Von Zero glanced up at the blackboard. “Now just a few more. I don’t get the connection between ME — DUCK. Just as when I say the word YOU, the patient thinks of himself and pictures himself immediately as the victim of a conspiracy, so, when I utter the word ME, he thinks of the doctor. He connects up with me, however, the word DUCK.” Von Zero paused, his brow wrinkled. “Duck? Duck? Duck? No, I cannot for the life of me make out. Let us consider DIPLOMA — SHEEP. This would corroborate Doctor Stonecipher’s previous description to us of how the patient has mentally filled himself up with Australia. The syllable DIP suggests to his mind the dipping of SHEEP in that great sheep-herding country to rid them of their parasites. Let us pass on to the next: INDIANA — HIDE. Ah — there we have a clue as to that old lost experience of his. It would appear that after escaping from prison, he hid in your State of Indiana. We pass on to the last two. BLIND — DOCTORS is the usual paranoiac’s reflection upon us who would do him only good, while MANIA — TASMANIA is one of those euphonic connections that must crop up here and there in every word test.”
The very youngest of the assembled doctors spoke up here from an inconspicuous corner of the circle, a stripling who appeared hardly to have graduated from a high school, let alone a medical university. “But, Doctor — er, Herr Doctor,” he said haltingly, “could not the reaction DIPLOMA — SHEEP really refer to DIPLOMA — SHEEPSKIN, rather than to DIP — SHEEP? And could any but a true Australian, born and bred in that land, connect up the word MANIA with such an odd word as the State TASMANIA?”
“So there is such a State in that country, is there?” von Zero asked interestedly. “Well, that partly explains then the nature of this purely euphonic reaction.” He cast a paternal and benign glance to the troubled stripling, and then dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. He glanced back at the blackboard. “But one pair of association words remain: MOTHER — WANT. This seems to back up the CHILD — LONELY association. And that concludes the second sub-list under discussion, I believe.”
The Herr Doctor was arranging the remaining undiscussed pairs of words in a fourth column on the blackboard.
“If you will all now regard the board,” he asked. “Note, please, the words in which this patient’s first impulse to speak was blocked, and a reaction substituted, both the excessively long interval and the extreme absence of any apparent connection between the two words, proving the process that went on in the patient’s subconscious mind.” He directed his audience’s attention to the brief fourth column. It read:
“It would be useless,” von Zero explained, “to pay any attention to the actual reaction words obtained here, as in the long interval between it and the keyword a thousand words worked their way through the patient’s mind. We have, as you will perceive, the series SAW — CONCEAL — BAR — ESCAPE, which we may form and reform into various permutations and combinations in the effort to obtain a minature skeletonised story which the patient’s subconscious self is trying to hide. That story, as will be quite evident to you all, is the story of his escape from prison in that other personality of his which was superseded by the fallacious Middleton identity.” He paused.
“Then since the patient himself has no recollection of that discarded identity, Herr Doctor,” one of the lesser medical lights asked, “and cannot himself supply the missing story, are we balked from proceeding further?”
“By no means,” said the ever-resourceful von Zero. “We now hypnotise the patient and dig out still more of the truth.” He had lifted up the odd-shaped leathern case which he had brought with him, and was unfastening its buckles as he spoke Jerry Middleton looked on in dismay. This intrepid voyageur in the dark continent of the subconscious was after a jungle specimen known as the Jerryialibus Middletonibus — that was certain. That he must keep himself at all costs from falling under the sinister influence, even if he had to malinger, after the manner of some of the subjects in real exhibitions he had seen, was palpable, unmistakeable.
“I shall first mesmerise the patient,” von Zero was saying calmly, “after which the induction of hypnosis will be comparatively easy. I use this method exclusively. In view of the fact that he has previously induced a similar condition in himself, he will be a facile subject.”
“Yes, he will be,” said Jerry Middleton to himself. “A most facile subject he will be!”
The Austrian doctor had now taken from his satchel a peculiar little device that seemed to consist of a set of coloured lights, a set of revolving mirrors in which the planes of all the mirrors were at an angle with each other and with the axis in which they revolved. The device apparently held a small electric motor, for to it was attached an electric plug by a long flexible green silk cord.
Von Zero first reached up and attached the plug to one of the sockets of the overhanging light. He then snapped a small switch and as the apparatus commenced to turn slowly he held it in all directions about the room, so that all could see. The revolving planes caught perfectly the reflections of the half-concealed coloured bulbs, and made a peculiar cascade of flowing lights of all hues that seemed to run incessantly and tirelessly toward the axis, there to disappear.
When all had apparently seen, von Zero brought the revolving mirror close to Middleton’s eyes, and there he held it. “You will watch the lights,” he said. “Watch them — follow them.”
Troubledly, the latter did so, wondering whether the best plan would not be to frankly rebel. And as the cascade of lights flowed and spiralled inward, and the bright-coloured reflections fled and circled and re-fled and re-circled before his eyeballs, he became suddenly conscious that he was becoming sleepy from ocular tire. He fought against the overwhelming feeling — he braced himself. He heard von Zero’s voice saying:
“Sleep — go to sleep. Close your eyes. You feel sleepy.”
