The Interpretation Of Murder (26 page)

BOOK: The Interpretation Of Murder
11.91Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
Chapter Fifteen

    

    'Come,' said Freud, changing the
subject, as we walked through the park on our way from Brill's to the hotel.
'Let us hear how you are getting along with Miss Nora.'

    I hesitated, but Freud assured me that
I could speak as freely to Ferenczi as to himself, so I recounted the whole
story at length: the illicit congress between Mr Acton and Mrs Banwell,
glimpsed by the fourteen-year-old Nora, which Freud had somehow foreseen; the
girl's tantrum in the hotel room, directed against me; the apparent recovery of
her memory, identifying George Banwell as her assailant; and the sudden arrival
of Banwell himself, together with the girl's parents and the mayor, who
provided Banwell's alibi.

    Ferenczi, after declaring his
revulsion at the nature of the sexual act Mrs Banwell performed on Harcourt
Acton - a reaction I found hard to understand, coming from a psychoanalyst -
asked why Banwell couldn't have attacked Nora Acton even if he had not murdered
the other girl. I explained that I had quizzed the detective on the very same
point and that there was apparently physical evidence proving the two attacks
were carried out by the same man.

    'Let us leave the forensics to the
police, shall we?' said Freud. 'If the analysis should help the police, well
and good. If not, we shall at least help the patient. I have two questions for
you, Younger. First, do you not find something strange in Nora's assertion
that, when she saw Mrs Banwell with her father, she didn't understand at the
time exactly what she was witnessing?'

    'Most American girls of fourteen
would be ill-informed on that point, Dr Freud.'

    'I appreciate that,' Freud replied.
'But that is not what I meant. She implied that she
now
understood what
she had witnessed, did she not?'

    'Yes.'

    'Would you expect a girl of seventeen
to be better informed than one of fourteen?'

    I began to take his point.

    'How,' asked Freud, 'does she know
now what she didn't know then?'

    'She suggested to me yesterday,' I
answered, 'that she reads books explicit in content.'

    'Ah, yes, that's right, very good.
Well, we must think more about this. But for now, my second question: tell me,
Younger, why did she turn on you?'

    'You mean, why did she throw her cup
and saucer at me?'

    'Yes,' said Freud.

    'And hit you with boiling teapot,'
added Ferenczi.

    I had no answer.

    'Ferenczi, can you enlighten our
friend?'

    'I am also in the dark,' Ferenczi
replied. 'She is in love with him. That much is obvious.'

    Freud addressed me. 'Think again.
What did you say to her just before she became violent with you?'

    'I had just finished the touching of
her forehead,' I said, 'which failed. I sat down. I asked her to complete an
analogy she had begun earlier. She was comparing the whiteness of Mrs Banwell's
back to something else, but she broke off. I asked her to complete the
thought.'

    'Why?' asked Freud.

    'Because, Dr Freud, you have written
that whenever a patient begins a sentence, but interrupts himself and doesn't
finish, a repression is at work.'

    'Good boy,' said Freud. 'And how did
Nora respond?'

    'She told me to get out. Without
warning. And then she began throwing things at me.'

    'Just like that?' asked Freud.

    'Yes.'

    'So?'

    Again I had no reply.

    'Did it not occur to you that Nora
would be jealous of any interest you showed in Clara Banwell? Particularly in
her naked back?'

    'Interest in Mrs Banwell?' I
repeated. 'I've never met Mrs Banwell.'

    'The unconscious does not take such
niceties into account,' said Freud. 'Consider the facts. Nora had just
described Clara Banwell performing fellatio on her father, which she witnessed
at the age of fourteen. That act is of course repugnant to any decent person;
it fills us with the utmost disgust. But Nora does not display to you any such
disgust, despite implying that she fully understands the nature of the act. She
even says she found Mrs Banwell's movements appealing. Now, it is quite
impossible that Nora should have witnessed that scene without deep jealousy. A
girl has a hard enough time bearing her own mother: she will never allow
another woman to arouse her father's passion without bitterly resenting the
intruder. Nora, therefore, envied Clara. She wanted to be the one performing
fellatio on her father. The wish was repressed; she has nurtured it ever
since.'

    A moment ago, I had inwardly
chastised Ferenczi for expressing revulsion at a 'deviant' sexual act - a
revulsion I, for some reason, did not exactly share, despite Freud's remark
about what all decent people feel. I had just been telling myself that every
lesson taught by psychoanalysis undercut society's disapproval of so-called
sexual deviance. Now, however, I found myself awash in a similar feeling. The
wish Freud imputed to Miss Acton revolted me. Disgust is so reassuring; it
feels like a moral proof. It is hard to let go of any moral sentiment anchored
by disgust. We can't do it without setting our entire sense of right and wrong
a-tremble, as if we were losing a plank that supported the whole fabric.

