The Interpretation Of Murder (45 page)

    Nora buried herself in Clara's arms
the moment the latter entered her hotel room.

    'My darling,' said Clara. 'Thank heaven
you're all right. I'm so glad you called.'

    'I'm going to tell them everything,'
Nora exclaimed. 'I've tried to keep it secret, but I can't.'

    'I know,' said Clara. 'You said so in
your letter. It's all right. Tell them everything.'

    'No,' Nora replied, close to tears,
'I mean
really
everything.'

    'I understand. It's all right.'

    'He didn't believe I'd been hurt at
all,' said Nora. 'Doctor Younger. He thought I had painted on my wounds.'

    'How awful.'

    'I deserved it, Clara. Everything
went wrong. I am so bad. It was all for nothing. It would be better if I were
dead.'

    'Hush. We need something to calm our
nerves, both of us.' She went to a credenza on which stood a half-filled
decanter and several glasses. 'Here. Oh, what awful brandy. But I'm going to
pour us a little. We'll share it.'

    She handed Nora a snifter with a
little golden liquor swirling in its bowl. Nora had never had brandy before,
but Clara helped her taste it and, after the first burning sensation had
passed, to finish the glass. A little spilled onto the front of Nora's dress.

    'Goodness,' said Clara. 'Is that my
dress you have on?'

    'Yes,' said Nora. 'I'm sorry. I went
to Tarry Town today. Do you mind?'

    'Of course not. It looks so well on
you. My things always suit you.' Clara poured another finger of brandy into the
snifter and took a little for herself, closing her eyes. Then she put the glass
to Nora's lips. 'Do you know,' she said, 'I bought that dress with you in mind?
These shoes were meant to go with it - these, the ones I am wearing now. Here,
you try them. You have such a fine ankle. Let's put everything out of our minds
and dress you up, just as we used to.'

    'Shall I?' said Nora, trying to
smile.

    'You mean Elizabeth Riverford was
Nora Acton?' an uncomprehending Mayor McClellan asked Detective Littlemore.

    'I can prove it, Your Honor,' said
Littlemore. He gestured toward Betty as he pulled a photograph from his pocket.
'Mr Mayor, Betty here was Miss Riverford's maid at the Balmoral. This is a
picture I found in Leon Ling's apartment. Betty, tell these people who this
woman is.'

    'That's Miss Riverford on the left,'
said Betty. 'The hair is different, but that's her.'

    'Mr Acton, would you please look at
the photograph now?' Littlemore handed Harcourt Acton the picture of Nora
Acton, William Leon, and Clara Banwell.

    'It's Nora,' said Acton.

    McClellan shook his head. 'Nora Acton
was living at the Balmoral under the name of Elizabeth Riverford? Why?'

    'She wasn't living there,' grumbled
Banwell. 'She was going to come up a few nights a week, that's all. What are
you looking at? Look at Acton, why don't you?'

    'You knew?' McClellan asked Mr Acton
incredulously.

    'Certainly not,' answered Mrs Acton
for her husband. 'Nora must have done it on her own.'

    Harcourt Acton said nothing.

    'If he didn't know, he's a damned
fool,' announced Banwell. 'But I never touched her. It was all Clara's idea
anyway.'

    'Clara knew too?' The mayor was even
more incredulous.

    'Knew? She arranged it.' Banwell's
voice broke off. Then he resumed. 'Now let me go. I've committed no crime.'

    'Except for running me over
yesterday,' said Detective Littlemore. 'Plus trying to bribe a police officer, trying
to kill Miss Acton, and killing Seamus Malley. I'd say you had a pretty full
week, Mr Banwell.'

    At the sound of Malley s name,
Banwell struggled to rise from the floor, despite the handcuffs attaching him
to the railing. In the commotion, Hugel broke for the door. Both men failed to
achieve their object. Banwell succeed only in injuring his wrists. The coroner
was caught by Officer Reardon.

    'But why, Hugel?' asked the mayor.

    The coroner didn't speak.

    'My God,' the mayor went on, still
addressing the coroner. 'You knew Elizabeth Riverford was Nora. Was it you who
whipped her? Dear God.'

