The Interpretation Of Murder (8 page)

    My mother was a Schermerhorn. Her sister
married a Fish. These two majestic genealogical facts got me invited to every
royal ball in Manhattan.

    Living in Worcester, Massachusetts,
supplied an excuse sufficient to dodge most of these engagements. But I had to
make an exception for parties thrown by my outr
é
Aunt Mamie - Mrs Stuyvesant Fish - who, though
not really my aunt, has insisted on my calling her so since I was little, when
I used to spend summers in her Newport house. After my father died, it was Aunt
Mamie who made sure my mother was comfortable and did not have to vacate the
Back Bay house where she had lived throughout her marriage. As a result, I
could never say no when Aunt Mamie asked me to one of her galas. On top of this
obligation, there was also cousin Belva, whom I had agreed to escort down the
alley.

    'What is that again?' Belva asked me,
referring to the music, as we made our way down the endless hallway with
throngs of onlookers on either side of us.

    'It is Mr Verdi's
Aida,'
I
answered, 'and we are the marching animals.'

    She pointed to a rotund woman
escorted by her husband not far ahead of us. 'Oh, look, the Arthur Scott
Burdens. I have never seen Mrs Burden in a huge crimson turban before. Perhaps
we are meant to think of elephants.'

    'Belva.'

    'And there are the Cond
é
Nasts. Her Directoire hat is much more
suitable, don't you think? Her gardenias I approve as well, but I'm less sure
about the ostrich feathers. It may incline people to bury their heads in the
sand when she passes.'

    'Heel, Belva.'

    'Do you realize there must be a
thousand people watching us right now?' Belva was manifestly relishing the
attention. 'I'll bet you have nothing like this in Boston.'

    'We are sadly behind in Boston,' I
said.

    'The one with the perfect mass of jewels
in her hair is the Baroness von Haefton, who excluded me from her party last
winter for the Marquis de Charette. Those are the John Jacob Astors - they say
he's been seen everywhere with Maddie Forge, who is not a day older than
sixteen - and our hosts, the Stuyvesant Fishes.'

    'Fish.'

    'I beg your pardon?'

    'The plural of Stuyvesant Fish,' I
explained, 'is Stuyvesant Fish. One says "the Fish," not "the
Fishes." It was rare that I could even pretend to correct Belva on a point
of New York etiquette.

    'I don't believe that for a moment,'
she replied. 'However, Mrs Fish is looking almost plural herself this evening.'

    'Not a word against my aunt, Belva.'
Cousin Belva was my age almost exactly, and I had known her since infancy. But
the poor, scrawny, ungainly thing had come out almost ten years ago, and no one
had taken the bait. At twenty- seven, she was, I'm afraid, quite desperate, the
world already consigning her to spinsterhood. 'At least,' I added, 'Aunt Mamie
hasn't brought her dog tonight.'

    Aunt Mamie had once thrown a ball in
Newport for a new French poodle, which made its entrance prancing down a red
carpet in a diamond-encrusted collar.

    'But look, she
has
brought her
dog,' replied Belva pleasantly, 'and still wearing the diamond collar.' Belva
was pointing to Marion Fish, Aunt Mamie's youngest daughter, to whose stunning
debut Belva had not been invited.

    'That's it, cousin. You're on your
own.' Having come to the end of the corridor, I discharged Belva, or rather
Aunt Mamie prised me from her, pairing me off instead with a Miss Hyde, who was
plainly rich but had few other charms. I danced with several other misses as
well, including the tall and balletic Eleanor Sears, who was quite amiable,
although I was obliged constantly to duck her hat, which was shaped like a
sombrero. And of course I took a turn with poor Belva.

    After the requisite oyster cocktail,
we were fed - according to the gilt-edged menu - a
buffet russe,
roast
mountain sheep with chestnut puree and asparagus, champagne sherbet,
diamondback Maryland terrapin, and ruddy duck with an orange salad. This was
only the first of two suppers, the second to be served after midnight. After
the second supper, the cotillion would get under way, with the formal dances -
probably a Mirror, if I knew Aunt Mamie - starting around one-thirty in the
morning.

    I really didn't mind the occasional
party in New York. I had stopped attending social functions in Boston, where I
could not escape the whispers and sidelong glances owing to the circumstances
of my father's death. The difference between Boston and New York society was
this: the goal in Boston was to do nothing but what had always been done; in
New York it was to outdo anything that had ever been done. But the sheer spectacle
of a New York party - and one was of course supposed to be part of that
spectacle - was a thing my Boston blood could never quite grow used to. The
debutantes in particular, while far more plentiful than their Bostonian
counterparts, and far better looking, were too sparkly for my taste. They were
an efflorescence of diamond and pearl - on their corsages, around their necks,
dangling from their ears, draped on their shoulders, nested in their hair - and
though all these articles were doubtless genuine, I could not help the feeling
that I was looking at paste.

    'Here you are, Stratham!' cried Aunt
Mamie. 'Oh, why must you be cousins with my Marion? I would have married you
off to her years ago. Now listen to me. Miss Crosby is asking everyone who you
are. She is eighteen this year, the second handsomest girl in New York, and you
are still the single handsomest man - I mean the handsomest single man. You
must dance with her.'

