'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 g
irl'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.
The Interpretation Of Murder Page 15
