Post by California gal on Jul 17, 2012 9:42:26 GMT -8
THE NIGHT OF THE MEMORY THIEF
Memoria est thesaurus omnium rerum e custos.
[Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things.]
— De Oratore (I, 5), Cicero (Marcus Tullius Cicero), 106-43 BC), Roman philosopher, statesman, and orator
Memoria est thesaurus omnium rerum e custos.
[Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things.]
— De Oratore (I, 5), Cicero (Marcus Tullius Cicero), 106-43 BC), Roman philosopher, statesman, and orator
“Mr. West! Where is he? In twenty-four hours, the trial is scheduled to begin!”
Jim West stood in front of the desk, his eyes fixed on the gold watch in the speaker’s hand, while his own hands were balled into fists at his side as he attempted to hold his temper… and failed. Stepping forward, he leaned those fists on the desk, and glared. “Mr. Deering. I… do… not… know… where he is! I have been searching for more than seventy-two hours. He has vanished! For all I know, he’s at the bottom of the bay…!”
His voice rose with each word as he felt himself slipping into a rage he could not control, unable to hold it back. Then a soft but firm hand pressed against his shoulder.
“Jim.”
Closing his eyes, and drawing a deep breath, Jim stepped back, glancing behind him at the gray-haired man with the stern, yet understanding eyes. “I’m sorry, colonel.” He turned back to the man behind the desk. “My apologies, Mr. Deering. I… I just ….”
Claude Deering got to his feet, an imposing man with snow-white hair although he was barely forty-five, and crystal blue eyes that could sometimes seem to cut into a man’s soul, especially if that man was sitting in the witness box. “No, it is I who should apologize, Mr. West. We are all exhausted, but I know it has been harder on you than any of us. He is your partner… your friend. But it’s so important…”
Jim nodded, rubbing a hand over his unshaven face. Lately it had become harder to think. “I know how important it is. And so does Artemus. That’s what… that’s why I know something has happened. He would not have gone off like this, not with this trial pending.”
Colonel James Richmond stepped alongside him now, casting a long glance at his superb agent, noting the disheveled attire and the dark circles under his eyes. “Jim, when did you eat last? When did you sleep?”
Jim shook his head. “I don't know. I’m all right.”
“No, you’re not.” However, Richmond knew that it would be useless to even order West to step back and take care of himself. Artemus Gordon had been missing for three days now. He had not returned after an evening with friends and as Jim said, vanished. The colonel looked at Deering, the man in charge of prosecuting Dennis Clegg. “And there’s no chance of postponing the trial?”
Deering sank back into his chair with a gusty sigh. “I have spoken to Judge Rundell twice. He refuses. I have heard that he might be corrupt, but…”
“Clegg paid him,” Jim growled.
“That’s the only reason I can come up with,” Deering nodded. “Rundell has delayed other trials for lesser reasons in the past. Of course, if we don’t find Gordon, it doesn’t matter anyway.”
“I’ll find him,” Jim West snapped, and started to turn toward the office door.
At that moment a rap sounded on that door and it opened. Lloyd Morris did not look quite as haggard and exhausted as Jim West, but his appearance revealed he too had been sleeping in his clothes, if he slept at all. “Pardon me, Mr. Deering, Colonel Richmond. Jim, he’s been found.”
Jim took two long strides and grasped the San Francisco police detective’s shoulders with both hands. “Where? How is he?” He almost did not want the answer to the last question.
“He’s alive,” Morris replied, quite aware that that would be the information Jim wanted most. He saw the pure relief in the green eyes and went on quickly. “He was found wandering on the wharves early this morning.”
“Early this morning?” Richmond came forward. “Why haven’t we heard until now?”
“Because no one knew who he was,” the lieutenant replied quietly. “He had no identification on him.”
“But didn’t Artie…?” Jim frowned. “Was he unconscious?” No, Lloyd said he was wandering…
“He has amnesia, Jim. He can’t remember his name or anything else. When a nurse came on duty around mid morning, she recognized him, having treated him on another occasion. The hospital immediately sent word to us.”
