The Interpretation Of Murder Read Free

on the bed. On the far
wall, in the wavering candlelight, the girl saw the shadow of the leather crop
rising up instead. 'You want it. Sound as if you want it. You must make that
kind of sound.' Gently but implacably, the silk tie around the girl's throat
drew tighter. 'Make it.'
        She tried to do as she was bid,
moaning softly - a woman's moan, a supplicating moan, which she had never made
before.
        'Good. Like that.'
        Holding the end of the white tie in
one hand and the leather crop in the other, the assailant brought the latter
down upon the girl's back. She made the sound again. Another lash, harder. The
sting caused the girl to cry out, but she caught herself and made the other
sound instead.
        'Better.' The next blow landed not on
her back but just below it. She opened her mouth, but at the same moment the
tie was drawn still tighter, choking her. Her choking, in turn, made her moan
seem more genuine, more broken, an effect her tormentor evidently liked.
Another blow, and another and another, louder and faster, fell on all the
softest parts of her body, rending her garments, leaving glowing marks on her
white skin. With every lash, despite the searing pain, the girl moaned as she
had been told to do, her cries coming louder and faster too.
        The rain of blows stopped. She would
have collapsed long before, but the rope from the ceiling, tied to her wrists,
kept her upright. Her body was now scored with lacerations. Blood ran down in one
or two places. For a moment all went dark for her; then the flickering light
returned. A shiver passed through her.
        Her eyes opened. Her lips moved.
'Tell me my name,' she tried to whisper, but no one heard.
        The assailant, studying the girl's lovely
neck, loosened the silk binding around it. For one instant she breathed freely,
her head still flung back, the waves of black hair flowing to her waist. Then
the tie around her throat went taut again.
        The girl could no longer see
distinctly. She felt a hand on her mouth, its fingers running lightly over her
lips. Then those fingers drew the silk tie yet tighter, so that even her
choking stopped. The candlelight went out for her again. This time it did not
return.

 
        'There is train below river?'
asked Sandor Ferenczi incredulously.
        Not only did such a train exist,
Brill and I assured him, but we were going to ride it. In addition to the new
tunnel across the Hudson River, the Hoboken tube boasted another innovation:
full baggage service. All a voyager arriving in the United States had to do was
mark his luggage with the name of his hotel in Manhattan. Porters stowed the
trunks in the train's baggage car, and handlers on the other end did the rest.
Taking advantage of this amenity, we walked out onto the platform, which
overlooked the river. With the setting of the sun, the fog had lifted,
revealing the jagged Manhattan skyline, studded with electric lights. Our
guests stared in wonder: at the sheer expanse of it, and at the spires piercing
the clouds.
        'It's the centre of the world,' said
Brill.
        'I dreamt of Rome last night,' Freud
replied.
        We waited on pins and needles - at
least I did - for him to go on.
        Freud drew on his cigar. 'I was
walking, alone,' he said. 'Night had just fallen, as it has now. I came upon a
shop window with a jewelry box. That of course means a woman. I looked around.
To my embarrassment, I had wandered into an entire neighborhood of bordellos.'
        A debate ensued on whether Freud's
teachings dictated defiance of conventional sexual morality. Jung held that
they did; indeed, he maintained that anyone who failed to see this implication
had not understood Freud. The whole point of psychoanalysis, he said, was that
society's prohibitions were ignorant and unhealthy. Only cowardice would make
men submit to civilized morality once they had understood Freud's discoveries.
        Brill and Ferenczi