Dr. Rutherford's office was tastefully furnished, in the suburban
medical manner, to suggest a Tudor tap-room. There was, of course, a
spotless chrome and porcelain laboratory connecting, as well as an
equally sanitary lavatory.
"Good of you to squeeze me in, Jerry," I remarked to Rutherford. "Fact
is I need your professional opinion."
Rutherford stroked his little dab of a moustache. "I've sent in my
application to the Army Medical Corps," he told me. "I hoped you'd come
to straighten out the money end."
"That will be taken care of any time you need it," I assured him. "Miss
Briggs at my office will have full details. I'll phone her and my
lawyer to fix it up as soon as I get back to the house."
"Well, what seems to be wrong with you, old man?" he inquired. "War
getting too much for you? Got a hang-over? Need vitamins? Bowels
regular? I must say you're got a better color and have lost weight
since the last time I saw you."
"It's nothing wrong with my body, and I _have_ lost weight," I
explained. "It's my mind. I've had a complete loss of memory as to what
happened before April second. In Washington, I was lucky to avoid the
booby-hatch. They couldn't handle me at Hopkins, so they told me to
consult my family physician. I guess that means that you are elected."
"Family physician is good," Rutherford remarked with a rather
unprofessional grin. "But hell! I'm no psychiatrist. Of course, in
practice around here I bump into a few psychopathic cases but I must
say you've never struck me as the type."
I assured him that I was in dead earnest about this matter, that I must
somehow get myself certified as sane or I might be in trouble with the
government.
"Rot, my dear fellow!" Rutherford assured me. "You've had some kind
of psychic trauma or shock that's resulted in temporary amnesia. That
could happen to anybody. You're as sane as I am."
I asked him whether he'd be willing to sign a medical certificate to
that effect.
"Well," he replied slowly, "that's another story. I'm not a specialist
along psychiatric lines. Up here I get mostly baby-cases, indigestion,
some alcoholism and now and then, thank God, a real honest broken leg.
My name on a certificate wouldn't mean much in sanity proceedings.
I'd rather have you run over to Hartford and see Dr. Folsom at the
Sanctuary. He has the stuff and the equipment to put you through the
standard tests."
"That's okay by me, Jerry," I agreed, "but I'd still like you to put
me through a few paces so that your records will show that this is on
the level. If some bright boy in Washington decides to throw me in the
asylum for making nasty faces at the Big Brass, I want to have a clean
medical record for use in a counter-suit for false arrest."
Rutherford stood up and looked out the window. "I'm a hell of a poor
choice for a man to look into your private life, after this business
with Germaine and Virginia," he observed.
"That's why I want to keep it all in the family," I told him. "Listen,
Jerry, until she came out to Pook's Hill the other day I have no
recollection of ever setting eyes on Virginia. Under the circumstances,
she's as superfluous as a bridegroom's pajamas. I faked as well as I
could but the plain fact is that I have no memory of her, of you, of
Jimmie or anybody around here before April 2nd. Now that's not normal,
to put it mildly."
"You know, Winnie," the doctor remarked professionally, "I think
that your quote loss of memory unquote is nothing but a defense
mechanism. I know a bit about your affairs and they seem to have got so
complicated--with three or four women on a string, business problems,
liquor and so forth--that you simply decided subconsciously not to
remember anything about them. Your mind's a blank as to everything you
want to forget."
I shook my head. "The trouble is, Jerry, that my mind's not blank at
all. I remember a hell of a lot but it's all about another man."
"How's that again?"
So I told him the whole story, from beginning to end, skipping only
the bits about the thorium bomb and Z-2 for reasons of security, and
omitting the name of the carrier. He took notes and studied them for a
while. Then he looked up at me and smiled.
"This beats anything in Freud," he observed. "I still stick to
my off-the-cuff diagnosis that you had something that gave you a
shock--it needn't have been anything big, you know; just a straw
that broke the camel's back--and then developed this loss of memory
as a defense mechanism. And this transfer of personalities with
Jacklin--metempsychosis is the fancy word for it--is not the usual type
of schizophrenia, but it falls into a pattern of wish-fulfillment.
