The Spectacles of Mr. Cagliostro Read online

  RECOMMENDATIONS:

  Assumption for the present that he presents a case of true paranoia only and confinement for life in an institution, with presentation, however, at Von Zero’s clinic taking place in Birkdale in October, and the attempt to use psycho-analysis to determine whether he represents Auto-Hypnotic Pseudo-Paranoia, and whether, if so, his true identity can be recovered. If not uncovered by proper psycho-analytical means, removal to one of the outer wards.

  Signed: Peter Stonecipher, M.D.

  CHAPTER XVI

  A RAY OF LIGHT.

  IT was with mingled feelings of amazement and consternation that Jerry Middleton read through this astonishing document with its many attached and numbered papers. Never had he conceived that such a Machiavellian case could be built up against a human being, and it did not cast any more light upon Fortescue’s motives than had been hitherto discernible.

  Who were in the plot? And who were the victims, just as he himself was? There was the first and principal question.

  Fortescue undoubtedly. Then this strange double. He fell to reflecting upon this double. There was one thing that had not occurred to those who had compiled this damning document. And that was that all the laws of coincidence were against a man answering a help-wanted advertisement, and at the same time resembling so completely one other man who was then on the high seas and who was to come into active relationship with that man’s employer. This little fact branded as false that part of Fortescue’s story explaining how he had first come into touch with the bearded valet.

  Well, this made two who were definitely in the plot. How about Lockwood and Searles? He thought back upon that kindly old man, Andrew Lockwood, and he shook his head emphatically. Lockwood undoubtedly was a victim of the scheme, and well he might be. And Searles? Searles was a brusque, businesslike type of man, yet upright. It seemed inconceivable that he would lend himself to a conspiracy of this sort, and Jerry Middleton soon decided that Searles too had been victimised.

  If only he could get in touch with Lockwood or Searles, he could demolish this dastardly intrigue. But could he demolish it at that? The man he had seen in the corridor of the detention station that day had so resembled himself that for the moment he had almost believed he was looking at his own reflection in a mirror. This being so, Lockwood and Searles must have been hopelessly taken in. Yet if only he could get a letter out to one or the other. And he frowned deeply. There appeared to be no way of accomplishing this, if the letter had to pass both the chief attendant and then the ward doctor. Doctors in insane institutions, even as Stonecipher had warned him, he realised, do not bother people on the outside with letters and petitions from members incarcerated within.

  The thought of how he had seen himself, so to speak, in the corridors of the detention station brought to his mind the subject of hallucinations in general, and this in turn brought a shadow to his face. What devil twist of his mind had made him see, that night of the Martindale-van Ware wedding, the sight he had later described in full detail to the police? For come what might, the police themselves were not in this conspiracy, and if they had found that this old house at No. 44, East Kinzie Street was surrounded on three sides by a gigantic windowless cold-storage warehouse then that settled the matter beyond cavil. Nevertheless, he examined carefully the blue-print which was attached to the case-history. But it permitted of one interpretation, and one only. It was a ground plan with side elevation, and it showed plainly a great inverted “U,” in between whose extended arms was a rectangular design on which had been carefully lettered by the draughtsmen: “Frame cottage, to be demolished whenever title to same can be secured from present owners, and site filled in to constitute a court with flower beds, etc.” He shook his head despondently, apprehensively.

  Instead of beating his head helplessly against the bulwarks of the unsolvable, he proceeded to review the iron-clad evidence against himself. It was his bizarre story against Luther Fortescue’s, why he was clad in rags that night, and why he rose in the church at the climax of the Martindale-van Ware wedding. It was his wild explanation against Fortescue’s cool testimony why he did not continue with his claims in the detention station where he might conceivably have established his identity. It was his fantastic narrative against the clippings and the mirror and the mattress and the books, all placed in the front room of that old house by parties unknown — if such parties were not Fortescue himself. And such material things spoke much louder with the alienists and the police than do the words emanating from those with supposedly cracked brains. What a perfect appearance of his having lived there for days on that old house had been accomplished, as well as the suggestion perfectly conveyed that he had spent days gazing in the mirror at his reflection and comparing it to the published pictures of Jerome H. Middleton pinned all around it! Nor did he believe any longer now that the rear room in the old house had been cleared by the police of the hunting clothing he had doffed, when they had made their first visit. Fortescue himself had come — and, when he had gone, hunting suit, shoes, hunting cap, all, had departed with him.

