Younger broke the silence. 'I was twenty-two when I first read your work, sir. The moment I read it, I knew the world would never be the same. Yours are the most important ideas of the century. America is hungry for them. I am certain of it.'
Freud opened his mouth to answer, but his reply died on his lips. He softened. 'You're a good boy, Younger,' he said, sighing. 'I'm sorry. As for hunger, I should not stake too much on it: a hungry man will eat anything. Speaking of which, we are going to Brill's again for dinner. Ferenczi is just on his way. You'll join us?'
'I can't,' Younger replied. 'I wouldn't be able to keep my eyes open.'
'For heaven's sake, what have you been doing all this time?' asked Freud.
'It would be hard to describe my last twenty-four hours, sir. Most recently, I have been with Miss Acton.'
'I see.' Freud observed that Younger hoped to be asked in, but he did not feel up to it. In fact Freud felt as exhausted as Younger looked. 'Well, you will tell me all about it tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow - right,' Younger replied, making to leave.
Perceiving Younger's disappointment, Freud added, 'Ah, I meant to tell you. Clara Banwell, we must think about her.'
'Sir?'
'All family life is organized around the most damaged person in it. We know that Nora has essentially substituted the Banwells for her own parents. The question then becomes which person in this constellation has suffered the greatest psychological injuries.'
'You think it might be Mrs Banwell?'
'We mustn't assume that it is Nora. Mrs Banwell is a compelling figure, as narcissists often are, but the men in her life have undoubtedly mistreated her in some profound way. Her husband, certainly. You heard what she said.'
'Yes,' said Younger. 'She told me more about that.'
'At Jelliffe's?'
'No, sir. I spoke with her again at Miss Acton's.'
'I see,' said Freud, raising an eyebrow. 'I expect it is to her that we can credit Nora's learning that Mrs Banwell had performed fellatio on her father.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'You remember,' said Freud. He closed his eyes and, without opening them, recited the exchange he and Younger had had on this subject two days earlier, beginning with his own words: '"Do you not find anything strange in Nora's assertion that, when she saw Mrs Banwell with her father, she didn't understand at the time exactly what she was witnessing?" "Most American girls of fourteen are ill- informed on that point, Dr Freud." "I appreciate that, but that is not what I meant. She implied that she now understood what she had witnessed, did she not?'"
Younger stared. 'You have a phonographic memory, sir?'
'Yes. A useful skill for an analyst. You should cultivate it. I used to be able to recall conversations for months, but now it is only days. At any rate, I think you will find that it was Mrs Banwell herself who educated Nora about the nature of the act. I suspect she has taken the girl into her confidence, enlisting her sympathy. Otherwise Nora's feelings for her are inexplicable.'
'Nora's feelings for Mrs Banwell,' Younger repeated.
'Come, my boy, think of it. Instead of hating Mrs Banwell as she ought to have done, Nora has essentially accepted her as a mother substitute. This means that Mrs Banwell found a way to form a special bond with the girl, a remarkable achievement under the circumstances. Almost certainly, she confided her forbidden erotic secrets to Nora - a favorite means by which women achieve intimacy.'
'I see,' said Younger, glassily.
'Do you? It has undoubtedly made things harder for Nora. And it indicates a lack of scruple on Mrs Banwell's part as well. A woman will not confide such things in a girl whom she intends to keep innocent. Well, I can see there is something you wish to tell me, but you are too tired. It would do no good to speak of it now. We'll talk tomorrow. Go take your rest.'
Smith Ely Jelliffe sang an aria as he strolled into the Balmoral a little after eleven on Friday night. Tipping the doormen lavishly, he informed them, quite without having been asked, that he had spent the evening at the Metropolitan, in the company of a feminine creature of the best kind - the kind who knew how to occupy herself during an opera. His face shining, Jelliffe looked like a man convinced of the largeness of his own soul.
His glow was dimmed somewhat by the appearance of a young man in a threadbare suit blocking his path to the elevator. It was dimmed several shades further when the young man identified himself as a police detective.
'You're Harry Thaw's doctor, aren't you, Dr Jelliffe?' asked Littlemore.
'Are you aware of the hour, my good man?' replied Jelliffe.
'Just answer the question.'
'Mr Thaw is under my care,' Jelliffe acknowledged. 'Everyone knows that. It has been widely reported.'
