Brett Halliday: Call for Michael Shayne

“Don’t excite yourself, Art,” Thompson said quietly. “Of course I believe everything you’ve told me. I know perfectly well you’ve never gone around beating people’s brains out with a blackjack.”

“So it stands to reason that he attacked me,” Devlin said eagerly, “and somehow — maybe I got the blackjack away from him and struck him in self-defense.”

“I also know that you never went around wearing the sort of clothes I saw in the bathroom, or frequented the kind of rooming-house you’ve described,” Thompson said slowly and thoughtfully.

“Of course not. But while suffering from amnesia—”

“That’s the point I’m trying to bring out, Art. The sort of man who selected clothes like those is also the sort who might consider a blackjack exactly the thing a well-dressed man should carry in his pocket.”

There was a long silence between them. “I — see what you mean,” Devlin said. “I have no way of knowing what kind of man I became during that period. That proves I was a victim of amnesia. You can swear to it in court, can’t you?”

“I can, and I will if it’s necessary,” Thompson agreed after sober meditation. “But — I’m not sure that will help you any.”

“What do you mean by that?” faltered Devlin. “A man can’t be held accountable for something he does without conscious knowledge he is doing it.”

“I don’t know, but I’m afraid that won’t stand up as a legal defense for murder. You see, Art,” the doctor attempted to explain as kindly as he could, “amnesia isn’t even remotely any form of insanity. We might call it suspension of the function of the nerve center that gives us memory.” He paused a moment to grope for the proper words. “To say it another way: You were still you, though you may not have been conscious of your own identity. Nevertheless, you were still Arthur Devlin, moving in another world — living in another consciousness, and I’m afraid the law will consider such a person legally responsible for his actions.”

Devlin shuddered. “It’s a horrible thought. And it’s not fair. I, Arthur Devlin, can’t help what my body did while my mind had no control over it. You have to grant that.”

“I grant it, certainly, in your case, Art. But if the law granted it we’d have a great deal more pleas of not guilty by reason of amnesia. It’s such an easy thing to fake.”

“But in my case there’s bound to be plenty of proof,” Devlin said passionately. “There must have been an accident that night — on my way to the dock. We can look up the records, find the taxi driver. When the Belle of the Caribbean docks tomorrow we can get definite proof I didn’t board her. All my friends know how I looked forward to the trip — that I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. As it is, I’ve probably been going around in a daze right here in Miami all this time,” he finished slowly, silenced by the strange expression on the doctor’s face. Doctor Thompson cleared his throat slightly and looked away.

“Isn’t that true?” Devlin asked uncertainly. “You know how much I anticipated that trip.”

“Yes, I know.” He spoke in a dry tone that warned Devlin something else was coming.

“Well — why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m sorry, Art. You see, I know you did sail at midnight on the Belle of the Caribbean .”

“I did — sail?” gasped Devlin.

“Yes.” Thompson averted his eyes from his friend’s imploring gaze. “You see — you sent me a radiogram the next day — from aboard the Belle.”

“I — sent you a radiogram from the ship?” Devlin faltered.

“Your name was signed to it.”

“What — did it say?”

Doctor Thompson gestured vaguely. “Some feeble witticism about hoping the rest of us didn’t feel as badly as you felt. The sort of thing you might have said after a party like that.”

“Could I have sent such a message without knowing it?” asked Devlin thinly.

“While suffering from amnesia?” Thompson sighed deeply. “The human mind plays all sorts of tricks, Art. I wouldn’t say such a thing couldn’t happen. Medical opinion in all probability would be that amnesia was very unlikely to persist once you remembered me and my address well enough to send me a radio message.”

“But it must have happened. I swear I don’t remember anything about the ship or sending you a message.”

“Perhaps not, but I’m pointing out the difficulty in making others believe it. Most amnesia victims awake suddenly after an accident or shock in unfamiliar surroundings with no knowledge of their identity or past life. They find themselves among strangers who can’t help them back to reality. Memory comes back through association of ideas, or by a second shock to the nerve center that caused the original loss.

“I’m giving you an objective opinion,” the doctor went on swiftly. “Let’s suppose there was an accident that night after you left the party, but that you got in the motor launch and were carried out to your cabin on the cruise ship. You had your ticket and all sorts of identification on you. Upon waking the next morning the steward would address you as Mr. Devlin. You see, Art, you’d know who you were even though the memory function was knocked out. There’d be your luggage and clothing and familiar things around you.”

“I can’t help any of that,” said Devlin doggedly. “I don’t remember.”

“Yet you did send me the radiogram.”

“Perhaps the loss of memory occurred later,” suggested Devlin hopefully. “Could the loss of memory be retroactive — go back, somehow, to the night of the farewell party?”

Thompson shook his head decisively. “I think not. You’d have the devil’s own time getting any judge or jury to accept that. There’d be overwhelming medical testimony to refute that possibility.”

“Then what in hell did happen?” Devlin groaned.

“That’s what we have to decide before the matter comes up in court. That’s why I’m trying to make you realize just where you stand.” Thompson settled back and his voice changed to one of whimsical inquiry. “Suppose you tell me the truth, Art. Then we’ll decide how much of it to tell to the police if you get dragged into tonight’s affair.”

Arthur Devlin stared at Thompson aghast. “You don’t believe me?”

“I think you’re making a mistake to cling to that story,” the doctor told him patiently. “It may have seemed like a good idea when you dreamed it up, but you see how many holes there are in it. Tell me the truth, and as a doctor I’ll help you fix up a story that will have some chance.”

Devlin buried his face in his hands. “God in heaven, Tommy, if you don’t believe me, what can I hope for?”

“Exactly what I’m pointing out to you.”

Arthur Devlin’s hands fell away from his face. He lifted his head and said coldly, “I’ve told you the absolute truth from beginning to end.”

Thompson sighed and removed his horn-rimmed glasses, polished them absently, and replaced them over his quizzically friendly eyes. “Look, Art,” he said with kindly finality, “we may be beating our brains out for no reason at all. What is there to connect you with the murdered man? That is, what is there to connect Arthur Devlin with him?”

“I’ve told you I don’t know.”

“I’ve thought of a possible explanation,” the doctor resumed. “It’s fantastic, but I suppose it could be this way. Suppose there was an accident — or you were deliberately slugged on your way to the dock that night — stripped of all your clothes and your identification and left for dead. You had your ticket in your pocket. Whoever took them might have gone aboard and posed as Arthur Devlin. He may still be on the ship, thinking you’re dead and that he’s perfectly safe.”