    'At the same time,' Freud continued,
'Nora formed a plan to seduce Mr Banwell, in order to avenge herself on her
father. That is why, only a few weeks later, Nora agreed to join Banwell alone
on a rooftop to watch the fireworks. That is why she also walked with him alone
by the shore of a romantic lake two years later. Probably she encouraged him
with hints of interest all along, as any pretty young girl can easily do. How
surprised he must have been when she rejected him - not once, but twice.'

    'Which she did because true object of
desire was her father,' Ferenczi put in. 'But still, why does she attack
Younger?'

    'Yes, why, Younger?' asked Freud.

    'Because I stand in for her father?'

    'Precisely. When you analyze her, you
take his place. It is the predictable transferential reaction. As a result,
Nora's unconscious desire is now to gratify Younger with her mouth and throat.
This fantasy was preoccupying her when Younger approached her to touch her
forehead. He told us, you will remember, that at that moment she began to undo
her scarf. This gesture represented her invitation to Younger to take advantage
of her. Here, I may add, is also the explanation of why the touching of her
throat succeeded, whereas the touching of her forehead did not. But Younger
rejected this invitation, telling her to retie her scarf. She felt rebuffed.'

    'She did look offended,' I put in. 'I
didn't know why.'

    'Don't forget,' Freud continued, 'she
is naturally vain about the injuries she has received. Otherwise she would not
wear the scarf at all. So she was already sensitive about how you would react
if you saw her neck or back. When you told her to keep her scarf on, you
injured her. And when, shortly afterward, you brought up the subject of Clara
Banwell's back, it was as if you had said to her, "It is Clara in whom I
am interested, not you. It is Clara's back I want to see, not yours." Thus
you unwittingly recapitulated her father's act of betrayal, provoking in the
girl her sudden, otherwise inexplicable fury. Hence her violent attack -
followed by a desire to give you her throat and mouth.'

    'Irrefutable,' said Ferenczi, shaking
his head in admiration.

 

    Entering the drawing room of their
house on Gramercy Park, Nora Acton informed her mother she would not sleep in
her bedroom that night. Instead she would stay in the small first-floor parlor.
From there, she could see the patrolman stationed outside. Otherwise, she said,
she would not feel safe.

    These were the first words Nora had
addressed to either of her parents since leaving the hotel. When they arrived
home, she had gone straight to her room. Dr Higginson had been called in, but
Nora refused to see him. She also refused to come to dinner, declaring that she
was not hungry. This was false; in fact she had not eaten since morning, when
Mrs Biggs had prepared breakfast for her.

    Mildred Acton, reclining on the
drawing-room sofa and pronouncing herself exhausted, told her daughter she was
being most unreasonable. With one police officer manning the front door and
another the rear, how could there be any danger? In any event, Nora's spending
the night in the parlor was out of the question. The neighbors would see her.
What would they think? The family must do its best now to act as if there had
been no disgrace.

    'Mother,' said Nora, 'how can you say
I've been disgraced?'

    'Why, I said no such thing. Harcourt,
did I say any such thing?'

    'No, dear,' said Harcourt Acton,
standing over a coffee table. He had been perusing five weeks of accumulated
mail. 'Of course not.'

    'I specifically said we must act as
if you
hadn't
been disgraced,' her mother clarified.

    'But I haven't,' said the girl.

    'Don't be obtuse, Nora,' counseled
her mother.

    Nora sighed. 'What is that on your
eye, Father?'

    'Oh - polo accident,' explained
Acton. 'Poked myself with my own stick. Stupid of me. You remember my old
detached retina? Same eye. Can't see a deuced thing out of it now. How's that
for bad luck?'

    No one answered this question.

    'Well,' said Acton, 'not compared
with yours, Nora, of course, I didn't mean -'

    'Don't sit there!' Mrs Acton called
out to her husband, who was about to lower himself into an armchair. 'No, not
there either. I had the chairs done just before we left.'

    'But where am I to sit, dear?' asked
Acton.

    Nora closed her eyes. She turned to
leave.

    'Nora,' said her mother. 'What was
the name of that college of yours?'

    The girl stopped, her every muscle
tense. 'Barnard,' she answered.

    'Harcourt, we must contact them first
thing tomorrow morning.'

    'Why must you contact them?' asked
Nora.

    'To tell them you aren't coming, of
course. It's quite impossible now. Dr Higginson says you must rest. I never
approved in the first place. A college for young ladies! We never heard of such
a thing in my time.'

    Nora flushed. 'You can't.'

    'I beg your pardon,' said Mrs Acton.

