The Interpretation Of Murder (19 page)

    Mayor George McClellan lived on the
Row, in one of the stately Greek Revival townhouses lining Washington Square North.
Leaving his house early Wednesday morning, McClellan was startled to see
Coroner Hugel rushing toward him from the park across the street. The two
gentlemen met between the Corinthian columns framing the mayor's front door.

    'Hugel,' said McClellan, 'what are
you doing here? Good Lord, man, you look like you haven't slept in days.'

    'I had to be sure of finding you,'
exclaimed the winded coroner.

    'Banwell did it.'

    'What?'

    'George Banwell killed the Riverford
girl,' said Hugel.

    'Don't be ridiculous,' replied the
mayor. 'I've known Banwell for twenty years.'

    'From the moment I entered her
apartment,' said Hugel, 'he tried to obstruct the investigation. He threatened
to have me removed from the case. He tried to prevent the autopsy.'

    'He knows the girl's father, for
God's sake.'

    'Why should that prevent an autopsy?'

    'Most men, Hugel, would not relish
the sight of their daughter's corpse sawed open.'

    If the mayor intended a hint
concerning Hugel's sensibilities, the coroner did not take it. 'He fits the
description of the murderer in every respect. He lived in her building; he was
a friend of the family, to whom she would have opened her door; and he had her
entire apartment cleared out before Littlemore could search it.'

    'You had already searched it,' the
mayor rejoined.

    'Not at all,' said Hugel. 'I only
inspected the bedroom. Littlemore was to search the rest of the apartment.'

    'Did Banwell know Littlemore was
coming? Did you tell him?'

    'No,' the coroner grumbled. 'But how
do you explain his terror at the sight of Miss Acton on the street yesterday?'
He relayed to the mayor the account of the previous day's events reported to
him by Littlemore. 'Banwell was trying to flee because he thought she would
identify him as her attacker.'

    'Nonsense' was the mayor's response.
'He met me in the hotel directly afterward. Are you aware that the Banwells and
Actons are the closest of friends? Harcourt and Mildred Acton are at George's
summer cottage now.'

    'You mean he knows the Actons?' Hugel
demanded. 'Why, that proves it! He is the only one who knew both victims.'

    The mayor regarded the coroner
dispassionately. 'What's that on your jacket, Hugel? It looks like egg.'

    'It
is
egg.' Hugel wiped at
his lapel with a yellowed handkerchief. 'Those hooligans on the other side of
your park threw it at me. We must arrest Banwell at once.'

    The mayor shook his head. The south
side of Washington Square was not genteel, and McClellan had not been able to
rid the southwest corner of the park of a gang of boys for whom proximity to
the mayor's house must have been an additional inducement to their
prankstering. McClellan strode past the coroner to the horse-drawn carriage
awaiting him. 'I'm surprised at you, Hugel. Speculation piled on top of
speculation.'

    'It will not be speculation when you
have another murder on your hands.'

    'George Banwell did not kill Miss
Riverford,' said the mayor.

    'How do you know?'

    'I
know,'
answered McClellan
definitively. 'I won't hear another word of this ludicrous slander. Now go
home. You are not fit to be in your office in this state. Get some rest. That's
an order.'

    The building Littlemore found at 782 Eighth
Avenue - where Chong Sing supposedly lived in apartment 4C - was a five-story
tenement, dirty, grimy, with fragrant shanks of red-roasted pork and dripping
carcasses of duck hanging in the second-floor windows, behind which was a
Chinese restaurant. Below the restaurant, at street level, was a dingy bicycle
shop, the proprietor of which was white. All the other people in and around the
building - the old women bustling in and out the front door, the man smoking a
long pipe on the stoop, the faces peering out the upper-story windows - were
Chinese.

    When the detective began mounting the
third flight of unlit stairs, a small man in a long tunic appeared out of the
shadows, blocking his way. This man had a wispy beard, a queue hanging down his
back, and teeth the color of fresh rust. Littlemore stopped. 'You go wrong
way,' the Chinese said, without introduction. 'Restaurant back there. Second
floor.'

    'I'm not looking for the restaurant,'
the detective replied. 'I'm looking for Mr Chong Sing. Lives on the fourth
floor. You know him?'

    'No.' The Chinese man continued to
bar Littlemore's way. 'No Chong Sing upstair.'

    'You mean he's out, or he doesn't
live here?'

    'No Chong Sing upstair,' the Chinese
man repeated. He pushed his fingertips against Littlemore's chest. 'You go
way.'

    Littlemore pushed past the man and
continued up the narrow stairway, which creaked under his feet. The fatty smell
of meat accompanied him. As he trod the smoky corridor of the fourth floor -
windowless and dark, though it was a bright morning - he saw eyes watching him
from doorways barely cracked open. No one answered at apartment 4C. Littlemore
thought he heard someone hurrying down a back stairway. At first, the aroma of
roasted meat had stimulated the detective's appetite; now, in the airless upper
floors, mixing with curls of opium smoke, it nauseated him.

