Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 4. Whole No. 215, October 1961

The Man Who Looked Like Napoleon by Robert Bloch

“A classical example of megalomania,” said Doctor Rand — and one of the finest stories by the author of PSYCHO.

The man who looked like Napoleon got out of the elevator on the fifth floor. He walked down the hall slowly, his head bent so that his forelock bobbed up and down. He might have brushed his hair back, but only if he took his hand from inside the front of his coat.

He couldn’t take his hand out now — later, perhaps, but not now. He was being watched.

All eyes were on the Emperor as he moved along the hall. No one was visible, but he knew they were there — behind the doors, watching. Watching and whispering. Well, let them whisper. He was protected by the Old Guard and the people were behind him, to the last man.

He came to the door. The sign on it read: G. K. Rand, M.D.

It was the right door. It was the right time. It was the right day — the anniversary of Austerlitz. The sun had been shining this morning, so he knew it was the right day. The sun of Austerlitz shone. And now he was coming here for his appointment — and because of something else.

A little pulse moved up and down in his throat when he thought of that something else. Well, he’d be able to handle things. Able was I ere I saw Elba—

He entered the office and the woman in white said, “Mr. Throng, good to see you — the doctor will be free in a moment. Please sit down.”

“Merci.”

She didn’t look at him directly, didn’t notice the way he glared when she called him Mr. Throng. He couldn’t help glaring when people called him that. He knew why they did it — they hated him and tried to pretend they didn’t recognize him. Well, they would have to recognize him now. He would tell the doctor.

“You may go in now.”

She didn’t even say “Sire”; she didn’t bow. But he ignored the insults and strode into the other room. He took short steps walking with dignity, still keeping his hand under his overcoat. Doctor Rand was sitting in his chair waiting for him, and he walked over and lay down on the couch and closed his eyes.

Doctor Rand was talking to him, and from far away he heard his own voice saying, “I’m fine, thanks,” and “Yes, I’m ready,” and “There’s a lot I must tell you.”

The doctor said, “Aren’t you going to take off your coat before you begin?” — but he shook his head without opening his eyes. He liked it better this way, with his coat on and his eyes closed. Then there were epaulettes on the coat, and underneath was the uniform of a colonel of artillery, the one he had worn ever since 1802, ever since Josephine had—

“Just relax now,” said the doctor. “You know how to do it. Say whatever comes into your mind.”

The doctor was master here. So begin. Let nothing interfere, let no man say him nay.

“Ney,” he said. “Peter Ney. Marshal of France. Yet he denied me before my return from Elba. He said nay to me. Peter denied me. He denied Our Lord. Peter denied Our Lord, and I was Peter Ney’s Lord, come to redeem all France.

“Why don’t they tell the truth, Doctor? I wrote them of my escape to America. I can show you the letter. I told them to go to Paris and look into the Tomb. They’d find it empty and then they’d know. The Tomb was empty after the third day. Read your Bible.”

He paused. Doctor Rand prompted. “Please, Mr. Throng. You aren’t letting yourself go. Just say words — not sentences or thoughts. You understand, we’ve been all through this before. I want you to say just what comes into your mind—”

It was no use. He could see that now. He sat up on the couch and opened his eyes, swinging around until he could face Doctor Rand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to give this up. You can’t help me.”

“If you’d only take my suggestion,” the Doctor said softly. “Arrange to go away for six months. I could recommend a nice private Sana—”

He interrupted the doctor quickly. “So that’s it. History repeats itself. You want me to abdicate, go to St. Helena.” He laughed grimly, and the laugh abruptly soared to a falsetto giggle.

The doctor shrugged. “It’s the sensible solution, Mr. Throng. I think I can speak frankly to you. This is getting out of hand. We haven’t arrived at the adjustment I hoped for. You seem to be retreating from reality and—”

Retreating. He was rubbing it in about Russia again. But that had not been a retreat. Winter, and the firing of Moscow — how could he be held responsible for things like that? He wasn’t responsible. That was the answer. He just wasn’t responsible any more. That’s what they had told him last week down at the office, when they fired him. The doctor didn’t know about that part yet. And there were a lot of other things the Doctor didn’t know, either. He found himself shouting.

“You’re a fool, Doctor! It is you who refuses to face the truth. You earn a living by telling everyone who comes in here he’s crazy. That’s your little scheme and I see through it. No crazy ones and there’d be no business for men like you, would there? That’s how it works, isn’t it, Doctor?”

The nurse peeked into the room and the doctor nodded. She said, “Please, there are people waiting. I must ask you to restrain yourself, Mr. Throng.”

“Restraint, eh?” he said when she disappeared again. “I know all about restraint. Remember two years ago, I got a sample of restraint at the hospital when I had my concussion. They put me in a jacket without sleeves and strapped it up my back. If it hadn’t been for Josephine I’d still be rotting away in some damned asylum.”

