God knows what damage they would have done between them. As it is, there is every reason to hope—"

"—that I shall remember, you mean?"

Dr. Frohlocken shrugged his sloping shoulders.

"My dear sir, you have not forgotten. For reasons of which we are at present ignorant you are hiding your identity in your subconscious mind. When we have discovered and removed the cause of your action you will, as you would inaccurately express it, recover your memory. That is the whole business in a nutshell. In the meantime you must sleep. You have had some mental shock. You are suffering from a severe nervous strain—"

"I feel," the young man interrupted, "as though someone had hit me over the head with a brick-bat—"

"An illusionary sensation, no doubt, an effort of the mind to give a misleading cause for your condition. I have several similar cases on my hands. Yours indeed is the seventh. You won't object to my calling you No. 7, I hope? It will simplify matters, and for the moment you will find it a relief yourself to be something definite."

"Thank you," said the young man. "I feel that already. When I start worrying I shall say, 'That's all right. You're Dr. Frohlocken's No. 7.' I daresay it's quite as good as my own name."

"Better, no doubt," the doctor agreed.

He opened a side-door and led the way into a plainly yet comfortably furnished room. A sofa was drawn up invitingly to the still glowing fire. The walls were lined with books and shelves on which reposed glass cases and jars full of a yellowish liquid in which floated repellant [sic] lumps of grey matter. Dr. Frohlocken indicated one of these in passing.

"My first patient. Sir Augustus Smythe. Suffered from delusions, poor fellow. Fancied that water was poison to him. The fossil who called himself the family doctor talked about tumours on the brain and hereditary dipsomania and God knows what rubbish. The poor fellow came to me in desperation. I was just getting at the real trouble—a simple matter of a suppressed complex in connection with a stepmother whom he disliked in early youth—when the poor fellow died. Yes, delirium tremens. Very disappointing case. The wife presented me with a portion of his brain as a sign of gratitude. No tumour, of course. Utter rubbish. You can see for yourself."

"Thank you," said No. 7. "To-morrow perhaps—"

"Certainly. I am merely diverting your mind from your own troubles. Now if you will lie down I will cover you over with a rug and in five minutes you will be asleep."

"I'm afraid not," No. 7 objected. "I feel horribly awake and my head hurts."

He stopped, aware that Dr. Frohlocken was not listening. It was further borne in upon him that as a personality he had no real existence in the latter's eyes and that he was there simply as a disease which hadn't the ghost of a chance of survival. Already he felt the hopelessness of resistance. He was to lie down and go to sleep. He lay down and he had a rather horrible suspicion that he was already sleepy. The firelight was growing dim. His bottled predecessors faded from their shelves. There seemed to be nothing definite but the dark, unsmiling face with the black eyes staring at him through enormous aureoles of tortoise-shell. They grew larger and larger. They seemed to be swallowing him up bit by bit. And his head with its aches and anxieties was the first to go.

"I suppose—even a microbe—may be grateful—" No. 7 murmured.

"In five minutes—" Dr. Frohlocken said.

He laid his hand on No. 7 and pushed him gently into darkness.