    When the mayor arrived at City Hall,
Mrs Neville informed him that Mr Banwell was calling. McClellan told her to put
him through. 'George,' said George Banwell, 'it's George.'

    'By George, it is,' said George
McClellan, completing an exchange they had initiated almost twenty years ago as
fledgling members of the Manhattan Club.

    'Just wanted you to know I got
through to Acton last night,' said Banwell. 'Told him the ghastly news. He's
driving in post haste this morning. He should be at the hotel by noon. I'm
meeting him there.'

    'Excellent,' said McClellan. 'I'll
join you.'

    'Has Nora remembered anything?'

    'No,' said the mayor. 'The coroner
has a suspect, however. You.'

    'Me?' exclaimed Banwell. 'I didn't
like that little weasel the moment I saw him.'

    'Apparently the feeling was mutual.'

    'What did you tell him?'

    'I told him you didn't do it,' said
the mayor.

    'What about Elizabeth's body?' asked
Banwell. 'Riverford's wiring me about it every other minute.'

    'The body has been stolen, George,'
said the mayor.

    'What?'

    'You know the troubles I've had with
the morgue. I hope to get it back. Can you put Riverford off for one more day?'

    'Put him off?' repeated Banwell. 'His
daughter's been murdered.'

    'Can you try?' asked the mayor.

    'The devil,' said Banwell. 'I'll see
what I can do. By the way, who are these - these
specialists
looking at
Nora?'

    'Didn't I tell you?' answered the
mayor. 'They are therapeutists. Apparently they can cure amnesia just by
talking. Fascinating business, actually. They get the patient to tell them all
kinds of things.'

    'What kinds of things?' asked
Banwell.

    
'All
kinds,' answered
McClellan.

    Coroner Hugel, obeying the mayor's
orders, went back to his home, the top two floors of a small wood-frame house
on Warren Street. There he lay down on his lumpy bed but didn't sleep. The light
was too bright, and the shouts of the teamsters were too loud, even with a
pillow over his head.

    The house in which Hugel lived was at
the outer edge of the Market District in lower Manhattan. When he first rented
his rooms, the district was a pleasant residential neighborhood; by 1909, it
was overrun by produce warehouses and manufacturing buildings. Hugel had never
moved. On a coroner's pay, he could not afford two full floors of a house in a
more fashionable part of the city.

    Hugel hated his rooms. The ceilings
had the same disgusting brown-edged water stains he had to endure at his
office. Hugel swore bitterly to himself. He was the coroner of New York City.
Why did he have to live in such undignified quarters? Why did his suit have to
be so shabby compared to the brushed and tailored cut of George Banwell's
jacket?

    The evidence against Banwell was
easily sufficient to arrest him. Why couldn't the mayor see that? He wished he
could arrest Banwell himself. The coroner had no power to make an arrest; he
wished he did. Hugel went over everything again. There had to be something
more. There had to be a way to make the whole story fit together. If Elizabeth
Riverford's murderer had stolen her body from the morgue because there was
evidence on that body, what could the evidence be? Suddenly he had an
inspiration: he had forgotten the photographs he took in Miss Riverford's
apartment. Wasn't it possible for one of his photographs to reveal the missing
clue?

    Hugel climbed out of bed and dressed
hurriedly. He could develop them himself: although he rarely used it, he had
his own darkroom adjacent to the morgue. No, it would be safer if Louis
Riviere, the police department's photographic expert, did the work.

    At nine I went to Miss Acton's room.
No one was there. By chance I inquired at the front desk, where I found a
message waiting for me, in which Miss Acton informed me that she would be back
in her room at eleven: I might call on her then, if I wished.

    This was all wrong, analytically.
First, I was not 'calling' on Miss Acton. Second, it was not the patient, but
the doctor, who ought to control the timing.

    In the event, I did call on Miss
Acton at eleven. She was perched comfortably on her sofa, just as she had been
yesterday morning, taking tea, framed by the French doors opening out to the
balcony. Without looking up, Miss Acton invited me to take a seat. This
irritated me as well. She was too comfortable. The analytic setting ought to
have been an office - my office - and I ought to have been in command of it.

    Then she did look up, and I was
entirely taken aback. She was tremulous and full of agitation. 'Whom did you
tell?' she asked, not accusingly but anxiously. 'About what - what Mr Banwell
did to me?'

    'Only Dr Freud. Why? What's
happened?'

    She made eye contact with Mrs Biggs,
who produced a piece of paper, folded in two, which the old woman handed to me.
On the note was written, in pen,
Hold your tongue.

