Believe This... You’ll Believe Anything

Six

The hands of my desk clock moved to 13.15.

Two hours had gone by since that terrible scene I had with Val. I was at my desk, still shaken and still too shocked to deal with the briefs spread before me.

What had I done? I kept asking myself. What evil influence had I released by snapping my fingers? Although Dyer had warned me, I never expected to get such an alarming reaction. Val had turned into a zombie. All character seemed to drain out of her face, leaving it blank as if she were dead. Her eyes became fixed in the stare of the blind.

Then she leaned forward, peering past me at the opposite wall. ‘I will kill you!’ she said in a low, fierce whisper. ‘I will never be free until you are dead! Your death is my only hope!’

As I watched her, unable to move, she slowly stood up.

‘You can stand there laughing at me!’ She looked and spoke as if she were seeing someone opposite her, invisible to me. ‘Go on, laugh, you devil! You have destroyed me! Now it is my turn to destroy you!’

She came around the desk and rushed blindly across the room, her hands like claws, her lips drawn off her teeth. She thudded against the wall, reeled back, threw herself at the wall again, her hands striking blindly.

‘Let me go!’ she cried, wrestling as if she had someone in her grasp who was stronger than she and she was being forced back. ‘I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!’

There was something so macabre and horrible in this scene, I could only stand motionless, feeling the hair on the nape of my neck bristling.

Then she gave a piercing cry and fell on her knees, her hands trying to tear invisible fingers from her throat.

The fear contorting her face galvanised me into action. I rushed to her and caught hold of her arms.

‘Val!’

She struck me violently across the eyes, blinding me for a moment. As I staggered back, she straightened up, threw out her hands as if to ward off a blow, then she fell. The back of her head struck one of the claw feet of the desk with a sickening sound, her eyes rolled back and she went limp.

With my heart hammering, panic rising, I ran to her and bent over her. Her breasts under the white blouse rose and all, but she was unconscious.

Shaking, I blundered over to the intercom and called Dyer.

‘Who is it?’ he demanded petulantly. ‘I’m just going to lunch.’

‘Burden. Get help up here!’ I cried. ‘Mrs. Vidal has had an accident. Get a doctor! Hurry!’

‘Is she hurt?’ His voice became efficient and alert.

‘Get someone! She’s hurt! Get a doctor!’

‘At once!’

As I snapped up the switch, Val moaned and I went to her. She opened her eyes.

‘My head! What happened?’

‘You fell,’ I said. ‘Just stay still. Help’s coming.’

She caught hold of my hand. Her grip was so fierce it was painful.

‘He was here, wasn’t he? You saw him?’ She shivered. ‘He tried to kill me! Clay, please... don’t leave me! Promise?’

‘Of course. Stay quiet. The doctor’s coming.’ She gave a little sigh, muttered something I couldn’t hear, then her eyes closed and she seemed to drift off into unconsciousness.

The door opened and a middle-aged woman with white hair, sharp blue eyes and a hard mouth came in.

She looked at Val, then as I stood aside, she knelt by Val’s side. She seemed very efficient and calm. She lifted Val’s right eyelid, felt her pulse, then stood up.

‘I am Mrs. Clements, Mr. Vidal’s housekeeper,’ she said. ‘It would be more convenient if you would now leave her with me, Mr. Burden.’

‘She hit her head on the desk,’ I said as I moved to the door. My voice was unsteady and husky. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?’

‘The doctor’s coming. She had better stay as she is until he has seen her.’

Moving slowly, my legs shaky, I went down the corridor, down the stairs and out into the garden.

‘Burden...’

I turned.

Dyer was coming quickly towards me.

‘What happened?’

I couldn’t keep it to myself.

‘She went into a trance and she fell. She hit her head on the desk.’

He eyed me.

‘You look shaken, old boy. What you need is a drink. Come back to my office. Come on,’ and putting his hand on my arm, he led me towards the office block.

I heard a car coming up the drive and I turned my head.

‘Doctor Fontane,’ Dyer said. ‘He’ll take care of her.’ We entered his office and he produced two big whiskies. I drank and was grateful.

‘Sit down. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ he said.

My eyes searched his face. The sneering, jeering expression was gone. His eyes showed genuine concern.

