Puzzle for Fiends by Patrick Quentin

Mrs. Friend must somehow have guessed its existence and slipped it out of my pocket herself. Then I remembered Jan. Jan had taken off my pajamas to bathe me. Jan, with his passion for the detail of tidiness, had probably changed my handkerchief and pulled out the old woman’s one with it.
    I felt a mixture of exasperation at myself and despair. The handkerchief had been my only tangible clue to convince the outside world, if I ever reached it, that the Friends were my enemies. Now it was gone.
    Mrs. Friend had lost interest in the roses and, leaning forward, started unnecessarily to plump the pillows behind my head.
    “I’m not being a very good nurse, am I, dear? I’m always that way about everything, I’m afraid. I’m thrilled to begin with and then I get bored. Too bad you were unconscious when you first came home. I was such an impressive nurse then. I took your temperature and your pulse and sat with you and gave you all the right medicine at the right times. By the way, aren’t you supposed to be having something now?”
    On principle I was on my guard against any of Mrs. Friend’s medicines. “I feel fine,” I said.
    “I am glad, darling. But we’ll ask Nate when he comes. See what he says.”
    Nate came then. The young doctor strolled into the room. That morning he was in a formal grey suit but the general tweedy effect remained. He was carrying a green book which looked like a telephone book. He tossed it down on a table.
    “Hello, Nate,” said Mrs. Friend. “I hope Jan was able to understand how to work the chair.”
    “Sure. For someone who’s meant to be simple-minded, he’s a bright lad. If you ask me, he doesn’t learn English just because he can’t be bothered, not because he’s too stupid.” Dr. Croft was at the bedside giving me a long, serious look. “Well, Gordy, how do you feel?”
    “He still doesn’t quite trust us, Doctor,” said Mrs. Friend. “He’s being polite, but I can tell.”
    The tip of Dr. Croft’s tongue appeared between his white teeth. As a gesture, it was meant to indicate brisk, professional reflection. He succeeded only in looking seductive-the Sultan’s favorite inviting me to slip with him behind a Persian arras.
    “I’ve been thinking, Gordy. You’ve got this bug in your brain. I’m not worried. It’s perfectly natural for you to rebel against your identity. But we’ve got to clear it up, and the only way I can think of is to get in another doctor.”
    He grabbed a chair and, spinning it around, sat down on it back to front.
    “I know plenty of doctors with experience in matters like this, Gordy. I could bring my pick of three or four excellent men and they would all tell you the same thing. But,”—he examined his own dusky-skinned hand—“that wouldn’t do. Just because I’d selected a man, you’d suspect he was in cahoots with me, wouldn’t you? It’s crazy, of course, imagining a reputable doctor would risk his professional career trying to make you believe you’re someone you’re not. But that’s the way you’d react. Don’t feel bad about it, old man. You can’t help it. That’s just the way these things go.”
    Dr. Croft’s talent for candor was as disarming as Mrs. Friend’s.
    “So.” He smiled suddenly, got up and, crossing the room for the green book, brought it to the bedside. “Here’s what we do.” He handed me the book. “Here’s the telephone book. Look up the physicians in the classified selection. Pick any one at random. And we’ll let you call him yourself.” He patted my arm. “No chance at collusion there. That’s the way to do it, my boy. That’ll clear up this psychological block. Then we’ll have a free hand and your memory’ll be back before you can spell Aesculapius.”
    I took the telephone book. I looked at Dr. Croft and then at Mrs. Friend. They were both smiling affectionately. For a moment I was almost forced to believe that I had grotesquely exaggerated