"He must have left it behind."
"He didn’t have a chance to take it." Randall took it from Hoag and opened it—a stethoscope, head forceps, clamps, needles, an assortment of vials in a case, the usual props of a G.P.’s work. There was one prescription bottle as well; Randall took it out and read the prescription. "Hoag, look at this."
POISON! This Prescription Can Not Be Refilled MRS. RANDALL—TAKE AS PRESCRIBED BONTON CUTRATE PHARMACY
"Was he trying to poison her?" Hoag suggested. "I don’t think so—that’s the usual narcotic warning. But I want to see what it is." He shook it. It seemed empty. He started to break the seal.
"Careful!" Hoag warned.
"I will be." He held it well back from his face to open it, then sniffed it very cautiously. It gave up a fragrance, subtle and infinitely sweet.
"Teddy?" He whirled around, dropping the bottle. It was indeed Cynthia, eyelids fluttering. "Don’t promise them anything, Teddy!" She sighed and her eyes closed again.
" ‘The Bird is Cruel!’ " she whispered. X
"Your memory lapses are the key to the whole thing," Randall was insisting. "If we knew what you do in the daytime, if we knew your profession, we would know why the Sons of the Bird are out to get you. More than that, we would know how to fight them—for they are obviously afraid of you."
Hoag turned to Cynthia. "What do you think, Mrs. Randall?"
"I think Teddy is right. If I knew enough about hypnotism, we would try that—but I don’t, so scopolamine is the next best bet. Are you willing to try it?"
"If you say so, yes."
"Get the kit, Teddy." She jumped down from where she had been perched, on the edge of his desk. He put out a hand to catch her.
"You ought to take it easy, baby," he complained.
"Nonsense, I’m all right—now."
They had adjourned to their business office almost as soon as Cynthia woke up. To put it plainly, they were scared—scared still, but not scared silly. The apartment seemed an unhealthy place to be. The office did not seem much better. Randall and Cynthia had decided to get out of town—the stop at the office was a penultimate stop, for a conference of war.
Hoag did not know what to do.
"Just forget you ever saw this kit," Randall warned him, as he prepared the hypodermic. "Not being a doctor, nor an anaesthetist, I shouldn’t have it. But it’s convenient, sometimes." He scrubbed a spot of Hoag’s forearm with an alcohol swab. "Steady now—there!" He shoved the needle.
They waited for the drug to take hold. "What do you expect to get," Randall whispered to Cynthia.
"I don’t know. If we’re lucky, his two personalities will knit. Then we may find out a lot of things."
A little later Hoag’s head sagged forward; he breathed heavily. She stepped forward and shook his shoulder. "Mr. Hoag—do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"What is your name?"
"Jonathan ... Hoag."
"Where do you live?"
"Six-oh-two—Gotham Apartments."
"What do you do?"
"I ... don’t know." "Try to remember. What is your profession?" No answer. She tried again. "Are you a hypnotist?" "No." "Are you a—magician?" The answer was delayed a little, but finally came. "No." "What are you, Jonathan Haag?"
He opened his mouth, seemed about to answer—then sat up suddenly, his manner brisk and completely free of the lassitude normal to the drug. "I’m sorry, my dear, but this will have to stop— for the present."
He stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out. "Bad," he said, glancing up and down he street. "How distressingly bad." He seemed to be talking to himself rather than to them. Cynthia and Randall looked at him, then to each other for help.
"What is bad, Mr. Hoag?" Cynthia asked, rather diffidently. She did not have the impression analyzed, but he seemed like another person—younger, more vibrant.
"Eh? Oh, I’m sorry. I owe you an explanation. I was forced to, uh, dispense with the drug."
"Dispense with it?"
"Throw it off, ignore it, make it as nothing. You see, my dear, while you were talking I recalled my profession." He looked at them cheerily, but offered no further explanation.
Randall was the first to recover. "What is your profession?"
Hoag smiled at him, almost tenderly. "It wouldn’t do to tell you," he said. "Not now, at least." He turned to Cynthia. "My dear, could I trouble you for a pencil and a sheet of paper?"
"Uh—why, certainly." She got them for him; he accepted them graciously and, seating himself, began to write.
When he said nothing to explain his conduct Randall spoke up, "Say, Hoag, look here—" Hoag turned a serene face to him; Randall started to speak, seemed puzzled by what he saw in Hoag’s face, and concluded lamely, "Er ... Mr. Hoag, what’s this all about?"
"Are you not willing to trust me?"
Randall chewed his lip for a moment and looked at him; Hoag was patient and serene. "Yes ... I suppose I am," he said at last.
"Good. I am making a list of some things I want you to buy for me. I shall be quite busy for the next two hours or so."
"You are leaving us?"
"You are worried about the Sons of the Bird, aren’t you? Forget them. They will not harm you. I promise it." He resumed writing. Some minutes later he handed the list to Randall. "I’ve noted at the bottom the place where you are to meet me—a filling station outside Waukegan."
"Waukegan? Why Waukegan?"
"No very important reason. I want to do once more something I am very fond of doing and don’t expect to be able to do again. You’ll help me, won’t you? Some of the things I’ve asked you to buy may be hard to get, but you will try?"
"I suppose so."
"Good." He left at once.
Randall looked from the closing door back to the list in his hand. "Well, I’ll be a— Cyn, what do you suppose he wants us to get for him?—groceries!"
"Groceries? Let me see that list."
They were driving north in the outskirts of the city, with Randall at the wheel. Somewhere up ahead lay the place where they were to meet Hoag; behind them in the trunk of the car were the purchases he had directed them to make.
"Teddy?"
"Yeah, kid."
"Can you make a U-turn here?"
"Sure—if you don’t get caught. Why?"
"Because that’s just what I’d like to do. Let me finish," she went on hurriedly. "We’ve got the car; we’ve got all the money we have in the world with us; there isn’t anything to stop us from heading south if we want to."
"Still thinking of that vacation? But we’re going on it—just as soon as we deliver this stuff to Hoag."
"I don’t mean a vacation. I mean go away and never come back—now!"
"With eighty dollars’ worth of fancy groceries that Hoag ordered and hasn’t paid for yet? No soap.
"We could eat them ourselves."
"Humph! Caviar and humming-bird wings. We can’t afford it, kid. We’re the hamburger type. Anyhow, even if we could, I want to see Hoag again. Some plain talk—and explanations."
She sighed. "That’s just what I thought, Teddy, and that’s why I want to cut and run. I don’t want explanations; I’m satisfied with the world the way it is. Just you and me—and no complications. I don’t want to know anything about Mr. Hoag’s profession—or the Sons of the Bird—or anything like that."
He fumbled for a cigarette, then scratched a match under the instrument board, while looking at her quizzically out of the corner of his eye. Fortunately the traffic was light. "I think I feel the same way you do about it, kid, but I’ve got a different angle on it. If we drop it now, I’ll be jumpy about the Sons of the Bird the rest of my life, and scared to shave, for fear of looking in a mirror. But there is a rational explanation for the whole thing—bound to be—and I’m going to get it. Then we can sleep."
She made herself small and did not answer.
"Look at it this way," Randall went on, somewhat irritated. "Everything that has happened could have been done in the ordinary way, without recourse to supernatural agencies. As for supernatural agencies—well, out here in the sunlight and the traffic it’s a little too much to swallow. Sons of the Bird—rats!"