"Hell, no. I didn’t say you did."
"But this is a different case. I had a gun in my bag a few minutes ago, but I couldn’t use it. Don’t ask me why. I couldn’t."
He swore, with emphasis and considerable detail. "I wish I had seen him then. I would have used mine!"
"Would you have, Teddy?" Seeing his expression, she jumped up and kissed him suddenly, on the end of his nose. "I don’t mean you would have been afraid. You know I didn’t mean that. You’re brave and you’re strong and I think you’re brainy. But look, dear—yesterday he led you around by the nose and made you believe you were seeing things that weren’t there. Why didn’t you use your gun then?"
"I didn’t see any occasion to use it."
"That’s exactly what I mean. You saw what was intended for you to see. How can you fight when you can’t believe your own eyes?"
"But, damn it, he can’t do this to us—"
"Can’t he? Here’s what he can do." She ticked them off on her fingers. "He can be two places at once. He can make you see one thing and me another, at the same time—outside the Acme Building, remember? He can make you think you went to an office suite that doesn’t exist on a floor that doesn’t exist. He can pass through a locked door to use a typewriter on the other side. And he doesn’t leave fingerprints. What does that add up to?"
He made an impatient gesture. "To nonsense. Or to magic. And I don’t believe in magic."
"Neither do I."
"Then," he said, "we’ve both gone bats." He laughed, but it was not merry.
"Maybe. If it’s magic, we had best see a priest—"
"I told you I don’t believe in magic."
"Skip it. If it’s the other, it won’t do us any good to try to tail Mr. Hoag. A man with the D.T.’s can’t catch the snakes he thinks he sees and take them to a zoo. He needs a doctor—and maybe we do, too."
Randall was suddenly alert. "Say!"
"Say what?"
"You’ve just reminded me of an angle that I had forgotten—Hoag’s doctor. We never checked on him."
"Yes, you did, too. Don’t you remember? There wasn’t any such doctor."
"I don’t mean Dr. Rennault; I mean Dr. Potbury—the one he went to see about the stuff under his fingernails."
"Do you think he really did that? I thought it was just part of the string of lies he told us."
"So do I. But we ought to check up on it."
"I’ll bet you there isn’t any such doctor."
"You’re probably right, but we ought to know. Gimme the phone book." She handed it to him; he thumbed through it, searching for the P’s. "Potbury—Potbury. There’s half a column of them. But no M.D.’s, though," he announced presently. "Let’s have the yellow section; sometimes doctors on’t list their home addresses." She got it for him and he opened it. " ‘Physical Culture Studios’-‘ Physicians & Surgeons.’ What a slog of ‘em! More doctors than saloons—half the town must be sick most of the time. Here we are: ‘Potbury, P.T., M.D.’ "
"That could be the one," she admitted.
"What are we waiting for? Let’s go find out."
"Teddy!"
"Why not?" he said defensively. "Potbury isn’t Hoag—"
"I wonder."
"Huh? What do you mean? Do you mean that Potbury might be mixed up in this huggermugger, too?"
"I don’t know. I’d just like to forget all about our Mr. Hoag."
"But there’s no harm in this, bright eyes. I’ll just pop into the car, slide down there, ask the worthy doctor a few pertinent questions, and be back for you in time for lunch."
"The car is laid up for a valve grind; you know that."
"O.K., I’ll take the el. Quicker, anyway."
"If you insist on going, we’ll both take the el. We stick together, Teddy."
He pulled at his lip. "Maybe you’re right. We don’t know where Hoag is. If you prefer it-"
"I certainly do. I got separated from you for just three minutes a little while ago and look what happened."
"Yeah, I guess so. I sure wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, kid."
She brushed it away. "It’s not me; it’s us. If anything happens to us, I want it to be the same thing."
"All right," he said seriously. "From now on, we stick together. I’ll handcuff us together, if you’d rather."
"You won’t need to. I’m going to hang on." I
Potbury’s office was to the south, beyond the university. The tracks of the elevated ran between familiar miles of apartment houses. There were sights which one ordinarily sees without any impression registering on the brain; today she looked at them and saw them, through her own brown mood.
Four- and five-story walk-up apartment houses, with their backs to the tracks, at least ten families to a building, more usually twenty or more, and the buildings crushed together almost wall to wall. Wood-construction back porches which proclaimed the fire-trap nature of the warrens despite the outer brick shells, family wash hung out to dry on those porches, garbage cans, and trash bins. Mile after mile of undignified and unbeautiful squalor, seen from the rear.
And over everything a film of black grime, old and inescapable, like the dirt on the window sill beside her.
She thought of that vacation, clean air and clear sunshine. Why stay in Chicago? What did the town have to justify its existence? One decent boulevard, one decent suburb to the north, priced for the rich, two universities and a lake. As for the rest, endless miles of depressing, dirty streets. The town was one big stockyard.
The apartments gave way to elevated-train yards; the train turned left and headed east. After a few minutes they got off at Stoney Island station; she was glad to be off it and free of that too-frank back view of everyday life, even though she exchanged it for the noise and seedy commercialism of Sixty-third Street.
Potbury’s office faced on the street, with an excellent view of the elevated and the trains. It was the sort of location in which a G. P. could be sure of a busy practice and equally sure of never being bothered by riches or fame. The stuffy little waiting room was crowded but the turnover was fast; they did not have long to wait.
Potbury looked them over as they came in. "Which one of you is the patient?" he asked. His manner was slightly testy.
They had planned to lead up to the subject of Hoag by using Cynthia’s fainting spell as an excuse for consultation; Potbury’s next remark queered the scheme, from Cynthia’s viewpoint. "Whichever one it is, the other can wait outside. I don’t like holding conventions."
"My wife—" Randall began. She clutched his arm.
"My wife and I," he went on smoothly, "want to ask you a couple of questions, doctor."
"Well? Speak up."
"You have a patient—a Mr. Hoag."
Potbury got up hastily, went to the reception-room door, and assured himself that it was closed tightly. He then stood and faced them, his back to the only exit. "What about—Hoag?" he said forebodingly.
Randall produced his credentials. "You can see for yourself that I am a proper inquiry agent," he said. "My wife is licensed, too."
"What do you have to do with—the man you mentioned?"
"We are conducting an investigation for him. Being a professional man yourself, you can appreciate that I prefer to be frank—"
"You work for him?"
"Yes and no. Specifically, we are trying to find out certain things about him, but he is aware that we are doing so; we aren’t going around behind his back. If you like, you can phone him and find out or yourself." Randall made the suggestion because it seemed necessary to make it; he hoped that Potbury would disregard it.
Potbury did so, but not in any reassuring manner. "Talk with him? Not if I can help it! What did you want to know about him?"