SEVEN FOOTPRINTS TO SATAN. Abraham Merritt
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of security fled. I began to realize that it might be possible to force me to go where I did not want to, after all. Even from a New York Subway station.
“Officer,” I said, and there was no laughter now in my voice, “you are making a great mistake. I met this man a few minutes ago in Battery Park. I give you my word he is an utter stranger to me. He insisted that I follow him to some place whose location he refused to tell, to meet some one whose name he would not reveal. When I refused, he struggled with me, ostensibly searching for weapons. During that struggle it is now plain that he substituted this wallet containing the cards and envelopes bearing the name of Henry Walton in the place of my own. I demand that you search him for my wallet, and then whether you find it or not, I demand that you take us both to Headquarters.”
The bluecoat looked at me doubtfully. My earnestness and apparent sanity had shaken him. Neither my appearance nor my manner was that of even a slightly unbalanced person. But on the other hand the benign face, the kindly eyes, the unmistakable refinement and professionalism of the man of the Battery bench were as far apart as the poles from the puzzled officer’s conception of a kidnapper.
“I’m perfectly willing to be examined at Headquarters—and even searched there,” said the man in the Inverness. “Only I must warn you that all the excitement will certainly react very dangerously on my patient. However—call a taxi—”
“No taxi,” I said firmly. “We go in the patrol wagon, with police around us.”
“Wait a minute,” the bluecoat’s face brightened. “Here comes the Sergeant. He’ll decide what to do.” The Sergeant walked up.
“What’s the trouble, Mooney?” he asked, looking us over. Succinctly, Mooney explained the situation. The Sergeant studied us again more closely. I grinned at him cheerfully.
“All I want,” I told him, “is to be taken to Headquarters. In a patrol wagon. No taxi, Dr.—what was it? Oh, yes, Consardine. Patrol wagon with plenty of police, and Dr. Consardine sitting in it with me— that’s all I want.”
“It’s all right, Sergeant,” said Dr. Consardine, patiently. “I’m quite ready to go. But as I warned Officer Mooney, it means delay and excitement and you must accept the responsibility for the effect upon my patient, whose care is, after all, my first concern. I have said he is harmless, but tonight I took from him—this.”
He handed the Sergeant the small automatic.
“Under his left arm you will find its holster,” said Consardine. “Frankly, I think it best to get him back to my sanatorium as quickly as possible.”
The Sergeant stepped close to me and throwing back my coat, felt under my left arm. I knew by his face as he touched the holster that Consardine had scored.
“I have a license to carry a gun,” I said, tartly.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“In the wallet that man took from me when he lifted the gun,” I answered. “If you’ll search him you’ll find it.”
“Oh, poor lad! Poor lad!” murmured Consardine. And so sincere seemed his distress that I was half inclined to feel sorry for myself. He spoke again to the Sergeant.
“I think perhaps the matter can be settled without running the risk of the journey to Headquarters. As Officer Mooney has told you, my patient’s present delusion is that he is a certain James Kirkham and living at the Discoverers’ Club. It may be that the real Mr. Kirkham is there at this moment. I therefore suggest that you call up the Discoverers’ Club and ask for him. If Mr. Kirkham is there, I take it that will end the matter. If not, we will go to Headquarters.”
The Sergeant looked at me, and I looked at Consardine, amazed.
“If you can talk to James Kirkham at the Discoverers’ Club,” I said at last, “then I’m Henry Walton!”
We walked over to a telephone booth. I gave the Sergeant the number of the Club.
“Ask for Robert,” I interposed. “He’s the desk man.”
I had talked to Robert a few minutes before I had gone out. He would still be on duty.
“Is that Robert? At the desk?” the Sergeant asked as the call came through. “Is Mr. James Kirkham there? This is Police Sergeant Downey.”
There was a pause. He glanced at me.
“They’re paging Kirkham,” he muttered—then to the phone— “What’s that? You are James Kirkham! A moment, please—put that clerk back. Hello—you Robert? That party I’m talking to Kirkham? Kirkham the explorer? You’re certain? All right—all right! Don’t get excited about it. I’ll admit you know him. Put him back—Hello, Mr. Kirkham? No, it’s all right. Just a case of—er—bugs! Man thinks he’s you—”
I snatched the receiver from his hand, lifted it to my ear and heard a voice saying:
“—Not the first time, poor devil—”
The voice was my very own!
CHAPTER 3
The receiver was taken from me, gently enough. Now the Sergeant was listening again. Mooney had me by one arm, the man in the Inverness by the other. I heard the Sergeant say:
“Yes—Walton, Henry Walton, yes, that’s the name. Sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Kirkham. Goo’-by.”
He snapped up the ‘phone and regarded me, compassionately.
“Too bad!” he said. “It’s a damned shame. Do you want an ambulance, doctor?”
“No, thanks,” answered Consardine. “It’s a peculiar case. The kidnapping delusion is a strong one. He’ll be quieter with people around him. We’ll go up on the subway. Even though his normal self is not in control, his subconscious will surely tell him that kidnapping is impossible in the midst of a subway crowd. Now, Henry,” he patted my hand, “admit that it is. You are beginning to realize it already, aren’t you—”
I broke out of my daze. The man who had passed me on Fifth Avenue! The man who had so strangely resembled me! Fool that I was not to have thought of that before! “Wait, officer,” I cried desperately. “That was an impostor at the Club—some one made up to look like me. I saw him—”
“There, there, lad,” he put a hand on my shoulder reassuringly. “You gave your word. You’re not going to welch on it, I’m sure. You’re all right. I’m telling you. Go with the doctor, now.”
For the first time I had the sense of futility. This net spreading around me had been woven with infernal ingenuity. Apparently no contingency had been overlooked. I felt the shadow of a grim oppression. If those so interested in me, or in my—withdrawal, wished it, how easy would it be to obliterate me. If this double of mine could dupe the clerk who had known me for years and mix in with my friends at the Club without detection—if he could do this, what could he not do in my name and in my guise? A touch of ice went through my blood. Was that the plot? Was I to be removed so this double could take my place in my world for a time to perpetrate some villainy that would blacken forever my memory? The situation was no longer humorous. It was heavy with evil possibilities.
But the next step in my involuntary journey was to be the subway. As Consardine had said, no sane person would believe a man could be kidnapped there. Surely there, if anywhere, I could escape, find some one in the crowds who would listen to me, create if necessary such a scene that it’ would be impossible for my captor to hold me, outwit him somehow.
At any rate there was nothing to do but go with him. Further appeal to these two policemen was useless.
“Let’s go—doctor,” I said, quietly. We started down the subway steps, his arm in mine.
We