The Interpretation Of Murder (29 page)

    Brill was late to breakfast for once.
When he appeared, he looked dreadful: unshaven, frightened, one of his collar
points sticking up. Rose, he told Freud, Ferenczi, and me, had been insomniac
all night. An hour ago, he had given her some laudanum; he had hardly slept
himself. He said he needed to speak with us out of public view. We therefore
repaired, the four of us, to Freud's room, leaving a message downstairs for
Jones and another for Jung - although none of us knew whether Jung was even in
the hotel.

    'I can't do it,' Brill burst out,
when we got to Freud's room. 'I'm sorry, but I just can't. I already told
Jelliffe.' He was referring, apparently, to his translation of Freud's book.
'If it were only me, I promise you - but I can't endanger Rose. She's all I
have. You see that, don't you?'

    We induced him to sit. When he calmed
down enough to speak coherently, Brill tried to persuade us that the cinders in
his home were connected to the biblical telegrams he had been receiving. 'You
saw her,' he said, referring to Rose again. 'They turned her into a pillar of
salt. It was in the telegram, and it happened.'

    'Someone deliberately delivered ash
to your home?' asked Ferenczi. 'Why?'

    'As a warning,' answered Brill.

    'From whom?' I asked.

    'The same people who had Prince
arrested in Boston.

    The same people who are trying to
block Freud's lectures at Clark.'

    'They know where you live how?' said
Ferenczi.

    'How do they know Jones is sleeping
with his maid?' was Brill's reply.

    'We mustn't jump to conclusions,'
said Freud, 'but it is certainly true that someone has acquired a great deal of
private information about us.'

    Brill slipped an envelope from his
vest, from which he withdrew a tiny jagged square of burnt paper, with typing
visible on it. A ü (with an umlaut) was distinctly visible on it. A space or
two to its right was a letter that might have been a capital
H.
Nothing
else was visible.

    'I found this in my living room,'
said Brill. 'They burned my manuscript. Freud's manuscript. And they put the
ashes in my apartment. They will burn the whole building down next time. It's
in the telegram: a "rain of fire"; "stop before it is too
late." If I publish Freud's book they're going to kill Rose and me.'

    Ferenczi remonstrated with him,
arguing that his fears were out of all proportion to the events, but Freud
interrupted. 'Whatever the explanation, Abraham,' he said, placing a hand on
Brill's shoulder, 'let us put the book aside for now. The book can wait. It is
not as important to me as you are.'

    Brill hung his head and put his own
hand over Freud's. I thought he might be about to cry. Just then a porter
knocked at the door and entered with coffee and a tray of pastries, which Freud
had ordered. Brill straightened up.

    He accepted a cup of coffee. He
seemed enormously relieved by Freud's last remarks, as if a great burden had
been lifted from him. Blowing his nose, he said, in an altogether different
tone - his old, familiar, half-serious note - 'It's not me you should be
worried about anyway. What about Jung? Are you aware, Freud, that Ferenczi and
I believe Jung to be psychotic? It is our considered medical opinion. Tell him,
Sandor.'

    'Well, psychotic I would not say,'
Ferenczi responded. 'But I do see evidence of potential breakdown.'

    'Nonsense,' said Freud. 'What
evidence?'

    'He is hearing voices,' Ferenczi
replied. 'He is complaining Brill's floor is soft under feet. Conversation is
broken. And is telling everyone he meets that grandfather was falsely accused
of murder.'

    'I can think of explanations for that
other than psychosis,' said Freud. I could see he had something particular in
mind, but he didn't elaborate. I was wondering whether to bring up Jung's
startling interpretation of Freud's Count Thun dream, but I was concerned that
Freud had not divulged it to Brill and Ferenczi. I need not have been.

    'And on top of that, he says you
dreamt about him ten years ago!' cried Brill. 'The man is mad.'

    Freud took a breath and replied.
'Gentlemen, you know as well as I that Jung entertains certain beliefs about
clairvoyance and the occult. I am glad you share my skepticism on that subject,
but Jung is hardly alone in taking a broader view.'

    'A broader view,' said Brill. 'If I
took that broad a view, you would tell me I was delusional. He takes a broader
view of the Oedipal complex too. He no longer accepts the sexual aetiology, you
know.'

