Chapter OneThere is no mystery to happiness.Unhappy men are all alike. Some wound they suffered long ago,
some wish denied, some blow to pride, some kindling spark of love
put out by scorn --- or worse, indifference --- cleaves to them, or
they to it, and so they live each day within a shroud of
yesterdays. The happy man does not look back. He doesn't look
ahead. He lives in the present.But
there's the rub. The present can never deliver one thing: meaning.
The ways of happiness and meaning are not the same. To find
happiness, a man need only live in the moment; he need only live
for the moment. But if he wants meaning --- the meaning of his
dreams, his secrets, his life --- a man must reinhabit his past,
however dark, and live for the future, however uncertain. Thus
nature dangles happiness and meaning before us all, insisting only
that we choose between them.For
myself, I have always chosen meaning. Which, I suppose, is how I
came to be waiting in the swelter and mob of Hoboken Harbor on
Sunday evening, August 29, 1909, for the arrival of the
Norddeutsche Lloyd steamship George Washington, bound from Bremen,
carrying to our shores the one man in the world I wanted most to
meet.At 7
p.m. there was still no sign of the ship. Abraham Brill, my friend
and fellow physician, was waiting at the harbor for the same reason
as I. He could hardly contain himself, fidgeting and smoking
incessantly. The heat was murderous, the air thick with the reek of
fish. An unnatural fog rose from the water, as if the sea were
steaming. Horns sounded heavily out in the deeper water, their
sources invisible. Even the keening gulls could be only heard, not
seen. A ridiculous premonition came to me that the George
Washington had run aground in the fog, her twenty-five hundred
European passengers drowning at the foot of the Statue of Liberty.
Twilight came, but the temperature did not abate. We
waited.All
at once, the vast white ship appeared --- not as a dot on the
horizon, but mammoth, emerging from the mist full-blown before our
eyes. The entire pier, with a collective gasp, drew back at the
apparition. But the spell was broken by the outbreak of harbormen's
cries, the flinging and catching of rope, the bustle and jostle
that followed. Within minutes, a hundred stevedores were unloading
freight.Brill, yelling at me to follow, shouldered through to the
gangway. His entreaties to board were rebuffed; no one was being
let on or off the ship. It was another hour before Brill yanked at
my sleeve and pointed to three passengers descending the bridge.
The first of the trio was a distinguished, immaculately groomed,
gray-haired, and gray-bearded gentleman whom I knew at once to be
the Viennese psychiatrist Dr. Sigmund Freud.At
the beginning of the twentieth century, an architectural paroxysm
shook New York City. Gigantic towers called skyscrapers soared up
one after the other, higher than anything built by the hand of man
before. At a ribbon-cutting on Liberty Street in 1908, the top hats
applauded as Mayor McClellan declared the forty-seven-story
redbrick and bluestone Singer Building the world's tallest
structure. Eighteen months later, the mayor had to repeat the same
ceremony at the fifty-story Metropolitan Life tower on
Twenty-fourth Street. But even then, they were already breaking
ground for Mr. Woolworth's staggering fifty-eight-story ziggurat
back downtown.On
every block, enormous steel-beam skeletons appeared where empty
lots had been the day before. The smash and scream of steam shovels
never ceased. The only comparison was with Haussmann's
transformation of Paris a half century earlier, but in New York
there was no single vision behind the scenes, no unifying plan, no
disciplining authority. Capital and speculation drove everything,
releasing fantastic energies, distinctly American and
individualistic.The
masculinity of it all was undeniable. On the ground, the implacable
Manhattan grid, with its two hundred numbered east-west streets and
twelve north-south avenues, gave the city a stamp of abstract
rectilinear order. Above this, in the immensity of the towering
structures, with their peacock-like embellishments, it was all
ambition, speculation, competition, domination, even lust --- for
height, size, and always money.The
Balmoral, on the Boulevard --- New Yorkers at the time referred to
Broadway from Fifty-ninth to 155th Street as the Boulevard --- was
one of the grand new edifices. Its very existence was a gamble. In
1909, the very rich still lived in houses, not apartments. They
"kept" apartments for short or seasonal stays in the city, but they
failed to comprehend how anybody could actually live in one. The
Balmoral was a bet: that the rich could be induced to change their
minds if the accommodations were sufficiently opulent.The
Balmoral rose seventeen stories, higher and grander than any
apartment building --- any residential building --- had ever
climbed before. Its four wings occupied an entire city block. Its
lobby, where seals cavorted in a Roman fountain, shone with white
Carrara marble. Chandeliers in every apartment sparkled with Murano
glass. The smallest dwelling had eight rooms; the largest boasted
fourteen bedrooms, seven baths, a grand ballroom with a twenty-foot
ceiling, and full maid's service. This rented for the appalling sum
of $495 a month.The
owner of the Balmoral, Mr. George Banwell, enjoyed the enviable
position of being unable to lose money on it. His investors had
advanced $6,000,000 toward its construction, of which he had kept
not a penny, scrupulously remitting the entire amount to the
builder, the American Steel and Fabrication Company. The owner of
this firm, however, was also Mr. George Banwell, and the actual
construction cost was $4,200,000. On January 1, 1909, six months
before the Balmoral was to open, Mr. Banwell announced that all but
two of the apartments were already let. The announcement was pure
invention, but it was believed, and therefore within three weeks it
was so. Mr. Banwell had mastered the great truth that truth itself,
like buildings, can be manufactured.The
Balmoral's exterior belonged to the Beaux-Arts school at its most
flamboyant. Crowning the roofline were a quartet of thirteen-foot
floor-to-ceiling glass-paned concrete arches, one at each corner of
the property. Because these great arched windows gave off the top
floor's four master bedrooms, someone standing outside them could
have had a very compromising view inside. On Sunday night, August
29, the view from outside the Alabaster Wing would have been
shocking indeed. A slender young woman was standing within, lit by
a dozen flickering candles, barely clothed, exquisitely
proportioned, her wrists tied together over her head, and her
throat embraced by another binding, a man's white silk tie, which a
strong hand was making tight, exceedingly tight, causing her to
choke.Her
entire body glistened in the unbearable August heat. Her long legs
were bare, as were her arms. Her elegant shoulders were nearly bare
as well. The girl's consciousness was fading. She tried to speak.
There was a question she had to ask. It was there; it was gone.
Then she had it again. "My name," she whispered. "What is my
name?"Dr.
Freud, I was relieved to see, did not look like a madman at all.
His countenance was authoritative, his head well formed, his beard
pointed, neat, professional. He was about five-foot-eight,
roundish, but quite fit and solid for a man of fifty-three. His
suit was of excellent cloth, with a watch chain and cravat in the
continental style. Altogether, he looked remarkably sound for a man
just off a week's voyage at sea.His
eyes were another matter. Brill had warned me about them. As Freud
descended the ship's ramp, his eyes were fearsome, as if he were in
a towering temper. Perhaps the calumny he had long endured in
Europe had worked a permanent scowl into his brow. Or perhaps he
was unhappy to be in America. Six months ago, when President Hall
of Clark University --- my employer --- first invited Freud to the
United States, he turned us down. We were not sure why. Hall
persisted, explaining that Clark wished to confer on Freud the
university's highest academic honor, to make him the centerpiece of
our twentieth-anniversary celebrations, and to have him deliver a
series of lectures on psychoanalysis, the first ever to be given in
America. In the end Freud accepted. Was he now regretting his
decision?All
these speculations, I soon saw, were unfounded. As he stepped off
the gangway, Freud lit a cigar --- his first act on American soil
--- and the moment he did so the scowl vanished, a smile came to
his face, and all the seeming choler drained away. He inhaled
deeply and looked about him, taking in the harbor's size and chaos
with what looked like amusement.Brill greeted Freud warmly. They knew each other from Europe;
Brill had even been to Freud's home in Vienna. He had described
that evening to me --- the charming Viennese house filled with
antiquities, the doting and doted-on children, the hours of
electrifying conversation --- so often I knew his stories by
heart.From
nowhere a knot of reporters appeared; they gathered around Freud
and yelled out questions, mostly in German. He answered with good
humor but seemed baffled that an interview should be conducted in
so haphazard a fashion. At last Brill shooed them away and pulled
me forward."Allow me," Brill said to Freud, "to present Dr. Stratham
Younger, a recent graduate of Harvard University, now teaching at
Clark, and sent down by Hall specially to take care of you during
your week in New York. Younger is without question the most
talented American psychoanalyst. Of course, he is also the only
American psychoanalyst.""What," said Freud to Brill, "you don't call yourself an
analyst, Abraham?""I
don't call myself American," Brill replied. "I am one of Mr.