“Amnesia!” Claude Deering had joined the others near the door. “That means…”
Jim glanced at him. “That he might not remember the incident with Dennis Clegg. I suffered amnesia a couple of years ago after a bullet clipped me on the head. It lasted until I saw a familiar face—Artie’s. Come on, Lloyd.”
W*W*W*W*W
Jim realized during the ride in the police vehicle that they should have waited for the colonel and Mr. Deering, but he had not been thinking any more clearly about that than he had when he nearly lost his grip on his temper a few minutes before. His only thought was to reach the hospital on Potrero Avenue and the friend he had been searching for. The colonel would flag down a hack, no doubt.
They had returned to San Francisco earlier this week so that Artemus Gordon could testify at the trial of Dennis Clegg, a man the San Francisco police and others very much wanted to convict. Clegg was the son of Bartholomew Clegg, an extremely wealthy and influential man in the city these days. Few people wanted to cross him, and few got the opportunity. If one did, very likely one would end up ruined or dead.
Over the past seven years, five women—prostitutes—had been found dead after a visit from the younger Clegg. Twice the city thought enough proof and witnesses were available for a conviction; twice those witnesses had recanted their stories, and the proof vanished from police files. They had been forced to release Clegg.
On their last visit to San Francisco, Artemus had had occasion to call on a man staying at a rundown hotel near the Barbary Coast late one night to ask some questions about a crime being investigated. He had emerged from that man’s room just as Dennis Clegg came out of a door further down the hall. Artemus recognized him from a previous encounter. Clegg had seen him and had raced to the stairway, leaving the door of the room open.
Artie heard a cry for help from that room, and found a woman bleeding badly from knife wounds. She lived long enough to tell the agent that Clegg had assaulted her. Dennis Clegg was arrested the next day, and the district attorney’s office was exultant. They had a witness who would not be bought or scared off.
Artemus had specifically asked Colonel Richmond to keep their schedule clear so that he would be available to testify in person at the trial. Richmond agreed, and actually traveled to the bayside city with them. He too had heard of the Cleggs and wanted to see the younger man pay for his heinous crimes.
Upon arriving at the hospital, Jim and Lloyd had to pause at the front desk to learn where Gordon’s room was, and then both raced up the stairs to the second floor. A doctor Jim knew was standing in the hallway outside a closed door.
“Dr. Davidson. How is he?”
“Strange case, Mr. West. I’ve dealt with amnesia cases before, and they have almost all been caused by a blow to the head. A couple cases were due to traumatic experiences. Mr. Gordon shows no injuries whatsoever. Not to his head, nor anywhere else on his body. There’s no explanation for it.”
“Perhaps seeing me will bring him back.”
“Perhaps. Go on in. I had him sedated earlier because he was quite agitated over his condition. But he’s awake now and has had some food and coffee. Please, if he does become over excited again, summon me.”
With a nod, Jim stepped to the door, grasped the handle and stepped inside, aware that Morris was following but not looking back. The man he knew as Artemus Gordon was sitting against some pillows, the whiteness of the hospital gown and bed linens striking in contrast to the tan of his face and the darkness of his hair and unshaven jaw. Like me, Jim mused, he doesn’t seem to have had time or inclination to shave…
“Artie.”
The brown eyes gazed at him blankly. “Are you… someone I know?”
Jim moved to the side of the bed and kept his voice carefully calm. “I’m Jim West… your partner. This is Lloyd Morris. He’s a friend of ours and a police officer.”
Artie’s eyes went to each of them, but the puzzled expression increased. “I don’t remember you.”
“What do you remember?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing except walking in the fog, wondering where I was, where I was supposed to go… and who I was.” He looked up at Jim. “My partner in what?”
“We are agents of the United States Secret Service. We work together.”
“Oh. The doctor mentioned the Secret Service.” Again he shook his head. “It means… nothing. I don’t remember.”
Morris stepped forward. “You don’t remember how you came to be on the wharves?”
“No. What is my name again?”
“Artemus Gordon,” Jim replied.
The man on the bed shook his head. “Strange name. Have you known me long?”
“Over ten years. We met during the war when General Grant sent us on a mission together.”