    'A boy,' said Miss Acton fretfully,
'out in the street - he put that in my hands and ran off. Do you think Mr
Banwell attacked me?'

    'Do you?'

    'I don't know, I don't know. Why
can't I remember? Can't you make me remember?' she beseeched me. 'What if he's
out there, watching me? Please, Doctor, can't you help me?'

    I had not seen Miss Acton like this.
It was the first time she had actually asked for my help. It was also the first
time since coming to the hotel that she seemed genuinely afraid. 'I can try,' I
answered.

    Mrs Biggs knew enough to leave the
room of her own accord this time. I put the threatening messsage on the coffee
table and made the girl lie down, although she plainly did not like it. She was
so agitated she could hardly keep still.

    'Miss Acton,' I resumed, 'think back
to three years ago, before the incident on the rooftop. You were with your
family, at the Banwells' country house.'

    'Why are you asking me about that?'
she burst out. 'I want to remember what happened two days ago, not three years
ago.'

    'You don't want to remember what
happened three years ago?'

    'That's not what I meant.'

    'It's what you said. Dr Freud
believes you may have seen something then - something you've forgotten -
something that's keeping you from remembering now.'

    'I have not forgotten anything,' she
retorted.

    'Then you did see something.'

    She was silent.

    'You have nothing to be ashamed of,
Miss Acton.'

    'Stop saying that!' the girl cried
out, with a fury entirely unexpected. 'What would I have to be ashamed of?'

    'I don't know.'

    'Go away,' she said.

    'Miss Acton.'

    'Go away. I don't like you. You are
not clever.'

    I did not budge. 'What did you see?'
As she made no reply but stared determinedly in another direction, I stood and
took a chance. 'I'm sorry, Miss Acton, I can't help you. I wish I could.'

    She took a deep breath. 'I saw my
father with Clara Banwell.'

    'Can you describe what you saw?'

    'Oh, all right.'

    I took my seat.

    'There is a large library on the
first floor,' she said. 'I often couldn't sleep, and when I couldn't, that's
where I would go. I could read by moonlight there, without even lighting a
candle. One night, the door to the library was ajar. I could tell someone was
inside. I put my eye to the crack. My father was sitting on Mr Banwell's chair,
facing me, the same chair I always sat in. I could see him in the moonlight,
but his head was thrown back in a disgusting way. Clara was on her knees before
him. Her dress was unfastened. It had fallen down past her waist. Her back was
entirely bare. She has a lovely back, Doctor, perfectly white, unblemished, the
same pure white skin that you see in… in… and shaped just like an hourglass, or
a cello. She was - I don't know how to describe it - undulating. Her head rose
and fell in a slow rhythm. I could not see her hands; I believe they were in
front of her. Once or twice, she threw her hair over her shoulder, but she kept
rising and falling. It was mesmerizing. I did not, of course, understand at
that time what I was witnessing. I found her movement beautiful, like a gentle
wave lapping at a shore. But I knew very well they were doing something wrong.'

    'Go on.'

    'Then my father began making a
repulsive, rasping noise of some kind. I wondered how Clara could stand that
sound. But she not only stood it. It seemed to make her undulation grow faster,
more determined. He clutched the armrests of his chair. She rose and fell more
and more quickly. I'm sure I was fascinated, but I did not want to watch
anymore. I tiptoed upstairs, back to my bedroom.'

    'And then?'

    'There is no more. That was the end.
'We looked at each other. 'I hope your curiosity is satisfied, Dr Younger,
because I don't believe my amnesia has been cured.'

    I tried to think through,
psychoanalytically, the episode Miss Acton had just described. It had the form
of a trauma, but there was one difficulty. Miss Acton did not seem to have been
traumatized. 'Did you experience any physical difficulties afterward?' I asked
her. 'Loss of voice?'

    'No.'

    'A paralysis of any part of your
body? A cold?'

    'No.'

    'Did your father find out you saw
him?'

    'He is too stupid.'

    I took this in. 'When you think of
your amnesia, right now, what comes to mind?'

    'Nothing,' she said.

    'There is never nothing in one's
mind.'

    'You said that last time!' she
exclaimed angrily, and then fell silent. She fixed me with her blue eyes. 'Only
one thing you have ever done,' she said, 'even began to make me think you could
help me, and that had nothing to do with all your questions.'

    'What was that?'

    She dropped her gaze. 'I do not know
if I should tell you.'

    'Why?'

    'Oh, never mind why. It was in the
police station.'

    'I examined your neck.'

    She spoke quietly, her head averted. 'Yes.
When you first touched my throat, for one second I almost saw something - some
picture, some memory. I don't know what it was.'