Roosevelt's 'hyphenated Americans,' for which, as he says, there is
no room in this country."Freud addressed me. "I am always delighted," he said in
excellent English, "to meet a new member of our little movement,
but especially here in America, for which I have such hopes." He
begged me to thank President Hall for the honor Clark had bestowed
on him."The
honor is ours, sir," I replied, "but I'm afraid I hardly qualify as
a psychoanalyst.""Don't be a fool," said Brill, "of course you do." He then
introduced me to Freud's two traveling companions. "Younger, meet
the eminent Sándor Ferenczi of Budapest, whose name is
synonymous throughout Europe with mental disorder. And here is the
still more eminent Carl Jung of Zurich, whose Dementia will one day
be known all over the civilized world.""Most happy," said Ferenczi in a strong Hungarian accent, "most
happy. But please to ignore Brill; everyone does, I assure you."
Ferenczi was an affable sandy-haired fellow in his late thirties,
brightly attired in a white suit. You could see that he and Brill
were genuine friends. Physically, they made a nice contrast. Brill
was among the shortest men I knew, with close-set eyes and a wide
flat-topped head. Ferenczi, although not tall, had long arms, long
fingers, and a receding hairline that elongated his face as
well.I
liked Ferenczi at once, but I had never before shaken a hand that
offered no resistance whatsoever, less than a joint of meat at the
butcher's. It was embarrassing: he let out a yelp and yanked his
fingers away as if they had been crushed. I apologized profusely,
but he insisted he was glad to "start learning right away American
walls," a remark at which I could only nod in polite
agreement.Jung, who was about thirty-five, made a markedly different
impression. He was better than six feet tall, unsmiling, blue-eyed,
dark-haired, with an aquiline nose, a pencil-thin mustache, and a
great expanse of forehead --- quite attractive to women, I should
have thought, although he lacked Freud's ease. His hand was firm
and cold as steel. Standing ramrod straight, he might have been a
lieutenant in the Swiss Guard, except for his little round
scholarly spectacles. The affection Brill clearly felt for Freud
and Ferenczi was nowhere in evidence when he shook Jung's
hand."How
was your passage, gentlemen?" asked Brill. We could not go
anywhere; our guests' trunks had to be collected. "Not too
wearisome?""Capital," said Freud. "You won't believe it: I found a steward
reading my Psychopathology of Everyday Life.""No!" Brill replied. "Ferenczi must have put him up to
it.""Put
him up?" Ferenczi cried out. "I did no such --- "Freud took no notice of Brill's comment. "It may have been the
most gratifying moment of my professional life, which does not
perhaps reflect too well on my professional life. Recognition is
coming to us, my friends: recognition, slowly but
surely.""Did
the crossing take long, sir?" I inquired idiotically."A
week," Freud answered, "and we spent it in the most productive way
possible: we analyzed each other's dreams.""Good God," said Brill. "I wish I had been there. What were the
results, in the name of heaven?""Well, you know," Ferenczi returned, "analysis is rather like
being undressed in public. After you overcome initial humiliation,
is quite refreshing.""That's what I tell all my patients," said Brill, "especially
the women. And what about you, Jung? Did you also find the
humiliation refreshing?"Jung, almost a foot taller than Brill, looked down on him as if
at a laboratory specimen. "It is not quite accurate," he replied,
"to say the three of us analyzed each other.""True," Ferenczi confirmed. "Freud rather analyzed us, while
Jung and I crossed interpretative swords with each
other.""What?" Brill exclaimed. "You mean no one dared to analyze the
Master?""No
one was permitted to," said Jung, betraying no affect."Yes, yes," said Freud, with a knowing smile, "but you all
analyze me to death as soon as my back is turned, don't you,
Abraham?""We
do indeed," Brill replied, "because we are all good sons, and we
know our Oedipal duty."In
the apartment high above the city, a set of instruments lay on the
bed behind the bound girl. From left to right, there were: a man's
right-angled razor, with a bone handle; a black leather riding crop
about two feet in length; three surgical knives, in ascending order
of size; and a small vial half full of a clear fluid. The assailant
considered and picked up one of these instruments.Seeing the shadow of the man's razor flickering on the far
wall, the girl shook her head. Again she tried to cry out, but the
constriction of her throat reduced her plea to a
whisper.From
behind her came a low voice: "You want me to wait?"She
nodded."I
can't." The victim's wrists, crossed and suspended together over
her head, were so slight, her fingers so graceful, her long legs so
demure. "I can't wait." The girl winced as the gentlest possible
stroke was administered to one of her bare thighs. A stroke, that
is, of the razor, which left a vivid scarlet wake as it traced her
skin. She cried out, her back curved in exactly the same arch as
the great windows, her raven hair flowing down her back. A second
stroke, to the other thigh, and the girl cried out again, more
sharply."No," the voice admonished calmly. "No screaming."The
girl could only shake her head, uncomprehending."You
must make a different sound."The
girl shook her head again. She wanted to speak but
couldn't."Yes. You must. I know you can. I told you how. Don't you
remember?" The razor was now replaced on the bed. On the far wall,
in the wavering candlelight, the girl saw the shadow of the leather
crop rising up instead. "You want it. Sound as if you want it. You
must make that kind of sound." Gently but implacably, the silk tie
around the girl's throat drew tighter. "Make it."She
tried to do as she was bid, moaning softly --- a woman's moan, a
supplicating moan, which she had never made before."Good. Like that."Holding the end of the white tie in one hand and the leather
crop in the other, the assailant brought the latter down upon the
girl's back. She made the sound again. Another lash, harder. The
sting caused the girl to cry out, but she caught herself and made
the other sound instead."Better." The next blow landed not on her back but just below
it. She opened her mouth, but at the same moment the tie was drawn
still tighter, choking her. Her choking, in turn, made her moan
seem more genuine, more broken, an effect her tormentor evidently
liked. Another blow, and another and another, louder and faster,
fell on all the softest parts of her body, rending her garments,
leaving glowing marks on her white skin. With every lash, despite
the searing pain, the girl moaned as she had been told to do, her
cries coming louder and faster too.The
rain of blows stopped. She would have collapsed long before, but
the rope from the ceiling, tied to her wrists, kept her upright.
Her body was now scored with lacerations. Blood ran down in one or
two places. For a moment all went dark for her; then the flickering
light returned. A shiver passed through her.Her
eyes opened. Her lips moved. "Tell me my name," she tried to
whisper, but no one heard.The
assailant, studying the girl's lovely neck, loosened the silk
binding around it. For one instant she breathed freely, her head
still flung back, the waves of black hair flowing to her waist.
Then the tie around her throat went taut again.The
girl could no longer see distinctly. She felt a hand on her mouth,
its fingers running lightly over her lips. Then those fingers drew
the silk tie yet tighter, so that even her choking stopped. The
candlelight went out for her again. This time it did not
return."There is train below river?" asked Sándor Ferenczi
incredulously.Not
only did such a train exist, Brill and I assured him, but we were
going to ride it. In addition to the new tunnel across the Hudson
River, the Hoboken tube boasted another innovation: full baggage
service. All a voyager arriving in the United States had to do was
mark his luggage with the name of his hotel in Manhattan. Porters
stowed the trunks in the train's baggage car, and handlers on the
other end did the rest. Taking advantage of this amenity, we walked
out onto the platform, which overlooked the river. With the setting
of the sun, the fog had lifted, revealing the jagged Manhattan
skyline, studded with electric lights. Our guests stared in wonder:
at the sheer expanse of it, and at the spires piercing the
clouds."It's the center of the world," said Brill."I
dreamt of Rome last night," Freud replied.We
waited on pins and needles --- at least I did --- for him to go
on.Freud drew on his cigar. "I was walking, alone," he said.
"Night had just fallen, as it has now. I came upon a shop window
with a jewelry box. That of course means a woman. I looked around.
