“Hold on, Art. All this is a plausible theory to explain your amnesia and the fake radiogram for the moment. But let’s go back to my previous question. Is there any way Arthur Devlin can be connected with the murder tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Devlin answered, as he had before. “I presume I can’t have been using my right name during that blackout.”
A heavy silence fell between them, and after rumpling his forehead for a long moment Doctor Thompson said firmly, “I’m suggesting that you do your best to forget what happened to you altogether. Lie low here in your apartment until after the Belle of the Caribbean docks tomorrow. Then you can go about your business as usual and no one will think anything about it.” He paused for an instant, saw that Devlin was staring at him in consternation and was about to protest, then hurried on. “Better yet, come home with me tonight and I’ll put you up. I ought to examine that knot on your head more thoroughly. Good Lord, Art, you’ve got to get yourself in better shape before your friends see you.”
“And let the man who slugged me and stole my identity get away with it?” said Devlin fiercely.
“I think if you use your head, Art, you’ll see that it’s better to let the police solve the murder. You go barging in trying to help them, and you’ll get plenty of trouble.”
Devlin got up again and moved slowly around the room, stretching his sore arm muscles and shrugging his shoulders to limber them. “I don’t know what to do, Tommy. It’s a terrible thing when trouble strikes you down — so — all a sudden like this.” He turned suddenly and faced Thompson. “What if the police arrested and convicted an innocent man? What—?”
“That would be plenty of time for you to tell them your story. Look, Art, if you go to the police there’d be an investigation — your picture in the paper — and people would come forward who’d known you under a different name these past several days. That might lead you directly to that rooming-house, which is the one place you don’t want to be placed. Use your head. Forget about the dead man. From your description of him he won’t be missed by society. Let’s go over to my place right now. We can slip a twenty to the clerk downstairs and tell him to forget he has seen you tonight. You’re still in a state of shock, you know, and it’s my duty as your physician and friend to try to take care of you,” Thompson ended persuasively.
Devlin swayed on his feet then sank into his chair. He was moved by the generous offer, but as he sat there staring blankly into space he wet his dry lips and shook his head regretfully. “It won’t do, Tommy. There’s the taxi driver who picked me up at that place and brought me here.”
“Do you flatter yourself he’ll remember you out of all the fares he’s had tonight?” Thompson argued.
“I’m sure of it. I’m positive he was suspicious from the moment he picked me up until he left with the two dollars Jack loaned me for taxi fare.
“Besides,” he went on morosely, “the landlord at that rooming-house got a good look at me. My fingerprints are bound to be all around the room. It’s — just — no — use,” he ended despondently. “I’m going to the police at once and tell them the whole story. They have the facilities to check back and find out who I’ve been while suffering from amnesia. They have those lie detectors — everything to get at the facts. And if I killed the man, they can prove I did it in self-defense.”
“Do you think the police will bother doing any of those things,” snorted Thompson, “with a cut-to-order victim giving himself up? Nuts. They’ll throw you in a cell and try you for murder. Don’t do it, Art,” he continued, softening his voice in a plea. “We can slip down the back stairs and over to my place before they ever trace you here. Then — there’s my fishing lodge down on the Keys. It’s isolated, and I can run you down early in the morning — this morning, rather — and you can stay under cover while I investigate this thing.”
Devlin gave no indication that he was listening. He made no comment for a short time, then said quietly, “I can’t let you run that risk for me, Tommy.”
“What risk will I be running?” Thompson was irritated.
“The clerk knows I called you tonight. He knows you’re here to see me. They’d be at your place half an hour after they came here looking for me.”
“Let ’em come.” Doctor Thompson thrust out his blunt jaw. “By that time you’ll be down at my lodge on the Keys.”
A faint smile flitted over Devlin’s pallid face. “A reputable doctor hiding a murderer? No, Tommy,” he said emphatically, “you’d be ruined. I’ll go it alone. First, I’ll check — or rather have the police check with the captain of the Belle to find out if a man passing as Arthur Devlin is aboard.”
“Okay, Art. It’s your funeral,” Thompson said resignedly. “If you’re determined to stick your head in a noose I guess there’s not much I can do about it.”
Devlin got up, went to a desk against the living-room wall, and riffled through the letters he had picked up downstairs.
A frown of deep concentration pulled his brows close together. He studied a square white envelope for a moment, turned and said excitedly, “This may be important, Tommy. A letter mailed in Port Au Prince June twelfth. If I recall the itinerary, that’s the date the ship should have reached Haiti. Maybe it’s from someone aboard the Belle who got acquainted with — with whoever was impersonating me.” He paused, turning the envelope over to rip the flap open. “But there’s no return address.”
Doctor Thompson came to his feet slowly and said, “Wait a minute, Art. Are you sure you want to open that letter? It might involve you further. In the short time I’ve had, I have been trying desperately to figure out — come to some conclusion as to what’s best for you. The less you know about anything that happened during your blackout, the better. You mentioned, yourself, the lie detectors the police will use on you. Can’t you see—?”
“But good Lord, Tommy, this may explain a lot of things.”
“Are you certain you want things explained?” There was an odd urgency in Thompson’s voice.
Arthur Devlin stared at his friend, his dark eyes still red-rimmed and swollen. He said, sadly, “You believe I’m a murderer, don’t you, Tommy? You want to hide me out, protect me from the consequences.” He lifted his right arm and put a trembling hand on the doctor’s shoulder, shook it gently. “I’m sorry I’ve put you on a spot, Tommy. You’ve been a big help. Nothing like an old friend to tell your troubles to and then do as you damned please, eh?” Again he strove for a light touch, but a mist came over his eyes.
Doctor Thompson turned jerkily. He said quietly, “It’s your funeral, Art.” He backed up to his chair and sat down.
Arthur Devlin tore the square envelope open and drew the letter out. His hand shook violently, and he sat down, smoothed it over a crossed knee, read a few lines, then turned eagerly to the signature. “Why — it’s from Janet.”
His voice sounded thin and disembodied. “She — writes as though — as though I were on that cruise, Tommy,” he ended in a guttural, incredulous tone.
“Janet? Who the hell is Janet?” asked the doctor.
“Don’t you remember, Tommy?” Devlin was leaning forward and the words tumbled out. “Lily Masters’s sister. I told all of you that night at the party. She was to meet me on the cruise. She was coming down from New York to meet me because I handled the insurance on Mrs. Masters, and—”
“And she was suspicious about her sister’s death,” Doctor Thompson said slowly. “I remember something about it. You had a couple of letters from her suggesting that Lily Masters was murdered. Some crazy notion she had—”