II
The Soul Analysis
The day was far advanced after this series of very unsatisfactoryinterviews. I looked at Kennedy blankly. We seemed to have uncovered solittle that was tangible that I was much surprised to find thatapparently he was well contented with what had happened in the case sofar.
"I shall be busy for a few hours in the laboratory, Walter," heremarked, as we parted at the subway. "I think, if you have nothingbetter to do, that you might employ the time in looking up some of thegossip about Mrs. Maitland and Masterson, to say nothing of Dr. Ross,"he emphasised. "Drop in after dinner."
There was not much that I could find. Of Mrs. Maitland there waspractically nothing that I already did not know from having seen hername in the papers. She was a leader in a certain set which wasdevoting its activities to various social and moral propaganda.Masterson's early escapades were notorious even in the younger smartset in which he had moved, but his years abroad had mellowed therecollection of them. He had not distinguished himself in any way sincehis return to set gossip afloat, nor had any tales of his doings abroadfiltered through to New York clubland. Dr. Ross, I found to mysurprise, was rather better known than I had supposed, both as aspecialist and as a man about town. He seemed to have risen rapidly inhis profession as physician to the ills of society's nerves.
I was amazed after dinner to find Kennedy doing nothing at all.
"What's the matter?" I asked. "Have you struck a snag?"
"No," he replied slowly, "I was only waiting. I told them to be herebetween half-past eight and nine."
"Who?" I queried.
"Dr. Leslie," he answered. "He has the authority to compel theattendance of Mrs. Maitland, Dr. Ross, and Masterson."
The quickness with which he had worked out a case which was, to me, oneof the most inexplicable he had had for a long time, left me standingspeechless.
One by one they dropped in during the next half-hour, and, as usual, itfell to me to receive them and smooth over the rough edges which alwaysobtruded at these little enforced parties in the laboratory.
Dr. Leslie and Dr. Ross were the first to arrive. They had not cometogether, but had met at the door. I fancied I saw a touch ofprofessional jealousy in their manner, at least on the part of Dr.Ross. Masterson came, as usual ignoring the seriousness of the matterand accusing us all of conspiring to keep him from the first night of alight opera which was opening. Mrs. Maitland followed, the unaccustomedpallor of her face heightened by the plain black dress. I felt mostuncomfortable, as indeed I think the rest did. She merely inclined herhead to Masterson, seemed almost to avoid the eye of Dr. Ross, glaredat Dr. Leslie, and absolutely ignored me.
Craig had been standing aloof at his laboratory table, beyond a nod ofrecognition paying little attention to anything. He seemed to be in nohurry to begin.
"Great as science is," he commenced, at length, "it is yet far removedfrom perfection. There are, for instance, substances so mysterious,subtle, and dangerous as to set the most delicate tests and powerfullenses at naught, while they carry death most horrible in their train."
He could scarcely have chosen his opening words with more effect.
"Chief among them," he proceeded, "are those from nature's ownlaboratory. There are some sixty species of serpents, for example, withdeadly venom. Among these, as you doubtless have all heard, none hasbrought greater terror to mankind than the cobra-di-capello, the Najatripudians of India. It is unnecessary for me to describe the cobra orto say anything about the countless thousands who have yielded up theirlives to it. I have here a small quantity of the venom"--he indicatedit in a glass beaker. "It was obtained in New York, and I have testedit on guinea-pigs. It has lost none of its potency."
I fancied that there was a feeling of relief when Kennedy by hisactions indicated that he was not going to repeat the test.
"This venom," he continued, "dries in the air into a substance likesmall scales, soluble in water but not in alcohol. It has only aslightly acrid taste and odour, and, strange to say, is inoffensive onthe tongue or mucous surfaces, even in considerable quantities. All weknow about it is that in an open wound it is deadly swift in action."
It was difficult to sit unmoved at the thought that before us, in onlya few grains of the stuff, was enough to kill us all if it wereintroduced into a scratch of our skin.