To my embarrassment, I had wandered into an entire neighborhood of
bordellos."A
debate ensued on whether Freud's teachings dictated defiance of
conventional sexual morality. Jung held that they did; indeed, he
maintained that anyone who failed to see this implication had not
understood Freud. The whole point of psychoanalysis, he said, was
that society's prohibitions were ignorant and unhealthy. Only
cowardice would make men submit to civilized morality once they had
understood Freud's discoveries.Brill and Ferenczi vigorously disagreed. Psychoanalysis
demanded that a man be conscious of his true sexual wishes, not
that he succumb to them. "When we hear a patient's dream," said
Brill, "we interpret it. We don't tell the patient to fulfill the
wishes he is unconsciously expressing. I don't, at any rate. Do
you, Jung?"I
noticed both Brill and Ferenczi sneaking glances at Freud as they
elaborated his ideas --- hoping, I supposed, to find endorsement.
Jung never did. He either had, or affected having, perfect
confidence in his position. As for Freud, he intervened on neither
side, apparently content to watch the debate unfold."Some dreams do not require interpretation," Jung said; "they
require action. Consider Herr Professor Freud's dream last night of
prostitutes. The meaning is not in doubt: suppressed libido,
stimulated by our anticipated arrival in a new world. There is no
point talking about such a dream." Here Jung turned to Freud. "Why
not act on it? We are in America; we can do what we
like."For
the first time, Freud broke in: "I am a married man,
Jung.""So
am I," Jung replied.Freud raised an eyebrow, nodding, but made no reply. I informed
our party that it was time to board the train. Freud took a last
look over the railing. A stiff wind blew in our faces. As we all
gazed at the lights of Manhattan, he smiled. "If they only knew
what we are bringing them."Chapter TwoIn
1909, a small device had begun to spread widely in New York City,
accelerating communication and forever changing the nature of human
interaction: the telephone. At 8 a.m. on Monday morning, August 30,
the manager of the Balmoral lifted his mother-of-pearl receiver
from its brass base and placed a hushed and hurried call to the
building's owner.Mr.
George Banwell answered the call sixteen stories above the
manager's head, in the telephone closet of the Travertine Wing's
penthouse apartment, which Mr. Banwell had kept for himself. He was
informed that Miss Riverford from the Alabaster Wing was dead in
her room, the victim of murder and perhaps worse. A maid had found
her.Banwell did not immediately respond. The line was silent for so
long the head manager said, "Are you there, sir?"Banwell replied with gravel in his voice: "Get everyone out.
Lock the door. No one enters. And tell your people to keep quiet if
they value their jobs." Then he called an old friend, the mayor of
New York City. At the conclusion of their conversation, Banwell
said, "I can't afford any police in the building, McClellan. Not
one uniform. I'll tell the family myself. I went to school with
Riverford. That's right: the father, poor bastard.""Mrs. Neville," the mayor called out to his secretary as he
rang off. "Get me Hugel. At once."Charles Hugel was coroner of the City of New York. It was his
duty to see to the corpse in any case of suspected homicide. Mrs.
Neville informed the mayor that Mr. Hugel had been waiting in the
mayor's antechamber all morning.McClellan closed his eyes and nodded, but said, "Excellent.
Send him in."Before the door had even closed behind him, Coroner Hugel
launched into an indignant tirade against the conditions at the
city morgue. The mayor, who had heard this litany of complaints
before, cut him off. He described the situation at the Balmoral and
ordered the coroner to take an unmarked vehicle uptown. Residents
of the building must not be made aware of any police presence. A
detective would follow later."I?"
said the coroner. "O'Hanlon from my office can do it.""No," replied the mayor, "I want you to go yourself. George
Banwell is an old friend of mine. I need a man with experience ---
and a man whose discretion I can count on. You are one of the few I
have left."The
coroner grumbled but in the end gave way. "I have two conditions.
First, whoever is in charge at the building must be told
immediately that nothing is to be touched. Nothing. I cannot be
expected to solve a murder if the evidence is trampled and tampered
with before I arrive.""Eminently sensible," replied the mayor. "What
else?""I
am to have full authority over the investigation, including the
choice of detective.""Done," said the mayor. "You can have the most seasoned man on
the force.""Exactly what I don't want," replied the coroner. "It would be
gratifying for once to have a detective who won't sell out the case
after I have solved it. There's a new fellow --- Littlemore. He's
the one I want.""Littlemore? Excellent," said the mayor, turning his attention
to the stack of papers on his large desk. "Bingham used to say he's
one of the brightest youngsters we have.""Brightest? He's a perfect idiot."The
mayor was startled: "If you think so, Hugel, why do you want
him?""Because he can't be bought --- at least not yet."When
Coroner Hugel arrived at the Balmoral, he was told to wait for Mr.
Banwell. Hugel hated being made to wait. He was fifty-nine years
old, the last thirty of which had been spent in municipal service,
much of it in the unhealthy confines of city morgues, which had
lent his face a grayish cast. He wore thick glasses and an
oversized mustache between his hollow cheeks. He was altogether
bald except for a wiry tuft sprouting from behind each ear. Hugel
was an excitable man. Even in repose, a swelling in his temples
gave the impression of incipient apoplexia.The
position of coroner in New York City was in 1909 a peculiar one, an
irregularity in the chain of command. Part medical examiner, part
forensic investigator, part prosecutor, the coroner reported
directly to the mayor. He did not answer to anyone on the police
force, not even the commissioner; but neither did anyone on the
force answer to him, not even the lowliest beat patrolman. Hugel
had little but scorn for the police department, which he viewed,
with some justification, as largely inept and thoroughly crooked.
He objected to the mayor's handling of the retirement of Chief
Inspector Byrnes, who had obviously grown rich on bribes. He
objected to the new commissioner, who did not appear to have the
slightest appreciation of the art or importance of a properly held
inquest. In fact, he objected to every departmental decision he
ever heard of, unless it had been made by himself. But he knew his
job. Although not technically a doctor, he had attended a full
three years of medical school and could perform a more expert
autopsy than the physicians who served as his
assistants.After fifteen infuriating minutes, Mr. Banwell at last
appeared. He wasn't, in fact, much taller than Hugel but seemed to
tower over him. "And you are?" he asked."The
coroner of the City of New York," said Hugel, trying to express
condescension. "I alone touch the deceased. Any disturbance of
evidence will be prosecuted as obstruction. Am I
understood?"George Banwell was --- and plainly knew it --- taller,
handsomer, better dressed, and much, much richer than the coroner.
"Rubbish," he said. "Follow me. And keep your voice down while
you're in my building."Banwell led the way to the top floor of the Alabaster Wing.
Coroner Hugel, grinding his teeth, followed. Not a word was spoken
in the elevator. Hugel, staring resolutely at the floor, observed
Mr. Banwell's perfectly creased pin-striped trousers and gleaming
oxfords, which doubtless cost more than the coroner's suit, vest,
tie, hat, and shoes put together. A manservant, standing guard
outside Miss Riverford's apartment, opened the door for them.
Silently, Banwell led Hugel, the head manager, and the servant down
a long corridor to the girl's bedroom.The
nearly naked body lay on the floor, livid, eyes closed, luxurious
dark hair strewn across the intricate design of an Oriental carpet.
She was still exquisitely beautiful --- her arms and legs still
graceful --- but her neck had an ugly redness around it, and her
figure was scored with the marks of a lash. Her wrists remained
bound, thrown back over her head. The coroner walked briskly to the
body and placed a thumb to those wrists, where a pulse would have
been."How
was she --- how did she die?" Banwell asked in his gravelly voice,
arms folded."You
can't tell?" replied the coroner."Would I have asked if I could tell?"Hugel looked under the bed. He stood and gazed at the body from
several angles. "I would say she was strangled to death. Very
slowly.""Was
she --- ?" Banwell did not complete the question."Possibly," said the coroner. "I won't be certain until I've
examined her."With
a piece of red chalk, Hugel roughed a circle seven or eight feet in
diameter around the girl's body and declared that no one was to
intrude within it. He surveyed the room. All was in perfect order;
even the expensive bed linens were scrupulously tucked and squared.
