Puzzle for Fiends Read Free Page B

putting me on my guard.
    “Okay, Gordy.” I got a head-on smile. “In the first place, I’m Nate Croft. You’ll remember that soon. You’ll also remember that I’m quite a pal of yours and Selena’s and Marny’s.”
    Adrift as I was, I was stubbornly sure that I could never have been ‘quite a pal’ of this man with the soft, dusky skin and the vamping, dancing girl eyes. I didn’t tell him that, though, I just lay there, waiting.
    He lit a cigarette from an expensive case with a “Sorry I can’t offer you one, old man.” Then, watching me brightly through smoke, he asked: “Tell me, Gordy, just how much can you remember?”
    “I can remember whirring propellers,” I said. “I think I can remember an airfield, and a plane, and seeing someone off on a plane.”
    “Anyone in particular?”
    I strained to recapture some vanished half image. “No. Not exactly. Except that it seems terribly important.”
    “The propellers come first?”
    “Yes. They always seem to be almost there, if you see what I mean. Even if I can’t hear them, I...”
    “Yes, yes,” he broke in, very much the professional interpreter of amateur information. “I’m afraid that isn’t going to be very helpful to us.”
    I felt inexplicably depressed. “You mean there wasn’t anyone going away on a plane?”
    “A common ether reaction.” Dr. Nate Croft held his cigarette poised between us. “The loss of consciousness visualizing itself as a whirring propeller. This person you imagine you were seeing off, was it a man or a woman?”
    Suddenly I knew, and I felt a rush of excitement. “A woman.”
    Dr. Croft nodded. “The nurse in the operating room. We get that frequently. A patient clings to the nurse’s image in exact proportion to his reluctance to lose consciousness. She is the image of reality that the patient feels he is saying goodbye to before the journey into unconsciousness.”
    I couldn’t understand why that rather pompous medical explanation brought a strange despair. He went on:
    “Forget the propellers, Gordy. Anything else?”
    I said listlessly: “There’s a hospital, various snatches of things in a hospital.”
    “Of course.” Dr. Nate Croft studied his clean hands. “You recovered consciousness several times in the hospital. Is that all?”
    I nodded: “All except what happened after I woke up here.”
    “Well, well, we won’t let it worry us, will we?” The teeth flashed again. “How about I bring you up to date a bit, Gordy. Your mother’s told you about the accident?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “It happened down the Coast Boulevard. In the evening. You know, that deserted stretch on the way to San Diego.”
    “San Diego?” I tried to sit up.
    “Yes. Why? Does San Diego mean anything to you?”
    “San Diego. “I added uncertainly: “Am I in the Navy?”
    “The Navy?” Nate Croft laughed. “What strange little things cling on in the mind. A couple of months ago, you went to San Diego, tried to enlist. They turned you down. Remember?”
    The bed was very comfortable and the effort to remain suspicious was becoming too taxing. Dr. Croft seemed quite a nice guy now, kind, considerate. Too pretty but quite a nice guy.
    “Funny,” I said, wanting to confide in him. “I don’t remember it that way. But San Diego means something. And the Navy. I feel as if I’d been in the Navy a long time. Isn’t that dopey?”
    “No, it’s perfectly natural. A wish-fulfilment changed into a false memory by the concussion. You wanted to get into the Navy badly, you know. Now your mind’s trying to pretend that you did. But enough of this flossy medico talk.”
    He patted my shoulder. His hand was brown and warm. “Okay. Let’s get on with the story. I guess you don’t remember, but I run a small private sanatorium up in the mountains. Some people passing in another car found you. They asked for the nearest hospital and brought you up to me. A lucky coincidence—with me being