The Interpretation Of Murder (46 page)

    Littlemore waved to an officer in the
lobby of the Balmoral. The police had been combing the Banwells' now-empty
apartment all morning. Already a favorite among the uniformed men, Littlemore
had suddenly become a figure of stature. News of his taking both Banwell and
Hugel had spread all over the force.

    Smith Ely Jelliffe opened his door
clad in pajamas, a wet towel over his head. The sight of Drs. Younger, Brill,
and Ferenczi startled him, but his surprise grew to alarm when he saw his
nemesis, the detective from last night, jauntily following behind them.

    'I didn't know,' Jelliffe blurted out
to Littlemore. 'I didn't know anything about it until after you left. He was in
town for only a few hours. There was no incident of any kind, I swear it. He's
back at the hospital already. You can call. It won't happen again.'

    'You two know each other?' Brill asked.

    Littlemore questioned Jelliffe about
Harry Thaw for several minutes, to the general astonishment of the others. When
the detective was satisfied, he asked Jelliffe why he had sent Brill anonymous
threats, burned his manuscript, dumped ash in his apartment, and slandered Dr
Freud in the newspaper.

    Jelliffe swore his innocence. He
professed ignorance of any book-burning or threat-sending.

    'Oh, yeah?' said Littlemore. 'Then who
put those pages into the manuscript, the ones with the Bible stuff on them?'

    'I don't know,' said Jelliffe. 'It
must have been those church people.'

    'Sure it was,' said Littlemore. He
showed Jelliffe the article of evidence we had stopped for on our way - the
single sheet of paper from Brill's manuscript that bore not only a verse from
Jeremiah but a small stamped image of a turbaned, bearded, scowling man - and
went on. 'Then how did this get there? Doesn't look very churchy to me.'

    Jelliffe's mouth fell open.

    'What is it?' asked Brill. 'You
recognize it?'

    'The Charaka,' said Jelliffe.

    'What?' asked Littlemore.

    'Charaka is ancient Hindoo
physician,' replied Ferenczi. 'I said Hindoo. You remember I said Hindoo?'

    Younger spoke: 'The Triumvirate.'

    'No,' said Brill.

    'Yes,' Jelliffe acknowledged.

    'What?' asked Ferenczi.

    Younger addressed Brill: 'We should
have seen it all along. Who in New York is not only on the board of Morton
Prince's journal, privy to everything Prince is going to publish, but also able
to have a man arrested in Boston at the drop of a hat?'

    'Dana,' said Brill.

    'And the family offering Clark the
donation? Hall told us one of them was a doctor knowledgeable about
psychoanalysis. There's only one family in the country rich enough to fund an
entire hospital that can also boast a world- famous neurologist among its
members.'

    'Bernard Sachs!' exclaimed Brill.
'And the anonymous doctor in the
Times
is Starr. I should have
recognized the pompous blowhard the minute I read it. Starr is always boasting
of having studied in Charcot's laboratory decades ago. He might actually have
met Freud there.'

    'Who?' asked Ferenczi. 'What is
Triumvirate?'

    Taking turns, Younger and Brill
explained. The men they had just named - Charles Loomis Dana, Bernard Sachs,
and M. Allen Starr - were the three most powerful neurologists in the country.
Collectively, they were known as the New York Triumvirate. They owed their
extraordinary prestige and power to an impressive combination of
accomplishment, pedigree, and money. Dana was the author of the nation's
leading text on adult nervous diseases. Sachs had a worldwide reputation -
particularly because of his work on a disease first described by the Englishman
Warren Tay - and wrote the first textbook on children's nervous conditions.
Naturally, the Sachses were not the social equals of the very best Danas; they
could not participate in society at all, being of the wrong religion. But they
were richer. Bernard Sachs's brother had married a Goldman; the private bank
founded as a result of this alliance was on its way to becoming a Wall Street
bastion. Starr, a professor at Columbia, was the least accomplished of the
three.

    'He's a windbag,' said Brill, referring
to Starr, 'a puppet of Dana's.'

    'But why would they seek ruin of
Freud?' asked Ferenczi.

    'Because they are neurologists,'
answered Brill. 'Freud terrifies them.'

    'I am not following.'

    'They belong to the somatic school,'
said Younger. 'They believe that all nervous diseases result from neurological
malfunction, not psychological causes. They don't believe in childhood trauma;
they don't believe sexual repression causes mental illness. Psychoanalysis is
anathema for them. They call it a cult.'

    'Over scientific disagreement,' asked
Ferenczi, 'they would do these things - burn manuscripts, make threats, spread
false accusations?'

    'Science has nothing to do with it,'
Brill replied. 'The neurologists control everything. They are the "nerve
specialists," which makes them the experts in "nervous
conditions." All the women go to them for their hysterics, their
palpitations, their anxieties, their frustrations. The practice is worth
millions to them. They're right to see us as the devil. We're going to put them
out of business. No one's going to consult a nerve specialist once they realize
that psychological illnesses are caused by psychology, not neurology.'

    'Dana was at your party, Jelliffe,
'Younger pursued. 'He was as hostile to Freud as anyone I've ever heard. Did he
know of Brill's book?'

    'Yes,' answered Jelliffe, 'but he
wouldn't have burned it. He approved it. He encouraged me to publish it. He
even found me an editor to help prepare the copy.'

    'An editor?' asked Younger. 'Did this
editor ever take the manuscript out of your offices?'

    'Certainly,' Jelliffe replied. 'He
often took it home to work on.'

    'Well, now we know,' said Brill. 'The
bastard.'

