“It isn’t,” he agreed. “Especially if it isn’t there.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you about it,” he replied. “A chappie here got a fish-bone stuck in his throat. Of course, it didn’t stay there. They never do. But the prick in his soft palate did, and he was convinced that the bone was still there. So he sent for a doctor. Doctor came, looked in his throat. Couldn’t see any fish-bone, and, like a fool, said so. Tried to persuade the patient that there was no bone there. But the chappie said it was his throat and he knew better. He could feel it there. So he sent for another doctor and the same thing happened. No go. He had four different doctors and they hadn’t the sense of an infant among them. Then he sent for me.
“Now, as soon as I heard how the land lay, I nipped into the surgery and got a fish-bone that I keep there in a pill-box for emergencies, stuck it into the jaws of a pair of throat forceps, and off I went. ‘Show me whereabouts it is,’ says I, handing him a probe to point with. He showed me the spot and nearly swallowed the probe. ‘All right,’ said I. ‘I can see it. Just shut your eyes and open your mouth wide and I will have it out in a jiffy.’ I popped the forceps into his mouth, gave a gentle prod with the point on the soft palate; patient hollered out, ‘Hoo!’ I whisked out the forceps and held them up before his eyes with the fish-bone grasped in their jaws.
“ ‘Ha!’ says he. ‘Thank Gawd! What a relief! I can swallow quite well now.’ And so he could. It was a case of suggestion and counter-suggestion. Imaginary fish-bone cured by imaginary extraction. And it made my local reputation. Well, good-bye, old chap. I’ve got a visit to make here. Come in one evening and smoke a pipe with me. You know where to find me. And take my advice to heart. Never go to extract a fish-bone without one in your pocket; and it isn’t a bad thing to keep a dried earwig by you. I do. People will persist in thinking they’ve got one in their ears. So long. Look me up soon,” and with a farewell flourish of the umbrella, he turned to a shabby street door and began to work the top bell-pull as if it were the handle of an air-pump.
I went on my way, not a little amused by my friend’s genial cynicism, nor entirely uninstructed. For “there is a soul of truth in things erroneous,” as the philosopher reminds us; and if the precepts of Solomon Usher did not sound the highest note of professional ethics, they were based on a very solid foundation of worldly wisdom.
When, having finished my short round of visits, I arrived at my temporary home, I was informed by the housemaid in a mysterious whisper that a police officer was waiting to see me. “Name of Follett,” she added. “He’s waiting in the consulting-room.”
Proceeding thither, I found my friend, the Highgate inspector, with one eye closed, standing before a card of test-types that hung on the wall. We greeted one another cordially and then, as I looked at him inquiringly, he produced from his pocket without remark an official envelope from which he extracted a coin, a silver pencil-case and a button. These objects he laid on the writing-table and silently directed my attention to them. A little puzzled by his manner I picked up the coin and examined it attentively. It was a Charles the Second guinea dated 1663, very clean and bright and in remarkably perfect preservation. But I could not see that it was any concern of mine.
“It is a beautiful coin,” I remarked; “but what about it?”
“It doesn’t belong to you, then?” he asked.