CHAPTER XX
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS
I ate a light lunch at Bellwood, alone, with Bella to look after me inthe dining-room. She was very solicitous, and when she had brought mytea, I thought she wanted to say something. She stood awkwardly near thedoor, and watched me.
"You needn't wait, Bella," I said.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but--I wanted to ask you--is Miss Flemingwell?"
"She was not very well this morning, but I don't think it is serious,Bella," I replied. She turned to go, but I fancied she hesitated.
"Oh, Bella," I called, as she was going out, "I want to ask yousomething. The night at the Fleming home, when you and I watched thehouse, didn't you hear some person running along the hall outside yourdoor? About two o'clock, I think?"
She looked at me stolidly.
"No, sir, I slept all night."
"That's strange. And you didn't hear me when I fell down the dumb-waitershaft?"
"Holy saints!" she ejaculated. "Was _that_ where you fell!"
She stopped herself abruptly.
"You heard that?" I asked gently, "and yet you slept all night? Bella,there's a hitch somewhere. You didn't sleep that night, at all; you toldMiss Fleming I had been up all night. How did you know that? If I didn'tknow that you couldn't possibly get around as fast as the--person in thehouse that night, I would say you had been in Mr. Fleming's desk,looking for--let us say, postage stamps. May I have another cup ofcoffee?"
She turned a sickly yellow white, and gathered up my cup and saucer withtrembling hands. When the coffee finally came back it was broughtgrumblingly by old Heppie. "She says she's turned her ankle," shesniffed. "Turned it on a lathe, like a table leg, I should say, from theshape of it." Before I left the dining-room I put another line in mynote-book:
"What does Bella know?"
I got back to the city somewhat late for my appointment with Burton. Ifound Wardrop waiting for me at the office, and if I had been astonishedat the change in him two nights before, I was shocked now. He seemed tohave shrunk in his clothes; his eyeballs were bloodshot from drinking,and his fair hair had dropped, neglected, over his forehead. He wassitting in his familiar attitude, his elbows on his knees, his chin onhis palms.
He looked at me with dull eyes, when I went in. I did not see Burton atfirst. He was sitting on my desk, holding a flat can in his hand, anddigging out with a wooden toothpick one sardine after another andbolting them whole.
"Your good health," he said, poising one in the air, where it threatenedoily tears over the carpet. "As an appetite-quencher andthirst-producer, give me the festive sardine. How lovely it would be ifwe could eat 'em without smelling 'em!"
"Don't you do anything but eat?" Wardrop asked, without enthusiasm.
Burton eyed him reproachfully. "Is that what I get for doing withoutlunch, in order to prove to you that you are not crazy?" He appealed tome. "He says he's crazy--lost his think works. Now, I ask you, Knox,when I go to the trouble to find out for him that he's got as manyconvolutions as anybody, and that they've only got a little convolved,is it fair, I ask you, for him to reproach me about my food?"
"I didn't know you knew each other," I put in, while Burton took anothersardine.
"He says we do," Wardrop said wearily; "says he used to knock me aroundat college."
Burton winked at me solemnly.
"He doesn't remember me, but he will," he said. "It's his nerves thatare gone, and we'll have him restrung with new wires, like an old piano,in a week."
Wardrop had that after-debauch suspicion of all men, but I think hegrasped at me as a dependability.
"He wants me to go to a doctor," he said. "I'm not sick; it's only--" Hewas trying to light a cigarette, but the match dropped from his shakingfingers.
"Better see one, Wardrop," I urged--and I felt mean enough about doingit. "You need something to brace you up."
Burton gave him a very small drink, for he could scarcely stand, and wewent down in the elevator. My contempt for the victim between us was asgreat as my contempt for myself. That Wardrop was in a bad positionthere could be no doubt; there might be more men than Fleming who hadknown about the money in the leather bag, and who thought he had takenit and probably killed Fleming to hide the theft.
It seemed incredible that an innocent man would collapse as he had done,and yet--at this minute I can name a dozen men who, under the club ofpublic disapproval, have fallen into paresis, insanity and the grave. Weare all indifferent to our fellow-men until they are against us.
Burton knew the specialist very well--in fact, there seemed to be fewpeople he did not know. And considering the way he had got hold of MissLetitia and Wardrop, it was not surprising. He had evidently arrangedwith the doctor, for the waiting-room was empty and we were afterhours.
The doctor was a large man, his size emphasized by the clothes he wore,very light in color, and unprofessional in cut. He was sandy-haired,inclined to be bald, and with shrewd, light blue eyes behind hisglasses. Not particularly impressive, except as to size, on firstacquaintance; a good fellow, with a brisk voice, and an amazingly lighttread.
He began by sending Wardrop into a sort of examining room in the rear ofthe suite somewhere, to take off his coat and collar. When he had gonethe doctor looked at a slip of paper in his hand.
"I think I've got it all from Mr. Burton," he said. "Of course, Mr.Knox, this is a little out of my line; a nerve specialist has as muchbusiness with psychotherapy as a piano tuner has with musical technique.But the idea is Munsterburg's, and I've had some good results. I'll givehim a short physical examination, and when I ring the bell one of youmay come in. Are you a newspaper man, Mr. Knox?"