I sat down, gulped down the rest of the drink and set the glass on his desk.

‘Did you set her off?’ he asked quietly. He snapped his fingers.

I nodded.

‘I wasn’t thinking.’ I certainly wasn’t going to tell him the whole truth.

‘Yes... the way it happened to me. You’ll have to tell Tiny, Burden.’

I flinched at the thought of speaking to Vidal.

‘Wouldn’t it be better to let the doctor do it? He’ll be able to say how bad she is.’

‘Yes, but Tiny will want it first hand from you. Have another drink?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Oh, come on. You look as if you need another.’ He made two more drinks. ‘And Burden, a tip... don’t tell him nor anyone else about the finger snapping. It wouldn’t go down well with Tiny. I suggest you tell him she came fainted.’

I never imagined I could get to like Dyer, but I now found myself liking him.

‘Yes, you’re right.’

‘It’s damned odd, isn’t it? What do you make of it? It’s as If she’s been hypnotised. Do you think she has? You know I’ve wondered about Tiny. He could have hypnotic powers. Once he stared at me and I’ll be damned if I didn’t feel as if I was suddenly floating. A most odd sensation. Do you think he hypnotises her?’

I hedged.

‘Why should he?’

‘I’ve been thinking about her: the set-up puzzles me. I remember Doctor Rappach, a friend of mine, told me that very often glamorous looking women like Mrs. V. are frigid. Rappach knows what he is talking about. He uses hypnotism in his work.’

I stared at him.

‘You didn’t tell him about Mrs. Vidal?’

He looked shocked.

‘Good God, no! I may be curious, but I don’t gossip. He told me an odd story about a man who had hypnotic powers. His wife was frigid and he used to hypnotise her to release her when they had sex. It was a great success. She didn’t even know she had sex with him but after a while she became neurotic and Rappach had to talk seriously to the husband. I’m only guessing, of course, but it is possible that Mrs. V. isn’t all that satisfactory bed — wise and Tiny releases her.’

I turned cold and sick.

Could this be happening to Val?

I won’t let him make love to me. Her voice echoed in my mind, and her despairing whisper, horrible, horrible.

‘You look bad,’ Dyer said with concern. ‘Why don’t you go home? I can see you’re really upset.’

I drank some more of the whisky.

‘I guess I am. When she hit her head... I thought she had killed herself.’

‘You go home.’

‘No, I won’t do that. I’ll get back to my desk. I still have a lot of work to do.’

‘Don’t forget to tell the quack to contact Tiny.’

I was lucky to meet Dr. Fontane as he came down the stairs. He was like a stork: tall, thin with a hooked nose and small beady eyes.

I introduced myself.

‘How is she, doctor?’

‘She has a nasty cut at the back of her head. Nothing serious. It would be better for her to stay in bed for a few days.’

‘Mr. Vidal should be informed.’ He smiled sourly.

‘I have already spoken to him.’ Nodding, he went down the steps to his car.

I returned to my office and closed the door. My mind was seething. As I sat down at my desk, the telephone bell rang.

I had an instinctive feeling it was Vidal calling and I hesitated, then, my heart beating violently, I lifted the receiver. ‘Burden?’ His squeaky voice jarred my nerves.

‘Yes Mr. Vidal.’

‘What happened? That fool of a doctor said Mrs. Vidal fainted and hit her head. I’ve never known her to faint. You were there. What happened?’

I licked my dry lips.

‘I don’t know, Mr. Vidal. I was on the telex. My back was turned. I heard Mrs. Vidal get up, then the sound of her fall.’

‘Do you think she fainted?’

‘I think she must have.’

There was a pause, then he gave his short, barking laugh.

‘Women!’ Again a pause, then he asked, ‘How is she getting on with the work?’

‘All right, Mr. Vidal.’

‘Burden! Remember what I said! Always tell me the truth!’ The snap in his Voice made me stiffen. ‘I will repeat the question: how is my wife getting on with the work?’

I was about to repeat my answer when I remembered that within an hour or so he would get the schedule, crammed with typing errors. He would know who had typed it. I couldn’t afford to be caught in a he if I was to remain close to Val.

‘Well, of course, she is a little out of practice,’ I said. ‘That’s to be expected after a six year layoff.’

‘Is she being efficient?’

