Chapter Seven
The art and science of hypnotism
Hypnotism had been around since the early 1700s. They had looked it up before coming here. Now the author of The Art and Science of Hypnotism sat before them, expounding on his craft.
“Three forms of hypnotic somnambulism are distinguished clinically. These include classical somnambulism in patients with hysterical neurosis on a juvenile-unstable basis, sensual-lucid somnambulism in patients with hysterical neurosis on a primitive personality basis, and sensual-split somnambulism in patients with pseudo-neurotic schizophrenia with a hysteroid clinical picture. The differential diagnostic importance of such forms of somnambulism is stressed in all the literature.”
Without any idea of what to expect, it was a letdown but also revealing that the office was decorated and furnished like any other professional’s, whether doctor, lawyer, or some other type of consultant.
“And you say that hypnosis really doesn’t involve mental illness, nor cause any lasting chemical or structural changes to the brain? It is a phenomena completely unrelated?” Gilles listened carefully, wondering if he was even competent to ask a proper question. “Well, I can see why you wrote the book on it.”
“Essentially, that is correct.” The Great Swami, an American whose real name, Edward Cole, was all over the passport and professional documents he had provided, was a showman but also a scientist in his own way.
He had to thoroughly understand the medium, which involved heavy audience participation in terms of individual but also group consciousness, and he had to understand his art, which Gilles took to be one of misdirection.
“The trance state is primarily a physiological state, which alters the state of consciousness, rather than a transcendental state, where I sort of impose my will upon yours. In purely psychological terms, most subjects actually do resist the trance, at least at first. It is not a magical spell, not in any sense of the word. The fact that popular ignorance often prefers this view is no concern of mine. It actually makes my job easier. The public performance is a show, after all. The subjects participate by choice, at some conscious level, for the practitioner has made them comfortable, relaxed, and they feel safe in letting go. They often believe the audience will keep them safe enough, at least onstage.”
“So you’re a real doctor, then?” Levain stumbled along as he tried to make notes, knowing he would never be able to reconstruct all of this later from the squiggles in his notebook.
“Oh, absolutely, I am a doctor, yes. But I am so much more than that.” The Great Swami nodded complacently. “I am also an avatar of Shiva, but that is beside the point.”
Gilles coughed politely, sure it was a joke. He was as stumped as Levain.
“Totally off the record, none of your subjects are plants?”
Cole grinned.
“Never, although that is a common misconception.”
Gilles wondered whether to believe him or not.
“So you liked my book?” Gilles wondered at the insecurity of the vain, or was it just the writers.
“Yes, I couldn’t put it down. I stayed up all Saturday night to read it.”
The Great Swami beamed at the statement.
“I’d be happy to sign it for you.”
“No, that’s quite all right, besides, it may be evidence in a homicide. But you may have misunderstood my question.”
“Not at all, Inspector, but there are no easy answers. The classical feeling, the belief among professionals, is that it is impossible to induce a person through a hypnotic trance, to do or perform some act of which they are fundamentally incapable, or which they have no real need to do. They must be predisposed to it, and even then I believe, and many experts believe, that to over-ride a person’s natural sense of caution, or consequence if you will, the basic instinct for self-preservation at all costs, makes the task impossible. The organism would react where the whole was threatened.”
“You mean it is impossible to over-rule the subconscious mind?” This was the meat Gilles was looking for.
“Something like that.” The Swami, who looked like a perfectly ordinary person in the quiet comfort of his office, was trying to be helpful, but unfortunately they could only tell him so much. “There is perhaps one exception, which I deal with in chapter nineteen.”
“Oh…oh, ah...” Gilles thought furiously. “Yes. Group consciousness. With a large enough sample you believe anything is possible?”
The sound of Andre’s pencil overwhelmed the brief silence as The Great Swami gave him a look. They were serious.
“I believe that crowd psychology, and a kind of mass hypnotism, is likely more effective than attempting to suborn a single individual, considering the mass media and its reach and influence in modern society. Bear in mind the results would be general rather than pin-point.”
Gilles wondered if the Great Swami had ever been consulted by the government, but he didn’t think so or the man would have mentioned it. Also, he was unlikely to say anything that was too controversial, or likely to be contradicted by any other competent practitioner. That much was self-evident, in fact a common element with the lesser breed of expert witnesses.
“What about quitting tobacco?” Levain’s shrugged at Gilles’ inquiring glance. “Why not, Inspector? We might as well ask, now that we have him.”
A feeble grin escaped Maintenon. He had been expecting a fast-talking charlatan, a real shyster, and the man was nothing like expected.
“I might be able to help you quit smoking. It’s a long process, and it is by no means certain. Nicotine is one of the most addictive substances known to man. It’s a hard habit to break, and that’s just the truth. As far as convincing someone to commit a serious crime, let alone murder, in my opinion, it cannot be done. It would be harder, or at least take more time, than getting them to quit smoking.”
“And how do you feel about your book being found at a crime scene?” Gilles was floundering.