“Mission?” Artie’s frown was deep. “What does that mean?” Worry appeared in his gaze.
Jim took a breath, holding his patience. One part of him wanted to grab Artie by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. He knew that would not do any good, remembering his own experience with a loss of memory. “During the war we worked as agents for the Union Army. Do… do you remember the war? Any of it?”
Artemus shook his head. “No. The Civil War?” One of the hands resting on the coverlet grasped some of the material, forming a fist around it.
Jim felt a spark of hope. “Yes. You know about it?”
“I… seem to. But as though I read about it. I was there?”
“You were there,” Jim said softly again fighting his disappointment. “Does the name Mamie Dervin mean anything?”
“No. Should it?”
Jim did not answer immediately, his frustration mounting, Lloyd Morris stepped in. “You were to be a star witness in the trial of her murderer. She was a prostitute murdered in a hotel you were visiting. You saw the murderer and heard the dying woman tell you his name.”
Artie closed his eyes tightly then put his free hand over them for a moment. “My god,” he murmured. Now he opened his eyes and looked at them. Both hands clutched at the cover now, the knuckles almost as white as the material. “Is that why you are so interested in my recovery?”
“No!” Jim cried. “You’re our friend. My best friend. My partner!”
The man on the bed sighed heavily. “Well, I’m sorry, I don’t remember anything.”
“What about Lily?” Jim tried.
Artie’s brown eyes were still puzzled. “Another prostitute?”
Jim did not smile. “Your fiancée, Lily Fortune.”
“My… fiancée? I don’t remember her… I just don’t remember anything!”
Jim saw that the agitation was increasing as Davidson had mentioned, and was about to tell Lloyd that perhaps they should allow Artie to rest a bit, when the door opened to admit Colonel Richmond and Claude Deering. Richmond came to the foot of the bed.
“Artemus?”
“Another friend?”
“Our boss,” Jim said, wearily. He realized that while Artie was frightened by his inability to remember, his own fatigue was going to cause him to lose his patience soon, even while aware that none of this was Artie’s fault; he was not faking his condition, of that Jim was positive.
“I’m Colonel James Richmond, head of the Secret Service.”
“Oh. Well, sorry, I don’t remember you either.”
The edge was still in Artie’s voice. Jim said, “Let’s go out into the hall, Colonel.” He jerked his head at Morris and Deering and led the way, closing the door. “He doesn’t remember anything. Not me, not Lloyd. Not even Lily.”
“What do they think caused the amnesia?” Deering asked.
“The doctor doesn’t know. There are no signs of a blow to the head. Other than being disheveled and disoriented—and the amnesia of course—he seems to be in fine shape.”
The doctor in question emerged from a door down the hall, and Richmond and the lawyer went to him immediately. Jim lowered his head, gazing at the worn floor. Lloyd was quiet a long moment before he spoke.
“Jim, you need to get some rest.”
Lifting his head, Jim shook it. “No. I’ve got to find out what happened to Artie.”
Lloyd grasped his arm. “You may not realize it, but you are swaying on your feet. You’re going to collapse. Go back to the hotel.”
“Excellent idea,” Richmond said, returning. “Jim, you are not going to be much help in your condition. Morris, will you arrange for a police guard on Gordon’s room?”
“Absolutely, sir. Right away.”
“Another thing,” Deering put in, “we’d better keep this as quiet as possible. I just asked the doctor to warn the staff.”
“And I’ll tell the officer who found him,” Morris nodded. “He’s a good man and not prone to gossip so he probably hasn’t told anyone else yet. Especially not the newspapers.” They had managed to keep Gordon’s disappearance out of the papers, even while realizing that public knowledge might be of some help. Nonetheless, they did not want Clegg’s family and lawyer to know about it.
“We just have to hope,” Deering said, “that after a full night of rest, Mr. Gordon will regain his memory. It’s our only hope.”
W*W*W*W*W
Jim finally agreed that he would sleep a couple of hours, especially when Lloyd assured him that Artie would not only be protected, that Jim would be summoned if anything new occurred. So he went to his hotel, pulled off his boots and lay down on the bed. He awakened into dim light, and only after several minutes did he realize the hour was early morning. He had slept almost sixteen hours.