‘She doesn’t have to be efficient. That is my prerogative, Mr. Vidal.’

He laughed.

‘A tactful man. The doctor tells me she should stay in bed for a few days. Get yourself a secretary Burden. My wife will soon get tired of office routine. I know women. They like to talk about work, but when it comes to the crunch they start throwing faints.’

I was now hating him so violently that if he had been in the office I would have struck him.

‘I’ll do that Mr. Vidal,’ I said.

‘I want an efficient service Burden. See to it,’ and he hung up.

As I replaced the receiver, I looked at the briefs still to be done. There was no time now to think about what had happened, what Dyer had said. I had to get these briefs cleared.

I called the Employment agency and asked them to send me a top class secretary on a temporary basis.

‘This is an emergency,’ I said. ‘Put her in a taxi and get her to me as quickly as you can.’

When I mentioned Henry Vidal’s name, the woman in charge said a girl would be with me in half an hour.

‘I’ll send you Connie Hagen. She is exceptionally good. Will you need her long?’

‘A week, maybe two weeks. I’m not sure.’

‘All right, Mr. Burden. She’ll be along.’ She then asked, ‘Did that boy show up... the messenger you wanted?’

I had forgotten about him.

‘Not yet.’

‘He’ll be along any moment. I told him to have his lunch first.’

Within ten minutes, the boy arrived. His name was Ray Potter, a gangling, long haired, amiable type who seemed painfully anxious to please.

I explained about how to obtain visas, gave him the passports and the addresses of the various consulates and sent him on his way.

I then got down to the briefs. What with telexing and telephoning and checking my reference books, I had no time to think of Val.

Connie Hagen arrived. She was around eighteen or twenty years of age, and the fattest girl I have yet seen which is saying something in this county of grossly fat women. Her round face revealed efficiency, humour and kindness. I liked her on sight. As with most fat girls, she wore skin tight trousers and a blouse that scarcely held under the pressure of her enormous breasts.

I gave her three schedules to type. The moment her fat little fingers dropped on to the keyboard, I knew I had found the support I needed.

The three schedules were finished in a quarter of an hour. A quick look at them showed perfect typing. I then gave her a list of flights to book and left her to it.

We worked at top pressure until 17.45. Potter returned with the visas. I gave him four of the schedules to deliver to various hotels, assuring him he wouldn’t have to work this hard tomorrow.

‘I don’t mind work, Mr. Burden,’ he said, grinning. ‘I just want to earn what I’m being paid.’

When he had gone. Connie opened her handbag and took from it a paper sack.

‘Like a bite, Mr. Burden?’ she asked. ‘I always like a little bite before supper. Liver sausage on rye.’

‘No, thanks. We’re nearly through.’ I looked with unbelieving eyes at my now empty desk top.

She took a big bite out of the sandwich, munched and nodded her satisfaction.

‘I can’t get over me working for Mr. Vidal,’ she exclaimed. ‘Gosh! And in this marvellous house! Won’t I bend my boyfriend’s cars tonight! I’ll have you know Mr. Burden, it is a real privilege to work for Mr. Vidal.’

This remark turned my mood sour. Up to now. I had been too occupied with Val and Vidal had gone out of my mind.

‘Well, let’s finish,’ I said curtly. ‘It’s getting on for six.’

At 18.10. I had cleared the last schedule. Connie, still rating, put the cover on the I.B.M.

‘What time tomorrow, Mr. Burden?’

‘Nine o’clock, please.’

‘I’ll be here. Nightie-night,’ and away she went, swinging her massive hips, as light as a thistledown on her fat little feet, apparently without a care in the world.

There was no rush for me to get home. I had warned Rhoda that I might be late. I had much thinking to do and concentration would be impossible with her fussing around.

I sat at my desk. I first thought of what Dyer had said.

Was it possible that Vidal was taking advantage of Val under hypnotism and was having intercourse with her without her knowledge? The thought turned me hot with frustrated rage.

Could any man be so despicable? I remembered what she had told me: He is evil! He is a devil! If he was doing this evil thing, how could I protect her? Should I warn her? After more thought, I decided it would be cruel to do so without having a solution to offer. Had she not said she was no longer a free agent and was completely in his power and that his will had conquered hers? Now that I had more insight of what could be happening, it seemed to me she wouldn’t have made such an admission unless it was true.