"You probably don't remember it but ever since I've known you, you've
been grousing about this fellow Jacklin, whom none of us have ever
met. It's been close to an obsession with you. I gather that you had
some kind of a school-boy crush on him, which he ignored, and your
feelings turned to hatred. You seem to have kept close track of him and
his doings all these years. Subconsciously you must have identified
yourself with him. I'm just guessing now--Folsom could make a
scientific check--but I should say that you may have developed a split
personality, based on envy and jealousy for this chap. Jacklin's had
to make his own way, while you've always had plenty of money and good
business connections, especially since you got over the depression.
He was in uniform, serving his country, and you were a civilian,
enriching yourself. He had separated from his wife while you were
tangled up with a lot of women...."
"But how did I know that Mrs. Jacklin had a mole on her left hip?" I
asked.
"Nine women out of ten have at least one and often more moles on both
their hips," he said, "as you should know. In any case, I take it that
you didn't verify the statement. No, Winnie, at the Sanctuary they can
deal with this sort of thing scientifically and tell you how to make
the readjustment."
"My wife doesn't want me to readjust too much," I told him. "She'd
rather have me crazy and stick around with her than sane but off
chasing a bunch of skirts."
"Can't say that I blame her, old man," he agreed, controlling himself
with a visible effort, "but that's her affair and nothing to do with
your case."
"Quite!" I told him, "and let me say that you've been a hell of a good
sport about this mess. Believe me, Jerry, I'm not trying to alibi
myself so far as Virginia is involved, but I don't remember anything
about her and me that couldn't be taught in a Methodist Sunday School.
It's--it's almost as though I had been born again, given a last chance
to relive my life. If that's what trauma does for you, we ought to have
more of it."
"Listen, Winnie," the doctor remarked. "This is between us, of course,
but the sanest thing you ever did was to get shed of Virginia. She's
fun and all that, but after a few weeks it's boring to live with a
one-track mind with red hair. Germaine is worth a dozen of her. Perhaps
when I get back from the Army, Virginia will have settled down enough
to be a doctor's wife. You'll see that she gets the money, won't you?"
"Sure," I agreed, "and I'll give you a tip I learned at Hopkins.
The short-cut to medical riches. A loony psychiatrist there says he
always advises middle-aged men to do a little heavy drinking and woman
chasing, in order to get rid of their inhibitions. There ought to be a
fortune in that kind of medical treatment, especially in Westchester."
Jerry Rutherford laughed. "Westchester's discovered the prescription
all by itself," he said, "and they're just beginning to learn that
when a middle-aged American sheds his inhibitions, there's damn little
of him left. Now, you'd better run along and get packed for a stay
in Hartford. I'll phone Folsom and tell him you're driving over this
afternoon. He'll fix you up if anyone can."
"Swell!" I thanked him.
When I got back to Pook's Hill, I called the office and told Arthurjean
that I was leaving for a rest-cure at the Hartford Sanctuary and
to tell my partners that I didn't want to be disturbed by business
affairs until further notice. I asked her to get hold of Merriwether
Vail and meet me at the Sanctuary as soon as they could make it.
They were to bring the necessary papers so that I could deed over
$15,000 to Dr. Jeremiah Rutherford of Bedford Hills, to be paid in
monthly installments of $1,000 to his wife. I added that there was
nothing seriously wrong with me but that the best advice I could get
recommended a rest-cure to head off a possible nervous breakdown. Then
I said good-bye to Germaine, gave Ponto a farewell pat on the head and
piled into my Packard for the drive to Hartford.
The Sanctuary proved to be a large, pleasant brick building--something
about half-way between a country club and a summer hotel--in the better
groomed suburbs of Hartford, with a fine view of the Connecticut River.
The ample grounds were surrounded by a high spiked iron fence and the
gates to the driveway were closed, until I had identified myself to
the guard on duty. In fact, it reminded me of the routine of getting
admitted to the White House grounds, except that this time I was not
accompanied by General Wakely. At the front door, a uniformed attendant
took charge of my bags and gave directions to have my car sent to the
garage. Then I was ushered into one of those hospital waiting-rooms
that defy all interior-decorating efforts to give them a respectable,
homelike touch.
A few moments later, a pretty nurse in a white starched uniform
directed me to follow her. We went through a door, which she was
careful to lock behind her, along a corridor and up one flight of
stairs to a pleasantly furnished bedroom, where my bags were already
waiting for me. She told me to get undressed and go to bed--which I
did, after she had carefully unpacked my belongings, removing my razor
and my nail-file.
