The Interpretation Of Murder Read Free Page A

vigorously
disagreed. Psychoanalysis demanded that a man be conscious of his true sexual
wishes, not that he succumb to them. 'When we hear a patient's dream,' said
Brill, 'we interpret it. We don't tell the patient to fulfill the wishes he is
unconsciously expressing. I don't, at any rate. Do you, Jung?'
        I noticed both Brill and Ferenczi
sneaking glances at Freud as they elaborated his ideas - hoping, I supposed, to
find endorsement. Jung never did. He either had, or affected having, perfect
confidence in his position. As for Freud, he intervened on neither side,
apparently content to watch the debate unfold.
        'Some dreams do not require
interpretation,' Jung said; 'they require action. Consider Herr Professor
Freud's dream last night of prostitutes. The meaning is not in doubt:
suppressed libido, stimulated by our anticipated arrival in a new world. There
is no point talking about such a dream.' Here Jung turned to Freud. 'Why not
act on it? We are in America; we can do what we like.'
        For the first time, Freud broke in:
'I am a married man, Jung.'
        'So am I,' Jung replied.
        Freud raised an eyebrow, nodding, but
made no reply.
        I informed our party that it was time
to board the train. Freud took a last look over the railing. A stiff wind blew
in our faces. As we all gazed at the lights of Manhattan, he smiled. 'If they
only knew what we are bringing them.'

 
     
        

Chapter Two
        
        In 1909, a small device had begun to
spread widely in New York City, accelerating communication and forever changing
the nature of human interaction: the telephone. At 8 a.m. on Monday morning,
August 30, the manager of the Balmoral lifted his mother-of-pearl receiver from
its brass base and placed a hushed and hurried call to the building's owner.
        Mr George Banwell answered the call
sixteen stories above the manager's head, in the telephone closet of the
Travertine Wing's penthouse apartment, which Mr Banwell had kept for himself.
He was informed that Miss Riverford from the Alabaster Wing was dead in her
room, the victim of murder and perhaps worse. A maid had found her.
        Banwell did not immediately respond.
The line was silent for so long the head manager said, 'Are you there, sir?'
        Banwell replied with gravel in his
voice: 'Get everyone out. Lock the door. No one enters. And tell your people to
keep quiet if they value their jobs.' Then he called an old friend, the mayor
of New York City. At the conclusion of their conversation, Banwell said, 'I
can't afford any police in the building, McClellan. Not one uniform. I'll tell
the family myself. I went to school with Riverford. That's right: the father,
poor bastard.'

 
        'Mrs Neville,' the mayor called out
to his secretary as he rang off. 'Get me Hugel. At once.'
        Charles Hugel was coroner of the City
of New York. It was his duty to see to the corpse in any case of suspected
homicide. Mrs Neville informed the mayor that Mr Hugel had been waiting in the
mayor's antechamber all morning.
        McClellan closed his eyes and nodded,
but said, 'Excellent. Send him in.'
        Before the door had even closed
behind him, Coroner Hugel launched into an indignant tirade against the
conditions at the city morgue. The mayor, who had heard this litany of
complaints before, cut him off. He described the situation at the Balmoral and
ordered the coroner to take an unmarked vehicle uptown. Residents of the
building must not be made aware of any police presence. A detective would
follow later.
        'I?' said the coroner. 'O'Hanlon from
my office can do it.'
        'No,' replied the mayor, 'I want you
to go yourself. George Banwell is an old friend of mine. I need a man with
experience - and a man whose discretion I can count on. You are one of the few
I have left.'
        The coroner grumbled but in the end
gave way. 'I have two conditions. First, whoever is in charge at the