Hoag recoiled at the sight of the gun. “Mr. Randall!”
“Hoag,” Randall demanded, “are you a devil?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“‘The Bird is Cruel!'”
Hoag did not cover his face; he simply looked confused and a bit more apprehensive.
“O.K.,” decided Randall. “You pass. If you are a devil, you’re my kind of a devil. Come on — I’ve got Potbury locked up, and I want you to confront him.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because he is a devil — a Son of the Bird. And they’re afraid of you. Come on!” He urged Hoag into the bedroom, continuing with, “The mistake I made was in not being willing to believe in something when it happened to me. Those weren’t dreams.” He pounded on the door with the muzzle of the gun. “Potbury! Hoag is here. Do what I want and you may get out of it alive.”
“What do you want of him?” Hoag said nervously.
“Her — of course.”
“Oh — ” Randall pounded again, then turned to Hoag and whispered, “If I open the door, will you confront him? I’ll be right alongside you.”
Hoag gulped, looked at Cynthia, and answered, “Of course.”
The bath was empty; it had no window, nor any other reasonable exit, but the means by which Potbury had escaped were evident. The surface of the mirror had been scraped free of enamel, with a razor blade.
They risked the seven years of bad luck and broke the mirror. Had he known how to do so, Randall would have swarmed through and tackled them all; lacking the knowledge it seemed wiser to close the leak.
After that there was nothing to do. They discussed it, over the silent form of Randall’s wife, but there was nothing to do. They were not magicians. Hoag went into the living room presently, unwilling to disturb the privacy of Randall’s despair but also unwilling to desert him entirely. He looked in on him from time to time. It was on one such occasion that he noticed a small black bag half under the bed and recognized it for what it was — a doctor’s kit. He went in and picked it up. “Ed,” he asked, “have you looked at this?”
“At what?” Randall looked up with dull eyes, and read the inscription, embossed in well-worn gold letters on the flap:
POTIPHAR T. POTBURY, M.D.
“Huh?”
“He must have left it behind.”
“He didn’t have a chance to take it.” Randall took it from Hoag and opened it — a stethoscope, head forceps, clamps, needles, an assortment of vials in a case, the usual props of a G.P.’s work. There was one prescription bottle as well; Randall took it out and read the prescription. “Hoag, look at this.”
POISON!
This Prescription Can Not Be Refilled
MRS. RANDALL — TAKE AS PRESCRIBED
BONTON CUTRATE PHARMACY
“Was he trying to poison her?” Hoag suggested. “I don’t think so — that’s the usual narcotic warning. But I want to see what it is.” He shook it. It seemed empty. He started to break the seal.
“Careful!” Hoag warned.
“I will be.” He held it well back from his face to open it, then sniffed it very cautiously. It gave up a fragrance, subtle and infinitely sweet.
“Teddy?” He whirled around, dropping the bottle. It was indeed Cynthia, eyelids fluttering. “Don’t promise them anything, Teddy!” She sighed and her eyes closed again.
“‘The Bird is Cruel!’ ” she whispered.
IX
“Your memory lapses are the key to the whole thing,” Randall was insisting. “If we knew what you do in the daytime, if we knew your profession, we would know why the Sons of the Bird are out to get you. More than that, we would know how to fight them — for they are obviously afraid of you.”
Hoag turned to Cynthia. “What do you think, Mrs. Randall?”
“I think Teddy is right. If I knew enough about hypnotism, we would try that — but I don’t, so scopolamine is the next best bet. Are you willing to try it?”
“If you say so, yes.”
“Get the kit, Teddy.” She jumped down from where she had been perched, on the edge of his desk. He put out a hand to catch her.