'Was he under your care,' pursued Littlemore, 'here in town last weekend?'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' said Jelliffe.
'Sure you don't,' the detective replied, beckoning to a girl who, ostentatiously attired, was waiting on a leather sofa at the other end of the marble lobby. Greta now approached. Littlemore asked her if she recognized Jelliffe.
'It's him, all right,' said Greta. 'Dr Smith. Came with Harry and left with him.'
That afternoon, before calling on the mayor, the detective had returned to his office, reread the trial transcript, and found Jelliffe testifying that Thaw was insane. When he saw in the transcript that Jelliffe's first name was Smith, he put two and two together. 'So, Dr Smith,' said Littlemore. 'Want to come clean here - or downtown?'
The detective did not have to wait long for a confession. 'It wasn't my decision at all,' Jelliffe blurted out. 'It was Dana's. Dana was in charge.'
Littlemore told Jelliffe to take them to his apartment. When they entered Jelliffe's ornate foyer, the detective nodded appreciatively. 'Boy, you got a lot to lose, Dr Smith,' Littlemore said. 'So you brought Thaw into town last weekend? How'd you do it, bribe the guards'
'Yes, but it was Dana's decision, not mine,' Jelliffe insisted.
He dropped heavily into a chair at his dining table. 'I only did what he said we should.'
Littlemore stared down at him. 'Was it your idea to take him to Susie's?'
'Thaw chose the house, not me. Please, Detective. It was a medical necessity. A healthy man can be driven insane at a place like Matteawan. Surrounded by lunatics. Deprived of normal physical outlets.'
'But Thaw is insane,' said Littlemore. 'That's why he's in the loony bin.'
'He is not insane. He is highly strung,' responded Jelliffe. 'He has a nervous temperament. No good is done by shutting up such a man.'
'Too bad you told them the opposite at the trial,' remarked Littlemore. 'This wasn't the first time you brought Thaw into town, was it? You had him here about a month ago, didn't you?'
'No, I swear it,' said Jelliffe. 'This was the first time.'
'Sure it was,' answered Littlemore. 'And how did Thaw know Elsie Sigel?'
Jelliffe denied ever having heard of Elsie Sigel until he read about her in the papers yesterday afternoon.
'When you took Thaw to Susie's,' Littlemore went on, 'did you know what he liked to do to girls? Was that a medical necessity too?'
Jelliffe hung his head. 'I had heard of his proclivities,' he mumbled, 'but I thought we had resolved them.'
'Uh-huh,' said Littlemore. The detective looked with disgust at Jelliffe's manicured fingernails gripping his immense waist.
'Before you went to Susie's that night, when you had Thaw here at your apartment, how long was he out of your sight? Did you leave him by himself? Did he go out? What happened?'
'Here?' said Jelliffe, anxious and confused. 'I would never have brought the man here.'
'Don't play with me, Smith. I got plenty enough already to make you an accessory to murder - before the fact and after.'
'Murder?' asked Jelliffe. 'Dear God. It can't be. There was no murder.'
'A girl was killed right here in this building last Sunday night, the same night you had Tha
w in your apartment.'
Jelliffe's face was pale. 'No,' he said. 'Thaw came into the city Saturday night. I took the train to Matteawan with him myself Sunday morning. He was there Sunday and Monday as well. You can ask Dana. You can check the records at Matteawan. They'll prove it.'
Jelliffe's desperation sounded sincere, but Littlemore had contradictory evidence. 'Nice try, Smith,' he said, 'but I've got a half dozen girls who put you and Thaw at Susie's last Sunday. Isn't that right, Greta?'
'Yeah,' said Greta. 'Around one or two Sunday morning. Just like I told you.'
Littlemore froze. 'Wait a minute, wait a minute. Do you mean Saturday night or Sunday?'
'Saturday night - Sunday morning - same difference' was Greta's answer.
'Greta,' said the detective, 'I need to be sure about this.
When did Thaw come in, Saturday night or Sunday night?'
'Saturday night,' said Greta. 'I don't work Sunday nights.'
Littlemore was once more at a loss. The Thaw connection had loomed up again like a ten-ton sure thing. Everything pointed to it. But now Thaw was at Susie's the wrong night - the night before. 'I'm going to check those hospital records,' Littlemore said to Jelliffe, 'and you better hope you're right. Come on, Greta. We're going.'