"Until recently chemistry was powerless to solve the enigma, themicroscope to detect its presence, or pathology to explain the reasonfor its deadly effect. And even now, about all we know is thatautopsical research reveals absolutely nothing but the generaldisorganisation of the blood corpuscles. In fact, such poisoning isbest known by the peculiar symptoms--the vertigo, weak legs, andfalling jaw. The victim is unable to speak or swallow, but is fullysensible. He has nausea, paralysis, an accelerated pulse at firstfollowed rapidly by a weakening, with breath slow and laboured. Thepupils are contracted, but react to the last, and he dies inconvulsions like asphyxia. It is both a blood and a nerve poison."
As Kennedy proceeded, Mrs. Maitland never took her large eyes from hisface.
Kennedy now drew from a large envelope in which he protected it, thetypewritten note which had been found on Maitland. He said nothingabout the "suicide" as he quietly began a new line of accumulatingevidence.
"There is an increasing use of the typewriting machine for theproduction of spurious papers," he began, rattling the notesignificantly. "It is partly due to the great increase in the use ofthe typewriter generally, but more than all is it due to the erroneousidea that fraudulent typewriting cannot be detected. The fact is thatthe typewriter is perhaps a worse means of concealing identity than isdisguised handwriting. It does not afford the effective protection tothe criminal that is supposed. On the contrary, the typewriting of afraudulent document may be the direct means by which it can be tracedto its source. First we have to determine what kind of machine acertain piece of writing was done with, then what particular machine."
He paused and indicated a number of little instruments on the table.
"For example," he resumed, "the Lovibond tintometer tells me its storyof the colour of the ink used in the ribbon of the machine that wrotethis note as well as several standard specimens which I have been ableto obtain from three machines on which it might have been written.
"That leads me to speak of the quality of the paper in this half-sheetthat was found on Mr. Maitland. Sometimes such a half-sheet may bemated with the other half from which it was torn as accurately as ifthe act were performed before your eyes. There was no such good fortunein this case, but by measurements made by the vernier micrometercaliper I have found the precise thickness of several samples of paperas compared to that of the suicide note. I need hardly add that inthickness and quality, as well as in the tint of the ribbon, the notepoints to person as the author."
No one moved.
"And there are other proofs--unescapable," Kennedy hurried on. "Forinstance, I have counted the number of threads to the inch in theribbon, as shown by the letters of this note. That also corresponds tothe number in one of the three ribbons."
Kennedy laid down a glass plate peculiarly ruled in little squares.
"This," he explained, "is an alignment test plate, through which can bestudied accurately the spacing and alignment of typewritten characters.There are in this pica type ten to the inch horizontally and six to theinch vertically. That is usual. Perhaps you are not acquainted with thefact that typewritten characters are in line both ways, horizontallyand vertically. There are nine possible positions for each characterwhich may be assumed with reference to one of these little standardsquares of the test plate. You cannot fail to appreciate what animmense impossibility there is that one machine should duplicate thevariations out of the true which the microscope detects for severalcharacters on another.
"Not only that, but the faces of many letters inevitably become broken,worn, battered, as well as out of alignment, or slightly shifted intheir position on the type bar. The type faces are not flat,
but alittle concave to conform to the roller. There are thousands ofpossible divergences, scars, and deformities in each machine.
"Such being the case," he concluded, "typewriting has an individualitylike that of the Bertillon system, finger-prints, or the portraitparle."
He paused, then added quickly: "What machine was it in this case? Ihave samples here from that of Dr. Boss, from a machine used by Mr.Masterson's secretary, and from a machine which was accessible to bothMr. and Mrs. Maitland."
Kennedy stopped, but he was not yet prepared to relieve the suspense oftwo of those whom his investigation would absolve.
"Just one other point," he resumed mercilessly, "a point which a fewyears ago would have been inexplicable--if not positively misleadingand productive of actual mistake. I refer to the dreams of Mrs.Maitland."
I had been expecting it, yet the words startled me. What must they havedone to her? But she kept admirable control of herself.
