oOo

If anything, the bruising on Steve's face looked even more frightful now that it had when he'd last seen her. Paul sank down in a chair by her bedside. The adrenaline that had kept him going since he'd received the call from Dr. Daystrom was fading fast and was started to fully feel the effects of hunger, exhaustion and worry. While the initial shock over the shooting had started to fade, the news that Steve might be suffering from amnesia had hit him hard. It wasn't that he wasn't that he didn't feel grateful that she had beaten the odds this far. Yesterday at this time, her life had been despaired of. Part of Paul felt guilty that he was still feeling miserable even though it was fairly likely that Steve would survive. Another part of him however couldn't help but wonder how they would cope if there should be any permanent consequences of the shooting. He couldn't imagine his life without Steve being in it anymore, but what would happen if she truly didn't remember him?

oOo

Louise Harvey didn't want to wake up. She was perfectly content to drift along in the realm between dreams and waking, aware of the waking world, yet not touched by it. Something however was pushing her towards the surface. It was like this nagging sensation in the back of her mind that there was something important, something she needed to know. Finally, she stopped struggling and allowed her mind and body to gradually come to awareness. With it however came pain as well. It was an intense, piercing ache, feeling like someone had driven an icepick through her skull. It was intense enough to drown out most other physical sensation, at least at first. Only gradually, she became aware of the soft surface she was resting on as well as a jumble to faint noises she couldn't quite place. She didn't in the least feel like opening her eyes, but eventually curiosity got the better of her. With supreme effort, she managed to open her eyes a fraction, only to immediately close them again when painful light seemingly cut right into her brain. A series of pained moans escaped her as the pain became white hot with intensity. For what seemed like an eternity, it was all she could feel, all she could think of. Gradually however, it lessened back to its original level and she could heard a man's voice nearby. She clearly didn't recognize the voice and yet there was something familiar, something trust-worthy about it.

"It's all right now. I've turned down the light." Encouraged thus by the voice, Louise opened her eyes once again. She couldn't see much at first. Everything seemed blurred and indistinct. Gradually the blobs separated and coalesced into distinct shapes, though still somewhat fuzzy around the edges. Most of it was white in colour and that combined with the sharp smell of disinfectant made her realize that she was most likely in some sort of hospital. Had she been in an accident? Maybe that could explain why her head hurt so badly.

"Shall I fetch a doctor?" Louise had forgotten all about the voice until she heard it again. Here eyes quickly settled on the source – a man sitting in chair at her bedside. Much like his voice, his appearance seemed to inspire a measure of confidence in her, though she couldn't explain why. He clearly wasn't a doctor, no white coat, plus he looked really haggard and also increasingly worried as he regarded her carefully. The expression on his eyes puzzled Louise. He was looking at her in a way that clearly spoke of fondness.

"I'll get a doctor," the man finally declared. "You just hold on." With that he got up from the chair and left. Louise had only intended to close her eyes for a second in the hopes of easing her headache, but she must have dozed off, because she suddenly his voice was back, joined by a second one.

"She didn't say anything," the first voice said. "She just stared at me."

"I wouldn't worry just yet, Mr Temple. She is recovering from a severe head injury. Some confusion is normal." the second voice said in a reassuring tone. A doctor most likely, Louise concluded. She opened her eyes to see if she'd been right. Indeed, in addition to the first man who appeared to be called Temple, a young man in a white coat stood near her bed.

"Ah, you're awake," he said suddenly, having noticed her looking at him. "How are you feeling?"

"My head hurts," she admitted, her hoarse voice sounding almost strange to her own ears.

"Yes, that's quite understandable," the doctor agreed. "You can have something for the pain in a moment. First, I'd like you to try and answer a few questions though."

"All right," Louise agreed, hoping that it wouldn't take too long. She already felt tired again and if it hadn't been for the pain in her head, she was sure she would have fallen asleep already.

"Can you tell us your name?" the doctor began. Louise was aware that both he and Mr Temple were watching her closely.

"Louise Harvey," she replied without hesitation, watching the men's faces closely. While the doctor looked intrigued, the face of his companion fell noticeably.

"Do you know what year it is?"

"Yes, of course. It's 1934," she replied. "Why all these questions? What happened to me?" she added.

"You were severely injured in a shooting incident," the doctor told her. Louise didn't hear any more as her thoughts whirled off in a million directions at once. She had been shot? This was exactly what her brother always worried about. Maybe he was right after all when he said that she was danger in Cape Town, maybe she should have moved in with her relatives instead of taking that new job with the newspaper. But if they'd gotten to her, they could get to her brother just as easily. And besides, she knew her brother was busy, but if she'd really been shot, he would be here.

"What about my brother? Is he all right?" she asked anxiously.

