The Interpretation Of Murder

by Jed Rubenfeld

  'How?' This was Nora.

  'By existing,' answered Clara with undisguised venom, declining even to look in Nora's direction. 'It - he fell in love with her. In love. Like a dog. Not a smart dog. A stupid dog. She was so spoiled and yet so unspoiled. What an enchanting contradiction. It became an obsession. So I had to get the dog his bone, didn't I? One can't live with a man slobbering like that.'

  'That is why you agreed to have an affair with my father?' asked Nora.

  'I didn't agree,' said Clara contemptuously, addressing Younger, not Nora. 'It was my idea. The weakest, most boring man I have ever known. If there is a heaven for selfless women, I - but even then she ruined it. She rejected George. She actually rejected him.' Clara took a deep breath; at last her demeanor lightened again. 'I tried a great many things to cure him of it. Many different things. Really I did.'

  'Elsie Sigel,' I said.

  A minute flinch at the corner of her mouth revealed Clara's surprise, but she didn't waver. 'You do have talent, Doctor, in the detection line. Have you considered changing careers?'

  'You procured your husband another girl from a good family,' I went on. 'You thought it might make him forget Nora.'

  ' Very good. I don't believe any woman alive could have done it, other than myself. But when I found her Chinaman, I had her. She had written him love letters - to a Chinaman! He sold them to me, and I told the poor girl it was my duty to give them to her father unless she helped me. But my dog of a husband wasn't interested. You should have seen him, going through the motions. His mind was' - now Clara cast an eye at the still-prostrate Nora - 'on his bone.'

  'You killed her,' I said. 'With chloroform. The same chloroform you gave your husband to use on Nora.'

  Clara smiled. 'I said you should be a detective. Elsie simply couldn't keep her mouth shut. And what an unpleasant voice that one had. She left me no choice. She would have told. I could see it in her eyes.'

  'Why didn't you just kill me! ' Nora shot out.

  'Oh, it did occur to me, darling, but that wouldn't have done at all. You have no idea what it was like to see my husband's face when he understood that you, the love of his life, were doing everything in your little power to ruin him, to destroy him. It was worth more than all his money. Well, almost more, and I am going to have his money in any event. Dr Younger, I think you've kept me talking long enough.'

  'You can't kill us, Mrs Banwell,' I said. 'If they find us both dead, shot by your gun, they will never believe you innocent. They will hang you. Put it down.' I took another step forward.

  'Stop!' cried Clara, turning her gun on Nora. 'You are bold with your own life. You won't be so bold with hers. Now go to the balcony.'

  I stepped forward again - not toward the balcony, but toward Clara.

  'Stop!' Clara repeated. 'Are you mad? I'll shoot her.'

  'You'll shoot at her, Mrs Banwell,' I replied. 'And you'll miss. What is that, a twenty-two single-action snub-nose? You couldn't hit a barn door with that unless you were within two feet of it. I'm within two feet of you now, Mrs Banwell. Shoot me.'

  'Very well,' said Clara, shooting me.

  I had the distinct though unaccountable impression of seeing a bullet emerge from the cylinder of Clara s revolver, fly slowly toward me, and pierce my white shirt. I felt a twinge below my lowest left rib. Only then did I hear the shot.

  The gun recoiled slightly. I seized Clara's wrists. She struggled to free herself, but couldn't. I forced her toward the balcony - I walking forward, she backward, the gun over our heads, pointed at the ceiling. Nora got up, but I shook my head. Clara kicked over an enormous table lamp in Nora's direction; it broke at her feet, sending a shower of glass onto her legs. I forced her on toward the balcony. We crossed its threshold. I pushed her roughly into the balcony railing, the gun still above our heads.

  'It's a long way down, Mrs Banwell,' I whispered in the dark, wincing as the bullet worked its way among my entrails. 'Let go of the gun.'

  'You can't do it,' she said. 'You can't kill me.'

  'Can't I?'

  'No. That's the difference between us.'

  Suddenly my stomach felt as if a red-hot fire iron were inside it. I had been certain of my ability to prevent her from gaining the upper hand. Now I was certain no longer. I realized my strength might give way at any moment. The burning inside my ribs seized me again. I lifted her a foot off the floor, never letting go of her wrists, and landed her hard against the side wall of the balcony. We came to a standstill face to face, chest to chest, arms and hands entangled between our torsos, her back pressed to the wall, our eyes and mouths only a few inches apart. I looked down at Clara, and she up at me. Rage makes some women ugly, some more beautiful. Clara fell into the latter category.