He closed his eyes with alacrity. That which might have been an overpowering command a minute later had, at this juncture, served as a suggestion by which he might escape what was coming on him at the speed of an express train. Three minutes more, perhaps only two, and he would have been mesmerised. He knew it.
But now to remain on this safe island afforded by a pair of closed eyelids. He heard, from outside, von Zero’s voice. It was saying: “Sleep now. Sleep. Sleep tight. You are falling — you are going — you have gone. You — you are fast asleep.”
“And how can you definitely tell, Herr Doctor,” somebody asked, “when the patient is under?”
“There are two methods,” von Zero replied quickly. “We can lift up the eyelids and find the pupils non-responsive to light. In this case, however, I do not bother to resort to this more or less troublesome manipulation due to the definiteness and alacrity with which he went under. A slower method, and one that applies specifically to malingerers, would be the elicitation from the subject of replies and statements that contradict each other. A hypnotised man can tell only the truth. If you find one direct contradiction in a subject’s answers to your questions, you may safely assume that he has been malingering on you.”
The significance of this exposition was not at all lost on the subject who sat with closed eyes.
Von Zero’s voice now sounded in Middleton’s direction again.
“Now, my man, I want you to answer my questions. I shall ask you several. First — you were behind bars once in your life. Where? Think hard. For on this thinking depends our releasing you from your delusions. So when and where were you behind bars? Think hard. Think very hard.”
And Jerry Middleton proceeded to think very hard indeed. For he was going to be on the witness-stand now, on a strange and unusual witness-stand, chief witness at that, too, testifying in the trial of Jonathan Doe for purloined Personality! And as all competent legists the world over are agreed, the only story that could not be broken or pierced on the witness-stand before a shrewd cross-examiner was that story which recounted events which actually happened. He cast about in his mind — and he found nearly what he wanted: an experience of his when he
had been in France with the Australian Expeditionary Forces. This was an episode which would provide the hungry von Zero with the iron bars he so badly craved.
“Think hard,” von Zero suddenly repeated close to his ear. “Think hard. Where were you behind bars?”
That a hypnotised man was supposed to think in disjointed thoughts, to talk in a monotonous voice, in jerky sentences, repeating most frequently the phrases of the interrogator himself, Middleton knew but too well. And in this wise he regulated his voice — and his answer.
“It — it was in France.”
“Ah — in France? And why were you put behind bars in France? Think hard.”
“I — I was in the town of Mon — Mon — Monvalliers. I was on leave. On leave from the front. I had lost my paper. My leave paper. A military policeman picked me up. Picked me up on suspicion. On suspicion of desertion. He locked me up.”
“But you did not stay behind bars?”
“I did not stay.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I knew I had the right. The right to be at leave. But communication was cut off. Communication with my commander. I could not prove my case.”
“How did you leave the place in which you were imprisoned?”
“How did I leave?”
“Yes, How?”
Troubledly, Jerry Middleton thought of how his colonel had come along at an opportune time and had had him released. But this would prove a poor narrative indeed by which to explain the dream which he had so freely and unsuspectingly related. And at all costs he must hold the psycho-analyst to the latter’s definitely-expressed theory that that dream expressed an incident in the lost personality of Jonathan Doe. He decided to play chess of a sort, and to issue no lies which might give birth later to contradictions — and then to a lifting of his eyelids.
“How did I leave?”
“Yes. How? How did you leave your prison?”
“My release was magic. First I was behind bars — and then I stood free on the outside.”
“When you left you were no longer a prisoner?”
“When I left I was no longer a prisoner.”
“Now think. What was the tool used to free you?”
“I think. First I was in and then I was out.”
“How did you cut those bars?”
“How?”
“No — don’t repeat my questions. I command you to remember. You cut the bars. What tool did you use?”
“I do not repeat your questions. I remember. There were bars. The bars were first in front of me. Then they were at my back.”
“Who gave you the tool with which you freed yourself?”
“Who gave me the tool with which I freed myself?”
“No. Don’t repeat. We want you to remember this tool.”
“This tool.”
“This tool, I said.”
“You said this tool.”
Von Zero spoke his next words in a direction other than his subject. “A tremendous complex,” he said, “is blocking the remembrance of this tool he secured. One hypnotic séance, I see plainly, is not enough to drag it forth. His inhibitions would have to be put to sleep more completely than they are.” He paused. His words now flowed toward Middleton’s ears. “Now, you left this place of bars, a military gaol. You went to a railroad after leaving it?”
“I went to a railroad after leaving it. Yes, I went to a railroad.”
“Ah,” said von Zero jubilantly, “he affirms the experience symbolically told in his dream. It was midnight and he went to a railroad after leaving his gaol. Now we will proceed.” His voice fell on Middleton’s ears once more. “Along this road you passed many switchlamps, burning red, did you not?’
“Many switchlamps? No. I passed many French soldiers. French soldiers with red bands on their coats. And French peasant girls. Peasant girls in red — in red petticoats.”