    'You wish that to be so,' replied
Freud calmly, 'so that I will throw him off. Jung accepts the sexual theory
without reserve. In fact, he is presenting a case of infantile sexuality at Clark
next week.'

    'Really? Have you asked him what he
intends to say at Fordham?'

    Freud did not answer but eyed Brill
narrowly.

    'Jelliffe told me that he and Jung
have been talking it over, and Jung is very concerned about overemphasizing the
role of sex in the psychoneuroses. That was his word:
overemphasizing.'

    'Well, certainly he does not want to
overemphasize it,' snapped Freud. 'I don't want to overemphasize it either.
Listen to me, both of you. I know you have suffered from Jung's anti-Semitism.
He spares me and therefore takes it out with greater energy on you. I also know
very well - I assure you - about Jung's difficulties with the sexual theory.
But you must remember: it was harder for him to follow me than it was for you.
It will be harder for Younger here as well. A Gentile must overcome much
greater inner resistance. And Jung is not only a Christian, he is a pastor's
son.'

    No one said anything, so I ventured
an objection. 'I'm sorry, Dr Freud, but why should it matter if one is a
Christian or Jew?'

    'My boy,' Freud responded gruffly,
'you put me in mind of one of those novels by James's brother; what is his
name?'

    'Henry, sir?'

    'Yes, Henry.' If I imagined Freud was
going to say more in answer to my question, I was mistaken. Instead he returned
to Ferenczi and Brill. 'You would prefer psychoanalysis to be a Jewish national
affair? Of course it is unjust of me to promote Jung, when others have been
with me longer. But we Jews must be prepared to endure a certain amount of
injustice if we want to make our way in the world. There is no other choice.
Had my name been Jones, you can be sure my ideas, despite everything, would
have met with far less resistance. Look at Darwin. He disproved Genesis, and he
is acclaimed as a hero. Only a Gentile can bring psychoanalysis to the promised
land. We must hold Jung to
die Sache.
All our hopes depend on him.'

    The words Freud spoke in German meant
the cause.
I don't know why he didn't use English. For several minutes no
one spoke. We engaged ourselves with the breakfast things. Brill, however, did
not eat. He was biting his nails instead. I imagined that there would be no
further discussion of Jung, but I was wrong again.

    'And what about his disappearances?'
asked Brill. 'Jelliffe told me that Jung left the Balmoral no later than
midnight Sunday, but the clerk here swears Jung didn't return to the hotel
until two. That's two hours unaccounted for after midnight. The next day, Jung
claims he was in his room all afternoon napping, but the clerk says he was out
until evening. You knocked at Jung's door Monday afternoon, Younger. I did too,
long and hard. I don't think he was there at all. Where was he?'

    I interrupted. 'I'm sorry. Did you
just say Jung was at the Balmoral on Sunday night?'

    'That's right,' Brill answered.
'Jelliffe's building. You were there last night.'

    'Oh,' I said. 'I didn't realize.'

    'Realize what?' asked Brill.

    'Nothing,' I said. 'Just an odd coincidence.'

    'What coincidence?'

    'The other girl - the girl who was
murdered - was killed at the Balmoral.' I shifted in my chair uncomfortably.
'On Sunday night. Between midnight and two.'

    Brill and Ferenczi looked at each
other.

    'Gentlemen,' said Freud, 'don't be
ridiculous.'

    'And Nora was attacked on Monday
evening,' Brill pointed out. 'Where?'

    'Abraham,' said Freud.

    'No one is accusing anyone,' Brill
replied innocently, but with an overexcited expression. 'I'm just asking Younger
where Nora's house is.'

    'On Gramercy Park,' I answered.

    'Gentlemen, I will hear no more of
this,' Freud declared.

    Another knock on the door; Jung
himself entered. We exchanged greetings with him - stiffly, as might be
expected. Jung, who did not seem to notice our discomfort, spooned sugar into
his coffee and inquired whether we had enjoyed our dinner at Jelliffe's.

    'Oh, Jung,' Brill broke in, 'you were
spotted on Monday.'

    'I beg your pardon?' Jung replied.

    'You told us,' chided Brill, 'you
spent Monday afternoon sleeping in your room. But it turns out you were spotted
up and about the town.'

