“You misunderstand me, Mr. Queen. I’m not being obstructive.” Wallace sounded earnest. “I can’t tell you gentlemen where I come from because I don’t know myself. I’m one of those interesting cases you read about in the papers. An amnesia victim.”
Keats glanced at Ellery. Then he rose. “Okay, Wallace. That’s all.”
“But that’s not all, Lieutenant. This isn’t something I can’t prove. In fact, now that you’ve brought it up, I insist on proving it. You’re making a recording of this, of course? I would like this to go into the record.”
Keats waved his hand. His eyes were intent and a little admiring.
“One day about a year and a half ago ― the exact date was January the sixteenth of last year ― I found myself in Las Vegas, Nevada, on a street corner,” said Alfred Wallace calmly. “I had no idea what my name was, where I came from, how I had got there. I was dressed in filthy clothing which didn’t fit me and I was rather banged up. I looked through my pockets and found nothing ― no wallet, no letters, no identification of any kind. There was no money, not even coins. I went up to a policeman and told him of the fix I was in, and he took me to a police station. They asked me questions and had a doctor in to examine me. The doctor’s name was Dr. James V. Cutbill, and his address was 515 North Fifth Street, Las Vegas. Have you got that, Lieutenant?
“Dr. Cutbill said I was obviously a man of education and good background, about fifty years old or possibly older. He said it looked like amnesia to him. I was in perfect physical condition, and from my speech a North American. Unfortunately, Dr. Cutbill said, there were no identifying marks of any kind on my body and no operation scars, though he did say I’d had my tonsils and adenoids out probably as a child. This, of course, was no clue. There were some fillings in my teeth, of good quality, he thought, but I’d had no major dental work done. The police photographed me and sent my picture and a description to all Missing Persons Bureaus in the United States. There must be one on file in Los Angeles, Lieutenant Keats.”
Keats grew fiery red. “I’ll check that,” he growled. “And lots more.”
“I’m sure you will, Lieutenant,” said Wallace with a smile. “The Las Vegas police fixed me up with some clean clothes and found me a job as a handyman in a motel, where I got my board and a place to sleep, and a few dollars a week. The name of the motel is the 711, on Route 91 just north of town. I worked there for about a month, saving my pay. The Las Vegas police told me no one of my description was listed as missing anywhere in the country. So I gave up the job and hitchhiked into California.
“In April of last year I found myself in Los Angeles. I stayed at the Y, the Downtown Branch on South Hope Street; I’m surprised you didn’t run across my name on their register, Lieutenant, or haven’t you tried to trace me? ― and I got busy looking for employment. I’d found out I could operate a typewriter and knew shorthand, that I was good at figures ― apparently I’d had business training of some sort as well as a rather extensive education ― and when I saw an ad for a secretarial companion-nurse job to an incapacitated businessman, I answered it. I told Mr. Priam the whole story, just as I’ve told it to you. It seems he’d been having trouble keeping people in recent years and, after checking back on my story, he took me on for a month’s trial. And here,” said Wallace with the same smile, “here I am, still on the job.”
“Priam took you on without references?” said Keats, doodling. “How desperate was he?”