There is nothing you can do, she had said. There is nothing anyone can do.

I refused to accept such a defeatist attitude. I was determined somehow to help her, but I did realise how dangerous it was for me to meddle with this power Vidal appeared to have. In my ignorance I could do harm as I had done in this irresponsible finger snapping episode.

First, then I told myself, I must find out more about hypnotism. I must consult an expert, but who? I thought of Dyer’s friend, Dr. Rappach. I hesitated. Doctors were not supposed to talk about their patients, yet this doctor had told Dyer about the man who had hypnotised his wife. I wouldn’t want it to get back to Dyer that I had been making inquiries. I felt sure the doctor hadn’t mentioned names. If I approached him tactfully it should be safe enough. I reached for the telephone book. There he was: Dr. Hugo Rappach, Neurologist. 1141 West Street. West Palm Beach

Not the best district to live in. West Palm Beach was the suburb of Palm Beach where the workers lived and where there was a large Harlem quarter.

I dialled his number.

‘This is Doctor Rappach.’ A thick, deep voice that gave me an impression of age.

‘My name is George Fellows, doctor,’ I said. The phony name belonged to one of the V.I.P.s for whom I had provided tickets. ‘I would like to consult you on the subject of hypnotism. Could you give me an appointment, please?’

There was a pause.

‘Have you been recommended to me, Mr. Fellows?’

‘Your name cropped up at a party I was attending. Someone said you used hypnotism sometimes on your patients.’

‘Was it someone I know?’ The voice was polite but perhaps now a little cautious.

‘I forget his name, doctor: short, thickset, balding. You know how it is at a party.’ I forced a little laugh. ‘Names come, names go.’

‘And you are interested in hypnotism. May I ask why?’

I trotted out the hairy excuse so often used.

‘I’m writing a novel, doctor, and I want my facts right. Naturally, I would pay your usual consulting fee.’

‘I am very busy, Mr. Fellows...’ A pause. We both breathed at each other over the line. ‘However, I could find time to see you if nine o’clock would be convenient.’

‘21.00, tonight?’

‘Yes’

‘That’s fine, doctor. I’ll be along.’

We both hung up.

I went back to my thinking.

Twice during our talks together Val had mentioned Trilby and Svengali. She had said: I was a Trilby to his Svengali.

Who was Trilby? Who was Svengali? Wasn’t there once a classical novel called Trilby? I had vaguely heard of it, but had never read it. Could this book give me a clue?

It was possible the Public Library would have a copy. I had to pass the Library on my way home. It shut at 20.00. I had plenty of time. I decided to get the book right away.

Then Mrs. Clements came in.

‘Ah, Mr. Burden, there you are. I was afraid you had gone. Mrs. Vidal is asking for you.’ Her hard blue eyes registered disapproval. ‘She is worrying about Mr. Vidal’s trip to Libya. She won’t sleep until you assure her there are no hitches.’

My heart gave a little bound. Val knew the schedule was tied up. This was her excuse to Mrs. Clements to see me.

I opened a drawer and took from it one of the schedules waiting completion of a visa.

‘There is one small point that Mrs. Vidal was attending to herself. I would be glad of the opportunity to get it settled.’

‘If you will come with me.’

As we walked along the corridor, she said, ‘Please don’t stay long. She should be resting.’

‘It’ll take a very few minutes.’

She paused at the door at the far end of the passage, tapped, opened the door and stood aside for me to enter.

‘Mr. Burden,’ she said and left, closing the door quietly after her.

Val lay in the big double bed. The shades were drawn against the evening sun. The room was cool and luxuriously furnished.

I was shocked to see how white she was: her dark eyes pools of fear and anxiety.

She held out her hand to me. I went to her, longing to take her in my arms. Her hand felt dry and cold.

‘How are you my darling?’ I asked, keeping my voice low.

‘I’m so glad you have come.’ She motioned me to sit on the bed. She kept hold of my hand. ‘What happened? I remember being at my desk and then finding myself in bed. What happened?’

So Dyer hadn’t lied to me. He had said she remembered nothing when she came out of the trance. Should I tell her?

Looking at her, fearful white and feeling her trembling. I decided not to.