  She still had possession of the gun, her finger at the trigger, somewhere between our two bodies. 'You don't know which of us the gun is pointed at, do you?' I asked, pressing her even harder against the wall, forcing a gasp from her. 'Want to know? It's pointed at you. At your heart.'

  I could feel the blood running copiously down my shirt. Clara said nothing, her eyes holding mine.

  Gathering my strength, I went on. 'You're right, I might be bluffing. Why don't you pull the trigger and find out? It's your only chance. In a moment I'll overpower you. Go ahead. Pull the trigger. Pull it, Clara.'

  She pulled the trigger. There was. a muffled blast. Her eyes opened wide. 'No,' she said. Her body went rigid. She looked at me, unblinking. 'No,' she repeated. Then she whispered: 'My act.'

  The eyes never closed. Her body slackened. She fell, dead, to the floor.

  I was now holding the gun. I went back inside the hotel room. I tried to go to Nora but didn't make it. Instead, I stumbled to the sofa. There I lowered myself, holding my stomach, the blood running out between my fingers, a large red stain expanding on my shirt. Nora ran to me.

  'Heels,' I said. 'I like you in heels.'

  'Don't die,' she whispered.

  I didn't speak.

  'Please don't die,' she begged me. 'Are you going to die?'

  'I'm afraid so, Miss Acton.' I turned my gaze to Clara's corpse, then to the balcony railing, past which I could see a few stars in the faraway night. Ever since they illuminated Broadway, the twinkling of stars had become a lost sight over Midtown. Finally, I looked once more into Nora's blue eyes. 'Show me,' I said.

  'Show you what?'

  'I don't want to die not knowing.'

  Nora understood. She turned her upper body, presenting her back to me, as she had on the day of our first session, in this same room. Lying back against the sofa, I reached out with one hand - my clean hand - and undid the buttons of her dress. When the back fell open, I loosened the ties of her corset and drew the eyelets apart. Behind the crisscrossing laces, below and between her graceful shoulder blades, there were several of the still-healing lacerations. I touched one. Nora cried out, then stifled her cry.

  'Good,' I said, standing up from the sofa. 'That's settled then. Now let's call the police and get me some medical attention, don't you think?'

  'But,' replied Nora, gazing up at me stupefied, 'you said you were going to die.'

  'I am,' I replied. 'Someday. But not from this fleabite.'

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The moment I woke up, late Saturday morning, a nurse ushered in two visitors: Abraham Brill and Sandor Ferenczi.

  Brill and Ferenczi sported wan smiles. They tried to brave it out, loudly asking how 'our hero' was doing, keeping at me until I had reprised the whole story, but in the end they couldn't hide their gloom. I asked what the matter was.

  'It's all over,' said Brill. 'Another letter from Hall.'

  'For you, in fact,' Ferenczi added.

  'Which Brill read, naturally,' I concluded.

  'For God's sake, Younger,' Brill exclaimed, 'for all we knew, you might be dead.'

  'Making it open season on my correspondence.'

  Hall's letter, it turned out, contained both good news and bad news. He had
rejected the donation to Clark. He could not accept any funds, he explained, conditional on the university's relinquishing its academic freedom. But he had now made up his mind about Freud's lectures. Unless he heard positively from us by four o'clock today that the

  Times would not be publishing the article he had seen, the lectures would be canceled. He was most apologetic. Freud would of course receive the full fee promised him. Hall would issue a statement that Freud's health precluded him from speaking. Moreover, as a replacement, Hall would select the one person he was certain Freud would want to deliver the keynote lectures in his place: Carl Jung.

  It was the last sentence, I think, that galled Brill most. 'If we only knew who was behind it all,' he said. I could practically hear his teeth gnashing.

  There was a knock at the door. Littlemore poked his head in. After making introductions, I urged Brill to describe our situation to the detective. He did, in complete detail. The worst of it, Brill concluded, was not knowing whom we were up against. Who would be so determined to suppress Freud's book and block his lectures in Worcester?

  'If you want my advice,' said Littlemore, 'we ought to go have a little chat with your friend Dr Smith Jelliffe.'