The coroner opened the girl's closets, her bureau, her jewelry
boxes. Nothing appeared to be amiss. Sequined dresses hung straight
in the wardrobe. Lace underthings were folded neatly in drawers. A
diamond tiara, with matching earrings and necklace, lay in
harmonious composition inside a midnight-blue velvet case on top of
the bureau.Hugel asked who had been in the room. Only the maid who had
found the body, the manager answered. Since then, the apartment had
been locked, and no one had entered. The coroner sent for the maid,
who at first refused to come past the bedroom door. She was a
pretty Italian girl of nineteen, in a long skirt and a full-length
white apron. "Young lady," said Hugel, "did you disturb anything in
this room?"The
maid shook her head.Despite the body on the floor and her employer looking on, the
maid held herself straight and met her interrogator's eyes. "No,
sir," she said."Did
you bring anything in, take anything out?""I'm
no thief," she said."Did
you move any article of furniture or clothing?""No.""Very good," said Coroner Hugel.The
maid looked to Mr. Banwell, who did not dismiss her. Instead, he
addressed the coroner: "Get it over with."Hugel cocked an eye at the owner of the Balmoral. He took out a
pen and paper. "Name?""Whose name?" said Banwell, with a growl that made the manager
cower. "My name?""Name of deceased.""Elizabeth Riverford," Banwell replied."Age?" asked Coroner Hugel."How
do I know?""I
understood you were acquainted with the family.""I
know her father," said Banwell. "Chicago man. Banker.""I
see. You wouldn't have his address, by any chance?" asked the
coroner."Of
course I have his address."The
two men stared at each other."Would you be so good," asked Hugel, "as to provide me the
address?""I'll provide it to McClellan," said Banwell.Hugel began grinding his molars again. "I am in charge of this
investigation, not the mayor.""We'll see how long you're in charge of this investigation,"
answered Banwell, who ordered the coroner for a second time to
bring his business to a close. The Riverford family, Banwell
explained, wanted the girl's body sent home, a duty he would be
seeing to immediately.The
coroner said he could by no means allow it: in cases of homicide,
the decedent's body must by law be taken into custody for an
autopsy."Not
this body," answered Banwell. He instructed the coroner to ring the
mayor if he required clarification of his orders.Hugel responded that he would take no orders except from a
judge. If anyone tried to stop him from taking Miss Riverford's
body downtown for an autopsy, he would see that they were
prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. When this admonition
failed appreciably to move Mr. Banwell, the coroner added that he
knew a reporter for the Herald who found murder and obstruction of
justice highly newsworthy. Reluctantly, Banwell yielded.The
coroner had brought his old, bulky box camera with him. This he now
put to use, replacing the exposed plate with a fresh one after each
smoky detonation of his flash-light. Banwell remarked that if the
pictures made their way to the Herald, the coroner could be sure he
would never be employed in New York or anywhere else again. Hugel
did not reply; at that moment a strange whine began to fill the
room, like the quiet cry of a violin stretched to its highest note.
It seemed to have no source, coming from everywhere and nowhere at
once. It rose louder and louder, until it became almost a wail. The
maid screamed. When she finished, there was no sound in the room at
all.Mr.
Banwell broke the silence. "What the devil was that?" he asked the
manager."I
don't know, sir," replied the manager. "It's not the first time.
Perhaps some settling in the walls?""Well, find out," said Banwell.When
the coroner finished his photography, he announced he was leaving
and taking the body with him. He had no intention of questioning
the help or the neighboring residents --- which was not his job ---
or of waiting for Detective Littlemore. In this heat, he explained,
decomposition would rapidly set in if the corpse was not
refrigerated at once. With the assistance of two elevator men, the
girl's body was taken down to the basement in a freight elevator
and from there to a back alley, where the coroner's driver was
waiting.When, two hours later, Detective Jimmy Littlemore arrived ---
not in uniform --- he was flummoxed. It had taken some time for the
mayor's messenger boys to find Littlemore; the detective had been
in the basement of the new police headquarters still under
construction on Centre Street, trying out the pistol range.
Littlemore's orders were to make a thorough inspection of the
murder scene. Not only did he find no murder scene, he found no
murderee. Mr. Banwell would not speak with him. The staff also
proved surprisingly untalkative.And
there was one person whom Detective Littlemore did not even get a
chance to interview: the maid who had found the body. After Coroner
Hugel left but before the detective arrived, the manager had called
the young woman to his office and handed her an envelope with her
month's pay --- minus one day, of course, since it was only August
30. He informed the girl he was letting her go. "I'm sorry, Betty,"
he said to her. "I'm really sorry."Before anyone else was up, I examined the Monday morning
newspapers in the opulent rotunda of the Hotel Manhattan, where
Clark University was housing Freud, Jung, Ferenczi, and myself for
the week. (Brill, who lived in New York, did not require a room.)
Not one of the papers carried a story about Freud or his upcoming
lectures at Clark. Only the New Yorker Staats-Zeitung ran anything
at all, and this was a notice announcing the arrival of a "Dr.
Freund from Vienna."I
never intended to be a doctor. It was my father's wish, and his
wishes were supposed to be our commands. When I was eighteen and
still living in my parents' house in Boston, I told him I was going
to be America's foremost scholar of Shakespeare. I could be
America's hindmost scholar of Shakespeare, he replied, but fore or
hind, if I did not intend to pursue a career in medicine, I would
have to find my own means of paying Harvard's tuition.His
threat had no effect on me. I didn't care at all for the family's
Harvardiana, and I would be happy, I told my father, to complete my
education elsewhere. This was the last conversation of any length I
ever had with him.Ironically, I was to obey my father's wish only after he no
longer had any money to withhold from me. The collapse of Colonel
Winslow's banking house in November 1903 was nothing compared to
the panic in New York four years later, but it was good enough for
my father. He lost everything, including my mother's bit. His face
aged ten years in a single night; deep creases appeared unannounced
on his brow. My mother said I must take pity on him, but I never
did. At his funeral --- which compassionate Boston avoided in
droves --- I knew for the first time I would go on in medicine, if
able to continue my studies at all. Whether it was a newfound
practicality that drove my decision or something else, I hesitate
to say.It
was I, as things fell out, on whom pity had to be taken, and
Harvard that took it. After my father's funeral, I notified the
university that I would be withdrawing at year's end, the
two-hundred-dollar tuition being now far beyond my means. President
Eliot, however, waived the fee. Probably he concluded that
Harvard's long-term interests would be better served not by giving
the boot to the third Stratham Younger to trudge through the Yard,
but by forgiving the demi-orphan his tuition in expectation of
future rewards. Whatever the motivation, I will be forever grateful
to Harvard for letting me stay on.Only
at Harvard could I have attended Professor Putnam's famous lectures
on neurology. I was a medical student by then, having won a
scholarship, but was proving an uninspired doctor-to-be. One spring
morning, in an otherwise dust-dry account of nervous diseases,
Putnam referred to Sigmund Freud's "sexual theory" as the only
interesting work being done on the subject of the hysterical and
obsessional neuroses. After class, I asked for readings. Putnam
pointed me to Havelock Ellis, who accepted Freud's two most radical
discoveries: the existence of what Freud called "the unconscious"
and the sexual aetiology of neurosis. Putnam also introduced me to
Morton Prince, who was then just starting his journal on abnormal
psychology. Dr. Prince had an extensive collection of foreign
publications; it turned out he had known my father. Prince took me
on as a proofreader. Through him, I got my hands on almost
everything Freud had published, from The Interpretation of Dreams
to the groundbreaking Three Essays. My German was good, and I found
myself consuming Freud's work with an avidity I had not felt for
years. Freud's erudition was breathtaking. His writing was like
filigree. His ideas, if correct, would change the world.The
hook was sunk for good, however, when I came across Freud's
solution to Hamlet. It was, for Freud, a throwaway, a
two-hundred-word digression in the middle of his treatise on
dreams. Yet there it was: a brand-new answer to the most famous
riddle in Western literature.Shakespeare's Hamlet has been performed thousands upon
thousands of times, more than any other play in any language. It is
the most written-about work in all of literature. (I do not count
the Bible, of course.) Yet there is a strange void or vacuum at the
core of the drama: all the action is founded on the inability of
its hero to act. The play consists of a series of evasions and
excuses seized on by the melancholy Hamlet to justify postponing
his revenge on his father's murderer (his uncle, Claudius, now King
of Denmark and wed to Hamlet's mother), punctuated by anguished
soliloquies in which he vilifies himself for his own paralysis, the
most famous of them all beginning, of course, To be. Only after his
delays and missteps have brought about ruin --- Ophelia's suicide;
the murder of his mother, who drinks a poison Claudius prepared for
Hamlet; and his own receipt of a fatal cut from Laertes' envenomed
sword --- does Hamlet at last, in the play's final scene, take his
uncle's triply forfeited life.Why
doesn't Hamlet act? Not for lack of opportunity: Shakespeare gives
Hamlet the most propitious possible circumstances for killing
Claudius. Hamlet even acknowledges this (Now might I do it), yet
still he turns away. What stops him? And why should this
inexplicable faltering --- this seeming weakness, this almost
cowardice --- be capable of riveting audiences around the world for
three centuries? The greatest literary minds of our era, Goethe and
Coleridge, tried but failed to pull the sword from this stone, and
hundreds of lesser lights have broken their heads on it.I
didn't like Freud's Oedipal answer. In fact, I was disgusted by it.