He had to admit, as he washed up and shaved, that he felt a good deal better. He was also very hungry. Although hating to “waste” the time, he paused in the hotel dining room for a good breakfast then left the hotel to take a hack to the hospital. The streets were relatively quiet so the vehicle made good time. Jim tossed a coin to the driver and sprinted into the hospital, up the stairs, and down the corridor.
He was pleased to see that the young policeman sitting on a chair outside the door was wide-awake. Jim showed him his credentials and entered the room. He was not surprised to find Artemus awake. But he was disappointed to realize that nothing had changed. The expression in the brown eyes revealed that. The only physical alteration was that he had shaved, or been shaved, his jaw now showing only the usual overnight growth.
“West, isn’t it?” Artie said, pushing himself up on his elbows.
“Jim.” Jim quickly moved to secure the pillows behind Artie’s back. “How do you feel?”
“No different. I can’t remember anything more than what I told you before. Just finding myself wandering around, with no idea who I was or where I was or…”
Jim put a hand on Artie’s arm, resting on the bed. “Take it easy. I know the feeling. But it’ll come back. I’m sure.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Well… it usually does. My memory returned when I saw you in difficulty. You also experienced a memory loss due to a blow on the head a while back.” (See The Night of the Forgotten Mind.) Jim took a few minutes to relate both incidents to the patient, watching closely to see if anything registered in Artie’s eyes to indicate any of it was familiar. The only expression was disgruntlement.
“Perhaps you should bring someone in to point a gun at you.”
Jim had to smile, not only because of the humorous remark, but because it sounded so much like Artie. His Artie. “From what I’ve heard about amnesia—from what you read up on and told me after I suffered the bout—little is known about the causes or cures. Most people recover their memories.”
“Most. What about the ones that don’t?”
“I guess… they just build a new life. But that’s not going to happen, Artie. You’ll get your life back. I promise.”
Artie’s smile was faint. “I have the sense I should trust you but… I don't know you.”
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I sit down and tell you as much as I can about your life, our lives together. Who knows, something might light the spark.”
“All right. I’m sure a nurse is going to show up soon but until then… go ahead.”
For about forty-five minutes, Jim talked about their lives as agents. Not so much about the cases they had worked on, but the train, the travel, how Artemus used disguises. He talked, even though again he saw clearly that none of it was registering with the amnesiac. Artemus listened, but did not react. None of it meant anything to him, other than as a story. Again Jim saw the disappointment.
When a nurse came in with a pitcher of hot water and took the shaving and washing items from a cupboard in the room, Jim went out to seek the doctor, whom the nurse said had just arrived and was preparing to make his rounds. Davidson greeted Jim cordially in his small office.
“You’re here early. And I must say you look a great deal better than you did yesterday.”
“I feel better, doctor. I’ve been talking to Artemus. He… doesn’t seem changed.”
The physician shook his head. “It is perhaps the strangest case I’ve ever encountered. I checked him physically again and still cannot find a bruise or bump that would suggest he had been struck on the head. Knowing the kind of work you and Mr. Gordon do, I cannot imagine a traumatic experience that could have induced the condition.”
“He was missing over three days, doctor. I’ve got to find out where he was those three days. The clothes he was wearing…”
“They are in his room, in the bureau. I have to say I didn’t think they resembled what he normally wore. Had he gone out in disguise?”
“No. We had run into some old friends of his from his acting days earlier, and he arranged to spend the evening with them. I had other plans. I was not aware he had not returned when I went to bed. We were not expecting trouble. I found his room empty, the bed undisturbed in the morning. The night clerk had not seen him return. I asked in the establishments in the area that had been open late, but no one remembered seeing him.
“I eventually found the three men he had been with. They said that after their dinner and a few drinks while they reminisced, they had hailed a cab that took them first to their hotel, while Artemus traveled on to his. That was the last they saw of him.”
“You think someone kidnapped him?”
“That’s the only explanation I can come up with. I tracked down the hack and the driver remembered leaving Artie in front of the hotel. And that’s that.”