    'I have danced with her,' I replied,
'and I have it on good authority that she means to marry Mr de Menocal.'

    'But I don't want her to marry de
Menocal,' answered Aunt Mamie. 'I wanted de Menocal to marry Franz and Ellie
Sigel's granddaughter Elsie. She, however, has run away to Washington. It was
my understanding that people ran away
from
Washington. What can the girl
have been thinking? One might as well elope to the Congo. Have you said hello
to Stuyvie yet?'

    Stuyvie was, of course, her husband,
Stuyvesant. As I had not yet exchanged greetings with Uncle Fish, Aunt Mamie
conducted me toward him. He was engaged in close conversation with two men.
Next to Uncle Fish, I recognized Louis J. de G. Milhau, whom I knew as a fellow
undergraduate at Harvard. The other man, perhaps forty-five years old, looked
familiar, but I couldn't place him. He had closely cropped dark hair,
intelligent eyes, no beard, and an air of authority. Aunt Mamie solved my
difficulty when she added, under her breath, 'The mayor. I shall introduce
you.'

    Mayor McClellan, it turned out, was
just departing. Aunt Mamie cried out in protest, objecting that he would miss
Caruso. Aunt Mamie detested opera, but she knew the rest of the world
considered it the pinnacle of taste. McClellan apologized, thanking her
cordially for her beneficence to the city of New York, and swore he would never
leave at such an hour, were it not for a very serious matter demanding his
immediate attention. Aunt Mamie objected even more strenuously, this time to
the use of the term 'very serious matter' in her presence. She did not want to
hear about any very serious matters, she said, fleeing us in a cloud of
chiffon.

    To my surprise, Milhau then said to
the mayor, 'Younger here is a doctor. Why don't you tell him about it?'

    'By gad,' exclaimed Uncle Fish,
'that's right. A Harvard doctor. Younger will know the man for the job. Tell
him about it, McClellan.'

    The mayor surveyed me, made some sort
of internal decision, and put a question. 'Do you know Acton, Younger?'

    'Lord Acton?' I responded.

    'No, Harcourt Acton of Gramercy Park.
It's about his daughter.'

    Miss Acton had apparently been the
victim of a brutal assault earlier this evening, in her family's house, while
her parents were away. The criminal had not been apprehended, nor had he even
been seen by anyone else. Mayor McClellan, who knew the family, desperately
wanted from Miss Acton a description of the criminal, but the girl could
neither speak nor even remember what had happened to her. The mayor was
returning to police headquarters this instant; the girl was still there,
attended by her family doctor, who had professed himself mystified by her
condition. He could find no physical injuries capable of producing her
symptoms.

    'The girl is hysterical,' I said.
'She is suffering from crypto-amnesia.'

    'Crypto-amnesia?' repeated Milhau.

    'Loss of memory brought on by
repression of a traumatic episode. The term was coined by Dr Freud of Vienna.
The condition is essentially hysterical and can be found with aphonia - speech
loss - as well.'

    'By gad,' said Uncle Fish again.
'Speech loss, did you say? That's it!'

    'Dr Freud,' I went on, 'has a book on
speech dysfunction.' Freud's monograph on the aphasias was read in America long
before his psychological writings became known. 'He is probably the world's
leading authority on the subject and has specifically shown an association with
hysterical trauma - especially sexual trauma.'

    'Pity your Dr Freud is in Vienna,'
said the mayor.

    We trundled down the four flights of
stairs as quickly as we could. The more he heard of the affair, the more intrigued
Freud became, and when he learned of the mayor's personal involvement, he was
as excited as I to get downtown, notwithstanding the hour. The motorcar being a
four-seater, there was one extra place, so Freud decided Ferenczi would
accompany us. Freud had first invited Jung, who seemed strangely uninterested
and declined; he had not even come down to the street.

    Just before we drove off, Brill said,
'I don't like your leaving Jung here. Let me go get him; you can squeeze him in
and drop him at the hotel.'

    'Abraham,' Freud replied with
surprising severity, 'I have told you repeatedly how I feel about this. You
must overcome your hostility to Jung. He is more important than the rest of us
put together.'

    'It's not that, for heaven's sake,' protested
Brill. 'I've just given the man dinner in my own home, haven't I? It's his
-
condition
- I'm talking about.'

    'What condition?' asked Freud.

    'He's not right. He's flushed, overly
excited. Hot one minute, cold the next. Surely you noticed. Some of what he
says makes no sense at all.'

    'He's been drinking your wine.'

    'That's another thing,' said Brill.
'Jung never touches alcohol.'

    'That was Bleuler's influence,' Freud
remarked. 'I've cured him of it. You don't object to Jung's drinking, Abraham?'

    'Certainly not. Anything is better
than Jung sober. Let's keep him drunk all the time. But there's something
unsettling about him. From the moment he came in. Did you hear him ask why my
floor was so soft - my wood floor?'

    'You are imagining things,' said
Freud. 'And behind the imagination there is always a wish. Jung is merely
unused to alcohol. Just make sure he gets back to the hotel safely.'

    'Very well.' Brill bade us good luck.
As we pulled away, he called out, 'But there can also be a wish
not
to
imagine.'