"Dreams used to be treated very seriously by the ancients, but untilrecently modern scientists, rejecting the ideas of the dark ages, havescouted dreams. To-day, however, we study them scientifically, for webelieve that whatever is, has a reason. Dr. Ross, I think, isacquainted with the new and remarkable theories of Dr. Sigmund Freud,of Vienna?"
Dr. Ross nodded. "I dissent vigorously from some of Freud'sconclusions," he hastened.
"Let me state them first," resumed Craig. "Dreams, says Freud, are veryimportant. They give us the most reliable information concerning theindividual. But that is only possible"--Kennedy emphasised thepoint--"if the patient is in entire rapport with the doctor.
"Now, the dream is not an absurd and senseless jumble, but a perfectmechanism and has a definite meaning in penetrating the mind. It is asthough we had two streams of thought, one of which we allow to flowfreely, the other of which we are constantly repressing, pushing backinto the subconscious, or unconscious. This matter of the evolution ofour individual mental life is too long a story to bore you with at sucha critical moment.
"But the resistances, the psychic censors of our ideas, are alwaysactive, except in sleep. Then the repressed material comes to thesurface. But the resistances never entirely lose their power, and thedream shows the material distorted. Seldom does one recognise his ownrepressed thoughts or unattained wishes. The dream really is theguardian of sleep to satisfy the activity of the unconscious andrepressed mental processes that would otherwise disturb sleep bykeeping the censor busy. In the case of a nightmare the watchman orcensor is aroused, finds himself overpowered, so to speak, and calls onconsciousness for help.
"There are three kinds of dreams--those which represent an unrepressedwish as fulfilled, those that represent the realisation of a repressedwish in an entirely concealed form, and those that represent therealisation of a repressed wish in a form insufficiently or onlypartially concealed.
"Dreams are not of the future, but of the past, except as they showstriving for unfulfilled wishes. Whatever may be denied in reality wenevertheless can realise in another way--in our dreams. And probablymore of our daily life, conduct, moods, beliefs than we think, could betraced to preceding dreams."
Dr. Ross was listening attentively, as Craig turned to him. "This isperhaps the part of Freud's theory from which you dissent moststrongly. Freud says that as soon as you enter the intimate life of apatient you begin to find sex in some form. In fact, the bestindication of abnormality would be its absence. Sex is one of thestrongest of human impulses, yet the one subjected to the greatestrepression. For that reason it is the weakest point in our culturaldevelopment. In a normal life, he says, there are no neuroses. Let meproceed now with what the Freudists call the psychanalysis, the soulanalysis, of Mrs. Maitland."
It was startling in the extreme to consider the possibilities to whichthis new science might lead, as he proceeded to illustrate it.
"Mrs. Maitland," he continued, "your dream of fear was a dream of whatwe call the fulfilment of a suppressed wish. Moreover, fear alwaysdenotes a sexual idea underlying the dream. In fact, morbid anxietymeans surely unsatisfied love. The old Greeks knew it. The gods of fearwere born of the goddess of love. Consciously you feared the death ofyour husband because unconsciously you wished it."
It was startling, dramatic, cruel, perhaps, merciless--this dissectingof the soul of the handsome woman before us; but it had come to a pointwhere it was necessary to get at the truth.
Mrs. Maitland, hitherto pale, was now flushed and indignant. Yet thevery manner of her indignation showed the truth of the new psychologyof dreams, for, as I learned afterward, people often become indignantwhen the Freudists strike what is called the "main complex."
"There are other motives just as important," protested Dr. Boss. "Herein America the money motive, ambition--"
"Let me finish," interposed Kennedy. "I want to consider the otherdream also. Fear is equivalent to a wish in this sort of dream. Italso, as I have said, denotes sex. In dreams animals are usuallysymbols. Now, in this second dream we find both the bull and theserpent, from time immemorial, symbols of the continuing of thelife-force. Dreams are always based on experiences or thoughts of theday preceding the dreams. You, Mrs. Maitland, dreamed of a man's faceon these beasts. There was every chance of having him suggested to you.You think you hate him. Consciously you reject him; unconsciously youaccept him. Any of the new psychologists who knows the intimateconnection between love and hate, would understand how that ispossible. Love does not extinguish hate; or hate, love. They represseach other. The opposite sentiment may very easily grow."