    Freud, shaking his head, went to the
window. He pushed it farther open.

    'I never said I was in my room all
Monday afternoon,' Jung answered evenly.

    'Strange,' said Brill. 'I would have
sworn you did. That reminds me, Jung, we are thinking of visiting Gramercy Park
today. I don't suppose you'll join us?'

    'I see,' said Jung.

    'See what?' asked Brill.

    'Why don't you just say it?' Jung
retorted.

    'I can't imagine what you're talking
about,' was Brill's reply. He was deliberately making himself sound like a bad
actor unsuccessfully feigning ignorance.

    'So: I was observed at Gramercy
Park,' replied Jung coldly. 'What are you going to do, report me to the
police?' He turned to Freud. 'Well, as it seems your purpose in bringing me
here was to interrogate me, you will forgive me if I don't breakfast with you.'
He opened the door to let himself out and stared at Brill. 'I am ashamed of
nothing.'

    Due to the late General Sigel's
prominence, the police had no difficulty locating his granddaughter Elsie's
address. She lived with her parents on Wadsworth Avenue near 180th

    Street. An officer from the Washington
Heights station, dispatched to the house, escorted Mr and Mrs Sigel, together
with their niece Mabel, to the Van den Heuvel building. There, in a waiting
room outside the morgue, they met Detective Littlemore.

    He learned from them that the nineteen-year-old
Elsie had indeed gone missing almost a month ago, never returning from a trip
to visit Grandmother Ellie in Brooklyn. In the first days after her
disappearance, the Sigels had received a telegram from Elsie in Washington,
D.C, indicating that she was there with a young man, evidently married to him.
She begged her parents not to worry about her, assured them she was fine, and
promised to be home by autumn. The parents had kept this wire, which they
showed to the detective. The telegram had indeed been sent from a hotel in the
capital, and Elsie's name was at the bottom, but there was of course no way to
verify that she was the sender. Mr Sigel had not yet contacted the police,
hoping to hear again from his daughter and anxious to avoid a scandal.

    Littlemore showed the Sigels the
letters from William Leon's trunk. They recognized the handwriting. The
detective next showed them the silver pendant found on the dead girl and the
hat with the bird on it. Neither Mr nor Mrs Sigel had ever seen these objects
before - and indeed positively stated they did not belong to Elsie - but Mabel
contradicted them. The pendant was hers; she had given it to Elsie in June.

    Littlemore, drawing Mr Sigel aside,
told the father he had better have a look at the body found in Leon's
apartment. Downstairs in the morgue, Mr Sigel could not at first identify the
corpse; it was too decayed. Somberly, he told the detective he would know the
truth if he looked at the teeth; his daughter's left eye tooth pointed the wrong
way. And so did that of the small decomposing body lying on the marble slab.
'It's her,' said Mr Sigel quietly.

    When the two men returned to the
waiting room, Mr Sigel cast a stony and accusing eye on his wife. The woman
must have understood; she fell into convulsions. It took a long time to quiet
her. Then her husband told the story.

    Mrs Sigel did the Lord's work in
Chinatown. For years she had toiled to convert the heathen Chinamen to
Christianity. Last December, she had begun bringing Elsie with her to the
mission house. Elsie had taken to the work with a passion that delighted her
mother but disturbed her father. Despite Mr Sigel's strong disapproval, the
girl was soon eagerly traveling on her own to Chinatown several times a week
and teaching her own Sunday Bible classes. One of her most avid pupils, Mr
Sigel recalled bitterly, had dared to call at their house a few months ago. Mr
Sigel did not know his name. Littlemore showed him a photograph of William
Leon; the father shut his eyes and nodded.

    After the Sigels left the morgue, to
endure as they might both their misery and their notoriety - newspapermen were
already waiting outside - Detective Littlemore wondered where Mr Hugel was.
Littlemore had assumed the coroner would have wanted to conduct the autopsy
himself and to hear the Sigels' evidence. But the coroner was absent. Instead,
one of his assistant physicians, Dr O'Hanlon, had examined the body. He
informed Littlemore that Miss Sigel had been strangled to death, that she had
been dead three to four weeks - and that Coroner Hugel was upstairs in his
office, professing a complete lack of interest in the case.