Pay Any Price

by Ted Allbeury

  She sighed a deep, deep sigh. “I don’t really know.”

  “Did you feel ill?”

  “No. I was just frightened.”

  “Frightened of what?”

  She kissed him gently. “Take me to bed and love me.”

  He shook his head. “I want to know what frightened you.”

  “It was a kind of dream.”

  “What was it about?”

  “I’m not sure. It was just like … I don’t know how to explain … like a few seconds in a film that shouldn’t be there … a bit that’s nothing to do with the film.”

  “What did you see?”

  “A row of houses. Old-fashioned houses. And a man at an open door. There was a red hole over his nose, between his eyes.”

  “Go on.”

  “He fell down. Somebody had shot him.”

  “Was it someone you know?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. And yet I did.”

  “And that was all of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What particular bit frightened you?”

  “It was me who shot him.”

  He smiled at her and kissed her cheek. “That shows it was only a dream.”

  “But I wasn’t asleep.”

  “It could be a day-dream.”

  She turned and looked at him. “It wasn’t, Steve. Why should I day-dream about killing a man I don’t know?”

  “Maybe he’s someone from way-back. Someone your conscious mind has long forgotten.”

  She shook her head. “It was real, Steve. It happened.”

  “Now that’s being silly, sweetie. Pretty girls don’t go around shooting men they don’t know. What did he look like?”

  “Big, red-faced. Like a farmer or someone who spends all his time out of doors.”

  “What were you thinking about before this day-dream?”

  “I was trying to think who the girl was in the film they made of Oklahoma!”

  “Gloria Grahame.” He smiled. “Let’s tuck you up in bed so that you can have a good night’s sleep.”

  He helped her to bed, plumped up the soft pillows for her head, switched out the main light so that only the shaded light from the bedside lamp was on her face. “I’m going to get you a nice warm drink.”

  He came back five minutes later with a tall glass on a tray. “Here you are, sweetheart. Hot chocolate as made by the Waldorf Astoria, New York. The best in the world.”

  She smiled and took the glass, blowing on the creamy foam that covered the top of it. She drank half of it and put the glass back on the bedside table.

  “That was lovely, Steve. Do you want to make love?”

  “Of course I do. But we’re not going to. I want you to rest and relax.”

  He saw her heavy eyelids close and he said, “Good girl. Just relax.” And his long fingers gently stroked her brow. “Try and sleep.”

  She said very softly, “I sometimes wonder what’s in your letters and packages.”

  “What letters?”

  “The ones I take for you.”

  “I don’t understand, Debbie.”

  “I’m not Debbie. I’m Nancy. You’ve forgotten.” She laughed softly. “What’s your real name? It’s not really Joe Spellman, is it?”

  “Are you asleep? Can you hear me?”

  “Of course I can. Your voice sounds …”

  She cried out, opening her eyes. “Where am I? Where am I? I’m frightened.” She was looking around the room as if she had never seen it before and then she pulled aside the bedcovers and swung her legs to the floor.

  He said very quietly, “Lie back, sweetie. Lie back and rest.” And he did the first part of his act, passing his hand across her face, touching her forehead gently with his finger tips, and slowly she relaxed, her breathing deep and even. And then she slept.

  She was quite normal when she woke the next day. He made no mention of what had happened. Neither did she.

  He phoned the old man in Pimlico who said he couldn’t help but gave him the address of a psychiatrist in Welbeck Street. He made an appointment for two o’clock that day.

  It was a bright cheerful consulting room and the consultant seemed brisk and informal.

  “Tell me your problem, Mr. Randall.”

  “It isn’t my problem. It’s a close friend of mine. I think she’s seriously ill and doesn’t know it.”

  “And you’d like her to make an appointment to see me?”

  “No. She wouldn’t come. Like I said, she doesn’t know that she’s ill.”

  “I can’t treat or diagnose the problem without seeing her.”

  “I thought I could tell you what’s happening.”

  “I’m afraid not. I can’t, and wouldn’t, discuss a third party’s problems with you.”

  “Can I ask why not?”

  “First of all it’s bad practice. Your observations could be wrong or misleading. Secondly you might have some ulterior motive. It has been known for wives to suggest that their husbands should be certified just because they were bored with them. There are all sorts of good reasons for not discussing one person’s medical problems with another.”

  “What can I do to help her then?”

  “It’s very simple. You get her to see her general practitioner, and if he decides it’s necessary he will make arrangements for her to see an appropriate consultant.”

  “She hasn’t got a GP. She never has had one. And she refuses to go to one.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t need one, Mr. Randall.”

  The consultant stood up, holding out his hand. As he took it Randall said, “She’s been hypnotized without her knowing.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “She thought yesterday that she was somebody else. Somebody with a different name.”

  “People do have such thoughts, Mr. Randall. It’s not uncommon. It doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s been hypnotized.”

  “It does. I know. I’m a hypnotist.”

  “What do you mean—you’re a hypnotist?”

  “Just that. I’m on the stage. I do a hypnosis act. I can recognize the signs. But I can’t help her. I’m not a doctor.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Randall.”

  As Randall sat down the consultant took out a pen and reached for a writing block.