The doctor shot a question glance at Temple. The man cleared his throat, then answered: "I know it may be difficult to accept, but when you were injured, it caused you to lose some of your memories..."

"You mean like amnesia?" Louise asked, stunned.

"Exactly," the man replied, his expression full of sorrow and pain. "You see, the year is now 1939 and you're no longer in Cape Town. This is New York City," he broke off, allowing his words to sink in.

For a long while, she said nothing, turning the words over in her mind. It didn't make any sense, she couldn't just forget five entire years. Maybe it was a trick of some sort? Her brother always said how devious and ruthless the man he was up against was. But something else told her that this man, Temple, was telling the truth.

"I believe you," she finally said, her voice devoid of any emotion. "But can you tell me whether my brother is all right?"

The man shook his head sadly. "He's dead, Louise. He died last year."

Louise swallowed hard. She didn't have the heart to ask how exactly her brother had died.

"Please leave me alone," she managed, struggling to hold back tears. Her self-control had been eroded by the shocking news, the pain and the fatigue. But she was determined not to fall apart in front of a pair of strangers.

The two men nodded.

"I'll send a nurse to give you something for the pain," the doctor said. Then they were both gone.

Louise closed her eyes, shutting out a world gone crazy, if only for a moment. Her moment of respite wasn't meant to last however. She had hardly closed her eyes when she heard footfalls approach.

"Mrs Temple?" A woman's voice, rather timid asked softly.

Louise's eyes flew open and she stared at young nurse, struck speechless.

"Is everything all right?" the nurse asked, looking concerned at her.

"Yes, yes. Why did you just call me Mrs Temple?" There really was only one logical explanation, but it seemed too unfathomable to be true.

The nurse blushed furiously. "But...that's your name, isn't it? If there's a mistake on the chart..." she eventually stammered.

"No, no. I don't suppose there is a mistake," Louise replied, suddenly feeling extremely weary. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause any confusion," she added apologetically.

"It's all right, Mrs Temple," the nurse replied. "I'm sorry if I startled you just now. I was told to bring you something for that pain."

"Yes, that will be great. Thank you." Louise meant it. Her headache had gathered momentum ever since she'd woken and the recent revelations hadn't helped. Not had she lost five years of her life, bu apparently her brother was dead and she had married. If it didn't all feel so painfully really, she would have been convinced that it was all a terrible nightmare.

oOo

Paul had fled from the hospital after the short conversation he'd had with Steve, or rather with Louise. Having had to tell her what he did had taken a lot out of him. He felt almost physically ill afterward. But worse than the words, had been the total lack of recognition in his wife's eyes. He supposed he should be grateful that the damage done by the bullet wasn't more severe. Steve's intellect and her personality appeared to be intact, only her memory wasn't. He didn't have it in him though to feel even the slightest bit of gratitude. The events were still too fresh, the wound too raw.

Paul tried to get some rest at the hotel, but he couldn't find peace, the conversation with Louise kept replaying in his mind. Finally, he left the hotel. It was still fairly early, but he had no trouble finding a bar where he could drown his sorrows, at least for the evening.

He was on his second whiskey and soda when he heard someone call his name. He turned automatically in the direction of the voice, before the temptation to simply ignore it took over. Sitting next to him at the bar of the rather dingy little establishment was a clean-shaven man in his early forties, beaming at him.

"Yes, that's me," Paul replied slowly, studying the newcomer intently.

"Oh you must excuse me for disturbing you like this, but it is just the most amazing co-incidence that I should run into you, here of all places!

Paul studied the newcomer blearily. He was not in the mood for conversation, all he wanted to do right now was drink enough to dull the pain, if that was possible at all.

"Do I know you?" he asked brusquely.

"Of course! Don't you remember? We met in 1925. I was in a play you wrote - or rather I would have been, but it fell through."

"Death of seasons?" Paul still couldn't place the man. But there was only one play of his that fit the description. Death of seasons had fallen through early when Seamus, the producer died shortly after the initial casting.

"Peter Baxter is the name!" the stranger proclaimed.

The name triggered a vague memory of a pale, reedy young man. Paul eyed Peter Baxter. The resemblance was there, albeit faint.

"What brings you here?" Paul asked politely, still hoping that Baxter would leave him alone.

"Oh, I'm here on business, I'm in the import-export business now." Baxter told him, then fell silent. Paul turned back to nurse his drink.

"I don't mean to pry, but is it true what the papers say?"

"What do they say?" Paul asked.

"Well, see for yourself." Baxter handed Paul this morning's copy of the New York Ledger. Buried in the society page was a mention of the shooting incident of the previous morning. Paul was described as a prominent British novelist and private detective who was in the United States on a lecture tour.

Great, if the incident had made the papers here, it would only be a matter of time until it hit the newspapers back home. Paul folded the paper and handed it back to Baxter. When he noticed the other man looking at him expectantly, he added solemnly.