I didn't want to believe it, any more than I wanted to believe in
the Oedipus complex itself. I needed to disprove Freud's shocking
theories, I needed to find their flaw, but I could not. My back
against a tree, I sat in the Yard day after day for hours at a
time, poring over Freud and Shakespeare. Freud's diagnosis of
Hamlet came to seem increasingly irresistible to me, not only
yielding the first complete solution to the riddle of the play, but
explaining why no one else had been able to solve it, and at the
same time making lucid the tragedy's mesmerizing, universal grip.
Here was a scientist applying his discoveries to Shakespeare. Here
was medicine making contact with the soul. When I read those two
pages of Dr. Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams, my future was
determined. If I could not refute Freud's psychology, I would
devote my life to it.Coroner Charles Hugel had not liked the peculiar noise that
came from the walls of Miss Riverford's bedroom, like an immured
spirit wailing for its life. The coroner could not get that sound
out of his head. Moreover, something had been missing from the
room; he was sure of it. Back downtown, Hugel rang for a messenger
boy and sent him running up the street for Detective
Littlemore.Yet
another thing Hugel did not like was the location of his own
office. The coroner had not been invited to move into the
resplendent new police headquarters or the new First Precinct house
being built on Old Slip, both of which would be equipped with
telephones. The judges had got their Parthenon not long ago. Yet
he, not only the city's chief medical examiner but a magistrate by
law, and far more in need of modern utilities, had been left behind
in the crumbling Van den Heuvel building, with its chipping
plaster, its mold, and, worst of all, its water-stained ceilings.
He abhorred the sight of those stains, with their brownish-yellow
jagged edges. He particularly abhorred them today; he felt the
stains were larger, and he wondered if the ceiling might crack open
and fall down on him. Of course a coroner had to be attached to a
morgue; he understood that. But he emphatically did not understand
why a new and modern morgue could not have been built into the new
police headquarters.Littlemore ambled into the coroner's office. The detective was
twenty-five. Neither tall nor short, Jimmy Littlemore wasn't
bad-looking, but he wasn't quite good-looking either. His
close-cropped hair was neither dark nor fair; if anything, it was
closer to red. He had a distinctly American face, open and
friendly, which, apart from a few freckles, was not particularly
memorable. If you passed him in the street, you were not likely to
recall him later. You might, however, remember the ready smile or
the red bow tie he liked to sport below his straw
boater.The
coroner ordered Littlemore to tell him what he had found out about
the Riverford case, trying his best to sound commanding and
peremptory. Only in the most exceptional matters was the coroner
placed directly in charge of an investigation. He meant Littlemore
to understand that serious consequences would follow if the
detective did not produce results.The
coroner's magisterial tone evidently failed to impress the
detective. Although Littlemore had never worked on a case with the
coroner, he doubtless knew, as did everyone else on the force, that
Hugel was disliked by the new commissioner, that his nickname was
"the ghoul" because of the eagerness with which he performed his
postmortems, and that he had no real power in the department. But
Littlemore, being a fellow of excellent good nature, conveyed no
disrespect to the coroner."What do I know about the Riverford case?" he answered. "Why,
nothing at all, Mr. Hugel, except that the killer is over fifty,
five-foot-nine, unmarried, familiar with the sight of blood, lives
below Canal Street, and visited the harbor within the last two
days."Hugel's jaw dropped. "How do you know all that?""I'm
joking, Mr. Hugel. I don't know Shinola about the murderer. I don't
even know why they bothered sending me over. You didn't happen to
lift any prints, did you, sir?""Fingerprints?" asked the coroner. "Certainly not. The courts
will never admit fingerprint evidence.""Well, it was too late by the time I got there. The whole place
was already cleaned out. All the girl's things were
gone."Hugel was incensed. He called it tampering with evidence. "But
you must have learned something about the Riverford girl," he
added."She
was new," said Littlemore. "She only lived there a month or
two.""They opened in June, Littlemore. Everyone has lived there only
a month or two.""Oh.""Is
that all?""Well, she was a real quiet type. Kept to herself.""Was
anyone seen with her yesterday?" asked the coroner."She
came in around eight o'clock. Nobody with her. No guests later.
Went to her apartment and never came out, as far as anybody
knows.""Did
she have any regular visitors?""Nope. Nobody remembers anybody ever visiting her.""Why
was she living alone in New York City --- at her age and in so
large an apartment?""That's what I wanted to know," said Littlemore. "But they
clammed up on me pretty good at the Balmoral, every one of them. I
was serious about the harbor though, Mr. Hugel. I found some clay
on the floor of Miss Riverford's bedroom. Pretty fresh too. I think
it came from the harbor.""Clay? What color clay?" asked Hugel."Red. Cakey, kind of.""That wasn't clay, Littlemore," said the coroner, rolling his
eyes, "that was my chalk."The
detective frowned. "I wondered why there was a whole circle of
it.""To
keep people away from the body, you nitwit!""I'm
just joking, Mr. Hugel. It wasn't your chalk. I saw your chalk. The
clay was by the fireplace. A couple of small traces. Needed my
magnifying glass before I saw it. I took it home to compare with my
samples; I got a whole collection. It's a lot like the red clay all
over the piers at the harbor."Hugel took this in. He was considering whether to be impressed.
"Is the clay in the harbor unique? Could it come from somewhere
else --- the Central Park, for example?""Not
the park," said the detective. "This is river clay, Mr. Hugel. No
rivers in the park.""What about the Hudson Valley?""Could be.""Or
Fort Tryon, uptown, where Billings has just turned over so much
earth?""You
think there's clay up there?""I
congratulate you, Littlemore, on your outstanding detective
work.""Thanks, Mr. Hugel.""Would you be interested in a description of the murderer, by
any chance?""I
sure would.""He
is middle-aged, wealthy, and right-handed. His hair: graying, but
formerly dark brown. His height: six foot to six-foot-one. And I
believe he was acquainted with his victim --- well
acquainted."Littlemore looked amazed. "How --- ?""Here are three hairs I collected from the girl's person." The
coroner pointed to a small double-paned rectangle of glass on his
desk, next to a microscope: sandwiched between the panes of glass
were three hairs. "They are dark but striated with gray, indicating
a man of middle age. On the girl's neck were threads of white silk
--- most probably a man's tie, evidently used to strangle her. The
silk was of the highest quality. Thus our man has money. Of his
dexterity, there can be no doubt; the wounds all proceed from right
to left.""His
dexterity?""His
right-handedness, Detective.""But
how do you know he knew her?""I
do not know. I suspect. Answer me this: in what posture was Miss
Riverford when she was whipped?""I
never saw her," the detective complained. "I don't even know cause
of death.""Ligature strangulation, confirmed by the fracture of the hyoid
bone, as I saw when I opened her chest. A lovely break, if I may
say, like a perfectly split wishbone. Indeed, a lovely female chest
altogether: the ribs perfectly formed, the lungs and heart, once
removed, the very picture of healthy asphyxiated tissue. It was a
pleasure to hold them in one's hands. But to the point: Miss
Riverford was standing when she was whipped. This we know from the
simple fact that the blood dripped straight down from her
lacerations. Her hands were undoubtedly tied above her head by a
heavy-gauge rope of some kind, almost certainly attached to the
fixture in the ceiling. I saw rope threads on that fixture. Did
you? No? Well, go back and look for them. Question: why would a man
who has a good sturdy rope strangle his victim with a delicate
silk? Inference, Mr. Littlemore: he did not want to put something
so coarse around the girl's neck. And why was that? Hypothesis, Mr.
