Yesterday's Doors
a novelet by
ARTHUR J. BURKS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Thrilling Wonder Stories October 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
CHAPTER I
Lost Memory
It started off like an old story. It happens every day or so inNew York City. A man or woman, tired of living, becomes an amnesiavictim and loses himself or herself in the crowd. A few stay lost. Afew persist in not remembering as long as they can. Many are reallyamnesiacs.
I didn't know my name, or whether I had one. I didn't know how old Iwas, though I guessed about forty. I didn't remember the clothes Iwore, or my face in the mirror. I had no memory of yesterday or anyday, and even the events of just an hour ago slipped away from me. Iknew that something was radically wrong.
How wrong it was and how long the condition had lasted I had noway of surmising. I just know I found myself in a dark room, beinginterrogated like a criminal, by a group of men in uniform. Later Ilearned that the room was somewhere on Centre Street, in downtownManhattan. The policemen and men in plainclothes I had never seenbefore. I never did know their names.
A grizzled man with three yellow stripes on his sleeve struck me withthe back of his hand, then the front.
"You deny that your name is Dean Hale? You deny that you killed MarianSlade, cut her body to pieces and pushed them into the sewer?"
"I deny nothing," I said dully, as if I were very tired. "I never heardof Marian Slade. I never heard of Dean Hale. I don't know who I am, orwhere I came from, or whether I ever cut anybody to pieces or not."
There was a concerted gasp from all present.
"Well, after all these hours, it develops you do have a tongue,and can use it. I thought we'd never hammer anything out of you."
So, for several hours, they had been working on me like this,"hammering" me, as the sergeant had just said—and though I now feltthat I had been much abused, I didn't remember so much as one of theblows that had been dealt me. I recite this to indicate the utterdepths of my "lostness." A man, even a victim of amnesia, shouldremember when he has been beaten half to death.
"I don't know anything about myself," I said.
"Now don't go a-trying that amnesia gag on us," said one of the men inplainclothes.
Just then another party entered the darkroom, which was dark everywherebut where I sat under blazing electrics.
"He's not Dean Hale, has no record here at all," said the newcomer."His prints don't match with Hale's."
All I knew now was that I wasn't somebody named Dean Hale.
"He has to be somebody," said a plainclothes man, "Dean Hale ornot—and when we find out who, the fact will also remain that he killedMarian Slade."
How unreal the whole thing was to me. I realized no danger in myself inthese accusations. I forgot blows after they had been struck. I think Ieven forgot to feel the pain of them. Finally my inquisitors gave it up.
"We'll make a check in Missing Persons," someone said.
They didn't find me there, either, though they held me three dayswhile they checked. I forgot the three days, each of them, until longafter—until I had the pictures clearly enough in mind that I could setdown the facts as I am now doing. The police finally decided I wasn't amurderer, but