Rogues & Company/Chapter 2

wintry morning sunshine had already begun to show through the window when the butler tiptoed into the library. He carried a laden breakfast-tray which he placed quietly on the table beside the sofa and then stood gazing severely at the man who lay there asleep. Once or twice he shook his head with that expression of aloof disparagement peculiar to his class, then, warned by a faint flutter of the sleeper's eyelids, he began a discreet but busy clatter with the tea-things.

The man on the sofa stretched himself and yawned.

"Morning!" he said sleepily.

The butler apparently did not hear the greeting and No. 7 opened his eyes wide. He looked about him and his expression of peaceful content gave place to one of disappointment. He rubbed his hand over his dark head and sighed.

"I'm just where I was before," he said.

"Yes—sir," said the butler. The "sir" came with an effort, but it came. No. 7 drew himself up and received his cup with resignation.

"Well, I suppose it can't be helped," he said. "I really hoped I'd sleep it off though. By the way, you had rather a disturbed night yourself, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you see your nocturnal visitor?" No. 7 enquired with gracious interest.

"I did, sir."

There was something about the man's manner which was distinctly unsatisfactory. It implied unutterable things. In its self-contained way it was inimical. And No. 7, in his lonely friendless state could not bear it. Moreover he was under the necessity of proving to himself that he had handled butlers before. He held the man under a steady eye.

"If you saw him," he said, "then I suppose you could easily identify him?" The butler handed the toast.

"I'm afraid not, sir. He wore a mask."

"But you saw his dress and figure?"

"Yes, sir. He was about your size, sir, and his clothes were checked—as far as I could see—a sort of dirty brown colour."

"Oh!" No. 7 drew his rug up to his chin. But he knew by the slant of the butler's eye that he had seen and he suspected the description to have been a piece of pure malice. "Scarcely enough for purposes of identification," he observed.

The butler passed the butter. His features were expressionless.

"No, sir, I suppose not."

This was no better. No. 7 felt thwarted. He put his hand to his collar with a movement that seemed habitual. It was disconcerting to find that the collar was missing.

"Any clue been found?" he asked, to cover his confusion.

"No, sir—but the silver."

"Oh—indeed?"

"Yes, sir down an area."

"Very fortunate."

"Yes, sir."

By this time the butler had finished his arrangements and placed the morning-paper on the table.

"You'll find an account of it all in there, sir," he said.

"What—already?"

"There was a journalist fellow here last night, sir. He seemed to know more about it all than anyone." The butler's face lit up with a flash of bitter humour which made him seem more human. No. 7 felt encouraged. Perhaps, after all, they might be friends. It was a case for a discreet mixture of tact and frankness.

"By the way, what's your name?" he asked graciously as the butler reached the door.

"James, sir."

"Well, James, I think it better to inform you my reason for being here. In this—eh—unusual state. I am Dr. Frohlocken's patient—nervous shock, you know, followed by complete loss of memory."

"Very good, sir."

The butler's tone suggested a discreet acceptance of a more than doubtful explanation, and as the door closed No. 7 sank back among his cushions. He had excused himself. And there was a beastly French adage about people who excused themselves, even he could remember that. Besides, it was evident that in good society one does not explain things—even the most extraordinary—to the butler. His belief in himself began to fade.

More to change the unpleasant trend of his thoughts than out of real interest he took up the paper and opened it. Judging from the first sheet which was black with startling headings, Dr. Frohlocken liked his news served up in a well-spiced form. Sandwiched between a horrible murder and the latest society scandal, the patient discovered "a daring burglary—heroic conduct of a butler" which he recognized at once as the one in which Dr. Frohlocken's silver had been so closely concerned. The account ran as follows:

"Last night, at about twelve o'clock, the house of the well-known specialist, Dr. Frohlocken, was broken into and a considerable quantity of valuable silver stolen before one of the servants, roused by the suspicious noise, gave the alarm. Great courage and presence of mind was displayed by the butler who pluckily attacked the intruder. The latter however succeeded in making good his escape. At the time of going to press no trace of him had been found. The police believe, judging from the manner in which the robbery was carried out, that the burglar and the notorious William Brown, alias Slippery Bill, are identical. It will be remembered that Brown has been connected with the most cunning and daring swindles and burglaries, but his capture has been made extremely difficult by the fact that only his most intimate accomplices know what he really looks like. His disguises are as many as they are complete. Thanks to a gentlemanly appearance and manner, he has imposed upon his victims as a millionaire, nobleman, clergyman, as well as other less distinguished persons, and many legends are told concerning his cunning. A former accomplice, who turned King's evidence in the last case, gave evidence that Brown always carried a small charm fastened to the inside of his coat which served both as a luck-bringer and a means of revealing himself to his accomplices. This charm, a small gold pig, popularly known as a lucky pig, should prove useful as a mark of identity when the time comes, but for the present the owner has disappeared with his usual completeness."

Here followed further details concerning "Slippery Bill's" career which were not sufficiently interesting to attract the reader's thoughts from himself. The mere word "identity" had awakened in him the recollection of his own unhappy state, and he fell back with a sigh of despair. This Smith, this rogue had an identity and he had none—not even a bad one. To all intents and purposes he was nothing but a mere derelict on a wide, unknown sea, without flag, without helm, without anchor. It was very tragic, very pathetic, and his imagination, taking the bit between his teeth, carried him into scenes both probable and improbable. He imagined in turn an adoring mother, an adoring bride, an adoring wife, waiting in vain for the son or, respectively, the fiancé or husband who never returned. He came to the conclusion that he must be an affectionate and tender-hearted man, for he felt profoundly moved at the thought of the possible pain he might be inflicting. He grew desperate. Was there no means of unravelling the mystery which surrounded his life, nothing about him which might awaken memory or give some clue as to his previous existence?

With a quick glance round the room, to make sure that James was not watching, he threw off the big rug and examined himself from head to foot. The result was not gratifying. His boots were shapeless and ill-fitting and the same could be said of his trousers, which, what with their pattern and the recent rent in the knee, were the last thing in disreputableness. Anxiously, he plunged his hands first into one pocket and then into another, but without any better result than on the first occasion. They were perfectly empty. He patted the side-pocket, the waistcoat—nothing. His hand glided over the breast and there stopped suddenly as though it had been seized by a vise. Half paralysed he withdrew his hand and looked at it. Then his jaw dropped. There, between finger and thumb, was a small golden object—a ridiculous thing with a minute curly tail and impossible eyes and a slight but ghastly resemblance to a pig. No. 7 lurched to his feet. He staggered to the looking-glass. He saw there a pleasant and even good-looking young man with a short dark moustache and eyes which in a normal state must have been both humorous and frank. At that moment, however, they were wide open with an expression of almost delirious consternation. No. 7 raised a trembling hand to his moustache and tugged it vigorously. The result proved it genuine. He tweaked the dark, disordered hair—no wig revealed itself. He groaned aloud. This then was William Brown—this was the real man. He was neither a duke nor a millionaire nor even a respectable loafer—but a notorious swindler, a thief, a rogue. He had stolen the silver of his own host, had preyed upon the weakness and credulity of his fellow-creatures. He was called "Slippery Bill." The last horrible item weighed more upon him than all the others put together. If it had been "Roving Robert" or "Daring Dick," he would have borne it better; but "Slippery Bill" lacked the commonest element of romance as completely as did William Brown. Both names were vulgar—as vulgar as his clothes, and one, at least, sounded as disreputable as his past reputation. He looked at the terrible discovery lying in the palm of his hand. It seemed to him that the beady eyes twinkled and that there was something malicious and insulting in the twist of the curly tail. Visions of rejoicing mothers and brides and wives vanished. He saw himself in the dock—sentenced for offences he couldn't even remember; he saw himself "doing time"; he heard the tread of approaching footsteps—the footsteps of an avenging Nemesis; he heard the door open. Involuntarily he turned, prepared to face the worst, the perspiration breaking out in great beads upon his forehead. But it was only Dr. Frohlocken who gazed at him with a grim displeasure.

"You've been thinking about yourself," he said crossly. "I told you not to. But I was not in form. It shows how the most disciplined brain can become unbalanced. At any rate you slept well?"

"Excellently."

"Did you dream?"

"Not a thing."