Dr. Davidson frowned. “I know that Mr. Gordon was scheduled to testify in the Clegg trial today. If Bart Clegg had him kidnapped, why…?”
Jim was shaking his head. “Clegg would know that if anything happened to the key witness, a government agent, he would be under intense scrutiny. My original thought was if it was the Cleggs behind it, that they would hold Artie until after the trial.”
“But instead he was found with amnesia, and no explanation for it. I’m going to keep him here at least one more day, Mr. West, and do some more examining. I might have missed something, but I doubt it.”
Jim returned to Artemus's room and was only slightly surprised to find Colonel Richmond present. He turned as Jim entered. “You look rested, Jim.”
Jim’s smile was rueful. “I guess I needed it.” His eyes asked a question and the colonel shook his head.
“I told Artemus a little about the first time I met him, but…”
“It’s like you’re talking about a stranger,” Artie said from the bed. “In fact, you are strangers to me!” His voice was sharp with anger.
Richmond consulted his pocket watch. “The trial starts in two hours.”
“It looks like Clegg is going to win… again.”
“Look, I was thinking of something.”
Both men turned to the one in the bed. “What do you mean, Artie?”
“I am sure I told you and the lawyer everything I saw that night. Why can’t you tell me what that was? Then I can testify…”
Jim looked at the colonel and shook his head, and the colonel nodded. “It wouldn’t work, Artemus,” Richmond said.
“Why not?”
Jim stepped closer to the bed. “Bartholomew Clegg is a very clever man, and a rich one. He hired the best lawyer in San Francisco, Joshua Kassell. You know him as well as I do… ordinarily. We’ve both been subject to his cross-examination. Normally, you would handle him without a misstep. But if you are only rehearsed in the obvious, he’ll trip you easily. You need the details that we don’t have.”
“Claude Deering was going to speak to Judge Rundell again this morning, but he didn’t have much hope.” Richmond’s tone was somber.
Wrath stirred in Jim. “And Dennis Clegg will be free to kill again.”
That widened Artie’s eyes and he asked what Jim meant. When Jim explained about the previous killings and attempts to convict, Artemus displayed the same ire. He demanded to be allowed to at least attempt to testify, but both his partner and the colonel again refused.
“It just wouldn’t do any good, Artie. Unless you could swear that you saw Clegg, and repeat the woman’s dying words… it wouldn’t do any good. And as I said, Kassell would tear you apart in seconds. Especially if he knows you actually have amnesia.”
“How would he know?”
Jim shook his head. “I don't know, but I plan to find out.”
W*W*W*W*W
Power, like the diamond, dazzles the beholder, and also the wearer; it dignifies meanness; it magnifies littleness; to what is contemptible, it gives authority; to what is low, exaltation.
—Charles Caleb Colton (1780-1832), English sportsman and author
Power, like the diamond, dazzles the beholder, and also the wearer; it dignifies meanness; it magnifies littleness; to what is contemptible, it gives authority; to what is low, exaltation.
—Charles Caleb Colton (1780-1832), English sportsman and author
Jim was standing in the courthouse hallway outside the room where the trial was scheduled when he saw Bartholomew Clegg enter. Years of gluttony and venality had taken their toll on Clegg. His torso ballooned under the expensively tailored suits; his jowls sagged, unsuccessfully disguised by the graying bushy sideburns that extended down his jaw.
A woman clutched either arm. On the left was his daughter-in-law, Dennis’s wife, whom gossip said that Clegg purchased from her well-thought of but impecunious family to lend some respectability to the playboy son. Olivia Clegg was a rather plain looking woman. Wagging tongues also said that after she bore the next heir, Dennis Clegg had nothing further to do with her.
The woman on the right was Bart Clegg’s latest mistress, one of a string that went back to before Mrs. Clegg died several years ago. Jim had met Lottie Eversole a long time ago in the saloon where she had been working on the Barbary Coast. He had quickly discerned that she had little interest in “working men,” her sights set on the wealthier patrons. She had finally landed Bart Clegg—for now.