“It sold hundreds of copies world-wide. I suppose I should be pleased, or something.” He settled back in the deeply-padded leather chair and crossed his fingers on his belly. “I’m flattered, really.”
There was an air of resignation in this statement. He must have had high hopes for it.
“Yes, I see your point. Well, thank you for your time.” They rose for the obligatory round of hand-shaking and back-slapping.
Doctors were all the same in his opinion, although the fact that the Great Swami was a real doctor, with all kinds of degrees hung up on the wall, was of some anecdotal interest. The thing was, now he’d have to put a man on verifying the degrees were real. He probably made more money from all the quackery or perhaps the richer or more foolish people were more willing to pay good money for it. Judging by the house, he seemed to be doing all right, and had never heard of Theo Duval other than reading something about him in the paper.
His game seemed to consist of a lot of listening and a lot of talking, in about equal amounts. Maybe their jobs had more in common than he cared to admit.
***
“Oh, Lord, where did you get that?” Leblanc was nothing like Gilles had expected. “When you called, I was expecting a newspaper clipping. I thought you should be able to get some information from them…”
Leblanc was much more interested now, and his attitude changed to one much more amiable. He had a lean, hawkish face with intellect written all over the eyes and brow, and a firm but sensual mouth.
“Yes, I remember taking that. Twenty francs or something. I was hungry back then. The game was a simple one. I approached people, asked permission, and took their picture. I gave out a business card, and the people would contact me if they wanted a print.”
He studied the photo of Duval and the young woman with more than professional interest.
Where he was expecting artistic flamboyance, Gilles found professional confidence, and if he was expecting turgid, incoherent theories, he wasn’t going to get it. Leblanc was renowned for his so
cial commentary, and he reputedly had an encyclopedic memory of his subjects over the years.
“That’s Theo Duval and Elmira Dobbs. Ah, let me think. It was maybe October of twenty-two. I’m not sure if she’s still around, or what.”
“Where was it taken?”
“The White Hart, it’s in Montmartre. I might have their card in my file.” Leblanc pressed a button and his secretary appeared in the doorway. “Please have a look and see if there’s anything in the files on the White Hart, a club in Montmartre.”
She left on her errand and he looked at them with several obvious questions written all over him.
“It’s owned by a fellow by the name of Marcel. He’s all right to talk to, as long as you reassure him with a few coloured bits of paper.” Leblanc rubbed his fingers together in a universal gesture. “If he thinks you’re the vice cops, or after any of his regular customers, he’ll clam right up.”
“This photograph is different.”
“All of my photographs are different.”
“Yes, of course. But what is your philosophy of creativity, for surely that is what it is?”
“My pictures say exactly what I intend them to say. They are created, not captured. They are candid, not posed. What this implies is that I must take a lot of pictures, most of which never see the light of day. My pictures reveal what the eye cannot see. My camera looks deeper than you can ever know, for it sees inside, to the person who hides within. We all wear a mask in this society. You must have figured that out by now.”
There was a silence as the gentleman assessed them. They sat there, impervious behind their professional masks, figuratively speaking, and he grinned engagingly.
“There is a new interest in social criticism in general, and in my work, a deeper examination of character. I’m not that interested in pretty pictures. I work in an intimate key pervaded by a subtle vein of decadence. The old ideas are no longer valid, and the current of escapism in modern life is strong. There is a mood of sensual restlessness and insecurity in the world today, and many doubts about established values. This is a good time to be an artist.”
“I see.” Gilles most assuredly did not see, however, it was refreshing to get some temperament from the man, otherwise he would not be the person he was, which was a very successful and well-regarded artist and entrepreneur. “Andre?”
“I have no more questions, Inspector.” Andre spread his hands palms up in the universal gesture for helplessness, which was not surprising, given the last answer.
“When was the last time you saw either of them?”
“Ah, I might have seen them around at various clubs, although not together anymore. I don’t think she lasted long, maybe a few weeks or so.”
“So Monsieur Duval was a player?”
“That’s one way of saying it.” Leblanc thought for a moment. “Theo wasn’t into trophies, or carving notches on his bed-post, if that’s what you mean.”
He thought some more.
“She, on the other hand, might have had an agenda. That would have turned him off quicker than anything.”
“So he was looking for true love, then?” Levain could be uncommonly perceptive at times.
“Yes, I think so.” Leblanc’s look was appreciative. “That’s sometimes a tough thing, for a rich and handsome man.”
There was a light tap at the door. The secretary returned and offered Leblanc a file, from which he selected a card and then wrote the information down for them. He returned the card to the file and she took it away again. This whole exchange happened wordlessly.
“In short, gentlemen, my style has evolved over time. We live in an age that is so rich in innovations, a decisive era in the history of European civilization, that anything is possible, for a man like me, but even more so for a man like Theo Duval. Oh, yes, I knew him well enough. But he was a type of man…if you will forgive the expression, he was a psychopath. Most modern psychopaths are unsuccessful in life, because we no longer measure the justice of our desires by the strength of our arms or the length of our swords. But he had the sort of intellectual focus many lacked. He knew what he wanted, and he knew what he had to do to get there. For him, ultimately it was about more than just the money. It was about validation, a validation of who he was and who he wanted to be, although he was definitely obsessed by the work.”
