The Rat Race by Jay Franklin (ebook smartphone txt) 📖

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."

CHAPTER 24

When Dr. Pendergast Potter arrived, he proved to be a short, square-built man, with a red spade beard and