‘I don’t know, Val. I wasn’t looking at you. I heard you fall. You must have fainted.’

‘No! I’ve never fainted in my life!’ Her grip on my hand tightened. ‘It has happened to me before. I have been reading in the living room, then suddenly I find myself in bed.’ She shivered. ‘I checked the time. There was a blank space of over an hour! It has happened eight times!’ She looked at me. The fear in her eyes chilled me. ‘He is responsible! I know he is!’

I was now convinced that he was. I now believed everything she had told me. This wasn’t hysteria. I was sure she was under the influence of this man.

‘I’m going to do everything I can to help you,’ I said. ‘You’re no longer alone, Val. You have me.’

She pressed her hands to her head in a gesture of despair. ‘There is nothing you can do. He has won the battle!’

‘There is something I can do and I’m going to do it!’

She looked up at me, her expression made my heart contract.

‘Forget me Clay. How are you getting on? Have you replaced me already?’

‘I have a girl who is doing the typing. I had to get her. It is the only way I can stay close to you.’

‘Is she as efficient as I used to be?’ She bit back a sob. ‘I’m no longer efficient, no longer good for anything... he has destroyed me.’

I heard footsteps. Hurriedly I stood up and moved away from the bed. A tap came on the door and Mrs. Clements came in.

‘It is time for Mrs. Vidal’s tranquilliser, Mr. Burden.’

‘I’m just going.’ To Val, I said, ‘There is nothing to worry about now, Mrs. Vidal. I’ll take care of it.’

‘Thank you.’

As I walked down the corridor and down the stairs, the picture of her despair tormented me.

‘Trust me, trust me,’ I kept saying to myself. ‘Val, darling, somehow I will help you.’

It took me only ten minutes to reach the Public Library.

The time now was 19:13. The librarian smiled at me as I approached.

‘Hello, Mr. Burden. Are you still interested in hypnotism?’

‘You have a good memory.’ I paused in front of her desk.

‘It’s not bad. Won’t you sit down?’

I glanced around the big library as I sat down. There were only a few students at the reading desks.

‘Am I right in thinking there is a book called Trilby... an old classic?’ I asked.

She nodded.

‘There are two books so called. One written in 1833 by Charles Nodler. The other by George du Maurier in 1895. I would imagine it is du Maurier’s book that you are interested in. It has to do with mesmerism.’

I stared at her, startled.

‘Your memory is fantastic!’

She laughed.

‘Not fantastic. I had an inquiry for the book a couple of weeks ago. I looked it up. You are having the benefit of my research.’

‘Have you a copy?’

‘Gracious no, Mr. Burden. We do have some of the English classics such as Dickens and Scott, but not du Maurier who is never asked for these days.’

‘And yet you have two inquiries within two weeks?’

‘That is true. A coincidence. I doubt if I could get a copy now unless I tried in England.’

I was disappointed.

‘Did you read it?’ I asked.

‘I have read most of the English classics, Mr. Burden.’

‘I believe a character called Svengali appears in the book?’

‘Indeed, yes. He played an important role in the plot. I think it is fair to say that it was because of this character the book became quite a sensation.’

‘In what way? Could you give me an idea of the plot?’

‘Very briefly, Svengali, a Hungarian musician, meets a young girl. Trilby, who is struggling to make a living. She is represented as being remarkably beautiful with a perfect figure and, if I remember rightly, an angelic disposition. Svengali is a hypnotist. Under his hypnotic influence, he teaches Trilby to sing. She has no voice nor technique, but so powerful is his influence that she becomes, overnight, the finest singer that ever lived. Royalty, Emperors and dukes flock to hear her and Svengali becomes immensely rich. Then, one night, when she was singing in London before a distinguished audience, Svengali, sitting in a stage box dies of a heart attack. Without his hypnotic influence Trilby loses her voice and eventually dies of starvation. That is the story, Mr. Burden.’ She smiled. ‘It is melodrama, of course, but enormously popular at the time. I doubt if you would have the patience to read the book itself. It is over long for modern tastes.’

I had listened to what she had told me with intense interest.

‘Would it be impertinent to ask who the other inquirer was?’

‘I can’t tell you. I have never seen her before. She was very elegantly dressed and quite beautiful dark with large blue eyes. I was a little worried about her. She seemed so tense and anxious.’