"Yes, unfortunately it's true."

"I'm so sorry to hear that. It must have been an awful shock for you. As a matter if fact, I was a friend of Winifred's. It's really dreadful what happened. I guess you can't feel safe anywhere anymore these days," Baxter said shaking his head.

"Has this Detective Harrington spoken to you?"

"Yes, I've spoken to him a few times."

"What do you make of him?" Baxter asked.

"He seems a capable officer," Paul replied diplomatically, not sure what Baxter was driving at and not really caring either, as long as he was left alone.

"I just can't make him out. He's been asking me all these strange questions!"

"It's his job to ask questions," Paul replied, his patience starting to wear thin.

Baxter apparently ignored him. "The good detective appears to be under the impression that I'm mixed up in this business. All because of some note in her diary. You're there minding your own business and suddenly you are a murder suspect. This sort of thing would never have happened back in England."

Paul now remembered that Detective Harrington had mentioned that Winifred Morris had had an appointment with a person whose initials were P.B. in the days leading up to her death.

"So, you didn't meet with Miss Morris?" Paul queried, his interest piqued at least for the moment.

"Of course not, I didn't even know she was here in New York."

"So what do you think happened?" Paul asked.

"I think she was lured to Beverly's flat and killed there."

"Lured by whom?"

"How should I know? You see, Winifred really was mixed up in something, in something quite terrible I believe."

"How do you make that out?" Paul queried, waving to the man behind the bar for another whiskey for himself and Baxter.

"Winifred was worried about something lately. In her last letter, she told me she thought she was being followed. I believe that is the reason she left South Africa - to get away from whatever was troubling her."

South Africa. There it was again. It hadn't struck him earlier when Harrington had mentioned it, but now he was getting the distinct impression that whatever this affair was all about, South Africa somehow played an important part in it. Almost all the people concerned had lived in the country at some point. Baxter too if his memory was anything to go by. He now seemed to recall that the young actor, as he had been at the time, had come over from South Africa. Steve too had lived in South Africa before she had come to England where they had first met. Paul made a mental note to find out more about the players in this affair. He had a feeling that it would be crucial to find out where everyone had been in the last five to ten years and what they had been doing then. It occurred to him that he didn't know terribly much about Steve's life in Cape Town either, other than what she had told him when they'd first met, shortly after the death of her brother. He had always gotten the impression that it was a time that his wife would rather not relive, so he had never pressed the issue. Maybe he should have, Paul mused.

"But you don't know exactly what she was worried about or who was following her?" Paul asked, deciding not to mention the South African connection to Baxter. At least not until he knew more about just how deeply involved the former actor was and whether he really was just a concerned friend.

"I'm afraid I don't. I wish she had confided in me. Maybe I could have helped her and this wouldn't have happened in the first place," Baxter replied. Then, after he pause, he went on: "It may be presumptuous of me to ask, especially in light of what happened to your wife, but I would really like you to look into this affair. I don't think the NYPD is doing a very good job of it and I myself have neither the time nor the skills to take on this case, but I really want to see Winifred's murderer caught and brought to justice."

"She must have been a very dear friend indeed," Paul remarked shrewdly.

"Oh yes, she was. We lost sight of each other over the years, you know how it goes, but I owe her as much," Baxter explained. "She once did me a great service, many years ago in South Africa. If it hadn't been for her, I can honestly say that I wouldn't be here today."

"That sounds like quite a story," Paul commented.

"Yes, it sure is." Baxter hesitated and pulled out his pocket watch. "Why don't I tell you all about it another time? I really ought to get going now."

"How about tomorrow? Are you free then?"

"That would be splendid!" Baxter exclaimed. "Can you come over to my place, say around 11 a.m. tomorrow morning? Here's my card," he handed Paul a small business card. Apparently, Peter Baxter wasn't staying at a hotel. Instead he maintained a flat here in New York City. Business had to be going well indeed if he was able to afford this neighborhood.

"I'll see you then," Paul confirmed. "Good-bye!"

"Good-bye!" Baxter said and left.

Paul took another sip from his whiskey. Suddenly, he found that wasn't in the mood for drink anymore. His problems hadn't gotten any smaller in the last hour, but he was starting to see how things in this affair might be connected. And if he was right, Steve was still in danger. Her checked his watch. It was still rather early in the evening and not to late to give Detective Harrington a call. Paul bade te surly bar man good-bye and left the establishment to search for the nearest public call box.

Having found one just down the street, Paul proceeded to place a call to the number Harrington had left for him at the hotel that morning. After two rings, the telephone call was answered by Harrington himself.

"Temple here," Paul spoke into the receiver. "I was wondering if you could do me favour?"

TBC