The doctor patted his shoulder and he calmed down. His voice dropped. He had to explain once more.

“Why don’t you admit the truth, Doctor? Admit that I’m a product of reincarnation. There’s no accident or coincidence about the way I look, though I didn’t recognize myself until after the automobile accident. But it all ties in, doesn’t it? Didn’t I marry a woman named Josephine? And you know my family history. I’m a Corsican — I proved that to you. It’s simple reincarnation, Doctor.

“All my life I moved in a dream — until that accident. Then I had time to lie there and think while my head healed up. Even when they put me in the psycho ward I knew exactly what I was doing. I let them keep me there so I could work things out in my mind, until I was absolutely sure it all made sense. Don’t you see now, Doctor?”

Doctor Rand rose. “Really, Mr. Throng, you’re not making the progress your wife hoped for when she suggested that you visit me. With your permission I’d like to speak to her again about this.”

“Go ahead. Why don’t you call her now? You have my house phone number.”

He sat there grinning as the doctor dialed, waited, and finally replaced the phone.

“No answer, is there? I could have told you that. I was going to tell you, anyway. That’s really why I came here today — to tell you. History repeats itself, Doctor. You see, I finally forced the issue. This morning I got rid of Josephine.”

“You’re divorcing her?”

“I wanted to. Believe me I did. I begged and pleaded with her. I told her it was long past time. I must have children, an heir. It’s written in History. But she refused to consider divorce — she absolutely refused. And so I got rid of her.”

“You—”

As the doctor started to ring for the nurse, he stood up and pulled his hand out from under the overcoat. He brought the gun with it.

“Don’t do that, Doctor,” he said. “Just sit quietly. That’s better. Now I’m going to tell you all about it. Yes, I got rid of her this morning. You can’t stop History, but you can alter it.

“That’s the secret, Doctor. You can alter History, and this time things will be different. That’s the real reason for reincarnation. It gives a man a chance to improve on Destiny. And I have my chance now. No Waterloo this time!

“I started to change the pattern this morning, when I killed her. She’s lying on the bed at home now, but nobody knows. The police don’t know. Fouché will never discover her. I won’t tell. And you won’t tell. Because I’m going to kill you, too.”

He moved the gun up, stepped closer. The doctor was watching him, but he must be believing at last, because he didn’t stir. He just sat there and listened while the truth came out.

“You see, I never recognized you before, you traitor. I didn’t realize the whole truth — that we are all reincarnations of our past selves. How could I guess that it was you who betrayed the Revolution and then betrayed me to the Allies and the Bourbons? If I’d killed you the first time I would have saved myself. This time I’ll make sure you’re out of the way. I recognize you now. Doctor Rand, is it? I know your real name — Talleyrand!”

The doctor glanced toward the door. Hadn’t the nurse looked in and out again just then, before he could stop her? That meant she was calling help. Yes, now he could hear footsteps and sounds in the outer office. She had summoned the police. But they couldn’t stop him; this wasn’t Waterloo, this time there wouldn’t be any Waterloo.

Doctor Rand turned and said, “Mr. Throng!” — but it was too late. He aimed carefully and felt his finger move along the trigger.

He closed his eyes, started to squeeze and pull. Everything was squeezing and pulling and Josephine was dead, Talleyrand must die, he would raise a new army and they’d come out of the grave for him, the Marshals of France: Lannes, Bessières, Davout, Marmont — all of them. Squeeze and pull — now!

Then he fired and Talleyrand was lying on the floor and there was shouting. A man in a blue uniform ran into the room and he had a gun too — he was the Enemy.

Squeeze and pull, run for the window, it was jammed, the glass splintered all around him, trapped, the Old Guard dies but never surrenders, aim and fire now, this is Waterloo after all, jump, black and falling — Vive l’Empereur...

The man who looked like Napoleon lay on the sidewalk. He was quite dead by the time Doctor Rand got downstairs.

Doctor Rand felt lucky that he had got off with only a flesh wound in the shoulder. Thank goodness the nurse had got the police in time!

He stared down at poor Mr. Throng and shook his head. A classical example of megalomania. It was almost a comic strip cliché — the man who thought he was Napoleon. Poor Throng, with his theories of reincarnation, his pitiful misinterpretation of coincidence!

Doctor Rand turned as the homicide men arrived. They were talking to the patrolman who had burst into the office and fired the shot which had saved his life and sent Mr. Throng tumbling out of the window.

He walked up to the patrolman and held out his hand. “Thanks,” he said. “If you hadn’t got him in time—”

“That’s my job,” said the patrolman. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“Well, I appreciate it, Mr.—”

“Wellington,” said the patrolman. “Wellington’s the name.”