Littlemore: because he had feelings for her. Now, as to the man's
height, we are back to certainties. Miss Riverford was
five-foot-five. Judging from her wounds, the whipping was
administered by someone seven to eight inches above her. Thus the
murderer's height was between six foot and
six-foot-one.""Unless he was standing on something," said
Littlemore."What?""On
a stool or something.""On
a stool?" repeated the coroner."It's possible," said Littlemore."A
man does not stand on a stool while whipping a girl,
Detective.""Why
not?""Because it's ridiculous. He would fall off.""Not
if he had something to hold on to," said the detective. "A lamp,
maybe, or a hat rack.""A
hat rack?" said Hugel. "Why would he do that,
Detective?""To
make us think he was taller.""How
many homicide cases have you investigated?" asked the
coroner."This is my first," said Littlemore, with undisguised
excitement, "as a detective."Hugel nodded. "You spoke with the maid at least, I
suppose?""The
maid?""Yes, the maid. Miss Riverford's maid. Did you ask her if she
noticed anything unusual?""I
don't think I --- ""I
don't want you to think," snapped the coroner. "I want you to
detect. Go back to the Balmoral and talk to that maid again. She
was the first one in the room. Ask her to describe to you exactly
what she saw when she went in. Get the details, do you hear
me?"On
the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street, in a room no
woman had ever entered, not even to dust or beat the curtains, a
butler poured from a sparkling decanter into three etched-crystal
goblets. The bowls of these goblets were intricately carved and so
deep they could hold an entire bottle of claret. The butler poured
a quarter inch of red wine into each.These glasses he offered to the Triumvirate.The
three men sat in deep leather armchairs arranged around a central
fireplace. The room was a library containing more than thirty-seven
hundred volumes, most of which were in Greek, Latin, or German. On
one side of the unlit fireplace stood a bust of Aristotle atop a
jade-green marble pedestal. On the other was a bust of an ancient
Hindu. Over the mantel was an entablature: it displayed a large
snake curled into a sine wave, against a background of flames. The
word charaka was engraved in capital letters underneath.Smoke from the men's pipes caressed the ceiling high above
them. The man in the center of the three made a barely perceptible
motion with his right hand, on which he wore a large and unusual
silver ring. He was in his late fifties, elegant, gaunt in the
face, and wiry in build, with dark eyes, black eyebrows below his
silver hair, and the hands of a pianist.In
response to his sign, the butler put a spark to the hearth, causing
a thick set of papers therein to catch and burn. The fireplace
glowed and crackled with dancing orange flames. "Be sure to
preserve the ashes," said the master to his servant.Nodding his assent, the butler silently withdrew, closing the
door behind him."There is only one way to fight fire," continued the man with
pianist's hands. He raised his goblet. "Gentlemen."As
the two other men raised their crystal glasses, an observer might
have noticed that they also wore a similar silver ring on their
right hands. One of these other two gentlemen was portly and
red-cheeked, with muttonchop sideburns. He completed the elegant
man's toast --- "With fire" --- and drained his glass.The
third gentleman was balding, sharp-eyed, and thin. He said not a
word but merely sipped his wine, a Château Lafite of the 1870
vintage."Do
you know the Baron?" asked the elegant man, turning to this balding
gentleman. "I suppose you are related to him."Chapter ThreeFor
Freud's first destination in America, Brill chose Coney Island, of
all places. We set off by foot for the Grand Central Station, just
down the block from our hotel. The sky was cloudless, the sun
already hot, the streets clogged with Monday morning traffic.
Motorcars accelerated impatiently around horse-drawn delivery
wagons. Conversation was impossible. Across from the hotel, on
Forty-second Street, a colossal scaffold had been erected where a
new building was going up, and the pneumatic drills set up a
deafening clatter.Inside the terminal, it was suddenly quiet. Freud and Ferenczi
stopped in awe. We were in a fabulous glass and steel tunnel, six
hundred fifty feet long and a hundred feet high, with massive
gas-fueled chandeliers running the entire length of its curved
ceiling. It was a feat of engineering far surpassing Mr. Eiffel's
tower in Paris. Only Jung seemed unimpressed. I wondered if he was
well; he looked a little pale and distracted. Freud was shocked, as
I had been, to learn they were about to tear the station down. But
it was built for the old steam locomotives, and the era of steam
had come to an end.As
we descended the stair to the IRT, Freud's mood blackened. "He is
terrified of your underground trains," Ferenczi whispered in my
ear. "A bit of unanalyzed neurosis. He told me so last
night."Freud's humor did not improve when our train lurched to a
violent halt in a tunnel between stations, its lights flickering
out, plunging us into a pitch, hot darkness. "Buildings in the sky,
trains in the earth," said Freud, sounding irritated. "It is Virgil
with you Americans: if you cannot bring the heavens down, you are
determined to raise hell.""That is your epigraph, no?" asked Ferenczi."Yes, but it was not supposed to be my epitaph," answered
Freud."Gentlemen!" Brill cried out without warning. "You still
haven't heard Younger's analysis of the paralyzed hand.""A
case history?" said Ferenczi enthusiastically. "We must hear it, by
all means.""No,
no. It was incomplete," I said."Nonsense," Brill upbraided me. "It's one of the most perfect
analyses I've ever heard. It confirms every tenet of
psychoanalysis."Having little choice, I recounted my small success, as we
waited in the stifling dark for the train to return to
life.I
graduated from Harvard in 1908, with a degree not only in medicine
but also in psychology. My professors, impressed by my industry,
brought me to the attention of G. Stanley Hall, the first man ever
to receive a Harvard psychology degree, a founder of the American
Psychological Association, and now the president of Clark
University in Worcester. Hall's ambition was to make the upstart,
fabulously endowed Clark the leading institution of scientific
research in the country. When he offered me a position as an
assistant lecturer in psychology, with the ability to begin my
medical practice --- and get out of Boston --- I accepted at
once.One
month later, I had my first analytic patient: a girl, whom I shall
call Priscilla, sixteen years old, delivered to my office by her
distraught mother. Hall was responsible for the family's decision
to bring her to me. More than that I can't say without revealing
the girl's identity.Priscilla was short and heavy but had a pleasing face and an
uncomplaining character. For a year she had been suffering from
bouts of acute shortness of breath, occasional incapacitating
headache, and a total paralysis of her left hand --- all of which
baffled and embarrassed her. Hysteria was plainly indicated by the
paralysis, which afflicted the whole of her hand, including the
wrist. As Freud had pointed out, paralyses of this kind do not
conform to any genuine dermatone innervation and hence can claim no
real physiological basis. For example, genuine neurological damage
might cause certain fingers to be incapacitated, but not the wrist.
Or the use of the thumb might be lost, leaving the other digits
unaffected. But when a paralysis seizes an entire body part across
all its differentiated neural reticulations, it is not physiology
but psychology that must be consulted, for this kind of seizure
corresponds solely to an idea, a mental image --- in Priscilla's
case, the image of her left hand.The
girl's doctor had naturally found no organic basis for her
complaints. Nor had the chirologist, brought in from New York; his
prescription had been rest and a complete withdrawal from active
endeavors, which had almost certainly exacerbated her condition.
They had even called in an osteopath, who of course accomplished
nothing.After ruling out the various neurological and orthopaedic
possibilities --- palsy, Kienböck's lunate disease, and so on
--- I decided to attempt psychoanalysis. At first I made no
headway. The reason was the presence of the girl's mother. No hints
were sufficient to induce this good woman to leave doctor and
patient to the privacy psychoanalysis requires. After the third
visit, I informed the mother that I would not be able to help
Priscilla, or indeed to receive her in future as my patient, unless
she --- the mother --- absented herself. Even then I could not at
first make Priscilla talk. Following Freud's most recent
therapeutic advances, I had her lie down with her eyes closed. I
instructed her to think of her paralyzed hand and to say whatever
came into her mind in association with this symptom, giving voice
to any thoughts that entered her head, no matter what they were, no
matter how seemingly irrelevant, inappropriate, or even impolite.
Invariably, Priscilla responded only by repeating the most
superficial description of the onset of her sufferings.The
critical day, as she always told the story, had been August 10,
1907. She remembered the exact date because it was the day after
the funeral of her adored elder sister, Mary, who had been living
in Boston with her husband, Bradley. That summer, Mary died of
influenza, leaving Bradley with two infant children to take care
of. On the day after the funeral, Priscilla had been charged by her
mother with writing acknowledgments to the many friends and
relatives who had expressed their condolences. That evening, she
experienced sharp pains in her left hand --- her writing hand. She
saw nothing unusual in this, both because she had written so many
letters and because she had felt occasional pain in that hand for
the last several years. That night, however, she awoke unable to
breathe. When the dyspnea subsided, she tried to go back to sleep
but could not. By morning, she was suffering the first of the
headaches that would plague her for the next year. Worse, she found
her left hand completely paralyzed. And in that condition it had
remained, hanging uselessly from her wrist.These and other such facts she would constantly repeat to me.