  “Tell me what’s worrying you.”

  Randall told him everything that had happened and when he had finished the consultant pushed his notes to one side.

  “Are you this girl’s lover?”

  “I suppose you could call it that. I sleep with her, if that’s what you mean. And I care for her too.”

  “I’m sure you do, Mr. Randall. Do you want her to marry you?”

  “I’ve thought about it from time to time. I’m not sure.”

  “Does she want to marry you?”

  “I should think the same applies. She likes me. She may have thought about marriage but we’ve never discussed it.”

  “Is she wealthy?”

  “She’s got a small business. A show-biz agency. I’d guess she makes a good living out of it. But I wouldn’t see her as wealthy.”

  “And how about you? Are you wealthy?”

  Randall smiled. “I get by. I’m not top of the bill but I’m usually second on the billings … I’m OK.”

  “Do you know why I asked those questions?”

  “I can only guess. You were trying to find out if my motives were money or some such thing.”

  “Do you belong to a club?”

  “I’m a member of Gerry’s Club in Shaftesbury Avenue.”

  “I meant a proper club. Whites. The Atheneum. Somewhere like that.”

  Randall smiled. “I’m afraid not.”

  “What’s your favourite restaurant where you take the girl?”

  Randall shrugged. “The Savoy, I suppose. The Grill Room.”

  “Suppose you took her there on …” He reached for his diary and turned over the page. “… on Thursday evening. And I h
appened to walk in. You ask me over for a drink at your table and introduce me as a man who used to be your doctor. And we’ll take it from there.”

  “I’d be very happy to do that. Thursday then. About eight.”

  The consultant stood up. “You’ll get a bill from my office for today’s consultation and for the time at the Savoy. Is that OK?”

  “Of course.”

  He phoned the consultant on the Friday morning but he wasn’t available. But he had left a message with the receptionist suggesting an appointment at four that afternoon. Randall told her he would be there.

  The consultant was wearing a blue denim open-necked shirt and a pair of drill slacks. There was a bulging golf bag propped up in the corner of the room.

  “Sit down, Mr. Randall. Excuse the kit but I’ve been down to Wentworth.” He looked across his desk at Randall as if he were collecting his thoughts.

  “I think you’re right, Mr. Randall. I think the girl has been subjected to hypnosis. But I need an absolutely truthful answer from you before I decide what to do.”

  “Ask me the question.”

  “The whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

  “So help me God.”

  “Have you ever hypnotized this girl yourself? In fun, as a demonstration of your act, as a party turn. In any way?”

  “No. I’ve never even discussed my act with her. She’s seen me perform in a theatre, but that’s all.”

  “Fine. I’m going to suggest that she sees a consultant at one of our research hospitals. He specializes in hypnotic complications and I think from what you’ve told me that she’s not only been unwittingly hypnotized but has been given what we call a post-hypnotic block so that she can’t remember anything about her time in hypnosis.” He paused and then said quietly, “I think your young lady is going to come apart at the seams unless she has treatment. What she’s experiencing now is a kind of leakage. And it could get worse. She’s going to need a lot of hand-holding.”

  “She’ll refuse to see any doctor.”

  “It’s up to you to persuade her. Nobody else can. But I’ll dictate a note to my secretary for you. Feel perfectly free to show it to her if you think it will help. Let me know when you’ve succeeded and I’ll fix an appointment in a matter of hours.” The consultant stood up. “Try hard, Mr. Randall. She needs help. Professional help as well as yours.”

  “What did you learn from our meeting?”

  The man smiled. “That you are an honest man, genuinely concerned, without ulterior motives, and that she is a nice, outwardly normal girl.”

  “But what made you feel she needed help?”

  “What you told me about what happened that evening before you came to see me. There were clues there that you couldn’t have made up. I was only concerned about motives. Seeing you together dispelled my doubts. You’re a friend, and she needs one.”

  Each time Randall suggested that the girl should see a doctor it led to an outburst of anger that shocked them both.

  Then the girl had one of her “day-dreams” when they were in a restaurant. They had to leave, and he went back with her to her flat. She recovered but she was deathly pale and every few minutes she shivered violently and complained of feeling cold. After one of these spells he risked offending her.

  “Who’s Joe Spellman, Debbie?”

  “Washington 547–9077.”

  “Is that his telephone number?”

  “It’s the number to ring.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s my doctor.”

  “You said you hadn’t got a doctor.”

  “He’s my doctor.”

  “How can you have a doctor in Washington when you live in London?”

  “He’s my doctor.”

  He took a deep breath. “Something’s wrong, my love. Very wrong.” He took the consultant’s note from his pocket and handed it to her. She read it slowly and he saw the tears on her cheeks as she looked up at his face.

  “He thinks I’m mental, doesn’t he? He wants to certify me and have me put away.”

  “No, he doesn’t. He thinks you’ve been hypnotized without knowing it and that it’s causing your problems.”

  “But I haven’t been hypnotized. Ever. I don’t believe in it. I’m not the kind who’d go for it. It’s crazy.”

  “Just see the man he recommends. I’ll come with you. Nobody’s going to hurt you. They want to help.”

