of yours, a bad fault, and it’s in the construction. But let’s leave that for the moment and you’ll see where all this is leading.’
He broke off as a waiter arrived with the coffee, resuming:
‘Now I have a strong dramatic sense and a good working knowledge of literary construction. As I said I’ve also tried short stories, and though they’ve not been an absolute failure, I couldn’t say they’ve been really successful. On the whole, I should think, yours have done better. And I know why. It’s my style. I try to produce a tale, say, of a shipwreck. It is intended to be full of human feeling, to grip the reader’s emotion. But it doesn’t. It reads like a Board of Trade report. Dry, you understand; not interesting. Now, Mr Cheyne,’ he sat up in his chair once more, this time almost in excitement, ‘you see what I’m coming to. Why should we not collaborate? Let me do the plots and you clothe them. Between us we have all the essentials for success.’
He sat back and then saw the coffee.
‘I say,’ he exclaimed, ‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t notice this had come. I hope it’s not cold.’ He felt the coffee pot. ‘What about a liqueur? I’ll ring for one. Or rather,’ he paused suddenly. ‘I think I’ve got something perhaps even better here.’ He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a small flask. ‘Old Cognac,’ he said. ‘You’ll try a little?’
He poured some of the golden brown liquid into Cheyne’s cup and was about to do the same into his own when he was seized with a sudden fit of choking coughing. He had to put down the flask while he quivered and shook with the paroxysm. Presently he recovered, breathless.
‘Since I was wounded,’ he gasped apologetically, ‘I’ve been taken like that. The doctors say it’s purely nervous—that my throat and lungs and so on are perfectly sound. Strange the different ways this war leaves its mark!’
He picked up the flask, poured a liberal measure of its contents into his own cup, drank off the contents with evident relish and continued:
‘What I had in my mind, if you’ll consider it, was a series of short stories—say a dozen—on the merchant marine in the war. This is the spring of 1920. Soon no one will read anything connected with the war, but I think that time has scarcely come yet. I have fair knowledge of the subject and yours of course is first hand. What do you say? I will supply twelve plots or incidents and you will clothe them with, say, five thousand words each. We shall sell them to The Strand or some of those monthlies, and afterwards publish them as a collection in book form.’
‘By Jove!’ Cheyne said as he slowly sipped his coffee. ‘The idea’s rather tempting. But I wish I could feel as sure as you seem to do about my own style. I’m afraid I don’t believe that it is as good as you pretend.’
‘Mr Cheyne,’ Parkes answered deliberately, ‘you may take my word for it that I know what I am talking about. I shouldn’t have come to you if I weren’t sure. Very few people are satisfied with their own work. No matter how good it is it falls short of the standard they have set in their minds. It is another case in which the outsider sees most of the game.’
Cheyne felt attracted by the proposal. He had written in all seventeen short stories, and of these only three had been accepted and those by inferior magazines. If it would lead to success he would be only too delighted to collaborate with this pleasant stranger. It wasn’t so much the money—though he was not such a fool as to make light of that part of it. It was success he wanted, acceptance of his stuff by good periodicals, a name and a standing among his fellow craftsmen.
‘Let’s see what it would mean,’ he heard Parkes’s voice, and it seemed strangely faint and distant. ‘I suppose, given the synopses, you could finish a couple of tales per week—say, six weeks for the lot. And with luck we should sell for £50 to £100 each—say £500 for your six weeks work, or nearly £100 per week. And there might be any amount more for the book rights, filming and so on. Does the idea appeal to you, Mr Cheyne?’
Cheyne did not reply. He was feeling sleepy. Did the idea appeal to him? Yes. No. Did it? Did the idea … the idea … Drat this sleepiness! What was he thinking of? Did the idea … What idea? … He gave up the struggle and, leaning back in his chair, sank into a profound and dreamless slumber.
Ages of time passed and Cheyne slowly struggled back into consciousness. As soon as he was sufficiently awake to analyse his sensations he realised that his brain was dull and clouded and his limbs heavy as lead. He was, however, physically comfortable, and he was content to allow his body to remain relaxed and motionless and his mind to dream idly on without conscious thought. But his energy gradually returned and at last he opened his eyes.
He was lying, dressed, on a bed in a strange room. Apparently it was night, for the room was dark save for the light on the window blind which seemed to come from a street lamp without. Vaguely interested, he closed his eyes again, and when he reopened them the room was lighted, up and a man was standing beside the bed.
‘Ah,’ the man said, ‘you’re awake. Better, I hope?’
‘I don’t know,’ Cheyne answered, and it seemed to him as if someone else was speaking. ‘Have I been ill?’
‘No,’ the man returned, ‘Not that I know of. But you’ve slept like a log for nearly six hours.’
This was confusing. Cheyne paused to take in the idea, but it eluded him, then giving up the effort, he asked another question.
‘Where am I?’
‘In the Edgecombe: the Edgecombe Hotel, you know, in Plymouth. I am the manager.’
Ah, yes! It was coming back to him. He had gone there for lunch—was it today or a century ago?—and he had met that literary man—what was his name? He couldn’t remember. And they had had lunch and the man had made some suggestion about his writing. Yes, of course! It was all coming back now. The man had wanted to collaborate with him. And during the conversation he had suddenly felt sleepy. He supposed he must have fallen asleep then, for he remembered nothing more. But why had he felt sleepy like that? Suddenly his brain cleared and he sat up sharply.
‘What’s happened, Mr Jesse? I never did anything like this before?’
‘No?’ the manager answered. ‘I dare say not. I’ll tell you what has happened to you, Mr Cheyne, though I’m sorry to have to admit it could have taken place in my hotel. You’ve been drugged. That’s what has happened.’
Cheyne stared incredulously.
‘Good Lord!’ he ejaculated. ‘Drugged! By—not by that literary man, surely?’ He paused, in amazed consternation and then his hand flew to his pocket. ‘My money,’ he gasped. ‘I had over £100 in my pocket. Just got it at the bank.’ He drew out a pocket-book and examined it hurriedly. ‘No,’ he went on more quietly. ‘It’s all right.’ He took from it a bundle of notes and with care counted them. ‘A hundred and eight pounds. That’s quite correct. My watch? No, it’s here.’ He got up unsteadily, and rapidly went through his pockets. ‘Nothing missing anyway. Are you sure I was drugged? I don’t understand the thing a little bit.’
‘I am afraid there is no doubt about it. You seemed so ill that I sent for a doctor. He said you were suffering from the effects of a drug, but were in no danger and would be all right in a few hours. He advised that you be left quietly to sleep it off.’
Cheyne rubbed his hand over his eyes.
‘I can’t understand