"Rubbish. However, it's no use expecting anything from a mind that has not learnt to contemplate itself dispassionately. Sit down."

No. 7 sat down. He tried to do so with an air of independence, but his recently acquired knowledge had cowed him to such an extent that he would have stood on his head with equal docility. Dr. Frohlocken sat down opposite him. Except that the lurid dressing-gown had given place to an old-fashioned frock-coat, his appearance had not changed. His black hair still stood on end and, for some reason or other, he was still in a very bad temper. After a moment's intense silence, during which he stared at his patient unblinkingly, he produced a newspaper which he spread out over his knees, keeping his long finger on a particular paragraph and referring to it constantly throughout the interview.

It was a situation calculated to try the strongest nerves. The self-discovered William Brown could only set his teeth and endeavour to bear himself to some extent as became a man of his reputation. Highwaymen, he remembered, went to the gallows with a jest. Slippery Bill should at least not cringe openly.

"I suppose you still want to know who you are?" Dr. Frohlocken began at length. "I presume, judging from my observation of ordinary mentality, that you would prefer to be recognised, externally, if I may so express myself. The desire to get to the top of a mountain without climbing it is one of the most discouraging symptoms of our times—"

"If you mean," William Brown interrupted, "that I want you to find out who I am, really I can't say that I do. You see, I've been thinking it over. After all, you know, it's rather an interesting experiment—this starting all over again. Who knows—perhaps I shan't like my old self at all."

"That," said Dr. Frohlocken, referring disconcertingly to the paragraph, "is extremely likely. However, the matter is not in our hands. I foresee that interfering busybodies will make a reasonable and logical process in this matter impossible. In other words, No. 7, I fear that you are already discovered."

No. 7 felt for a pocket-handkerchief that was not there.

"It's not cricket," he said, with passion. "I don't see why I should have a personality thrust upon me that I don't recognise. I repudiate it. Why, I don't remember a thing the fellow did. I might disapprove horribly and yet I should be blamed. I should be held responsible—"

"Exactly." For the first time Dr. Frohlocken looked at him with approval. "I see that you have some glimmerings of my own idea. It's childish to start at the end. The only sensible method is for you to return to your normal consciousness by normal means. That was what I had intended. Unfortunately it is a delicate and lengthy process and the time at our disposal is very limited. The best that I can do for you is to set you on the road. Are you prepared to answer my questions fully and frankly?"

"But," said William Brown bitterly, "I tell you I don't remember—it's not fair."

"One moment. You say that you do not remember. Yet if I asked you to tell me some of the dreams you have dreamed in your other life you will no doubt be able to furnish me with several examples. Come now!"

This seemed innocent enough. Dreams were idiotic things. No one could be held responsible for them. And it certainly was odd that he did remember—

"Well, of course—I suppose I dreamed the usual stuff—the kind of thing everybody dreams."

"As, for instance—"

"Well, walking down Bond Street in one's pyjamas—"

"As you say—common—quite common—"

"Falling over precipices—chased by locomotives—climbing spiral staircases—"

Dr. Frohlocken glanced up over his glasses.

"I might suggest," he said, "that in these days it is not wise to relate one's dreams in public. But that is quite by the way. Is there nothing significant or outstanding that you can remember?"

"Nothing," said William Brown firmly.

"Then allow me to test your reactions." He took a very modern watch from his old-fashioned waist-coat pocket and set it on his knee. "I shall give you a string of words and I wish you to respond promptly with whatever they suggest to you. For example—"Drink?"

"Whisky."

"You see. You get the idea. Butter?"

"Margarine."

"Meat?"

"Coupons."

"Locks?"

William Brown faltered—"Lock-up" and "prison" had suggested themselves instantly. He suppressed them. Dr. Frohlocken was obviously counting the seconds. He plunged—

"Safes."

"Sea?"

"America."

"Career?"

"Criminal—" This would not do at all. He felt he had been trapped—led into a bog in which he was slithering hopelessly.

"Pig," said Dr. Frohlocken unexpectedly.