Long silences would follow. No matter how forcefully I assured her
that there was more she wanted to tell me --- that it was quite
impossible for there to be nothing in her head at all --- she
steadfastly insisted that she could think of nothing else to
say.I
was tempted to hypnotize her. She was plainly a suggestible girl.
But Freud had unequivocally rejected hypnosis. It used to be a
favored technique, in the early period when he was still working
with Breuer, but Freud had discovered that hypnosis was neither
lasting in effect nor productive of reliable memory. I decided,
however, that I might safely attempt the same technique Freud
deployed after abandoning hypnosis. That is what led to the
breakthrough.I
told Priscilla that I was going to place my hand on her forehead. I
assured her there was a memory that wanted to come out, a memory of
central importance to everything she had told me, without which we
would understand nothing. I told her that she knew this memory very
well, even if she did not know she knew it, and that it would
emerge the moment I laid my hand on her forehead.I
did the deed with some trepidation, for I had put my authority at
risk. If nothing came of it, I would be in a worse position than I
had been before. But in fact the memory did emerge, just as Freud's
papers suggested it would, at the very moment Priscilla felt the
pressure of my hand against her head."Oh,
Dr. Younger," she cried out, "I saw it!""What?""Mary's hand.""Mary's hand?""In
the coffin. It was terrible. They made us look at her.""Go
on," I said.Priscilla said nothing."Was
there something wrong with Mary's hand?" I asked."Oh
no, Doctor. It was perfect. She always had perfect hands. She could
play the piano beautifully, not like me." Priscilla was struggling
with some emotion I could not decipher. The color of her cheeks and
forehead alarmed me; they were almost scarlet. "She was still so
beautiful. Even the coffin was beautiful, all velvet and white
wood. She looked like Sleeping Beauty. But I knew she wasn't
asleep.""What was it about Mary's hand?""Her
hand?""Yes, her hand, Priscilla.""Please don't make me tell you," she said. "I'm too
ashamed.""You
have nothing to be ashamed of. We are not responsible for our
feelings; therefore no feeling can cause us shame.""Really, Dr. Younger?""Really.""But
it was so wrong of me.""It
was Mary's left hand, wasn't it?" I said at a venture.She
nodded as if confessing a crime."Tell me about her left hand, Priscilla.""The
ring," she whispered, in the faintest voice."Yes," I said. "The ring." This yes was a lie. I hoped it would
make Priscilla think I already understood everything, when in
reality I understood nothing. This act of deception was the only
aspect of the entire business that I regretted. But I have found
myself repeating the same deception, in one form or another, in
every psychoanalysis I have ever attempted.She
went on. "It was the gold ring Brad gave her. And I thought, What a
waste. What a waste to bury it with her.""There is no shame in that. Practicality is a virtue, not a
vice," I assured her with my usual acuity."You
don't understand," she said. "I wanted it for myself.""Yes.""I
wanted to wear it, Doctor," she practically shouted. "I wanted Brad
to marry me. Couldn't I have taken care of the poor little babies?
Couldn't I have made him happy?" She buried her head in her hands
and sobbed. "I was glad she was dead, Dr. Younger. I was glad.
Because now he was free to take me.""Priscilla," I said, "I can't see your face.""I'm
sorry.""I
mean I can't see your face because your left hand is covering
it."She
gasped. It was true: she was using her left hand to wipe away her
tears. The hysterical symptom had disappeared the instant she
regained the memory whose repression caused it. A year has now
passed, and the paralysis never recurred, nor the dyspnea, nor the
headaches.Reconstructing the story was simple enough. Priscilla had been
in love with Bradley since he first came to call on Mary. Priscilla
was then thirteen. I will shock no one, I hope, by observing that a
thirteen-year-old girl's love for a young man can include sexual
desires, even if not fully understood as such. Priscilla had never
admitted to these desires, or to the jealousy she felt toward her
sister as a consequence, which irresistibly led in the child's mind
to the dreadful but opportunistic thought that, if only Mary were
dead, the way would be open for her. All these feelings Priscilla
repressed, even from her own consciousness. This repression was
doubtless the original source of the occasional pains she felt in
her left hand, which probably commenced on the day of the wedding
itself, when she first saw the golden ring slipped onto her
sister's finger. Two years later, the sight of the ring on Mary's
hand in the coffin excited the same thoughts, which very nearly
emerged --- or perhaps, for a moment, did emerge --- into
Priscilla's consciousness. But now, in addition to these forbidden
feelings of desire and jealousy, there was the utterly
impermissible satisfaction she took in her sister's untimely death.
The result was a fresh demand for repression, infinitely stronger
than the first.The
role played by the thank-you letters is more complex. One can only
imagine how Priscilla must have suffered at the sight of her bare
left hand, ungraced by a wedding ring, repeatedly conjoined with
the act of expressing sorrow at her sister's demise. Possibly this
was a contradiction Priscilla could not bear. At the same time, the
laborious writing may have provided a physiological underpinning
for what followed. In any event, her left hand became an offense to
her, reminding her of both her unmarried state and her unacceptable
wishes.Three objectives therefore became paramount. First, she must
not have such a hand; she must rid herself of a hand that had no
wedding ring where a wedding ring should be. Second, she had to
punish herself for her wish to replace Mary as Bradley's wife.
Third, she had to make the consummation of this wish impossible.
Every one of these objectives was accomplished through her
hysterical symptoms; the economy with which the unconscious mind
performs its work is marvelous. Symbolically speaking, Priscilla
rid herself of the offending hand, simultaneously fulfilling her
wish and punishing herself for having it. By making herself an
invalid, she also ensured that she could no longer take care of
Bradley's children or otherwise, as she so tactfully put it, "make
him happy."Priscilla's treatment, from start to finish, took all of two
weeks. After I reassured her that her wishes were perfectly natural
and beyond her control, she not only shed her symptoms but became
fairly radiant. News of the invalid's cure spread through Worcester
as if the Savior had brought sight to one of Isaiah's blind men.
The story people told was this: Priscilla had fallen ill from love,
and I had cured her. My placing a palm on her forehead was imbued
with all sorts of quasi-mystic powers. While this made my
reputation and caused my medical practice to thrive, there were
less comfortable consequences too. There came a rush of thirty or
forty would-be pyschoanalytic patients to my office, each of whom
claimed to be suffering from symptoms disturbingly similar to
Priscilla's and all of whom expected a diagnosis of unrequited love
and a cure through the laying on of hands.The
train was pulling into City Hall station when I finished. We had to
change there for the BRT at Park Row, where an elevated would take
us all the way to Coney. No one commented on Priscilla's case, and
I began to think I must have made a fool of myself. Brill saved me.
He told Freud I deserved to know what "the Master" thought of my
analysis.Freud turned to me with, I hardly dared to believe it, a
twinkle in his eyes. He said that, a few minor points aside, the
analysis could not have been improved on. He called it brilliant
and asked my permission to refer to it in subsequent work. Brill
clapped me on the back; Ferenczi, smiling, shook my hand. This was
not the most gratifying moment of my professional life; it was the
most gratifying moment of my entire life.I
had never realized how splendid City Hall station was, with its
crystal chandeliers, inlaid murals, and vaulted arches. Everyone
remarked on it --- with the exception of Jung, who suddenly
announced that he was not coming with us. Jung had made no comments
either during or after my case history. Now he said he needed to
get to bed."Bed?" Brill asked. "You went to bed last night at nine." While
the rest of us had retired well past midnight after dining together
in the hotel, Jung had gone to his room as soon as we arrived and
had not come down.Freud asked Jung whether he was all right. When Jung replied
that it was only his head again, Freud instructed me to take him
back to the hotel. But Jung declined assistance, insisting he could
easily retrace our steps. Hence Jung took the train back uptown;
the rest of us went on without him.When
Detective Jimmy Littlemore returned to the Balmoral Monday evening,
one of the doormen had just come on duty. This man, Clifford, had
worked the graveyard shift the night before. Littlemore asked if he
knew the deceased Miss Riverford.Apparently Clifford had not received the order to hold his
tongue. "Sure, I remember her," he said. "What a
looker.""Talk to her?" asked Littlemore."She
didn't talk much --- not to me, anyway.""Anything special you remember about her?""I
opened the door for her some mornings," said Clifford."What's special about that?""I'm
off at six. The only girls you see at that hour are working girls,
and Miss Riverford didn't look like a working girl, if you know
what I mean. She would have been going out at, I don't know, maybe
five, five-thirty?""Where was she going?" asked Littlemore."Beats me.""What about last night? Did you notice anybody or anything
unusual?""What do you mean unusual?" asked Clifford."Anything different, anybody you had never seen
before.""There was this one fella," said Clifford. "Left about
midnight. In a big hurry. Did you see that fella, Mac? Didn't look
right, if you ask me."The
doorman addressed as Mac shook his head."Smoke?" said Littlemore to Clifford, who accepted the
cigarette, pocketing it since he wasn't permitted to indulge on
duty. "Why didn't he look right?""Just didn't. Foreigner, maybe." Clifford was unable to
articulate his suspicion with any greater specificity, but he
asserted positively that the man did not live in the building.