    This news was unexpected but not
illogical. Freud himself had discovered that a physical touch could release
suppressed memories. I had employed that very technique with Priscilla.
Possibly, Miss Acton's amnesia was susceptible to this form of treatment as
well. 'Are you willing to try something similar again?' I asked her.

    'It frightened me,' she said.

    'It probably will again.'

    She nodded. I went to her and
extended my palm. She began to remove her scarf. I told her she needn't; I
would touch her forehead, not her neck. She was surprised. I explained that
touching the brow was one of Dr Freud's standard methods for eliciting memory.
She did not look satisfied but said I should proceed. Slowly I placed my palm
to her forehead. There was no reaction. I asked if any thought had come to her.

    'Only that your hand is very cold,
Doctor,' she replied.

    'I'm sorry, Miss Acton, but it seems
we must resume talking. The touching has not succeeded.' I took my seat again.
She looked almost cross. 'Can you tell me one thing?' I went on. 'You said that
Mrs Banwell's back - her bare back - was as white as something you had seen
before. But you did not say what.'

    'And you would like to know?'

    'That is why I asked.'

    'Get out,' she said, sitting up.

    'I beg your pardon?'

    'Get out!' she cried and flung the
bowl of sugar cubes at me. Then she stood and did the same with her saucer and
cup. Or, rather, these she did not fling; she threw them overhand, as hard as
she could. Fortunately, the two objects skewed off in opposite directions, the
saucer flying to my left, the cup sailing high and to my right, breaking into
several pieces when it hit the wall. Miss Acton picked up the teapot.

    'Don't do that,' I said.

    'I hate you.'

    I stood as well. 'You don't hate me,
Miss Acton. You hate your father for trading you to Banwell - in exchange for
his wife.'

    If I thought the girl's reaction to
this would be to collapse in tears on her sofa, I was mistaken. She pounced
like a feral cat, swinging the teapot at me. It hit me on my left shoulder. The
force was impressive; she had tremendous strength for such a small thing. The
top of the pot flew off. Boiling-hot water spilled onto my arm. It hurt,
actually, considerably - the scalding water, not the pot - but I neither moved
nor showed any reaction. This, I guess, incensed her. She swung the pot at me
again, this time at my head.

    I was so much taller than she that
all I had to do was draw back slightly. The teapot missed its target, and I
caught Miss Acton by the arm. Her momentum carried her around, so that her back
was to me. I held her arms tightly against her waist, pinning her to me.

    'Let me go,' she said. 'Let me go or
I will scream.'

    'And then? Will you tell them I
attacked you?'

    'I am counting to three,' she replied
fiercely. 'Let me go or I will scream. One, two, th-'

    I seized her throat, stopping the
word in her mouth. I should not have done so, but my blood was up. It stifled
any possibility of her screaming but produced an unexpected side effect as
well. All the tension in her body drained away. She dropped the teapot. Her
eyes opened wide, disoriented, her sapphire irises darting rapidly back and
forth. I didn't know what was stranger: her assault on me or this sudden
transformation. I released my hold on her immediately.

    'I saw him,' she whispered.

    'Can you remember?' I asked.

    'I saw him,' she repeated. 'Now it's
gone. I think I was tied up. I couldn't move. Oh, why can't I remember?' She
turned at once to face me. 'Do it again.'

    'What?'

    'What you just did. I will remember,
I'm sure of it.'

    Slowly, never taking her eyes off
mine, she undid her scarf, revealing her still-bruised neck. She clutched my
right hand in her delicate fingers and drew it toward her neck, just as she had
the first time I saw her. I touched the soft skin under her chin, careful to
avoid the ugly bruises.

    'Is there anything?' I asked.

    'No,' she whispered. 'You have to do
what you did before.'

    I made no reply. I didn't know if she
meant what I had done in the police station or what I had done a moment ago.

    'Choke me,' she said.

    I did nothing.

    'Please,' she said. 'Choke me.'

    I put my finger and thumb to the
place on her neck where the reddish marks were. She bit her lip; it must have
hurt. With these bruises covered, there was no sign of her previous attack.
There was only her exquisitely turned neck. I squeezed her throat. Instantly
her eyes closed.

    'Harder,' she said softly.

    With my left hand, I held the small
of her back. With my right, I choked her. Her back arched, her head fell back. She
gripped my hand tightly but did not try to pull it away. 'Do you see anything?'
I asked. She shook her head faintly, her eyes still closed. I drew her in more
firmly, pressing harder at her neck. Her breath caught in her throat, then
stopped altogether. Her lips, vermilion, parted.

    It is not easy for me to confess to
the wholly improper reactions that came upon me. I had never seen a mouth so
perfect. Her lips, slightly swollen, were trembling. Her skin was the purest
cream. Her long hair was sparkling, like falling water turned gold by sunlight.
I drew her still closer to me. One of her hands was resting on my chest. I
don't know when or how it got there.