Thereat William Brown's mind simply refused to function. It stopped dead. He sat there with his mouth open, the perspiration gathering on his forehead, whilst Dr. Frohlocken counted the seconds. It was devilish. There were Heaven knew how many thousand words in the English language. Not one of them came to him. But before his glazing eyes a monstrous thing had be- gun to shape itself—a golden horror with beady staring eyes and a grotesque tail—

"A distinct result," Dr. Frohlocken was saying gleefully; "in the short space of five minutes we have touched on two definite suppressions. I have not the slightest doubt—No. 7—"

His voice faded. William Brown heard a telephone clanging in the distance. Ever afterwards he believed that he fainted, for he remembered nothing further until a hand was laid on his shoulder with a galvanising horrible familiarity.

"It's as I feared," Dr. Frohlocken said. "Thanks to that damn Constable, they're on your track already. I'm sorry. I would like to have prepared you better. You will now have to endure the methods of ordinary unscientific investigation. The best I can do for you is to see that you meet this fellow in a more presentable condition. If you go into the next room, you will find a bath prepared and a change of clothes. No, they are not my clothes. They belonged to my last patient. Threw himself out of the window, poor fellow. In your terminology, he'd lost his memory for five years. Oh, yes, he was cured. Wonderful case. But when he recognised his family he killed himself. Very sad. However, I think they'll fit you—"

No. 7 held his ground. He was aware of a horrible internal upheaval. Something enormous was happening to him. Out of the depths, as it were, Slippery showed himself for the first time. He leered. He whispered. He nudged.

"You're caught, old bird. Of course he knows who you are. He's sent for the police. Bash him over the head and make a bolt for it. It's your only chance—"

"I can't," No. 7 argued desperately. "It isn't fair. I've stolen his silver, I've abused his hospitality, but there is a limit—"

"Stow it, old bird. You're a scoundrel and you know it. None of that pi'-stuff—"

Physically he swayed before the storm. Dr. Frohlocken took him kindly by the arm.

"When you are ready," he said, "I shall have further news for you. Mind you, I disapprove entirely. I consider the whole business outrageous. I told them so. It's that damn Constable. When a reward of £1000 is offered you can't expect an intellect like that to work scientifically. In fact I doubt if that Constable has an intellect at all—probably he is a mere instinct. Anyhow, there it is. I can only hope that their methods will not be too much of a shock to you."

"That's the sort of sense of fun he's got," Slippery Bill urged, insidiously. "Guying you, that's what he is. Give him one on the bean."

The advice was obviously sound. That No. 7 did not follow it, but slunk tamely into the bathroom, was due to the fact that he was hopelessly handicapped. He might be otherwise a scoundrel, but he had become a scoundrel with a conscience. It was an impossible situation. True, his better-half enjoyed the bath, but the realisation that he had the instincts and even the appearance of a gentleman—Dr. Frohlocken's late patient must have had an excellent taste in suiting, and the glass revealed an agreeable young man with that correct bearing which is erroneously supposed to go with a blameless life—did not reassure him. Not for nothing had William Brown impersonated dukes and millionaires with impunity. And then there was the Lucky Pig. He held it in the palm of his hand and considered it reproachfully. Its expression of idiotic complacency irritated him. He could not help feeling that its influence was bad and that it had led him astray in his early youth when a mother's care might have put him on the right path, which leads to public funerals and other rewards of virtue. He fully intended to hurl it through the window, but a second impulse, born of superstition, prevented him and, instead, he slipped the creature into his pocket. After all, if he really were William Brown, it was sheer folly to throw away something which had been instrumental in getting him out of tight places.

And this was a tight place. He wanted all the luck he could lay hands on.

No. 7 went back to Dr. Frohlocken's library with the courage which accompanies a comparatively new suit of clothes. But on the threshold he faltered. Dr. Frohlocken was no longer alone. There was Constable X., helmet in hand, and looking as though he were in church, and a second individual, dressed like a Man-in-the-Street. He was perhaps a trifle too clean-shaven and his dress perhaps a trifle too unobtrusive. He looked to No. 7 horribly like a detective in disguise. Dr. Frohlocken indicated him with a rude forefinger.

"That," he said, "is Inspector Smythe from Scotland Yard."

Inspector Smythe jerked his head at Constable X.

"That him?"

"That's 'im, sir."

