William blinked again. His hand went up to his head and felt it gingerly. He said,

‘I don’t know – ’

‘My name’s Abbott – Frank Abbott – Detective Sergeant Frank Abbott. Does that strike a chord?’

‘I’m afraid it doesn’t.’

He took a step sideways, shut his eyes, and caught at the lamp-post. By the time Frank reached him he was straightening up again. He grinned suddenly and said,

‘I’m all right. I think I’ll sit down on a doorstep.’

The grin had something very engaging about it. Frank slid an arm around him.

‘We can do better than a doorstep. There’s a police station just around the corner. If I give you a hand, can you get as far as that?’

There was another grin.

They set out, and after one or two halts arrived. William sank into a chair and closed his eyes. He was aware of people talking, but he wasn’t interested. It would have been agreeable if someone could have unscrewed his head and put it away in a nice dark cupboard. For the moment it was of very little use to him, and he felt as if he would do better without it.

Somebody brought him a cup of hot tea. He felt a good deal better after he had drunk it. They wanted to know his name and address.

‘William Smith, Tattlecombe’s Toy Bazaar, Ellery Street, N.W. ’

‘Do you live there?’

‘Over the shop. Mr. Tattlecombe is away ill and I’m in charge. He’s at his sister’s – Mrs. Salt, 176 Selby Street, just round the corner. I’ve been out seeing him.’

The Police Inspector loomed. He was a large man. He had a large voice. He said,

‘Have you any idea who it was that hit you?’

‘None whatever.’

‘Can you think of anyone who would be likely to hit you?’

‘Not a soul.’

‘You say you were visiting your employer. Had you money on you – cash for wages – anything like that?’

‘Not a bean.’

William shut his eyes again. They talked. The Inspector’s voice reminded him of a troop-carrying plane.

Then Frank Abbott was saying,

‘What do you feel like about getting home? Is there anyone there to look after you?’

‘Oh, yes, there’s Mrs. Bastable – Mr. Tattlecombe’s housekeeper.’

‘Well, if you feel like it, they’ll ring up for a taxi and I’ll see you home.’

William blinked and said, ‘I’m quite all right.’ Then he grinned that rather boyish grin. ‘It’s frightfully good of you, But you needn’t bother – the head is very thick.’

Presently he found himself in the taxi with Frank, and quite suddenly he wanted to talk, because it came to him that this was a Scotland Yard detective, and that he had said something about having seen him before. He passed from thought to speech without knowing quite how or when.

‘You did, didn’t you?’

‘I did what?’

‘Say you’d seen me before.’

‘Yes, I did. And I have.’

‘I wish you’d tell me how – and when – and where.’

‘Well, I don’t know – it was a good long time ago.’

‘How long?’

‘Oh, quite a long time. Pre-war, I should say.’

William’s hand came out and gripped his arm.

‘I say – are you sure about that?’

‘No – I just think so.’

The grip on his arm continued. William said in an urgent voice,

‘Do you remember where it was?’

‘Oh, town. The Luxe, I think – yes, definitely the Luxe. Yes, that was it – a fairly big do at the Luxe. You danced with a girl in a gold dress, very easy on the eye.’

‘What was her name?’

‘I don’t know – I don’t think I ever did know. She appeared to be booked about twenty deep.’

‘Abbott – do you remember my name?’

‘My dear chap – ’

William Smith took his hand away and put it to his head.

‘Because, you see, I don’t.’

Frank said, ‘Steady on! You gave your name just now – William Smith.’

‘Yes, that’s what I came out of the war with. What I want to know is how I went in. I don’t remember anything before ’42 – not anything at all. I don’t know who I am or where I came from. In the middle of ’42 I found myself in a Prisoners of War camp with an identity disc which said I was William Smith, and that’s all I know about it. So if you can remember my name – ’

Frank Abbott said, ‘Bill – ’ and stuck.

‘Bill what?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sure about the Bill, because it came into my head as soon as I saw you under the street-lamp before you spoke or anything.’

William began to nod, and then stopped because it hurt.

‘Bill feels all right, and William feels all right, but Smith doesn’t. Anyhow I’m not the William Smith whose identity disc I came round with. I finished up in a concentration camp, and after I got released, and got home, and got out of hospital I went to look up William Smith’s next of kin – said to be a sister, living in Stepney. She’d been bombed out and no one knew where she’d gone. But there were neighbours, and they all said I wasn’t William Smith. For one thing they were real bred-in-the-bone Cockneys, and they despised my accent. They were awfully nice people and too polite to say so, but one of the boys gave it away. He said I talked like a B.B.C. announcer. None of them could tell me where the sister had gone. I didn’t get the feeling that she was the kind of person who would be missed, and they were all so sure I wasn’t William Smith that I didn’t really feel I need go on looking for her. If you could remember anyone who might possibly know who I was – ’

There was quite a long pause. The street-lights shone into the taxi and were gone again – one down, t’other come on. First in a bright glare, and then in deep shade, William saw his companion come and go. The face which continually emerged and disappeared again was quite unknown to him, yet on the other side of the gap which cut him off from the time when he hadn’t been William Smith they had met and spoken. They must have known the same people. Perhaps it was the blow on his head which made him feel giddy when he thought about this. It was a little like Robinson Crusoe finding the footprint on the desert island. He looked at Frank, and thought he was the sort of chap you would remember if you remembered anything. High-toned and classy – oh, definitely. Fair hair slicked back till you could pretty well see your face in it – he remembered that at the station. Long nose in a long, pale face. Very good tailor-

Curiously enough, it was at this point that memory stirred, if faintly. Somewhere in William’s mind was the consciousness that he hadn’t always worn the sort of clothes he was wearing now. They were good durable reach-me-downs, but – memory looked vaguely back to Savile Row.

Frank Abbott said, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t seem to get any farther than Bill.’

William got up next day with a good-sized lump on his head, but not otherwise any the worse. He wouldn’t have told Mrs. Bastable anything about it, only unfortunately she happened to be looking out of her bedroom window and not only saw him come home in a taxi, but having immediately thrown up the sash, she heard Detective Sergeant Abbott ask him it he was sure he would be all right now. After which she met William on the stairs in a condition of palpitant curiosity. If the injurious conjecture that he had been brought home drunk really did present itself, it was immediately dispelled. She was all concern, she fluttered, she proffered a variety of nostrums, and she certainly didn’t intend to go to bed, or to allow him to go to bed, until she had been told all about it. She punctuated the narrative with little cries of ‘Fancy that!’ and ‘Oh, good gracious me!’

When he had finished she was all of a twitter.

‘Well, there now – what an escape! First Mr. Tattlecombe, and then – whatever should we have done if you’d been taken?’

‘Well, I wasn’t.’

Mrs. Bastable heaved a sigh.

‘You might have been. It’s given me the goose flesh all over. Only fancy if that had been the police come to break the news, and Mr. Tattlecombe still in his splint! Oh, my gracious me – whatever would have happened?’