The situation was growing more tense as he proceeded. Was not Kennedyactually taxing her with loving another?
"The dreamer," he proceeded remorselessly, "is always the principalactor in a dream, or the dream centres about the dreamer mostintimately. Dreams are personal. We never dream about matters thatreally concern others, but ourselves.
"Years ago," he continued, "you suffered what the new psychologistscall a 'psychic trauma'--a soul-wound. You were engaged, but yourcensored consciousness rejected the manner of life of your fiance. Inpique you married Price Maitland. But you never lost your real,subconscious love for another."
He stopped, then added in a low tone that was almost inaudible, yetwhich did not call for an answer, "Could you--be honest with yourself,for you need say not a word aloud--could you always be sure of yourselfin the face of any situation?"
She looked startled. Her ordinarily inscrutable face betrayedeverything, though it was averted from the rest of us and could be seenonly by Kennedy. She knew the truth that she strove to repress; she wasafraid of herself.
"It is dangerous," she murmured, "to be with a person who paysattention to such little things. If every one were like you, I would nolonger breathe a syllable of my dreams."
She was sobbing now.
What was back of it all? I had heard of the so-called resolutiondreams. I had heard of dreams that kill, of unconscious murder, of theterrible acts of the subconscious somnambulist of which the actor hasno recollection in the waking state until put under hypnotism. Was itthat which Kennedy was driving at disclosing?
Dr. Ross moved nearer to Mrs. Maitland as if to reassure her. Craig wasstudying attentively the effect of his revelation both on her and onthe other faces before him.
Mrs. Maitland, her shoulders bent with the outpouring of thelong-suppressed emotion of the evening and of the tragic day, calledfor sympathy which, I could see, Craig would readily give when he hadreached the climax he had planned.
"Kennedy," exclaimed Masterson, pushing aside Dr. Ross, as he boundedto the side of Mrs. Maitland, unable to restrain himself longer,"Kennedy, you are a faker--nothing but a damned dream doctor--inscientific disguise."
"Perhaps," replied Craig, with a quiet curl of the lip. "But thethreads of the typewriter ribbon, the alignment of the letters, thepaper, all the 'fingerprints' of that type-written note of suicide werethose of the machine belonging to the man who caused the soul-wound,who knew Madeline Maitland's inmost he
art better than herself--becausehe had heard of Freud undoubtedly, when he was in Vienna--who knew thathe held her real love still, who posed as a patient of Dr. Ross tolearn her secrets as well as to secure the subtle poison of the cobra.That man, perhaps, merely brushed against Price Maitland in the crowd,enough to scratch his hand with the needle, shove the false note intohis pocket--anything to win the woman who he knew loved him, and whomhe could win. Masterson, you are that man!"
The next half hour was crowded kaleidoscopically with events--the callby Dr. Leslie for the police, the departure of the Coroner withMasterson in custody, and the efforts of Dr. Ross to calm his nowalmost hysterical patient, Mrs. Maitland.
Then a calm seemed to settle down over the old laboratory which had sooften been the scene of such events, tense with human interest. I couldscarcely conceal my amazement, as I watched Kennedy quietly restoringto their places the pieces of apparatus he had used.
"What's the matter?" he asked, catching my eye as he paused with thetintometer in his hand.
"Why," I exclaimed, "that's a fine way to start a month! Here's justone day gone and you've caught your man. Are you going to keep that up?If you are--I'll quit and skip to February. I'll choose the shortestmonth, if that's the pace!"
"Any month you please," he smiled grimly, as he reluctantly placed thetintometer in its cabinet.
There was no use. I knew that any other month would have been just thesame.
"Well," I replied weakly, "all I can hope is that every day won't be asstrenuous as this has been. I hope, at least, you will give me time tomake some notes before you start off again."
"Can't say," he answered, still busy returning paraphernalia to itsaccustomed place. "I have no control over the cases as they come tome--except that I fan turn down those that don't interest me."