"Dr. Folsom will be by to see you in a few minutes, Mr. Tompkins," she
informed me. "Just ring if you want anything."
After she left, I felt good and mad. How in blazes did they expect
to minister to a mind diseased, if they began by the old routine of
getting the patient stripped and bedded? Then I realized that this
was just a simple matter of establishing the institution's moral
superiority, at the very outset, and my anger evaporated. I lay back
and dozed for a few minutes until the door opened and a burly man, with
a glittering eye and strangler's hands, entered my room.
"I'm Dr. Folsom, Mr. Tompkins," he informed me. "Dr. Rutherford phoned
that you were coming over for a check-up. Before we get down to
business, there are a few routine questions I'd like to ask."
They were routine: Name, age, address, next of kin, annual income,
banking connections, name of recommending physician, and whether
patient had previously received mental treatment in an accredited
psychiatric institution.
"Shall we mail the bills to Mrs. Tompkins?" he asked.
"Hell, no! Give them to me. I brought along my check-book."
Dr. Folsom nodded approval. "Here is the bill for the first week," he
said. "We generally ask our patients to pay in advance."
He handed me a folded piece of fine bonded paper. On it, tastefully
inscribed, was the information that I owed The Sanctuary, Hartford,
Conn., $250.00 for room, board and attendance for the period of April
20-25, inclusive. There was a space for my signature and the doctor
thrust a fountain-pen into my hand. "Just sign there and we'll send it
to your bank for collection," he said.
"What's all this fine print?" I suddenly demanded.
"Oh, that's just a matter of form," he explained.
"Wait a minute," I urged. "I was always taught that when in Hartford
you ought always to read the small print at the bottom of the page."
I studied it out. "The above signature," it read, "constitutes an
agreement not to leave or attempt to leave The Sanctuary without the
prior approval of the Management."
I looked at Dr. Folsom. "If you don't mind, doctor," I told him, "I'd
prefer to sign one of my own checks and have it cleared in the usual
way. What's the idea of having me sign away my liberty like that?"
Folsom smiled disarmingly. "That's one of the ways we judge whether a
patient is really sane. Only a crazy man would sign it," he explained.
"More seriously, Mr. Tompkins, you must remember that a private asylum
has quite a problem in controlling its patients. They are not generally
committed to our care by court orders and usually come here only at the
request of their families with their own reluctant consent. Without a
signed agreement of that kind, we might be exposed to legal annoyances,
suit for damages or even a kidnapping charge, if a patient changed his
mind and decided to act nasty."
"I see your point, doctor," I told him. "I've asked my attorney and my
private secretary to meet me here a little later today. I have some
business I must clean up before I can settle down for treatment. I'll
consult him about the kind of agreement to sign with the Sanctuary.
So far as I'm concerned, I don't see the necessity for any agreement.
I want to get a simple sanity test and see if you can recommend any
course of treatment for dealing with a serious loss of memory."
"I'm not sure that it is the management's policy to accept a patient
under such unusual conditions," he said. "I'll have to consult my
associates."
"See here, doctor," I replied. "All I want now is to have one of the
psychiatrists give me the works, tell me whether I'm sane or crazy, and
then I'll pull out. I don't want to stay here under false pretenses and
I don't intend to stay here a minute longer than I want to. I'll pay
any fee you charge, within reason, but I'm damned if I'll sign my own
freedom away, with Wall Street getting set to shoot the works."
Dr. Folsom laughed. "I can't say that I blame you, Mr. Tompkins. And
you don't sound unbalanced to me."
"But I want a document signed to that effect," I declared. "You see,
some of my business associates have been trying to have me adjudged
incompetent so as to get control of my money. It's about three million
dollars at present quotations. So I'm out to build up my defenses in
advance of the show-down. _Now_ do you understand?"
"Oh!" The Director of the Sanctuary was enormously relieved. "That's no
trouble at all. I'll send up our business psychiatrist, Dr. Pendergast
Potter--he studied under Jung in Vienna, you know--and he'll give you
our standard businessman's sanity-test. We have quite a few cases like
yours, you know. It's surprising how many business partners seize on
insanity as a key to robbing their associates. It's done every day. And
our fee for this service will be five thousand dollars."
"Five thousand dollars it is!" I agreed.
"Good!" Dr. Folsom beamed. "I'll send Potter over right away."