  He heaped anathemas on himself generously and unsparingly, as he recalled how in Fortescue’s flat that night he had rehearsed not only the main facts of his whole life, but had filled in to the last detail that missing year of his existence in which he had never written to his father. That was exactly what Fortescue had wanted, and that his words had been taken down by some person within a dozen feet of him that night Jerry Middleton had not the least doubt.

  But suddenly an idea struck him. He turned quickly, in the case-history, to the petition for commitment, signed by the four men. That signature which read “Jerome Herbert Middleton” was startingly like his — a signature which had been practised — yet it was patently not his. Only in general appearance was it his — from a distance of seven feet he himself could have mistaken it for his own, but close up it lacked the thousand and one fine details which make a signature indisputable. And out of such things the world of handwriting experts had been created. Now his face broke into a broad grin. For here lay the insignificant detail that Fortescue had undoubtedly passed as of no consequence; here lay the thing that would eventually smash the shackles around him. For in the vaults of the Mid-West Trust Company reposed none other than his receipt for the heritage from his father — the spectacles of Cagliostro — a paper on which he personally had appended his name, had seen sealed in an envelope, and handed intact to the young clerk who had been sent from that organisation. There is no chain but that has a weak link, and here would prove to be the weak link in Fortescue’s forge-work. If only he, Jerry Middleton, could now get out a letter or messenger or an order of some sort, the conspiracy against him would be dashed to pieces. He closed the case-history with the first feeling of calmness he had had for a week. A ray of light had at last been thrown on his predicament.

  An attendant came to his door at this point. “Get your bathrobe on, Doe. Doctor Stonecipher is ready for you. Down the hall. Same place.”

  He climbed back into the State bathrobe. With the case-history under his arm, he pattered down the long corridor. A few patients, back of their locked screened doors, leered at him. He entered the barred room where Stonecipher stood, scratching perplexedly the thin spot on the top of his head, looking about him, on the floor, on the desk, under books, everywhere. The drawers of his desk stood open, and the doors of the cabinets, too, swung wide. Near him this time, watching the search curiously, stood a thin, serious-looking young doctor of professional mien, with tortoise-shell spectacles, sallow complexion and thick lips. “Take a seat, Doctor Odza,” Stonecipher was saying. “I’ll be through with this patient in a minute. Damn it, where did I put that case-history?”

  “Here’s your case-history,” was Middleton’s cheerful opening words. “It was very interesting reading, doctor.”

  Stonecipher wheeled abruptly. He glared angrily. He glared so hard, he grew red as a boiled beet. “Did — did you take that case-history — ” he com
menced stammering.

  Middleton nodded. “I did. I was anxious for something to read.” Stonecipher seized it eagerly from his outstretched hand, ruffled through it, found it undisturbed. He calmed down appreciably. Then he motioned his patient grumpily to the customary chair and dropped heavily into his own swivel seat. Dr. Odza looked on with interest. “Well, I suppose now,” Stonecipher grunted, “that you’re quite convinced that a tremendous plot exists against you, eh?”

  “Two things interested me,” was Middleton’s comment. “I am, as you say, quite convinced of the plot against me; but I was particularly interested to learn that you recommended that I be kept here for life providing I don’t find my lost identity.”

  “Well, we’ll treat you right,” said Stonecipher curtly. “This isn’t a bad place to live in. The world outside is a hard place, you know, at best.”

  “Now, see here, Doctor Stonecipher,” began Middleton, “you are quite convinced that I have paranoia, and I don’t know whether I blame you or not. I have found a way to prove to you that I am Jerome Herbert Middleton.”

  Stonecipher looked on unconvinced. “Well — what is it? Make it quick.”