  'Jelliffe?' said Brill. 'That's ridiculous. He's my publisher. He can only gain from Freud's lectures going well. He's been pushing me to hurry the translation for months.'

  'Wrong way to think about it,' answered Littlemore. 'Don't try to figure it out all at once. This Jelliffe guy gets your book manuscript, and when he gives it back to you it's full of weird stuff. And he says it was put there by some pastor who borrowed his printing press? Fishiest story I ever heard. He's the guy to talk to first.'

  They tried to stop me, but I dressed to go with them. If I weren't such a fool, I would have asked for help tying my shoes; I nearly tore my stitches out doing it. Before Jelliffe's, we made a stop at Brill's apartment. There was one item of evidence Littlemore wanted us to take uptown.

  Littlemore waved to an officer in the lobby of the Balmoral. The police had been combing the Banwells' now-empty apartment all morning. Already a favorite among the uniformed men, Littlemore had suddenly become a figure of stature. News of his taking both Banwell and Hugel had spread all over the force.

  Smith Ely Jelliffe opened his door clad in pajamas, a wet towel over his head. The sight of Drs. Younger, Brill, and Ferenczi startled him, but his surprise grew to alarm when he saw his nemesis, the detective from last night, jauntily following behind them.

  'I didn't know,' Jelliffe blurted out to Littlemore. 'I didn't know anything about it until after you left. He was in town for only a few hours. There was no incident of any kind, I swear it. He's back at the hospital already. You can call. It won't happen again.'

  'You two know each other?' Brill asked.

  Littlemore questioned Jelliffe about Harry Thaw for several minutes, to the general astonishment of the others. When the detective was satisfied, he asked Jelliffe why he had sent Brill anonymous threats, burned his manuscript, dumped ash in his apartment, and slandered Dr Freud in the newspaper.

  Jelliffe swore his innocence. He professed ignorance of any book-burning or threat-sending.

  'Oh, yeah?' said Littlemore. 'Then who put those pages into the manuscript, the ones with the Bible stuff on them?'

  'I don't know,' said Jelliffe. 'It must have been those church people.'

  'Sure it was,' said Littlemore. He showed Jelliffe the article of evidence we had stopped for on our way - the single sheet of paper from Brill's manuscript that bore not only a verse from Jeremiah but a small stamped image of a turbaned, bearded, scowling man - and went on. 'Then how did this get there? Doesn't look very churchy to me.'

  Jelliffe's mouth fell open.

  'What is it?' asked Brill. 'You recognize it?'

  'The Charaka,' said Jelliffe.

  'What?' asked Littlemore.

  'Charaka is ancient Hindoo physician,' replied Ferenczi. 'I said Hindoo. You remember I said Hindoo?'

  Younger spoke: 'The Triumvirate.'

  'No,' said Brill.

  'Yes,' Jelliffe acknowledged.

  'What?' asked Ferenczi.

  Younger addressed Brill: 'We should have seen it all along. Who in New York is not only on the board of Morton Prince's journal, privy to everything Prince is going to publish, but also able to have a man arrested in Boston at the drop of a hat?'

  'Dana,' said Brill.

  'And the family offering Clark the donation? Hall told us one of them was a doctor knowledgeable about psychoanalysis. There's only one family in the country rich enough to fund an entire hospital that can also boast a world- famous neurologist among its members.'

  'Bernard Sachs!' exclaimed Brill. 'And the anonymous doctor in the Times is Starr. I should have recognized the pompous blowhard the minute I read it. Starr is always boasting of having studied in Charcot's laboratory decades ago. He might actually have met Freud there.'

  'Who?' asked Ferenczi. 'What is Triumvirate?'

  Taking turns, Younger and Brill explained. The men they had just named - Charles Loomis Dana, Bernard Sachs, and M. Allen Starr - were the three most powerful neurologists in the country. Collectively, they were known as the New York Triumvirate. They owed their extraordinary prestige and power to an impressive combination of accomplishment, pedigree, and money. Dana was the author of the nation's leading text on adult nervous diseases. Sachs had a worldwide reputation - particularly because of his work on a disease first described by the Englishman Warren Tay - and wrote the first textbook on children's nervous conditions. Naturally, the Sachses were not the social equals of the very best Danas; they could not participate in society at all, being of the wrong religion. But they were richer. Bernard Sachs's brother had married a Goldman; the private bank founded as a result of this alliance was on its way to becoming a Wall Street bastion. Starr, a professor at Columbia, was the least accomplished of the three.