The Austrian appeared to be nonplussed. Middleton could have sworn he heard the rasp of a reflective finger-nail over bearded chin. Then von Zero’s next words were apologetic in tone.
“There is some discrepancy apparently. According to his dream, he could hardly have escaped in the daytime. But according to his statement here, it was light enough to distinguish colours. Well, perhaps my interpretation was slightly wrong. Possibly he escaped in the night, hid until morning, and then, tramping along the railroad, met with red-banded Frenchmen and red-petticoated French peasant girls going from village to village along the railroad.” With a resigned sigh, his words flowed again toward his subject.
“You saw a girl on a bridge above the railroad?”
“I saw a girl on a bridge.”
“This girl was dark?”
“She was dark.”
“How dark?”
Middleton was silent. He had, of a verity, after leaving the gaol at Monvalliers seen a negro girl as fat as a tub of butter, a negro girl imported into France apparently with some of the negro mule-handlers who were there by the thousands.
“How dark was the girl?” von Zero repeated sternly.
“Very dark,” countered the subject.
“Brown eyes?”
“Yes. Brown eyes.”
“Good. She had a vehicle of some kind?”
“Yes. She had a vehicle.”
“A bicycle — a cart — or a motor-car? Which?”
Middleton reflected before he spoke. That MIDNIGHT — AUTOCAR association of his previous test had better be demolished now, and demolished for good and all. So he spoke — the truth!
“A mule!”
He heard laughter around the entire circle. Then von Zero answered, just a bit perturbed. “Well, I knew she had a vehicle of some sort, for the bicycle in the dream indicated an imperfect conveyance of some kind. And I guess your American mule isn’t the best conveyance in the world, eh?” More laughter.
The words now fell on Middleton’s ears again. “What was the name this dark girl called down from the bridge?”
“She called the name of Spot.”
“She did not call Sidney?”
“She did not call Sidney. She called Spot.” Which was but the truth, for the negro girl had been calling up from below a spotted dog that had evidently belonged to her.
“Your right name, then, is — say — Spottiswood? Or Spottsman?”
“My name is Jerome H. Middleton.”
Von Zero appeared to be shaking his head, judging from the sound of his words. “His delusion persists in spite of his hypnosis,” he was saying. His words flowed toward the patient again. “You then went up on the bridge and mounted this mule and rode away with the girl?”
Now was the time to go safely, reflected Jerry Middleton. For after a friendly greeting to the negro girl, the like of which he had never seen in far-off Australia, consecrated to the rigid policy of “Australia for whites only,” he had asked her the name of her mule.
“Dat mule am named Leo,” had been her reply, in a dialect that had fallen strangely upon his ears, “and dat little dawg down below am named Spot. Dat’s a Ameyican mule, and dat’s a Ameyican dawg. An’ I’se a Ameyican gurl,” she had added proudly. A few more questions after he had clambered up on the roadway above the tracks, and they parted, the girl hitting the mule across the flank with a piece of wood, and girl, spotted dog and mule all going off in one direction along the half-passable road while he had turned in exactly the opposite direction. He ventured an answer to the waiting von Zero.
“I went up. The mule was named Leo.”
One of the doctors spoke suddenly. “Then, Herr Doctor, it appears that the previous interpretation of his reaching a State line should really be interpreted that he came up with this mule named Leo, Leo meaning lion in Latin?”
The Austrian Meister-Professor appeared to be a bit downcast. “It does — unfortunately” he admitted. “The dream simply re-enacts his coming up to the mule Leo — or Latin for lion. Well, well. H’m.” He appeared to have suddenly brightened up however from the tone of his nex
t words. “But this shows us very definitely and conclusively that he has studied Latin. Only on such a hypothesis could he create in his dreams such an erudite dream pun. So now we have something in his past — namely that he had studied Latin.”
“Where did you study Latin?” von Zero asked with sudden abruptness.
“Where did I study Latin?” Middleton repeated stubbornly.
“Yes. Where did you study the higher branches of learning?”
“Under the skies.” Middleton decided to turn the trend of the questioning over to astronomy, for a sudden panicky fear had assailed him that von Zero in about another moment was going to lift up his eyelids and look at his eyeballs discovering thereby that he was shamming. It appeared that his answer had been sufficiently crpytic to have diverted von Zero from any such intentions, for he appeared frankly puzzled.
“Under the skies?” he repeated. “Latin under the skies?”
“No. Higher learning under the skies.”
“Ah — astronomy it is. He is trying to convey that it is astronomy which he has studied. Well, then, we have accounted for that facile play on words in his dream on the mule’s name. The constellation of Leo Andronicus — the Lion! Aha.” He was lost in silence for a moment. “Too bad. Too bad, though. It entirely demolishes a most beautiful hypothesis — his supposed flight over a State line. Well, it shows plainly, does it not, that in psycho-analysis we must use all the methods at our command. Dream analysis, association test, and hypnotism — lest we fall into a snare.” He paused.
The Spectacles of Mr. Cagliostro Page 24