    'What's this Charaka business?'
Littlemore asked.

    'It's their club,' Jelliffe replied.
'One of the most exclusive in the city. Hardly anyone is let in. The members
wear a signet ring with a face on it. That's the face there - the one on the
page.'

    'It's a cabal,' said Brill. 'A secret
society.'

    'But these are scientists,' Ferenczi
protested. 'They would burn manuscript and dump ash in Brill's flat?'

    'They probably burn incense and
sacrifice virgins too,' answered Brill.

    'The question is whether they are
responsible for the story on Jung in the
Times
,' said Younger. 'That's
what we need to know.'

    'Are they?' Littlemore asked
Jelliffe.

    'Well, I - I may have heard them
talking about it once,' said Jelliffe. 'And they did make the arrangements for
Jung to speak at Fordham.'

    'Of course,' said Brill. 'They are
launching Jung to bring Freud down. And Hall is falling for it. What are we
going to do? We can't fight Charles Dana.'

    'I don't know about that,' Littlemore
replied. He addressed Jelliffe again. 'You mentioned a Dana last night, didn't
you? Same man?'

    Jelliffe nodded.

    The servant at the door of the small
but elegant house on

    Fifty-third Street at Fifth Avenue
informed us that Dr Dana was not at home. 'Tell him a detective wants to ask
him a few questions about Harry Thaw,' Littlemore replied. 'And mention that I
just came from Dr Smith Jelliffe. Maybe he'll be at home after he hears that.'

    On the detective's advice, Littlemore
and I alone had made the trip to Charles Dana's house; Brill and Ferenczi
returned to the hotel. A minute later, the two of us were invited in.

    Dana's house had none of the
gaudiness of Jelliffe's apartment or of the other houses recently erected on
Fifth Avenue - including those of certain relations of mine. Dana's was a red-brick
affair. The furniture was handsome without being heavy. As Littlemore and I
entered the foyer, we saw Dana emerge from a dark, well-stocked library. He
closed the doors behind him and greeted us. He was surprised at my presence, I
believe, but reacted with perfect aplomb. He asked after my Aunt Mamie, I after
some of his cousins. He made no inquiry into my reason for accompanying
Littlemore. One had to be impressed by the man's grace. He looked his age -
sixty, I should have thought - but age suited him well. He showed us to another
room where, I imagine, he did business and saw patients.

    Our conversation with Dana was brief.
Littlemore's tone changed. With Jelliffe, he had been hectoring. He made
accusations and dared Jelliffe to deny them. With Dana, he was far more careful
- still conveying, however, that we knew something Dana would not want us to
know.

    Dana displayed none of Jelliffe's
cringing. He acknowledged that Thaw had retained his services in connection
with the trial but noted that his role, unlike Jelliffe s, had been merely
advisory. He had rendered no opinion about Thaw's mental state at any time,
past or present.

    'Did you render an opinion about
Thaw's coming into New York last weekend?' asked Littlemore.

    'Was Mr Thaw in New York last
weekend?' replied Dana.

    'Jelliffe says it was your decision.'

    'I am not Mr Thaw's physician,
Detective. Jelliffe is. I severed my professional relationship with Mr Thaw
last year, as public records will demonstrate. Dr Jelliffe has occasionally
sought my counsel, and I have given him what advice I could. I know nothing of
Jelliffe's ultimate treatment decisions, and I certainly could not be said to
have made them.'

    'Fair enough,' said Littlemore. 'I
guess I could arrest you for conspiring in the escape of a state prisoner, but
it sounds like I couldn't convict you.'

    'I doubt it very much,' said Dana.
'But I could probably have you fired if you tried.'

    'And I guess,' said Littlemore, 'you
also couldn't have made any decisions about stealing a manuscript, burning it,
and putting the ashes in the home of Dr Abraham Brill?'

    For the first time, Dana appeared
disconcerted.

    'Nice ring you got there, Dr Dana,'
Littlemore went on.

    I hadn't noticed; on Dana's right hand
there was a signet ring. No one spoke. Dana clasped his long fingers together -
not, however, hiding the ring - and reclined in his chair. 'What do you want,
Mr Littlemore?' he asked. He turned to me. 'Or perhaps I should ask you that
question, Dr Younger.'

    I cleared my throat. 'It's a tissue
of lies,' I said. 'The accusations you have made against Dr Freud. Every single
one of them is false.'

    'Assume I know what you are talking
about,' answered Dana. 'I ask you again: what do you want?'

    'It's three-thirty,' I replied. 'In
half an hour, I am going to wire G. Stanley Hall in Worcester. I am going to
say that a certain story is not going to be published in the
New York Times
tomorrow. I want my telegram to be true.'

    Dana sat in silence, holding my
stare. 'Let me tell you something,' he said at last. 'The problem is this: our
knowledge of the human brain is incomplete. We don't have medicines to change
the way people think. To cure their delusions. To relieve their sexual desires
while keeping them from overpopulating the world. To make them happy. It is all
neurology, you know. It has to be. Psychoanalysis is going to set us back a
hundred years. Its licentiousness will appeal to the masses. Its prurience will
appeal to young scientific minds and even to some old ones. It will turn the
masses into exhibitionists and physicians into mystics. But someday people will
wake up to the fact that it is all the emperor's new clothes. We will discover
drugs to change the way people think, sooner or later. To control the way they
feel. The question is only whether, by then, we will still have enough of a
sense of shame to be embarrassed by the fact that everyone is running around
naked. Send your telegram, Dr Younger. It will be true - for now.'