  “I signed a receipt for those spectacles that I received from my father’s estate,” Middleton went on hurriedly, “and I saw that receipt go from my hands directly into the hands of an employé of the Mid-West Trust Company, in whose vaults it now lies. You will find that the name on that receipt will not tally with the corresponding name appearing on the commitment petition in that folder on your desk.”

  Stonecipher turned to Odza, “This case is one of the most typical with which I have ever been confronted. The clinical picture is absolutely perfect. The patient can relate to you things about Australia, when he has never even seen it.”

  “But let me ask you a question,” persisted Middleton, his hand clenched. “If you did send my signature and you did find that it tallied exactly with the one in the Mid-West Trust, you would be inclined to think that there was something wrong somewhere, would you not; something that ought to be investigated?”

  “But it wouldn’t tally,” said Stonecipher sadly.

  “But come, doctor. Treat me like a man — at least that part of me which you know is sane and logical. Forget my delusion for the moment. If the signatures did tally, then you would think there was something that should be threshed out, would you not?”

  “Oh, yes, then,” Stonecipher sighed audibly. “If that millionth possibility took place — which it never would — well — I might pursue things a bit further.”

  “All right. Then will you give me that chance to prove to you that you have a sane man here instead of a paranoiac?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I will not,” he said inflexibly. “I will cure you if it’s at all possible, but in our own way. You may thank me some day that I did not send your vagaries out to the outside world.”

  “Oh, come out of that frame of mind, doctor. Just this one favour, I beg of you. I promise you, on my word of honour, that you will find that those signatures tally.”

  “And when they don’t tally,” Stonecipher declared impatiently, “you’ll have an explanation right on the spot. More plot — more conspiracy — the Trust company officials are in the plot — and so on — an endless chain.”

  Odza uncrossed his legs at this juncture and spoke. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Doe, on my own hook.” He turned to Stonecipher. “Now, just to hear at first hand exactly what Doe here will say, I will humour him in this — I will myself send on his signature to these people and will myself show him their letter when it returns stating that the signatures do not tally.” He turned to Middleton. “Then what will you say, Doe?”

  “I will never have to say it,” Middleton pronounced calmly. “For you will receive the surprise of your life.”

  “Well, in the interest of our science, I’ll do it,” replied the young medico. He took out his fountain pen. “All right, Doe. Sign here on this sheet of paper. I’ll send it through with an inquiry. But promise me you won’t claim what Stonecipher says you will when the answer comes back from the Trust Company. Will you do it?”

  “Easily,” Middleton assured the other. “It’s you who will have to answer the questions that will be put then.” He signed quickly. He breathed a sigh of relief. At last he had found his way out.

  Stonecipher now pressed the button on his desk. It was answered immediately by an attendant. “Fit this patient out with a complete outfit. I will assign him to Ward A-i, on the second floor of this wing.” He turned to Middleton. “Now, Doe, I want just a few final words with you. You are, as you know, in an insane asylum. I am putting you in the very best ward we have. Things are comfortable and homelike. The patients up there, you will find, are not bad fellows at all. You may read, amuse yourself, write — you have no worries. In due course you will be brought before the clinic of the famous Austrian physician, Herr Doctor Meister-Professor Hugo Von Zero, one of the most noted men Austria has produced. Your case is not hopeless — I would not be at all surprised if the day comes when you will remember who you are. Shortly after that day arrives, you will go out of here a free man” — he paused reflectively, and then added — ”on the supposition that we corroborate your newly-found identity, and that it is not a new spurious one assumed by you in the attempt to get a discharge.” He paused again.

  “Now a further word. If you take it into your head to fight, to try and escape, to raise trouble, to break discipline, you will go in a ward which is not so pleasant as is the one to which I am sending you. That ward is the bad ward. It is known as Ward X, and in it are the insane criminals, the brutes, the bad men, the trouble-makers, who are kept under conditions more apropos to their criminal instincts. It is an inviolable rule in this institution that every man who attempts to escape here, and who either fails or is later brought back goes to Ward X. So think it over. It is worse by far than that detention station in Chicago from which you came. If you were sent to Ward X, it might be two years before you could secure a transfer and leave it for a better ward. Now I look to you to live a quiet orderly life.” He turned to the attendant. “Bring Howard Hyde down from upstairs.” With which order, he turned to the papers on his desk and lost himself in them.