"An attorney," I said briefly.
"Press man, lawyer, or doctor," Burton broke in, "we all fatten on theother fellow's troubles, don't we?"
"We don't fatten very much," I corrected "We live."
The doctor blinked behind his glasses.
"I never saw a lawyer yet who would admit he was making money," he said."Look at the way a doctor grinds for a pittance! He's just as capable asthe lawyer; he works a damn sight harder, and he makes a tenth theincome. A man will pay his lawyer ten thousand dollars for keeping himout of jail for six months, and he'll kick like a steer if his doctorcharges him a hundred to keep him out of hell for life! Which of youwill come in? I'm afraid two would distract him."
"I guess it is Knox's butt-in," Burton conceded, "but I get it later,Doctor; you promised."
The physical examination was very brief; when I was called in Wardropwas standing at the window looking down into the street below, and thedoctor was writing at his desk. Behind Wardrop's back he gave me theslip he had written.
"Test is for association of ideas. Watch length of time between word I give and his reply. I often get hold of facts forgotten by the patient. A wait before the answering word is given shows an attempt at concealment."
"Now, Mr. Wardrop," he said, "will you sit here, please?"
He drew a chair to the center-table for Wardrop, and another, justacross for himself. I sat back and to one side of the patient, where Icould see Wardrop's haggard profile and every movement of thespecialist.
On the table was an electric instrument like a small clock, and thedoctor's first action was to attach to it two wires with small, blackrubber mouthpieces.
"Now, Mr. Wardrop," he said, "we will go on with the test. Your othercondition is fair, as I told you; I think you can dismiss the idea ofinsanity without a second thought, but there is something more thanbrain and body to be considered; in other words, you have been through astorm, and some of your nervous wires are down. Put the mouthpiecebetween your lips, please; you see, I do the same with mine. And when Igive you a word, speak as quickly as possible the association it bringsto your mind. For instance, I say 'noise.' Your first association mightbe 'street,' 'band,' 'drum,' almost anything associated with the word.As quickly as possible, please."
The first few words went simply enough. Ward
rop's replies came almostinstantly. To "light" he replied "lamp;" "touch" brought the response"hand;" "eat" brought "Burton," and both the doctor and I smiled.Wardrop was intensely serious. Then--
"Taxicab," said the doctor, and, after an almost imperceptible pause,"road" came the association. All at once I began to see thepossibilities.
"Desk." "Pen."
"Pipe." "Smoke."
"Head." After a perceptible pause the answer came uncertainly. "Hair."But the association of ideas would not be denied, for in answer to thenext word, which was "ice," he gave "blood," evidently following up theprevious word "head."
I found myself gripping the arms of my chair. The dial on the doctor'sclock-like instrument was measuring the interval; I could see that now.The doctor took a record of every word and its response. Wardrop's eyeswere shifting nervously.
"Hot." "Cold."
"White." "Black."
"Whisky." "Glass," all in less than a second.
"Pearls." A little hesitation, then "box."
"Taxicab" again. "Night."
"Silly." "Wise."
"Shot." After a pause, "revolver."
"Night." "Dark."
"Blood." "Head."
"Water." "Drink."
"Traveling-bag." He brought out the word "train" after an evidentstruggle, but in answer to the next word "lost," instead of the obvious"found," he said "woman." He had not had sufficient mental agility toget away from the association with "bag." The "woman" belonged there.
"Murder" brought "dead," but "shot," following immediately after,brought "staircase."
I think Wardrop was on his guard by that time, but the conscious effortto hide truths that might be damaging made the intervals longer, fromthat time on. Already I felt sure that Allan Fleming's widow had beenright; he had been shot from the locked back staircase. But by whom?
"Blow" brought "chair."
"Gone." "Bag" came like a flash.
In quick succession, without pause, came the words--
"Bank." "Note."
"Door." "Bolt."
"Money." "Letters," without any apparent connection.
Wardrop was going to the bad. When, to the next word, "staircase,"again, he said "scar," his demoralization was almost complete. As forme, the scene in Wardrop's mind was already in mine--Schwartz, with thescar across his ugly forehead, and the bolted door to the staircaseopen!
On again with the test.
"Flour," after perhaps two seconds, from the preceding shock, brought"bread."
"Trees." "Leaves."
"Night." "Dark."
"Gate." He stopped here so long, I thought he was not going to answer atall. Presently, with am effort, he said "wood," but as before, theassociation idea came out in the next word; for "electric light" he gave"letters."
"Attic" brought "trunks" at once.
"Closet." After perhaps a second and a half came "dust," showing whatcloset was in his mind, and immediately after, to "match" he gave "pen."
A long list of words followed which told nothing, to my mind, althoughthe doctor's eyes were snapping with excitement. Then "traveling-bag"again, and instead of his previous association, "woman," this time hegave "yellow." But, to the next word, "house," he gave "guest." It cameto me that in his mental processes I was the guest, the substitute bagwas in his mind, as being in my possession. Quick as a flash the doctorfollowed up--
"Guest." And Wardrop fell. "Letters," he said.