Val!

‘Well, thank you.’ I said and got to my feet. ‘I am most grateful.’

As I walked back to my car, I looked at my watch. The time was 19.45. There was no point returning home and then driving to West Palm Beach. I still had some thinking to do. I got in my car and drove to a nearby Howard Johnson restaurant. Finding a corner table away from the noisy tourists, I ordered a club sandwich, then shut myself in a telephone booth. I called Rhoda.

‘Honey, I’m going to be late.’ I said when she came on the line. ‘I won’t be back until ten. Don’t wait supper.’

‘Is this going to happen every night?’ Rhoda demanded crossly.

‘I hope not. How have things been with you?’

‘The usual. Are you still mad at me?’

‘I told you to forget it. I’ve forgotten it.’ My mind was miles away from this flat conversation.

‘Well at least I apologised. I think you could apologise too. My face still hurts.’

‘I apologise.’

A pause, then she said, ‘Well, I’ll go down and get something to eat. I’m hungry.’

‘Yes, do that. See you, honey,’ and I hung up.

What a conversation! I thought as I made my way back to my table.

The club sandwich was waiting for me. While I ate, I thought of what I was going to say to Dr. Rappach.

West Street, West Palm Beach was on the fringe of the Harlem quarter. It was a long, narrow street lined on either side by dilapidated clapboard bungalows with tiny weed choked gardens, protected by rotting wooden fences.

Puerto Ricans, Spaniards and a few black families sat on verandas or on the kerb talking, playing cards, dozing. Some of the women nursed babies.

As I drove down the street, looking for No. 1141, I was aware of curious eyes, hostile eyes and indifferent eyes watching me.

I found the bungalow at the far end of the street. For a long moment I remained in the car, staring at the wooden plaque on which the number was painted, unable to believe that this was the residence of Dr. Hugo Rappach, Neurologist. The building was secured by rusty cables against hurricanes. There was a water tank on a brick foundation with a leaky pipe leading into the bungalow. The clapboard had once been white but was now a dirty grey. The path, through a tangle of weeds that led to the front door was littered with scraps of paper and fruit peel blown in from the street. Dirty net curtains screened the dusty windows. One wooden shutter sagged on a broken hinge.

Could this possibly be the home of Dr. Rappach?

Leaving the car, I eased open the wooden gate, walked up the path, up three steps and on to the stoop that creaked under my weight. The front door had long lost its paint. Three deep slits in the wood would let in the wind and the rain. There was no bell, no knocker, so I rapped with my knuckles. As I stood in the humid heat, I was aware that I was being stared at. I glanced over my shoulder. The bungalows opposite all had verandas on which sat an assortment of young, elderly and old black people. They were like statues carved out of ebony, motionless with curiosity.

The door opened and a man stood before me: tall, lean with a mane of white hair, coarse Negro features, a white pitted leathery skin. He was old. At a guess eighty-five or six. He held himself very upright as if to challenge his age. As I looked at him, I became aware of the compelling power in his piercing black eyes.

‘Mr. Fellows?’ I recognised the thick, deep voice.

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘You are Dr. Rappach?’

‘Yes. Come in. I see my children out there are wondering who you are. They have little to live for except to be curious.’

He led me into a dusty, untidy room with a desk, a chair behind the desk, a lot of books, a settee and a wooden kitchen chair facing the desk.

‘This, Mr. Fellows, is my consulting room,’ he said, moving around the desk. ‘Take the settee. I won’t ask you to use the hard chair. That is for my patients.’ He sat down behind the desk and put his old, blue veined hands on the desktop while he surveyed me.

Feeling slightly bewildered, I sat down on the settee that creaked and I had to shift as a broken spring dug into me. Could this old man. half white, half black, living in this poverty possibly be a friend of the elegant Vernon Dyer? Could he possibly be a neurologist?

‘I see you are puzzled Mr. Fellows. That is understandable. Let me explain,’ he said. ‘If I didn’t live in these conditions my children wouldn’t come to me. By coming to me they imagine they are doing me a favour. As they need my help it is a satisfactory arrangement. I charge them 25 cents a visit.’ He smiled, showing his big yellow teeth. ‘I have retired from active practice. At one time I had my own clinic. Now I am old, now I have enough money to take care of my modest needs. I live in this pigsty to take care of the many sick and troubled people who live around me. It is not entirely selfless. I regard it as my insurance for an afterlife.’