Jelliffe, swallowing, hiked himself up in his chair. 'I should think you owe me an apology, Detective,' he said.
'Maybe,' said Littlemore. 'But if you ask me for it again, you'll do one to five at Sing Sing for conspiring in the escape of a state prisoner. Not to mention never practicing medicine again.'
For a second consecutive night, Carl Jung walked beneath Calvary Church across from Gramercy Park. This time, he carried his revolver in a pocket. Perhaps it gave him courage. Without wavering, he strode purposefully along the wrought- iron fence to Gramercy Park South, crossed the street, and walked straight toward the officer in front of the Actons' house. The policeman asked his business. Jung replied that he was looking for the theatrical club: could the officer direct him?
'The Players, that's what you want,' said the policeman. 'Number sixteen, four doors down.'
Jung knocked at the door of number sixteen and, when he mentioned Smith Jelliffe's name, was allowed in. The air was filled with music and feminine laughter. Now he was inside, Jung could not believe what a fool he had been, to come almost to the door of the place twice before and then turn tail. Imagine: a man of his stature frightened of entering a house where women could be had for money.
The club's hat-check girl, greeting Jung in the foyer, was momentarily disconcerted when he drew his revolver. But he handed it to her with European politeness, explaining that, having seen a policeman a few doors down, he was concerned that there might be some murderer abroad. 'It's okay,' said the girl, smiling prettily at him. 'For a second there, I thought you were the murderer.'
As the two of them laughed and the front door was shut, a different man stepped out of a carriage in the shadows of Calvary Church. The cab drove away, leaving this man by himself in almost the very spot that Jung had occupied the night before. He was dressed in white tie. Despite the summer evening heat, he wore yet another layer of clothing, an overcoat, as well as white deerskin gloves. His hat was pulled low to cover as much of his face as possible. The man did not move. He watched from the darkness, where the policemen at the Actons' house could not see him.
As soon as he heard the door shut, Smith Jelliffe went to his telephone. He asked an operator to connect him to the Matteawan State Hospital. It took fifteen minutes, but Jelliffe at last got through to a hospital guard with whom he was on excellent terms. Jelliffe began issuing frantic commands, but he was quickly interrupted.
'You're too late,' said the guard. 'He's gone.'
'Gone?'
'He left three hours ago.'
Jelliffe put down the receiver. With nervous fingers, he dialed the number of Charles Dana's Fifth Avenue home. There was no answer. It was nearing midnight. After six rings, Jelliffe hung up.
'Dear God,' he said.
Across the street from the Balmoral, Littlemore said goodbye to Greta under a streetlamp. The night was as hot and muggy as they came. 'I can say he came in Sunday night,' Greta volunteered, 'if you want me to.'
Littlemore had to laugh. He shook his head, hailing a passing cab.
'You aren't going to look for my Fannie now, are you?' she asked forlornly.
'No, I'm not going to look for her,' Littlemore said. 'I'm going to find her.'
He told the driver Fortieth Street and gave the man a dollar to cover the fare. Greta stared at him. 'You're a pistol, you know that?' she said. 'You wouldn't want to marry me, by any chance? We're both redheads.'
Littlemore laughed again. 'Sorry, sugar, I'm spoken for.'
Greta kissed him on the cheek. As the cab drove off, Littlemore turned around to find Betty Longobardi standing right behind him. On his way uptown, the detective had made a stop at the Longobardis', leaving word for Betty to meet him at the Balmoral as soon as she got home.
'Start explaining,' said Betty, 'and make it good.'
Littlemore did not explain. Instead, he said she'd just have to trust him, then led her to his parked car. From the trunk, the detective drew out a lumpy sack. 'I need to show you some things that might have belonged to Miss Riverford. You're the only one who can identify them.'
Littlemore emptied the sack into the trunk of his car. The clothing was too soaked to be recognizable. The jewelry and shoes, Betty thought, looked familiar, but she couldn't be sure. Then she saw a sequined sleeve hanging from a dense tangle of fabric. She extricated the dress to which it belonged and held it out under the lamplight. 'This was hers! I saw her in it.'