  It seemed less than five minutes before the attendant reappeared. At his shoulder was a young man clad in neatly belted trousers, with bright, intelligent face, hair neatly parted, white silk shirt with a nicely ironed black tie. He came in. Stonecipher rose. “Mr. Hyde — Howard — this is Mr. Doe — Jonathan Doe. I want you to show him around — to make him feel at home.”

  Hyde put out a friendly firm grip. It was not the grip of an insane man. His voice was pleasant, frank, friendly. “Very pleased to meet you, Doe. Sorry that I have to be a sort of bell-wether lamb to lead you upstairs to the psychiatrical slaughter — but you’ll pardon that, I’m sure.”

  “Thanks. I’ll overlook it gladly.”

  Stonecipher turned to the attendant. “Fit Doe out with State clothes, complete outfit. Then take him on at once to Ward A–I. Step back in five minutes, and I’ll have the transfer order signed and waiting for you.”

  The attendant spoke. “All that was sent here with him when he came was a pair of sun-glasses. What shall I do with them?”

  “Give them to him,” said Stonecipher sadly. “He will be less resentful if he has his property. All right. That’s all.”

  Middleton turned in the doorway to Odza. “Will you come to my new ward as soon as that letter arrives, doctor?”

  Odza nodded. “Indeed I will. I’m anxious, Doe, to hear what you’ll have to say.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE LAND OF FANTASY

  JERRY MIDDLETON’S newly-acquired acquaintance waited courteously outside of his small room while he donned the complete outfit which the attendant brought in to him. There was a two-piece suit of coarse-woven and obviously cotton material; a pair of great, heavy, bulky shoes with soles an inch thick; a coarse union sui
t that was neither white nor black, but was of a dark grey; a pair of peculiar mottled socks composed of yellow and white and grey threads intermingled as though a loom had gone crazy; a funereal black tie; a soft shirt with collar attached, that had been washed but never ironed; a black felt hat, perhaps one size too large for his head; a new corncob pipe shining in its varnish; a gigantic pack of very light, tan-coloured tobacco and a huge plug of chewing tobacco. And last but not least, its leaden bows folded together almost in a pose of innocence — the spectacles of Cagliostro. Morosely he inserted them in the side pocket of the coat which the State had provided him. And then he proceeded to dress.

  When he clattered forth in his hob-nailed shoes ten minutes later, feeling quite clumsy in this whole outlandish attire provided for him, he felt suddenly discomfited in front of the immaculately dressed Hyde. He looked down, ashamed, at his costume.

  But Hyde laughed reassuringly. “You’ll get used to it, Doe. I will do my best to make you acquainted upstairs. Just a little patience — and perhaps some tolerance, too — and the adjustment will be easy.”

  “I shall not be there for ever,” explained Middleton.

  Howard Hyde made no answer. He only looked sad. “Where are you from, Doe?” he asked. And then added: “But suppose I call you Jonathan, and you may disregard my own last name. Just call me Howard. Agreed?”

  “By all means,” assented Middleton gladly. And in reply to the other’s question he added: “I am from Australia.”

  The attendant appeared at this juncture. “All right, boys. We’ll just pass upstairs.” He glanced at Jerry Middleton and grinned. “So you’re going to leave the Zoo ward, as we call it, eh?”

  With jangling keys he conducted them to a back door of the ward, and unlocking it, conducted Hyde, himself, and his charge to a winding stairway with barred windows and all egress barred by an iron gate locked at each landing. Upstairs they went, winding in single file round and round; the attendant opened a stout wooden door on an upper floor, and Middleton now found himself in what was undoubtedly Ward A-i, the quarters in which he was going to be compelled to live over those few days until the experimentally inclined young Dr. Odza should rush upstairs with the welcome information that there was something assuredly wrong in his commitment.