"Inspector Smythe takes a great interest in you, No. 7," Dr. Frohlocken added with the obvious desire to be insulting. "£1000 is a nice little sum, eh, Inspector?"

No. 7 sat down because he could not stand, and the two men stared at him, the Doctor with a gloomy sympathy, the Inspector with an almost hungry eagerness. Constable X. had ceased altogether to be human. No. 7 had hated Inspector Smythe on sight. Probably the dislike was inherited from his other self which at that moment predominated wholly. The desire to "do" his enemy at all costs had sent the last remnants of a conscience in full retreat. He set his teeth and waited.

Inspector Smythe got up. He inspected No. 7 from different angles. He had a little note to which he referred, making marks against various items, after the fashion of a man checking an inventory.

"So you're the gentleman who's lost his memory?" he remarked, finally. "Don't know who you are, eh?"

No. 7 felt there was malice in the question—the sort of playful facetiousness for which the police are noted. He bowed coldly. Inspector Smythe sniped him from another corner.

"Read the morning's paper yet, sir?"

"I have."

"Nothing in it to strike your memory, eh?"

No. 7 realised that the end was very near. Too late he saw how good Slippery Bill's advice had been. The odds were now three to one—supposing the Doctor came to the Inspector's assistance, which, from his expression, was doubtful. Constable X. blocked the window effectively, and No. 7 had a shrewd if unreasoned suspicion that James was at the key-hole. He slipped his hand into his pocket and finding the Pig still there clung to it.

"Nothing."

"Humph. Well, we'll see what we can do, eh, Doctor?"

Dr. Frohlocken ran his hand through his black hair.

"Idiot!" he said distinctly.

The Inspector smiled. He fluttered an eyelid in No. 7's direction. It was evident he expected the latter to appreciate the joke.

"Our friend here doesn't think much of our methods—but we police have our little successes too sometimes. I wouldn't mind laying a bet with you, Doctor, that our friend here will soon be telling us all about himself. Now, sir, one moment. When you found yourself on the doorstep, what was your first sensation?"

"Well, I wondered how the deuce I'd got there?"

"You were surprised?"

"Very."

"Did anything else surprise you?"

"My clothes—"

"Unfamiliar, eh?"

"Distinctly."

"Feel more natural now?"

"Better, at any rate."

Inspector Smythe nodded with satisfaction. He came closer to his victim. His bright gimlet eyes were fixed apparently on No. 7's neck.

"Found nothing on your person to identify you, eh?"

No. 7 gulped.

"Nothing."

Obviously he would be searched. And the first and only thing that they would find was Slippery Bill's mascot. He considered hurriedly whether it would be better to stuff it down the back of his chair or to swallow it whole. The latter method occurred to him in the form of a gloomy pun—"swallowing a pig to save his bacon"—but it brought him no comfort. For one thing he had to keep it to himself, for another it seemed to point to a hopeless depravity; and for another it was obviously impossible to swallow anything without detection.

In the midst of his terrible indecision the Inspector seized his head and pressed it with a vigour which wrung from him a groan, of protest.

"Hurts, eh?"

There was, it seemed, something incriminating about the head. No. 7 temporised.

"Well—it certainly seems to—"

"No wonder. You've got a bump there as big as my fist."

"A natural one?"

The Inspector grinned.

"If a man hits you on the back of the head and a bump follows, you'd call it natural, wouldn't you?"

No. 7 supposed he would.

"Have I been hit on the back of the head?" he asked.

"You have had an accident." The Inspector wagged his pencil at the Doctor. "How does that strike you, eh, sir?"

Dr. Frohlocken sneered.

"You are no doubt doing your best according to your lights. The probability that you are about to wreck my patient's mental balance for ever is of course an insignificant detail. Pray go on."

The Inspector accepted the invitation. He sat down again, to No. 7's infinite relief, and referred back to his note-book.

"Now, sir," he said. "I want you to fo11ow me with the closest attention. You have lost your memory, but I am certain, in spite of our friend here, that by suggesting certain episodes of your past life to you we shall effect an immediate cure. You get the idea, don't you?"

No. 7 assented. He wondered which episode from Slippery Bill's career the Inspector had selected and hoped vaguely that he had never murdered anyone. Inspector Smythe put his pencil thoughtfully to his nose.

