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 happened 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
