The Strange Lapses of Larry Loman E-Book

Edgar Wallace

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 66

Beschreibung

The Strange Lapses of Larry Loman by Edgar Wallace is a captivating journey into the mind of a man plagued by mysterious and dangerous memory lapses. Larry Loman, a once-respected banker, finds himself at the center of a series of baffling incidents where he can't account for his actions. As he delves deeper into the enigma of his own mind, he uncovers a sinister plot that threatens not only his sanity but also his life. With every lapse, Larry unravels more secrets, each more perilous than the last. Can he piece together the truth before it's too late, or will his strange lapses lead to his ultimate downfall? Dive into this gripping tale of suspense, identity, and psychological intrigue.

Leseprobe

The Strange Lapses of Larry Loman

Author: Edgar Wallace

Edited by: Seif Moawad

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq eBookstore

First published in The Grand Magazine, September 1917

Reprinted in The Popular Magazine, April 7, 1918

No part of this publication may be reproduced whole or in part in any form without the prior written permission of the author

All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

The Strange Lapses of Larry Loman

I. — THE CRIME TRUST

II. — THE AFFAIR OF THE STOKEHOLE

III. — THE CURE

Landmarks

The Council of Justice

Cover

I. — THE CRIME TRUST

First published in The Grand Magazine, September 1917

Reprinted in The Popular Magazine, April 7, 1918

Sir George Grayborn leaned back in his chair and looked from the young man who sat at the other side of his desk to the notes on pulse, respiration, reflexes, et cetera, he had scribbled on his pad.

“Well?” Larry Loman’s tone was a little truculent.

“My dear sir,” said Sir George slowly, “yours is a very peculiar case, and I hardly know what to advise you.”

“Do you think I am going mad?” asked the young man with a certain cheerfulness.

He took a gold cigarette case from his pocket and carefully extracted and lit a cigarette.

“I suppose I shan’t horrify your subsequent patients?”

Sir George smiled.

“No, you won’t horrify them, and you can’t horrify me. I recognize in you a unique specimen of the human race apart from being a very interesting case, and I am grateful to the circumstances which brought you here at all.”

“It was rather a fluke,” laughed Larry, “Everybody knows—that is to say, everybody who is interested in me—that my memory has been going all wrong, and, knowing this, some unknown friend had sent me a copy of your work on ‘Mnemotechny.’”

The physician inclined his head.

“I had heard of you, of course,” he said politely. “In our profession one is obliged to keep in-touch with current happenings.”

“Honestly, Sir George,” interrupted the young man, growing serious of a sudden, “is there anything radically wrong with me?”

The physician nodded.

“Yes and no,” he said. “I gather that somewhere in your wanderings you have struck a very bad malaria patch.”

“That is right,” nodded the other; “up in the Aruwimi country, four years ago. I contracted there all kinds of’ fever. Is there any symptom of malaria?”

“No,” said the other carefully, “not especially, but your mental condition is one which frequently follows either a bad fever or a bad bout of nerves.”

“You can cut out all the nerve theories,” said the young man with decision, “and put it down to fever. The only thing I am worried about is this.” He leaned over the table and emphasized each point by tapping a little tattoo upon the immaculate blotting pad of the consultant. “I am up to my eyes in work—serious and dangerous work. I want all my wits about me because I have a tricky crowd to deal with. Now, if I am not responsible for my actions——”

“Believe me,” said Sir George, “you will always be responsible for your actions. The only thing is—you will not remember everything you do. You are suffering from periodic amnesia, which does not seem to be merely an instance of amnesic aphasia. You will find from time to time whole periods, probably for four or five hours, of your day wiped out of your recollection.”

“You mean to say that I shall wake up one fine morning and forget what happened the previous evening?”

Sir George nodded.

“And more than that. You may go out one day and retain a perfect recollection of what you do until, say, twelve o’clock. You will be able to recall vividly everything that happened from four o’clock onward, but the period between twelve and four, or whatever time the attack occupies, will be an absolute blank. It may last for four, five, or six hours. It may even last a day. You will be perfectly rational—just as rational as you are now—but whatever the period is will be blotted entirely from your recollection.”

He rose, walked to his bookcase, and took down a small skull, and, placing it upon the writing table, picked up a pencil and traced an irregular patch upon the whitened bones.

“Behind here,” he said, “is what is known as ‘Brochia’s Convolution,’ that department of the brain which has to deal with memory. A portion of that convolution in your head is diseased.”

“That sounds rather alarming,” said the young man, with a frown.

“It is not quite so alarming as it sounds, because it need not be a chronic disease, and it is quite possible, by a course of treatment, to restore yourself to a normal state. See me after every bad lapse. You ought, of course, to take a holiday.”

“That is impossible,” said the young man, shaking his head; “wholly impossible! If you assure me that I shan’t make a fool of myself during the period of lapse——”

“I can only assure you that you will be normal,” said the professor, “and if you are liable to make a fool of yourself in normal moments you will certainly be just as foolish. It will only be in your recollection of happenings that you will fail—especially of those happenings which begin with some event of an exciting character. You probably experience a curious, buzzing noise in your ears, and that is about your last recollection before your mind goes blank? I thought so. I suggest that you should carry with you a small notebook, and acquire the habit of jotting down from hour to hour a little diary of impressions, engagements, et cetera.”

Larry shook his head as he rose to go.

“That also is impossible,” he said. “I dare not keep written records—especially of this case.”

“I will not be so indiscreet as to inquire what the ‘case’ is,” said Sir George with a little smile as he led the way to the door.

“That’s the dickens of it!” said Larry ruefully. “Not that it is a secret,” he added quickly. “Even Harley Street has heard of ‘The Trust.’”

The physician raised his eyebrows.

“Surely you aren’t a believer in the existence of a romantic robber band?” he said. “I thought it was a newspaper fabrication. They seem to credit every crime, where the perpetrator is not brought to justice, to that organization.”

“I not only ‘believe,’” said the other emphatically, “but I know, and unfortunately I am the only man who has all the strings of the counter-work in my hand. I told you I could not keep records, and I will explain why. How many times do you think my bureau has been burgled? Six times in four months! Every document I have has been read and reread. Even the record office of the department has not escaped attention. I tell you, The Trust is a very real organization which has bought up the services of every professional criminal in England. Look at the crime tables in the commissioner’s annual report. A fifty-percent decrease of serious burglaries in point of numbers, an eight- percent decrease of ladder larcenies, a ninety-per-cent decrease in big-gang forgeries. Why? Because the report only shows convictions, and those men are no longer caught. They are in the service of The Trust. They get more money than they ever made before. The job is made safer, and if they are caught they don’t have to make a collection among their friends to secure a third-rate lawyer; they have the best legal advice that money can buy. Goddard, the burglar, was defended by an ex-attorney general at the Winchester Assizes the other day, and the fees must have run into a thousand pounds! If they are sent to prison, their wives are in receipt of a handsome separation allowance. Do you wonder that The Trust is recruiting the best men in the business? We are fighting the combine, and we ought to beat it—if my infernal memory had not started playing tricks!”

He threw out his hands in a gesture of despair.