"Imagine a big steamer," he began slowly. "A well-dressed young man is lounging on a deck chair. Possibly he has a French novel on his knee, and is smoking a cigarette. But his thoughts are elsewhere. He is thinking of someone whom he is going to meet—a certain lady who is waiting for him in England. The prospect pleases him. He enquires of a passing officer what speed the ship is making. One moment, please. Has anything come back to you?"

Dr. Frohlocken gave vent to a laugh such as might come from a disgusted hyena. No. 7 wavered. As far as he knew there was nothing criminal in these recollections. But one never knew. It would have been easier if he had known what sort of man Slippery Bill really was.

"It seems—a—sort of glimmering—" he murmured.

"Humph. I thought so. Now listen. There is a storm. For three days the steamer is tossed about—a hopeless derelict—then stranded. Most of the crew and passengers are drowned—others fatally injured in the vessel. The young man, of whom I have been speaking, is saved and taken to a hospital. From thence he manages to write to his friend that she should come to him. Ha—how's that?"

"It certainly seems to be getting clearer," No. 7 agreed. If he had never been at sea before, he was there now. There was nothing for it but to continue with his half admissions.

The Inspector smiled pleasantly in the Doctor's direction.

"You see. The power of suggestion. Not so unscientific as you thought, eh, Doctor? Well, sometimes a little bit of horse sense goes a long way. Allow me now to give you the brief history of this young man." He turned back to his note-book and began to read in a loud monotone:

"Count Louis de Beaulieu, son of the late François de Beaulieu, of no address, and of his wife, the late Countess de Beaulieu, née, Lady Caroline Sudleigh of Sudleigh Court. Born 1890. Is known to have been travelling round the world and to have embarked on the 'Melita' at Gibraltar in order to return to England where an estate had been left him by his maternal grandfather. 'Melita' wrecked off the English coast and all hands lost except Count Louis who was injured on the head by a floating spar and taken to the nearest hospital. Two days ago disappeared whilst nurses changed duty. Nurse testifies to his having written and received letters and to have talked in delirium of his fiancée. Can give no details, as was too busy at the time to pay much attention, but describes the patient as being dark and good-looking."

The Inspector glanced reassuringly at No. 7, who blushed. The Doctor repeated his unpleasant laugh.

"That settles it, of course. My God—this country—!"

"One moment, please." The Inspector snapped his note-book. "Do you speak French?" he asked, slowly.

There was no evading this. And he was in such deep water that another fathom or two scarcely mattered.

"I do," he said firmly.

"Parlez-vous français?" demanded the Inspector, with increased solemnity.

No. 7 smiled. Somewhere at the back of his mind he had discovered a rescuing fragment.

"Mais certainement," he said.

"That, I think," said the Inspector, "settles it. And it gives me the greatest satisfaction," he added pointedly, "to have been the means of identifying you, Count." He produced the title with the gesture of an actor who knows he has effected an artistic and striking curtain. No. 7 rose slowly to his feet. Whatever other social positions he had arrogated to himself in his murky past this one, at least, was being thrust upon him.

"Do you mean—I am the Count?" he stammered.

The Inspector bowed.

"There is, in my mind, no doubt of it."

"He's going to faint!" Dr. Frohlocken burst out furiously. "And I don't wonder. If he dies or goes mad I wash my hands of the whole business. I never heard of such methods—such damned folly—"

No. 7 had, in fact, caught hold of the chair back for support. The shock had been too sudden. His outraged and absurd conscience, stung to a last desperate resistance, struggled against the lies and deceptions in which he was being involved. Beautiful women, rich young foreigners, steamers, wrecks and untold wealth broke over him in an avalanche. He tried to explain—to deny—to confess. He went so far as to put his hand to his pocket to produce the fatal and damning Pig—then he caught sight of Constable X.'s face and desisted. That officer's expression of hungry desire to arrest someone chilled No. 7's nobler impulse. He gave his conscience the coup de grace and the Pig slid back into its hiding place.

"I accept the identification," he said. "I may be out of practice but I shall endeavour to fill my position worthily."

Dr. Frohlocken snorted with disgust, but Slippery Bill was heard to applaud warmly from the depths.