  'He's a windbag,' said Brill, referring to Starr, 'a puppet of Dana's.'

  'But why would they seek ruin of Freud?' asked Ferenczi.

  'Because they are neurologists,' answered Brill. 'Freud terrifies them.'

  'I am not following.'

  'They belong to the somatic school,' said Younger. 'They believe that all nervous diseases result from neurological malfunction, not psychological causes. They don't believe in childhood trauma; they don't believe sexual repression causes mental illness. Psychoanalysis is anathema for them. They call it a cult.'

  'Over scientific disagreement,' asked Ferenczi, 'they would do these things - burn manuscripts, make threats, spread false accusations?'

  'Science has nothing to do with it,' Brill replied. 'The neurologists control everything. They are the "nerve specialists," which makes them the experts in "nervous conditions." All the women go to them for their hysterics, their palpitations, their anxieties, their frustrations. The practice is worth millions to them. They're right to see us as the devil. We're going to put them out of business. No one's going to consult a nerve specialist once they realize that psychological illnesses are caused by psychology, not neurology.'

  'Dana was at your party, Jelliffe, 'Younger pursued. 'He was as hostile to Freud as anyone I've ever heard. Did he know of Brill's book?'

  'Yes,' answered Jelliffe, 'but he wouldn't have burned it. He approved it. He encouraged me to publish it. He even found me an editor to help prepare the copy.'

  'An editor?' asked Younger. 'Did this editor ever take the manuscript out of your offices?'

  'Certainly,' Jelliffe replied. 'He often took it home to work on.'

  'Well, now we know,' said Brill. 'The bastard.'

  'What's this Charaka business?' Littlemore asked.

  'It's their club,' Jelliffe replied. 'One of the most exclusive in the city. Hardly anyone is let in. The members wear a signet ring with a face on it. That's the face there - the one on the page.'

  'It's a cabal,' said Brill. 'A secret society.'

  'But these are scientists,
' Ferenczi protested. 'They would burn manuscript and dump ash in Brill's flat?'

  'They probably burn incense and sacrifice virgins too,' answered Brill.

  'The question is whether they are responsible for the story on Jung in the Times,' said Younger. 'That's what we need to know.'

  'Are they?' Littlemore asked Jelliffe.

  'Well, I - I may have heard them talking about it once,' said Jelliffe. 'And they did make the arrangements for Jung to speak at Fordham.'

  'Of course,' said Brill. 'They are launching Jung to bring Freud down. And Hall is falling for it. What are we going to do? We can't fight Charles Dana.'

  'I don't know about that,' Littlemore replied. He addressed Jelliffe again. 'You mentioned a Dana last night, didn't you? Same man?'

  Jelliffe nodded.

  The servant at the door of the small but elegant house on

  Fifty-third Street at Fifth Avenue informed us that Dr Dana was not at home. 'Tell him a detective wants to ask him a few questions about Harry Thaw,' Littlemore replied. 'And mention that I just came from Dr Smith Jelliffe. Maybe he'll be at home after he hears that.'

  On the detective's advice, Littlemore and I alone had made the trip to Charles Dana's house; Brill and Ferenczi returned to the hotel. A minute later, the two of us were invited in.

  Dana's house had none of the gaudiness of Jelliffe's apartment or of the other houses recently erected on Fifth Avenue - including those of certain relations of mine. Dana's was a red-brick affair. The furniture was handsome without being heavy. As Littlemore and I entered the foyer, we saw Dana emerge from a dark, well-stocked library. He closed the doors behind him and greeted us. He was surprised at my presence, I believe, but reacted with perfect aplomb. He asked after my Aunt Mamie, I after some of his cousins. He made no inquiry into my reason for accompanying Littlemore. One had to be impressed by the man's grace. He looked his age - sixty, I should have thought - but age suited him well. He showed us to another room where, I imagine, he did business and saw patients.

  Our conversation with Dana was brief. Littlemore's tone changed. With Jelliffe, he had been hectoring. He made accusations and dared Jelliffe to deny them. With Dana, he was far more careful - still conveying, however, that we knew something Dana would not want us to know.