  “Was it you, Steve?”

  “Was what me?”

  “Was it you hypnotized me?”

  “Of course it wasn’t. I’ve no reason to.”

  “You swear it?”

  “Yes.”

  “On the Bible.”

  “Yes if you’ve got one.”

  “I haven’t … what shall I do, Steve? Help me.”

  “Let me phone now and make an appointment for tomorrow.”

  “And you’ll come with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “OK.” She put her hand on his knee. “I think I love you, Steve.”

  “I think I love you too, sweetie.”

  18

  Boyd sat for two days in an empty room next to Ansell’s consulting room, listening to the tapes of all the psychiatrist’s sessions with Walker. Playing some parts several times as he made notes. When he eventually left he gave Ansell two London numbers where he could be contacted. Ansell wasn’t due to see Walker again for several days.

  Cartwright had not been available when Boyd got back to London. It was two days before they could meet. Some instinct made Boyd suggest that they do so away from the office and they made it the bridge over the lake in St. James’s Park. A frequent meeting place for SIS officers. As they leaned on the rails the mallard drakes were giving the ducks a hard time. It wasn’t officially Spring on the calendar but it was Spring in St. James’s Park.

  “How did you get on?”

  “There’s something going on, but I’m not sure what it is.” And Boyd outlined what he had learned.

  “This doctor fellow, Ansell, do you want him leaned on from above?”

  “Not at the moment. Let’s wait and see.”

  “And what do you think it’s all about?”

  “I think someone’s being very naughty.”

  “Who?”

  “The soldiers is my guess.”

  “What for? Why are they doing it?”

  “God knows. What’s the percentage in giving a man nightmares?”

  “Is it worth the time finding out? Is it even our business?”

  “I’ve got a feeling it is. On both counts.”

  “Why?”

  Boyd shrugged. “Instinct. Experience. Nothing more.”

  “OK. Do you need any help?”

  “No. It’s just a ferreting job. I need to do it myself in case I miss anything.”

  “Take care.”

  “I will.”

  Boyd checked through George Walker’s file at War Office Records. Walker had joined the army in November 1962 and had been demobilized in December 1966. At no time had he been posted anywhere overseas and his unit had never operated in Germany. His service had been exemplary and he had never faced even a minor charge. He had been in hospital for two days with blistered feet during his basic infantry recruit training, and had been given light duties for four days on one occasion for an abscess on a tooth. He had been given a normal dose of antibiotic and the tooth had later been extracted using only local anaesthetic.

  Walker’s service had been at Catterick Camp in Yorkshire, the Green Jackets’ depot at Winchester and at his regiment’s depot just outside Bradford. Boyd noted the dates when Walker had been given leave, including a number of weekend passes.

  The Army computer printed out the details of twenty-five commissioned officers named Ames but none named Leclerc.

  Debbie’s appointment at the hospital was for nine o’clock and Randall was shown into a small waiting room. At intervals he was brought cups of tea but when it was one o’clock he bec
ame anxious. When it got to three o’clock he went outside to the reception desk and asked how much longer it would be, pointing out that he had to be at the theatre by eight o’clock. The receptionist dialled a number and asked how much longer he would have to wait. She listened and then hung up.

  “Mr. Salmon is coming out to see you, sir. If you’d go back to the waiting room he’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Mr. Salmon came in almost immediately. A tall, calm man in his fifties. His glasses were pushed up on to his forehead.

  “Mr. Randall isn’t it? Do sit down.”

  “How is she?”

  “Ah. That’s what I came to talk to you about. We’ll have to keep her in for a day or two. Now don’t be alarmed. I know you promised to stay with her and take her home. She told me all about that.” He smiled. “You’re obviously very important to her. Talked a lot about you.”

  “Why does she have to stay?”

  “Now don’t worry on that score. I explained to her before we started that she might have to stay for a day or two. She didn’t mind so long as you didn’t mind.”

  “You haven’t told me why she has to stay.”

  “Let me just say this. It’s going to take some sorting out. All a bit tangled up if you know what I mean. But we’ve given her a relaxing drug that means she has to have proper medical supervision.”

  “Can I see her before I go?”

  “She’s asleep at the moment. It’s better not to disturb her. Now a message or two.”

  Salmon pulled down his glasses and took a scrap of paper from his pocket.

  “Ah yes. She sends you her love and says not to worry. And she asks if you can bring her pale-blue nightie, her dressing gown and bedroom slippers. And asks if you would check with her assistant at the office that all is OK. And that’s it.”

  “I’ll come tomorrow with her things.”

  “Good. Do you know the way out? Along the passage then turn right where it says ‘Laundry.’ ”

  For the first time in his life Steve Randall was lonely and depressed. His nightly act seemed to exhaust him and he knew that he had lost his bounce. His usual amiable patter with his volunteers and his audience seemed desperately flat. He had never thought before about hypnosis as being more than an entertainment or maybe a cure for smoking or drinking. The girl had been in hospital over a month now. He had gone there every day but not been allowed to see her. And when it became obvious that that would continue he went only every three days. Salmon had explained that she was physically well, not distressed in any way and they were slowly and carefully unravelling the tangle in her mind.