Oscar gripped the bars of the teller’s cage with clammy hands.
“No!” he croaked hoarsely, “there’s been a mistake. That wasn’t me you gave the money to, it was a man who is impersonating me.”
The teller frowned again.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Doodle,” he said. “You see, we checked your signature as a formality when you closed your account and we have it on file right now. It was yours, all right.” His tone suddenly became severe. “Would you care to take the matter up with our auditor?”
Oscar backed slightly away from the cage.
“No,” he whispered feebly, “I guess not. It’s — it’s my mistake. I just remembered.”
He turned and ducked out of the bank. Spots were whirling before his eyes. His job, girl and money gone! Where would this insane comedy end? A terrible unnerving thought struck him then and he felt his face stiffen with horror as its implications swept over him.
Supposing he wasn’t Oscar Doodle!
Maybe he was an amnesia victim! Maybe he just thought he was Oscar Doodle. If that were true, he was out of his mind, a lunatic. Possibly he had escaped from an asylum and the authorities were scouring the city for him this instant!
He skulked past the policeman at the corner with his hat pulled down over his face and his heart beating painfully fast. What if the policeman clapped him in jail and he found himself to be a wife-slayer or an axe-murderer?
None of these things was beyond the realm of possibility because if he wasn’t Oscar Doodle, he might be anyone; and that “anyone” might be anybody!
His head started to ache. Everything was so bewilderingly confused.
And then he remembered Chico, his smiling, brown-faced valet, and felt a surge of relief. The fact that he remembered Chico should prove that he was actually Oscar Doodle, and he suddenly felt that if he could get to Chico, have a cup of his incomparable beef broth and relax quietly in his comfortable chair he would be able to think his way out of this mess.
His anxiety to see Chico was so urgent that he forgot his usual economic scruples and took a cab to his apartment. He trotted quickly up the steps, feeling better every second. In his own quiet apartment, relaxed and comfortable, he’d feel like himself again.
He let himself in with his key and walked happily into his familiar, comfortable living room. There was a man sitting in his chair, smoking, and reading a newspaper, and when he put the newspaper down and glanced up, Oscar’s jaw dropped foolishly and the triphammers of panic started thudding at his brain again.
For this man was another twin!
Chapter III
The third twin was wearing Oscar’s dressing gown and his feet were comfortably shod in Oscar’s felt-lined slippers. He was sipping a glass of sherry and one of Oscar’s cigars was in his hand.
“What are you doing here?” Oscar blurted, but he had the horrible conviction that the question was superfluous.
The man in the chair looked at him with well-bred surprise.
“Where else would I be?” he asked, “This is my apartment. I think the question should be put to you. What are you doing here?”
“This isn’t your apartment,” Oscar wailed. “It’s mine. I pay the rent.”
“My good fellow, I’m afraid you’re suffering a slight delusion. I am Oscar Doodle. This is my apartment. I started for work this morning, but returned to nurse a slight cold, which is why I happen to be here now. If you’re satisfied I wish you’d leave me to my paper. You’ll find the door just behind you,” he added dryly.
“You can’t order me out of my own apartment,” Oscar cried frantically. He stared wildly at the glass of sherry in the man’s hand. “What do you mean drinking my wine? and smoking my cigars? You’re the one who’s going to get out!”
“Pardon, what is trouble, please?” a soft voice said from the doorway of the adjoining room.
“Ah, Chico,” the third twin murmured, “will you please show this gentleman to the door?”
Oscar wheeled to Chico, who stood in the doorway, a smile of confusion on his round, brown face.
“You know me, Chico,” he said imploringly.
Chico smiled in bewilderment and turned to the man in the chair.
“Look much like you Mr. Doodly,” he said.
“Yes, I noticed the resemblance,” the third twin said, “but I’m not flattered. Will you see that he finds the door all right?”
Chico moved toward Oscar.
“Please go now,” he said. “Mister Doodly say you must leave.”
“Chico!” Oscar cried, “look at me. I’m Mr. Doodle, your employer.”
“Please go now,” Chico repeated implacably.
Oscar’s shoulders sagged and he felt the lead weight of despair pressing in on his brain. What was there for him to do?
He turned and stumbled toward the door. Chico followed him and held the door, smiling politely.
“Come again,” he said, and closed the door firmly when Oscar passed through to the hall.
The enormity of this last shock numbed Oscar to the point that he was unable to make even an attempt to think. He wandered dazedly down the steps and onto the street, hardly conscious that he was moving.
He felt like a man without a country. Everything in his life, everything cherished and familiar had been stolen from him by these damnable twins, leaving him a homeless, jobless, penniless derelict. There was no one to whom he could turn, no place he could go for comfort and solace.
He plodded along miserably, wondering vaguely what would become of him. He was even too old for the army. No one wanted him, and there was no place he could call his own.
He walked aimlessly the rest of that day, not stopping for lunch or dinner, and when it became dark, he found himself in a strange part of the city, miles from his apartment. He realized that he was hungry and tired. He thought of Chico’s excellent meals, his wide, comfortable bed and a groan of pure anguish passed his lips.
Gone forever!
He counted his money and found that he had almost ten dollars in his wallet. He had to sleep so he stopped at the first hotel he came to, registered defiantly as Oscar Doodle, went up to his room and fell asleep on the bed without removing his clothes...
Oscar slept like a dead man, until he was awakened by a sharp, imperious knock on the door. He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness of the room, unable to imagine where he might be. Gradually the events of the day filtered into his mind and he struggled to a sitting position on the bed. The knock that awakened him was repeated; he turned on a light and walked to the door.
“Who is it?” he asked cautiously.
“Oscar Doodle?” a voice asked.
“Yes. What do you want?”
“We must see you. It is imperative. Please open the door.”
Against his better judgment Oscar unlocked the door, but before he could turn the knob, the door was shoved open and two men strode into the room.
Oscar fell back and stared at them with wide, astonished eyes. For they were two of the identically similar men who had entered his life the day before. They were his twins in every respect, except that instead of looking astonished, they wore expressions of grim anxiety.
One of them closed and locked the door while the other turned to him and waved to a chair.
“Sit down,” he ordered crisply, “we have quite a lot to say to you.”
Oscar sat down meekly, but his astonishment was fading and another emotion was replacing it — anger.
“I’ve got a lot to say to you, too,” he said grimly.
“That can wait,” the man who had done the talking said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Oscar’s other twin, after locking the hotel room door had taken the remaining chair and was staring intently at Oscar.