I relaxed.

‘All honour to you, doctor,’ I said. ‘My congratulations.’

‘That is something I don’t need.’ He looked at the cheap watch on his thin wrist. ‘I can give you twenty minutes, Mr. Tellows. What can I do for you?’

While at the restaurant I had prepared my story. I was confident he would accept it.

‘As I explained over the telephone, I am developing a plot for a novel,’ I said. ‘The situation is this: a man, call him Dokes, has hypnotic powers. He works in nightclubs. A girl, call her Mary, comes with a party to the nightclub for an evening of fun. Urged on by her friends, she allows herself to be hypnotised. She does the usual silly things a hypnotist entertainer makes his subject do. Dokes is a sensualist. The girl attracts him physically and he is determined to seduce her. I won’t bother you with the buildup Doctor. It is enough to say Dokes finds out where Mary lives, breaks into her apartment and because he has already hypnotised her, he has only to snap his fingers to put her in a trance. While in this trance, he rapes her. On waking the following morning, she has no recollection of what has happened. From then on, when in the mood, Dokes visits and rapes her. That is part of my plot. Before I develop it, I want to know if it is feasible.’

The old black eyes regarded me.

‘If I may say so, Mr. Fellows, your plot is not entirely original. The situation as you describe it actually happened in the eighteenth century to a French countess who was seduced under hypnotism by a pupil of Cagliostro, a famous hypnotist.’

I felt the blood leave my face.

‘So it really could happen?’

‘Yes, it could happen.’

This was something I couldn’t bear to accept.

‘But I understand Doctor, from what I have read that no one when under hypnotic influence can be made to do anything repugnant to them. If this is correct, then surely no woman can be raped under hypnotic influence?’

‘In most cases what you say is correct, Mr. Fellows, but not in every case. Much depends on the power of the hypnotist and on his subject. Some subjects have much stronger wills to resist than others. It has been said that Rasputin had the power to seduce. Cagliostro certainly had.’

I was now feeling so bad, I wanted to terminate this interview as quickly as I could.

‘One other question. If she left the town would it be possible for Dokes to retain his influence over her? Does distance matter?’

‘That would depend on his power. If it was considerable, then she could even leave the country and he could still keep hypnotic contact with her.’

‘Is that a scientific fact?’

He moved impatiently.

‘All the facts I am giving you, Mr. Fellows, are scientific facts. I have a number of patients who have moved from this district and now live quite some distance away. I still keep in contact with them. They will write or telephone and I can ease their troubles by my hypnotic influence.’

Everything he had told me so far confirmed what Val had said. A feeling of despair was laying hold on me.

‘How can Mary break away from Dokes’s influence? It is important for her to do so to tie up my plot.’

‘Realistically, Mr. Fellows, that is not possible. You have created a situation and you are stuck with it. Hypnotism in the hands of amateurs is extremely dangerous. Unless Dokes himself releases her or unless he dies, your heroine will remain in his power indefinitely.’

Grasping at straws, I asked, ‘Suppose she went to someone like you Doctor? Couldn’t this expert counteract Dokes’s influence?’

He shook his head.

‘I am afraid not, nor should he attempt to do so. I certainly wouldn’t. We have assumed, to make your plot realistic, that Dokes is no ordinary hypnotist. It then follows that a counter-influence from another hypnotist would create such a violent struggle in the subject’s mind that she would, without doubt, suffer very serious mental damage.’

I took out my handkerchief and wiped my sweating hands.

‘So the only solution would be for someone to persuade Dokes to release her?’

‘That or a timely heart attack. There is an old classic, Trilby...’

‘I know it. Svengali died of a heart attack and Trilby could no longer sing.’

‘Exactly Mr. Fellows!’

‘I wouldn’t want to use the same solution in my book.’

He lifted his old shoulders and again looked at his watch.

‘Well, if he couldn’t be persuaded to release her, then he would have to die. He could meet with an accident. I am sure you are inventive enough to dispose of Dokes, Mr. Fellows, without any suggestions from me.’ He smiled. ‘If it were a thriller you are writing, she could, of course, murder him couldn’t she?’