'Wait a second,' said Littlemore. 'Wait a second.' He rummaged through the clothing. 'Is there anything here a woman could wear in the daytime?'
'Not these,' said Betty, raising her eyebrows as she pieced through the lingerie. 'Not these either. Not really, Jimmy. It's all evening wear.'
'Evening wear,' the detective repeated slowly.
'What is it?' asked Betty.
Littlemore said nothing, lost in thought.
'What, Jimmy?'
'But then Mr Hugel…' Hurriedly, the detective began patting his pockets and fishing through them until at last he found an envelope containing several photographs. One of these he showed Betty. 'Recognize this face?' he asked.
'Of course,' she said, 'but why -?'
'We're going back upstairs,' Littlemore interrupted. He grabbed from his trunk a cumbersome brass object that looked like a motorcar's headlamp stuck to a candlestick. It was an electric lantern. Then he led Betty back into the Balmoral. They rode the Alabaster Wing elevator to the top floor.
'How tall was Miss Riverford?' Littlemore asked on their way up.
'A little taller than me.' Betty was five-foot-two. 'At least she looked taller.'
'What do you mean?'
'She was always in heels,' Betty explained. 'Real tall heels. Wasn't used to them, though.'
'How much did she weigh?'
'I don't know, Jimmy. Why?'
The hallway of the eighteenth floor was empty. Over Betty's objections, Littlemore picked the lock of Elizabeth Riverford's apartment and opened the front door. Inside, all was dark and silent. There were no overhead lights. The lamps had been taken away.
'What are we doing here?' asked Betty.
'Figuring something out.' Littlemore headed down the corridor toward Miss Riverford's bedroom, shining his flickering light into the blackness.
'I don't want to go in there,' said Betty, following reluctantly.
They came to the door. As Littlemore reached for the knob, his hand froze in midair. A high-pitched note suddenly pierced the air. It was coming from within the bedroom. The note grew louder, becoming a far-off wail.
Betty seized Littlemore's arm. 'That's the sound I told you about, Jimmy, the sound we heard the morning Miss Elizabeth died.'
The detective opened the door. The wail grew
louder still.
'Don't go in,' whispered Betty.
Abruptly the noise stopped. All was silent. Littlemore entered the room. Too afraid to stay where she was, Betty went in as well, clinging to his sleeve. The furniture was still in place: bed, mirror, end tables, chests of drawers. These created eerie shadows in the beam of the detective's lantern. Littlemore put his ear to a wall, rapping it with his knuckles, listening intently. He moved a few feet down and did the same thing.
'What are you doing?' whispered Betty.
Littlemore snapped his fingers. 'The fireplace,' he said. 'I saw the clay near the fireplace.'
He went to the fireplace and drew aside its iron-mesh curtain, stretching himself out on the floor. With his lantern, he lit up the chimney. At the far back wall of the hearth, Littlemore saw bricks, mortar - and three apertures arranged in a triangle, the topmost being circular in shape.
'That's it,' said the detective. 'That's got to be it. Now how would he -?'
Littlemore lit up the andirons hanging next to the fireplace. One instrument was a trident poker. Two of its three tines were sharply pointed; the other was circular. The three ends, together, made a triangle. Littlemore jumped up, took hold of this poker, and prodded the back of the chimney with it. When he found the apertures, the poker's three ends fit into them as if they had been specially designed to do so - as of course they had. A moment later, the entire hearth swung away on interior hinges, and a strong breeze blew into Littlemore's face.
'Will you look at that,' said Littlemore. Inside, small jets of blue flame dotted the walls. 'Where have I seen those before? Come on, Betty.'
They stepped into the passage, Betty holding Littlemore s hand. When they passed a large, square iron grate on one of the walls, the detective put his ear to it and told Betty to do likewise. They could hear, far away, the same wailing noise that had given Betty such a fright.
'Air shaft,' said Littlemore. 'Some kind of forced-air system. There must be a pump. When the pump comes on, you get that sound. When the pump stops, the noise stops.' They followed the passage several hundred feet, passing half a dozen similar grates and turning three or four sharp corners. Betty's fingernails were digging into Littlemore's arm. At last they came to the end. A wall barred their way, but on that wall, a small metal plate glinted below a final blue gas jet. Littlemore pushed on the plate, and the wall swung out.
The Interpretation Of Murder Page 33