‘I know. I’m afraid of that. But if I can’t go on trying my brain will fuse. Didn’t you get any clues at all?’
Vansittart murmured noncommittally. In fact the events had followed exactly the same pattern as on the three previous occasions. Again the attempt to reach the open roof had failed, and again there was no explanation for Forbis’s compulsive drive. Vansittart had first seen him only a month earlier, wandering about blankly on the observation roof of the new administration building at the medical school. How he had gained access to the roof Vansittart had never discovered. Luckily one of the janitors had telephoned him that a man was behaving suspiciously on the roof, and Vansittart had reached him just before the suicide attempt.
At least, that was what it appeared to be. Vansittart examined the little man’s placid grey features, his small shoulders and thin hands. There was something anonymous about him. He was minimal urban man, as near a nonentity as possible, without friends or family, a vague background of forgotten jobs and rooming houses. The sort of lonely, helpless man who might easily, in an unthinking act of despair, try to throw himself off a roof.
Yet there was something that puzzled Vansittart. Strictly, as a member of the university teaching staff, he should not have prescribed any treatment for Forbis and instead should have handed him over promptly to the police surgeon at the nearest station. But a curious nagging suspicion about Forbis had prevented him from doing so. Later, when he began to analyse Forbis, he found that his personality, or what there was of it, seemed remarkably well integrated, and that he had a realistic, pragmatic approach towards life which was completely unlike the overcompensated self-pity of most would-be suicides.
Nevertheless, he was driven by an insane compulsion, this apparently motiveless impulse to the 100th floor. Despite all Vansittart’s probings and tranquillizers Forbis had twice set off for the down-town sector of the city, picked a skyscraper and trapped himself in his eyrie on the 99th floor, on both occasions finally being rescued by Vansittart.
Deciding to play a. hunch, Vansittart asked: ‘Forbis, have you ever experimented with hypnosis?’
Forbis shifted himself drowsily, then shook his head. ‘Not as far as I can remember. Are you hinting that someone has given me a post-hypnotic suggestion, trying to make me throw myself off a roof?’
That was quick of you, Vansittart thought. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. But who would try? And what would be the point?’ He peered up at Vansittart. ‘Do you think someone did?’
Vansittart nodded. ‘Oh yes. There’s no doubt about it.’ He sat forward, swinging the lamp around for emphasis. ‘Listen, Forbis, some time ago, I can’t be sure how long, three months, perhaps six, someone planted a really powerful post-hypnotic command in your mind. The first part of it — “Go up to the 100th floor” — I’ve been able to uncover, but the rest is still buried. It’s that half of the command which worries me. One doesn’t need a morbid imagination to guess what it probably is.’
Forbis moistened his lips, shielding his eyes from the glare of the lamp. He felt too sluggish to be alarmed by what Vansittart had just said. Despite the doctor’s frank admission of failure, and his deliberate but rather nervous manner, he trusted Vansittart, and was confident he would find a solution. ‘It sounds insane,’ he commented. ‘But who would want to kill me? Can’t you cancel the whole thing out, erase the command?’
‘I’ve tried to, but without any success. I’ve been getting nowhere. It’s still as strong as ever — stronger, in fact, almost as if it were being reinforced. Where have you been during the last week? Who have you seen?’
Forbis shrugged, sitting up on one elbow. ‘No one. As far as I can remember, I’ve only been on the 99th floor.’ He searched the air dismally, then gave up. ‘You know, I can’t remember a single thing, just vague outlines of cafs and bus depots, it’s strange.’
‘A pity. I’d try to keep an eye on you, but I can’t spare the time. Bauer’s retirement hadn’t been expected for another year, there’s a tremendous amount of reorganization to be done.’ He drummed his fingers irritably on the desk. ‘I noticed you’ve still got some cash with you. Have you had a job?’
‘I think so — in the subway, perhaps. Or did I just take a train…?’ Forbis frowned with the effort of recollection. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor. Anyway, I’ve always heard that post-hypnotic suggestions couldn’t compel you to do anything that clashed with your basic personality.’
‘What is the basic personality, though? A skilful analyst can manipulate the psyche to suit the suggestion, magnify a small streak of self-destruction until it cleaves the entire personality like an axe splitting a log.’