    'I am going to be educated.'

    'Did you hear that? She calls me
uneducated,' Mrs Acton said to her husband. 'Not those glasses, Harcourt, use
the ones on top.'

    'Father?' asked Nora.

    'Well, Nora,' said Acton, 'we must
consider what is best for you.'

    Nora looked at her parents with
undisguised fury. She ran from the room and up the stairs, not stopping on the
second floor, where her own bedroom was, or the third, but continuing all the
way to the fourth, with its low ceilings and small quarters. There she ran
straight into Mrs Biggs's bedroom and threw herself on the old woman's bed,
burying her head in the rough pillowcase. If her father did

    not let her go to Barnard, she told
Mrs Biggs, she would run away.

    Mrs Biggs did her best to comfort the
girl. A good night's sleep, she said, would do a power. It was almost midnight
when, at last, Nora consented to go to bed. To be sure she felt safe, Mrs Biggs
saw to it that Mr Biggs was positioned on a chair outside Nora's bedroom door,
with instructions to remain there the whole night through.

    The old servant never once deserted
his post that night, although he nodded off before too long. The police
officers likewise remained on duty. Which made it quite surprising when, in the
black of night, the girl suddenly felt a man's handkerchief pressing hard
against her mouth and the cold, sharp edge of a blade on her neck.

 

    Never having been to Jelliffe's home,
I was unprepared for its extravagance. The word
apartment
was
inapposite, unless one had in mind the phrase
royal apartments,
as for
example at Versailles, which was evidently the dwelling Jelliffe intended to
bring to mind. Blue Chinese porcelain, white marble statues, and exquisitely
turned legs - highboy legs, davenport legs, credenza legs - were everywhere on
display. If Jelliffe meant to convey to his guests an impression of personal
wealth, he succeeded.

    I knew Freud well enough by now to
see he was repelled; the Bostonian in me had the same reaction. Ferenczi, by
contrast, was unaffectedly overwhelmed by the splendor. I overheard him
exchanging pleasantries with two elderly female guests in Jelliffe's living
room before dinner, where servants offered us hors d'oeuvres from gold, not
silver, trays. In his white suit, Ferenczi was the only man present not wearing
black. It did not seem to discomfit him in the least.

    'So much gold,' he said admiringly to
the ladies: in the high ceding above us, heavenly plaster scenes were lined
with gold leaf. 'It reminds me of our Operahaz, by Ybl, in Budapest. Have you
been?'

    Neither of the two ladies had.
Indeed, they professed confusion. Hadn't Ferenczi just told them he came from
Hungary?

    'Yes, yes,' said Ferenczi. 'Oh, look
at that little cherub in the corner, with the tiny grapes hanging out of his
little mouth. Isn't he adorable?'

    Freud was engrossed in conversation
with James Hyslop, retired professor of logic at Columbia, who sported an ear
trumpet the size of the horn on a Victrola talking machine. Jelliffe had
attached himself to Charles Loomis Dana, the eminent neurologist and, unlike
our host, a member of the same circles as my Aunt Mamie. In Boston, the Danas
are royalty: Sons of Liberty, intimates of the Adamses, and so on. I knew one
of Dana's distant cousins, a Miss Draper, from Newport, where she had more than
once brought down the house with her impersonation of an old Jewish tailor.
Jelliffe reminded me of a glad- handing senator. He had a look of high
self-worth, carrying his impressive girth as if corpulence were next to
manliness.

    Jelliffe pulled me into his group,
whom he was regaling with stories about his famous client, Harry Thaw,
apparently living like a king in the hospital where he was confined. Jelliffe
went so far as to say he would trade places with Thaw at the drop of a hat.
What I drew from these remarks was that Jelliffe relished the celebrity of
being Thaw's psychiatrist. 'Can you imagine?' he added. 'A year ago he had us
all attesting to his insanity, to clear him of murder. Now he wants us to swear
to his sanity to get him out of the asylum! And we shall get him out!'

    Jelliffe roared with laughter, his
arm around Dana's shoulder. Several of his listeners joined in; Dana decidedly
did not. About a dozen guests, all told, were scattered about the room, but I
understood that one more was expected. Soon enough, a butler opened the doors
and preceded a woman into the room.

    'Mrs Clara Banwell,' he announced.

BOOK: The Interpretation Of Murder
11.91Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Mail Order Menage by Abel, Leota M
Eat Him If You Like by Jean Teulé
King's Shield by Sherwood Smith
Spirit On The Water by Mike Harfield
Amber Beach by Elizabeth Lowell
The Wish List by Eoin Colfer
The Zombie Room by R. D. Ronald
Black-Eyed Susans by Julia Heaberlin
Fever Mist by L. K. Rigel