“There is no doubt he had a good brain.”
Leblanc nodded at Levain’s assertion.
“And you?” Gilles was still curious about Leblanc, who had insisted he had no other name, no prenom.
“For me it is about the art, and I suppose it’s about living the life of an artist, if you accept that photography is an art. I was born in a very small town in the Cevennes. Look at me now. Money makes all other things possible, or I would ignore it entirely. It is also the measure of success.”
The officers pondered that briefly, but there was no way to verify such a statement either way.
“If there’s anything else…” He was leaving the door to further questions open for them, and showing them an exit at the same time.
“Yes, we’d better go.” Gilles looked over at Levain, who shrugged expressively.
They rose to take their leave of the gentleman.
***
They sat waiting in the back room, which passed for Guillaume’s office. Levain checked his watch.
“He should be along any minute now.” Andre’s voice was a harsh whisper. It echoed all up and down, around their heads, and it would be a dead giveaway if the man showed up at the wrong time.
He just wanted to get an impression of Alain Duval, and this was as good way as any. To identify next of kin was bad enough, but a brother with his face blown off would be extremely tough on almost any person. He had the idea that Alain was some moral weakling, but had no idea where the notion had come from or why it had taken root. He couldn’t take Madame Fontaine’s obvious dislike as fact. Her petit-bourgeois attitude was deeply-embedded, but hardly enlightened. The doctor muttered to himself as he worked on another cadaver, another case, another series of notes and observations. He at least, seemed happy with life this afternoon. There was a loud noise and Gilles visualized the door opening in the other room, the one from the corridor. There were scrapes and light foot steps. The sounds faded away.
“May I help you?” Guillaume sounded like he had been surprised in a nap.
It wasn’t exactly acting. He was so absorbed in his work. The doctor’s muffled voice came to him, and another man spoke, sounding slightly breathless. It was the tension in the diaphragm that did it. Gilles had once been asked to identify a fellow officer, a single man, an orphan with no living relatives that could be located quickly. He was killed in the line of duty, and there was a reluctance to see the truth up close and at first hand. His partner had been overcome, and as his commanding officer, Gilles had little choice. It was tough duty.
Andre was already on his feet, and now Gilles rose carefully on the dimness. This was why he had taken a hard wooden seat instead of the creaky old swivel chair behind Guillaume’s desk, and he made it to the door, standing slightly ajar, without any unwanted noises. Easing back, Andre let him have a look.
True to his word, Guillaume had the man on the far side of the tablet. The sheet was pulled back. There was a gasp, more like a wince, and then more silence. The man, a slender person but tall enough, looking to be about thirty years old, shook his head.
“There’s not much left, is there?” Silence ruled the scene as the pair watched. “Oh, wow.”
The fellow straightened up from the body of Theodore Duval.
“What do you want from me?” He seemed resigned, and he had been warned. “You need me to sign something, I guess.”
He was seeing what he expected to see.
“Forgive the formalities, but is this the body of your brother, Theodore Duval, a resident of the Rue Duvivier? Take your time please. I know this is hard for you.” Guillaume had his hand on the man’s shoulder, and som
e emotions were visible in the heaving for breath and the sort of straightening up of Alain’s head and shoulders.
“Well. I suppose it is. It must be.” He looked wildly around the room for a moment, as if the walls, the ceiling, the stainless steel fixtures and glaring work lights could give him any real assurance.
Andre coughed right on cue, and the pair made their way into the room.
“Did your brother have any identifying marks? Are you aware of any birthmarks, injuries or tattoos, that sort of thing? Is this his ring?” Levain went by the usual routine.
Brothers often knew a lot about each other, but there was the difference in their ages.
“I don’t know.” Alain accepted the presence of the two officers with no remark as they came up and around on the other side of the table now. “Yes. That’s his ring, or one very much like it.”
“Was Theo the sort of person to commit suicide?” Gilles saw the look on Alain’s face.
“No. Never.” He seemed sure enough of that.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?”
The fact that Alain Duval wasn’t shocked at the question didn’t mean much. He must have had some time to think on the way back from Brittany. His answer to this question didn’t surprise Gilles either.
“Huh. On some level, oh, probably hundreds or even thousands. On the one you mean, not really. He really was a good person. All, or I should say most, of his former lovers speak well of Theo. They parted with regret, rather than outright hatred.”
“On some level?” Gilles wanted more, something specific.
“His competitors.” Alain had a dry tone that showed he had recovered well from his initial shock. “Are you saying this isn’t my brother?”
“No, young man. I’m saying that I would like to know for certain. Which is just what you can’t do for us, apparently.” Gilles wasn’t trying to sound mean or angry. “It’s all right, it’s just a fact of life for us.”
The Art of Murder Page 8