Following Clegg were two of the beefy men he kept around as “bodyguards.” They had the look of thugs, distinctly uncomfortable in the suits Clegg apparently had them wear. The police department long suspected that these “bodyguards” served other functions for the Clegg machine, but nothing had ever been proven.
Jim kept his gaze on Clegg, expressionless, and as the powerful man moved by him, Clegg turned his head and looked at him. Jim forced himself to remain stoic, even as his thoughts raced. He knows! He knows what happened to Artie! The gleam in Clegg’s beady eyes was revealing. Bart Clegg knew that his son was going to be acquitted, and he knew why.
The question was, Jim realized, why? Or how? How could Clegg have had anything to do with Artie’s amnesia? If Artie had been beaten, had suffered a head wound, the story would be different. But that had apparently not been the case. Artie had been kidnapped. Jim had no doubt of that. And when he was released on the docks, he had amnesia.
How?
W*W*W*W*W
Gone—glimmering through the dream of things that were.
—Childe Harold (canto II, st. 2), Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron; 1788-1824), English poet
Gone—glimmering through the dream of things that were.
—Childe Harold (canto II, st. 2), Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron; 1788-1824), English poet
He looked up from the newspaper he had been reading, brought along with his lunch by the friendly nurse, an older woman who told him she had treated him on a previous occasion. The man who said his name was Jim West, who said he was his best friend and partner, entered, face sober.
“I take it things did not go well.”
Jim sighed, moving to sit on the bed as Artemus was now on a chair near the window, wearing a rather faded robe. “Took the jury about fifteen minutes to find him not guilty. Nothing else they could do—whether Clegg had gotten to any of them or not. The prosecution had no case—no evidence, no witness.” He would not soon forget the gloating gleefulness of Dennis Clegg, his father and minions; nor the somber expression on Olivia Clegg’s face as she also watched the celebration.
“I’m sorry.”
“Artie, it’s not your fault!”
“It is if I can’t remember the testimony I was to give to convict this bastard!”
Jim saw the anger flash in his partner’s eyes. “Well, it’s done. We just have to hope that he can be stopped before he kills the next one.”
“You said this Mamie was the sixth one?”
“That are known. He obviously doesn’t kill every prostitute he engages. He’s well known to frequent the bordellos all around the area.”
Artie frowned. “Why don’t the women avoid him?”
Jim shrugged. “He pays well, apparently. And since he does not kill every woman—and we have no idea why he chooses the ones he does kill—I’m sure each one feels relatively safe, and that the risk is worth taking. Not only that, but old man Clegg occasionally selects a mistress from these types of women. I have no doubt that all are hoping the younger Clegg will follow in his father’s footsteps.”
Artie looked out the window, where the view was of the roof of a one-story building next door, with some trees beyond. He wondered if that was a park. In his “other life” he probably knew. Then he brought his gaze back. “Did we ever have dealings with a small man—a dwarf, I guess… we did?” He saw West’s eyes widen.
“We did. Why? Are you remembering?”
With a rueful smile, Artie shook his head. “I fell asleep after breakfast and had a dream about this man. Who is he?”
“Dr. Loveless.”
“Loveless! Strange name. Friend or foe?”
“Foe, definitely. When we first encountered him, right here in San Francisco, he was plotting to regain some land that he claimed was legally his, desert land in southern California. He said it had belonged to his Mexican grandmother, and he should have inherited it. He planned to set off explosions that might kill five thousand people every week until he received the land.”
“Good lord! Five thousand people? Is he crazy?”
“That’s putting it mildly. We were able to stop him, and in subsequent encounters, halt other bizarre plans to conquer or destroy the country. Of late, he has become obsessed with killing the two of us. What was your dream about?”
“It’s very hazy. I mean, I seemed to be looking through a fog at him, a fog that got more and more dense. He talked to me but I could not grasp his words. It was a very frustrating dream.”
Jim shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like anything that ever happened. But it must mean that that particular memory—of Miguelito Loveless at least—is still in your brain. What’s wrong with your arm?”
Artie looked down. He had not been aware that he had been reaching over to rub his left arm, inside the elbow, with his right hand. “Oh. A spot itches there, I guess.”