    'I didn't,' Hugel cried out,
miserably, still in Reardon's grip. 'I didn't whip anyone. I was only trying to
help. I had to get him convicted. She promised me. I would never - she planned
everything - she told me what to do - she promised me -'

    'Nora?' asked the mayor. 'What in
God's name did she promise you?'

    'Not Nora,' said Hugel. He jerked his
head toward Banwell. 'His wife.'

    Nora Acton slipped out of her own
shoes and tried on Clara's. The heels were high and pointed, but the shoes were
made of a lovely, soft black leather. When the girl looked up, she saw in
Clara's hand an unexpected object: a small revolver, with a mother-of-pearl
grip. 'It is so hot in here, my dear,' said Clara. 'Let's go out on your
balcony.'

    'Why are you pointing a gun at me,
Clara?'

    'Because I hate you, darling. You
made love with my husband.'

    'I didn't,' Nora protested.

    'But he wanted you to. Quite
desperately. It's the same; no, it's worse.'

    'But you hate George.'

    'Do I? I suppose so,' said Clara. 'I
hate both of you equally.'

    'Oh, no. Don't say that. I would
rather die.'

    'Well, then.'

    'But Clara, you made me -'

    'Yes, I made you,' said Clara. 'And
now I will unmake you. Just consider my position, darling. How can I let you
tell the police what you know? I am so close to success. All that stands in my
way is - you. Up, my dear. To the balcony. Go. Don't make me shoot you.'

    Nora rose. She tottered. Clara's
stiletto heels were much

    too high for her. She could barely
walk. Supporting herself on the back of the sofa, then on an armchair, then on
a table, she made her way to the open French doors that led to the balcony.

    'That's it,' said Clara. 'Just a
little farther.'

    Nora took a step onto the balcony and
stumbled. She caught herself on the railing and stood up, facing out to the
city. Eleven flights above ground, a strong breeze was blowing. Nora felt this
cooling breeze on her forehead and cheeks. 'You put me in these shoes,' she
said, 'so that it would be easy to push me over, didn't you?'

    'No,' answered Clara, 'so that it
will look like an accident. You were not used to the heels. You were not used
to the brandy, which they will smell on your dress. A terrible accident. I
don't want to push you, my darling. Won't you jump? Just let yourself go. I
think you would rather.'

    Nora saw the clock on the
Metropolitan Life tower a mile to the south. It was midnight. She saw the
brilliant glow of Broadway to the west. 'To be, or not to be,' she whispered.

    'Not to, I'm afraid,' said Clara.

    'Can I ask one thing?'

    'I don't know, my dear. What is it?'

    'Will you kiss me?' Nora asked. 'Just
once, before I die?'

    Clara Banwell considered this
request. 'All right,' she said.

    Nora turned, slowly, her arms behind
her, gripping the railing, blinking away the tears in her blue eyes. She tipped
her chin up, ever so slightly. Clara, keeping her revolver trained on Nora's
waist, brushed a hair from Nora's mouth. Nora closed her eyes.

    Standing over my hotel room sink, I
splashed cold water on my face. It was clear to me now that Nora "had been,
in her family, the target of an Oedipus complex of exactly the mirror-image
kind I had just conceived. Without doubt, her mother was killingly jealous of
her. But Nora's case was more complex because of the Banwells. Freud was right:
the Banwells had in a sense become Nora's substitute mother and father. Banwell
had wanted Nora - reverse Oedipus complex again - but Nora had apparently
wanted Clara. That didn't fit. Neither, really, did Clara. Her position was the
most complex of all. She had befriended Nora, as Freud pointed out, taking her
into her confidence, describing her own sexual experiences. Freud believed Nora
must be jealous of Clara. But by my lights, Clara should have been jealous of
Nora. She should have hated her. She should have wanted to -

    I leapt off my bed and ran from the
room.

    The moment their lips met, Nora
seized Clara's hand, the hand holding the gun. The revolver fired. Nora was
unable to dislodge the gun from Clara's hands, but she had managed to direct
the barrel away from her own body. The bullet flew into the air above the city.

    Nora scratched at Clara's face,
drawing blood above and below her eye. When Clara cried out in pain, Nora bit
Clara's hand - again, the one holding the gun - as hard as she could. The
revolver fell to the concrete floor of the balcony and skittered back into the
hotel room.