Littlemore took a description: black hair, tall, lean, well
dressed, high forehead, mid- to late thirties, wearing glasses,
carrying a black case of some kind. The man climbed into a hackney
cab outside the Balmoral, heading downtown. Littlemore questioned
the doormen for another ten minutes --- none remembered Clifford's
black-haired man entering the building, but he might well have gone
up unremarked with a resident --- and then asked where he could
find the Balmoral's chambermaids. They pointed him
downstairs.In
the basement, Littlemore came to a hot low-ceilinged room with
pipes running along its walls and a clutch of maids folding linen.
All knew who Miss Riverford's girl was: Betty Longobardi. In
whispers, they confided to the detective that he wouldn't find
Betty anywhere in the building. She was gone. Betty had left early
without saying good-bye to anyone. They didn't know why. Betty was
a handful but such a nice girl. She didn't take any lip, not even
from the wing manager, the women told Littlemore. Maybe she'd had
another fight with him. One of the maids knew where Betty lived.
With this information secured, Littlemore turned to go. It was then
that he noticed the Chinaman.Clad
in a white undershirt and dark shorts, the man had come into the
room carrying a wicker basket overflowing with freshly cleaned
sheets. Having deposited the contents of this basket onto a table
filled with like items, he was walking out again when he attracted
the detective's attention. Littlemore stared at the retreating
man's thick calves and sandals. These were not in themselves
particularly interesting; nor was his gait, which involved the
sliding of one foot after the other. The result, however, was
arresting. Two wet stripes were left on the floor in the man's
wake, and these stripes were flecked with a glistening dark-red
clay."Hey
--- you there!" cried Littlemore.The
man froze, his back to the detective, shoulders hunched. But the
next moment he started off again at a run, disappearing around a
corner, still carrying his basket. The detective sprang after him,
turning the corner just in time to see the man pushing through a
pair of swinging doors at the end of a long corridor. Littlemore
ran down the corridor, passed through the doors --- and gazed out
at the Balmoral's cavernous and noisy laundry, where men were
laboring at ironing boards, washboards, steam presses, and
hand-cranked washing machines. There were Negroes and whites,
Italians and Irish, faces of all kinds --- but no Chinamen. An
empty wicker basket lay on its side next to an ironing board,
rocking gently as if recently set down. The floor was thoroughly
wet, disguising any tracks. Littlemore pushed up the brim of his
boater and shook his head.Gramercy Park, at the foot of Lexington Avenue, was Manhattan's
sole private park. Only the owners of the houses opposite the
park's delicate wrought-iron fence had the right to enter. Each
house came with a key to the park gates, offering access to the
small paradise of flower and greenery within.To
the girl emerging from one of those houses early Monday evening,
August 30, that key had always been a magical object, gold and
black, delicate yet unbreakable. When she was a little girl, old
Mrs. Biggs, their servant, used to let her carry the key in her
tiny white purse on their way across the street. She was too small
to turn the key by herself, but Mrs. Biggs would guide her hand and
help her do it. When the iron gate released, it was as if the world
itself were opening up before her.The
park had grown much smaller as she grew up. Now, at seventeen, she
could of course turn the key without assistance --- and did so this
evening, letting herself in and walking slowly to her bench, the
one she always sat on. She was carrying an armload of textbooks and
her secret copy of The House of Mirth. She still loved her bench,
even though the park had somehow become, as she got older, more an
attachment to her parents' house than a refuge from it. Her mother
and father were away. They had repaired to the country five weeks
earlier, leaving the girl behind with Mrs. Biggs and her husband.
She had been delighted to see them go.The
day was still oppressively hot, but her bench lay in the cool shade
of a willow and chestnut canopy. The books sat unopened beside her.
The day after tomorrow, it would be September, a month she had been
looking forward to for what seemed an eternity. Next weekend, she
would turn eighteen. Three weeks after that, she would matriculate
at Barnard College. She was one of those girls who, despite a
fervent wish to be living another life, had staved off womanhood as
long as she could, through the ages of thirteen, fourteen, and
fifteen, clinging to her stuffed animals even while school friends
were already discussing stockings, lipstick, and invitations. At
sixteen, the stuffed animals had finally been relegated to the
upper reaches of a closet. At seventeen, she was lithe, blue-eyed,
and heart-stoppingly beautiful. She wore her long blond hair tied
with a ribbon in the back.When
the bells of Calvary Church struck six, she saw Mr. and Mrs. Biggs
hurrying down the front stoop, rushing off to the shops before they
closed. They waved to the girl, and she to them. A few minutes
later, brushing tears from her eyes, she set off slowly toward
home, clutching her textbooks to her chest, looking at the grass
and the clover and the hovering bees. Had she turned to her left,
she might have seen, on the far side of the park, a man watching
her from outside the wrought-iron fence.This
man had been watching her a long time. He carried a black case in
his right hand and was dressed in black --- overdressed, in fact,
given the heat. He never took his eyes from the girl as she crossed
the street and climbed the stairs to her townhouse, a handsome
limestone affair with two miniature stone lions mounting an
ineffectual guard on either side of the front door. He saw the girl
open the door without having to unlock it.The
man had observed the two old servants leaving the house. Glancing
left, right, and over his shoulder, he started off. Quickly he
approached the house, ascended the steps, tried the door, and found
it still unlocked.A
half hour later, the summer-evening silence of Gramercy Park was
ruptured by a scream, a girl's scream. It carried from one end of
the street to the other, hanging in the air, persisting longer than
one would have thought physically possible. Shortly thereafter, the
man burst out the back door of the girl's house. A metal object no
larger than a small coin flew from his hands as he stumbled down
the rear steps. It hit a slate flagstone and bounced surprisingly
high into the air. The man nearly fell to the ground himself, but
he recovered, fled past the garden potting shed, and escaped from
the garden down the back alley.Mr.
and Mrs. Biggs heard the scream. They were just returning, laden
with bags of groceries and flowers. Horrified, they trundled into
the house and up the stairs as quickly as they were able. On the
second floor, the master bedroom door was open, which it should not
have been. Inside that room, they found her. The shopping bags fell
from Mr. Biggs's hands. A pound of flour spread out around his old
black shoes, raising a little cloud of white dust, and a yellow
onion rolled all the way to the girl's bare feet.She
stood in the center of her parents' bedroom, clad only in a slip
and other undergarments not meant for servants' eyes. Her legs were
naked. Her long slender arms were outstretched above her head, the
wrists bound by a thick rope, which was secured in turn to a
ceiling fixture from which a small chandelier depended. The girl's
fingers nearly touched its crystal prisms. Her slip was torn, both
front and back, as if rent by the lashes of a whip or cane. A man's
long white tie or scarf was wound tightly around her neck and
between her lips.She
was not, however, dead. Her eyes were wild, staring, unseeing. She
looked on the familiar old servants not with relief but with a kind
of terror, as if they might be murderers or demons. Her whole frame
shivered, despite the heat. She made to scream again, but no sound
came out, as if she had expended all her voice.Mrs.
Biggs came to her senses first and ordered her husband out of the
room, telling him to fetch the doctor and a policeman. Gingerly she
went to the girl, trying to calm her, unwinding the tie. When her
mouth was freed, the girl made all the motions that normally
accompany speech, but still no sound came out, no words at all, not
even a whisper. When the police arrived, they were dismayed to
learn that she could not speak. A still greater surprise lay in
store for them as well. Paper and pencil were brought to the girl;
the police asked her to tell them in writing what happened. I
can't, she wrote. Why not? they asked. Her reply: I can't
remember.

Excerpted from THE INTERPRETATION OF MURDER © Copyright
2011 by Jed Rubenfeld. Reprinted with permission by Henry Holt and
Company. All rights reserved.