To a great many words, as I said before, I could attach no significance.Here and there I got a ray.
"Elderly" brought "black."
"Warehouse." "Yard," for no apparent reason.
"Eleven twenty-two." "C" was the answer, given without a second'shesitation.
Eleven twenty-two C! He gave no evidence of having noticed anypeculiarity in what he said; I doubt if he realized his answer. To me,he gave the impression of repeating something he had apparentlyforgotten. As if a number and its association had been subconscious, andbrought to the surface by the psychologist; as if, for instance, someone prompted a--b, and the corollary "c" came without summoning.
The psychologist took the small mouthpiece from his lips, and motionedWardrop to do the same. The test was over.
"I don't call that bad condition, Mr.--Wardrop," the doctor said. "Youare nervous, and you need a little more care in your habits. You want toexercise, regularly, and you will have to cut out everything in the wayof stimulants for a while. Oh, yes, a couple of drinks a day at first,then one a day, and then none. And you are to stop worrying--whentrouble comes round, and stares at you, don't ask it in to have adrink. Take it out in the air and kill it; oxygen is as fatal to anxietyas it is to tuberculosis."
"How would Bellwood do?" I asked. "Or should it be the country?"
"Bellwood, of course," the doctor responded heartily. "Ten miles a day,four cigarettes, and three meals--which is more than you have beentaking, Mr. Wardrop, by two."
I put him on the train for Bellwood myself, and late that afternoon thethree of us--the doctor, Burton and myself--met in my office and wentover the doctor's record.
"When the answer comes in four-fifths of a second," he said, before webegan, "it is hardly worth comment. There is no time in such an intervalfor any mental reservation. Only those words that showed noticeablehesitation need be considered."
We worked until almost seven. At the end of that time the doctor leanedback in his chair, and thrust his hands deep in his trousers pockets.
"I got the story from Burton," he said, after a deep breath. "I had noconclusion formed, and of course I am not a detective. Things lookedblack for Mr. Wardrop, in view of the money lost, the quarrel withFleming that morning at the White Cat, and the circumstance of hisleaving the club and hunting a doctor outside, instead of raising thealarm. Still, no two men ever act alike in an emergency. Psychology isas exact a science as mathematics; it gets information from the source,and a man can not lie in four-fifths of a second. 'Head,' you noticed,brought 'hair' in a second and three quarters, and the next word, 'ice,'brought the 'blood' that he had held back before. That doesn't showanything. He tried to avoid what was horrible to him.
"But I gave him 'traveling-bag;' after a pause, he responded with'train.' The next word, 'lost,' showed what was in his mind; instead of'found,' he said 'woman.' Now then, I believe he was either robbed by awoman, or he thinks he was. After all, we can only get what he believeshimself.
"'Money--letters,'--another slip.
"'Shot--staircase'--where are the stairs at the White Cat?"
"I learned yesterday of a back staircase that leads into one of theupper rooms," I said. "It opens on a side entrance, and is used inemergency."
The doctor smiled confidently.
"We look there for our criminal," he said. "Nothing hides from thechronoscope. Now then, 'staircase--scar.' Isn't that significant? Theassociation is clear: a scar that is vivid enough, disfiguring enough,to be the first thing that enters his mind."
"Schwartz!" Burton said with awe. "Doctor, what on earth does 'eleventwenty-two C' mean?"
"I think that is up to you, gentlemen. The C belongs there, withoutdoubt. Briefly, looking over these slips, I make it something like this:Wardrop thinks a woman took his traveling-bag. Three times he gave theword 'letters,' in response to 'gate,' 'guest' and 'money.' Did he havea guest at the time all this happened at Bellwood?"
"I was a guest in the house at the time."
"Did you offer him money for letters?"
"No."
"Did he give you any letters to keep for him?"
"He gave me the bag that was substituted for his."
"Locked?"
"Yes. By Jove, I wonder if there is anything in it? I have reason toknow that he came into my room that night at least once after I wentasleep."
"I think it very likely," he said dryly. "One thing we have not touchedon, and I believe Mr. Wardrop knows nothing of it. That is, thedisappearance of the old lady. There is a psychological study for you!My conclu
sion? Well, I should say that Mr. Wardrop is not guilty of themurder. He knows, or thinks he knows, who is. He has a theory of hisown, about some one with a scar: it may be only a theory. He does notnecessarily know, but he hopes. He is in a state of abject fear. Also,he is hiding something concerning letters, and from the word 'money' inthat connection, I believe he either sold or bought some damagingpapers. He is not a criminal, but he is what is almost worse."
The doctor rose and picked up his hat. "He is a weakling," he said, fromthe doorway.
Burton looked at his watch. "By George!" he said. "Seven-twenty, andI've had nothing since lunch but a box of sardines. I'm off to chase thefestive mutton chop. Oh, by the way, Knox, where is that locked bag?"
"In my office safe."
"I'll drop around in the morning and assist you to compound a felony,"he said easily. But as it happened, he did not.
The Window at the White Cat Page 20