    Clara struck Nora in the face. She
struck her a second time, then pulled the girl by the hair to the balcony's
edge. There she bent Nora backward over the railing, Nora's long tresses
hanging straight down in the direction of the street far, far below.

    Nora raised one of her shoes from the
floor and brought it down on Clara's foot, the stiletto heel digging into
Clara's bare instep. Clara let out a fearful cry and lost her grip on Nora, who
tore herself away. She made it past Clara, through the French doors, but fell
to the floor, unable to run in Clara's heels. On hands and knees she went on,
crawling to reach the gun. Her fingertips had actually touched the pearl handle
when Clara yanked her backward by her dress. Clara cast Nora aside, leapt over
her, strode to the middle of the room, and seized the pistol.

    'Very good, my dear,' said Clara,
breathing hard. 'I had no idea you had it in you.'

    They were interrupted by a crash. The
locked door flew open, bits of wood scattering in the air, and Stratham Younger
burst in.

    'Dr Younger,' said Clara Banwell,
standing in the middle of Nora's living room and pointing a small revolver directly
at my midsection, 'how lovely to see you. Please close the door.'

    Nora lay on the floor a dozen feet
away. I saw a bruise on

    her cheek but, thank God, no blood
anywhere. 'Are you hurt?' I asked her.

    She shook her head.

    Exhaling the breath I hadn't realized
I was holding in, 1 closed the door. 'And you, Mrs Banwell,' I said, 'how are
you this evening?'

    The corners of Clara's mouth edged up
ever so slightly. She was badly scratched above and below her left eye. 'I will
be better shortly,' she said. 'Step out onto the balcony, Doctor.'

    I didn't move.

    'Onto the balcony, Doctor,' she
repeated.

    'No, Mrs Banwell.'

    'Really?' Clara returned. 'Shall I
shoot you where you stand?'

    'You can't,' I said. 'You gave your name
downstairs. If you kill me, they will hang you for murder.'

    'You are quite mistaken,' replied
Clara. 'They will hang Nora, not me. I will tell them she killed you, and they
will believe me. Have you forgotten? She is the psychopath. She is the one who
burned herself with a cigarette. Even her parents think so.'

    'Mrs Banwell, you don't hate Nora.
You hate your husband. You have been his victim for seven years. Nora has been
his victim too. Don't be his instrument.'

    Clara stared at me. I took a step in
her direction.

    'Stop where you are,' said Clara
sharply. 'You are a surprisingly poor judge of character for a psychologist, Dr
Younger. And so credulous. What I told you, you think

    true. Do you believe everything women
tell you? Or do you believe them only when you want to sleep with them?'

    'I don't want to sleep with you, Mrs
Banwell.'

    'Every man wants to sleep with me.'

    'Please lower the gun,' I said. 'You
are overwrought. You have every reason to be, but you misdirect your anger.
Your husband beats you, Mrs Banwell. He has never consummated your marriage. He
has made you - made you perform acts -'

    Clara laughed. 'Oh, stop it. You are
too comical. You will make me sick.'

    It was not the laughter as such, but
the condescending note in it, that brought me up short.

    'He never made me do anything,' said
Clara. 'I am no one's victim, Doctor. On our wedding night, I told him he would
never have me. I, not he. How easy it was. I told him he was the strongest man
I had ever met. I told him I would do things he would like even better. Which I
did. I told him I would bring him other girls, young girls, whom he could do
with as he pleased. Which I did. I told him he could hurt me, and I would make
him happy while he hurt me. Which I did.'

    Nora and I both stared at Clara in
silence.

    'And he liked it,' she added,
smiling.

    Again there was silence. I finally
broke it. 'Why?'

    'Because I
knew
him,' Clara
said. 'His appetites are insatiable. He wanted me, of course, but not me alone.
There were going to be others. Many, many others. Do you think

    I could consent to be one of many,
Doctor? I hated him from the moment I laid eyes on him.'

    'It is not Nora,' I said, 'who has
brought this upon you.'

    'It
is,'
Clara snapped. 'She
destroyed everything.'

    'How?' This was Nora.

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

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

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

    'Elsie Sigel,' I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    'Very well,' said Clara, shooting me.

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

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

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

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

    'Can't I?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    'Don't die,' she whispered.

    I didn't speak.

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

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

    'Show you what?'

    'I don't want to die not knowing.'

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

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

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