“Itches? Insect bite?” Jim got up and stepped over to his partner. He pushed up the sleeve of the robe to the elbow, leaning to peer closely at the arm, and then touch it with his fingers. “Doesn’t feel or look like an insect bite. It’s slightly warm.” He could see small red dots on the skin. “I think I’ll go get Dr. Davidson to look at it.”
“That’s not necessary…” Artie began, but Jim was already striding out the door. He almost wished he had not mentioned the dream now, after seeing the brief hope that appeared in the green eyes. The colonel, Richmond was his name, had told him what a close friend Jim West was to Artemus Gordon. Artie—for he found it easy to think of himself by this name—realized he did experience a comfort level with West that he did not with anyone else who had come to visit, including the colonel and policeman Morris. They were his friends, he had no doubt, but not to the extent of the friendship he and Jim West shared.
I’ve got to remember. I’ve got to get back to it…
The door opened again and West returned, trailed by Dr. Davidson, who immediately crossed to lean down by Artie and inspect the arm. “I must admit I completely overlooked these. Or else they are just starting to show some inflammation. I believe you are correct, Mr. West. Hypodermic needle marks.”
“Needle!” Artie exclaimed, startled.
Jim nodded. “I’m wondering if whoever kidnapped you injected you with drugs to keep you sedated.” Jim paused, hesitating to ask the question on his mind, then plunged ahead. “Doctor, have you ever heard of a drug that could cause amnesia?”
Davidson shook his head soberly. “No. Nothing I’ve ever seen in the journals, or heard of otherwise. And as to whether sedatives—perhaps a mild overdose—might cause such a thing, I’ve never heard of that either. But I suppose it could be possible.” He looked down at Artemus. “I’ll send a nurse in to clean that area with alcohol and apply some calamine to ease the irritation.”
As the doctor departed, Jim stared at the closed door for a long moment then began to pace the room, seeming to have forgotten the room’s other occupant. Artemus watched him for a couple of minutes, noting the intense concentration, the way he clutched his hands tightly behind his back.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked finally.
Jim halted, slightly startled by the voice. “Loveless.”
“The man I dreamed about?”
Jim returned to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning forward. “He is a genius, Artie; an utter genius. The devices he has invented… some of them seem absolutely impossible, and should be impossible. He dabbles with chemistry too, drugs.”
Artie’s eyes narrowed. “You think he could have invented something that… causes amnesia?”
Jim’s sigh was noisy. “I don't know. I don't even know where he is; every time we encounter him, he slips away. Several times we thought he must be dead, but he pops up elsewhere. I’m going to ask Lloyd Morris to have his men canvass the city and find out if he’s been seen anywhere. And I’ll do some looking myself.”
Artie stood up. “I’ll come with you.”
Jim rose. “I don't know, Artie…”
“Look, you’ve been saying I’m your friend, your partner. Can you think of a better way to revive my memory than to have me work alongside you? To fit back into… whatever we did together? You said I used disguises.”
“Yes. You used them extremely successfully due to your acting background. But you don’t remember that either.”
“No, I don’t. But I suspect it’s something intuitive. If I had been a dancer, say, I could probably still dance. Bring me a violin. You said I play one. I’ll wager I still can.”
Jim’s green eyes met the brown ones for a long moment, and he had to smile. He saw and heard the traces of his “lost” friend in the gaze, and in the words. “All right. Dr. Davidson wants you to stay one more night, and who knows, you may even start to remember more after another good sleep. I’ll bring you some clothes from your hotel room tonight, and then pick you up in the morning.”
“Very well. But James my boy, do not go off gallivanting through the dark alleys on your own. Wait for me.”
Jim was halfway down the stairs to the first floor and the exit when it hit him: “James my boy,” Artie’s pet phrase to address him at certain times. The whole statement, the warning to wait for him, sounded much more like the Artemus Jim knew. Could it be possible that his memory was returning?
Jim resisted the urge to go bounding back up the stairs to talk to Artie further. He knew from his own experience that the harder one tried to remember, the more difficult it became. No, I need to go talk to Lloyd and a few other people. Despite Artie’s caution, I have to put some feelers out there with certain persons.