"Then," I sighed wearily, "turn down the next one. I must have rest.I'm going home to sleep."
"Very well," he said, making no move to follow me.
I shook my head doubtfully. It was impossible to force a card onKennedy. Instead of showing any disposition to switch off thelaboratory lights, he appeared to be regarding a row of half-filledtest-tubes with the abstraction of a man who has been interrupted inthe midst of an absorbing occupation.
"Good night," I said at length.
"Good night," he echoed mechanically.
I know that he slept that night--at least his bed had been slept inwhen I awoke in the morning. But he was gone. But then, it was notunusual for him, when the fever for work was on him, to consider evenfive or fewer hours a night's rest. It made no difference when I arguedwith him. The fact that he thrived on it himself and could justify itby pointing to other scientists was refutation enough.
Slowly I dressed, breakfasted, and began transcribing what I could fromthe hastily jotted down notes of the day before. I knew that the work,whatever it was, in which he was now engaged must be in the nature ofresearch, dear to his heart. Otherwise, he would have left word for me.
No word came from him, however, all day, and I had not only caught upin my notes, but, my appetite whetted by our first case, had becomehungry for more. In fact I had begun to get a little worried at thecontinued silence. A hand on the knob of the door or a ring of thetelephone would hare been a welcome relief. I was gradually becomingaware of the fact that I liked the excitement of the life as much asKennedy did.
I knew it when the sudden sharp tinkle of the telephone set my heartthrobbing almost as quickly as the little bell hammer buzzed.
"Jameson, for Heaven's sake find Kennedy immediately and bring him overhere to the Novella Beauty Parlour. We've got the worst case I've beenup against in a long time. Dr. Leslie, the coroner, is here, and sayswe must not make a move until Kennedy arrives."
I doubt whether in all our long acquaintance I had ever heard FirstDeputy O'Connor more wildly excited and apparently more helpless thanhe seemed over the telephone that night.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Never mind, never mind. Find Kennedy," he called back almostbrusquely. "It's Miss Blanche Blaisdell, the actress--she's been founddead here. The thing is an absolute mystery. Now get him, GET HIM."
It was still early in the evening, and Kennedy had not come in, nor hadhe sent any word to our apartment. O'Connor had already tried thelaboratory. As for myself, I had not the slightest idea where Craigwas. I knew the case must be urgent if both the deputy and the coronerwere waiting for him. Still, after half an hour's vigorous telephoning,I was unable to find a trace of Kennedy in any of his usual haunts.
In desperation I left a message for him with the hall-boy in case hecalled up, jumped into a cab, and rode over to the laboratory, hopingthat some of the care-takers might still be about and might knowsomething of his whereabouts. The janitor was able to enlighten me tothe extent of telling me that a big limousine had called for Kennedy anhour or so before, and that he had left in great haste.
I had given it up as hopeless and had driven back to the apartment towait for him, when the hall-boy made a rush at me just as I was payingmy fare.
"Mr. Kennedy on the wire, sir," he cried as he half dragged me into thehall.
"Walter," almost shouted Kennedy, "I'm over at the Washington HeightsHospital with Dr. Barron--you remember Barron, in our class at college?He has a very peculiar case of a poor girl whom he found wandering onthe street and brought here. Most unusual thing. He came over to thelaboratory after me in his car. Yes, I have the message that you leftwith the hall-boy. Come up here and pick me up, and we'll ride rightdown to the Novella. Goodbye."
I had not stopped to ask questions and prolong the conversation,knowing as I did the fuming impatience of O'Connor. It was reliefenough to know that Kennedy was located at last.
He was in the psychopathic ward with Barron, as I hurried in. The girlwhom he had mentioned over the telephone was then quietly sleepingunder the influence of an opiate, and they were discussing the caseoutside in the hall.
"What do you think of it yourself?" Barron was asking, nodding to me tojoin them. Then he added for my enlightenment: "I found this girlwandering bareheaded in the street. To tell the truth, I thought atfirst that she was intoxicated, but a good look showed me better thanthat. So I hustled the poor thing into my car and brought her here. Allthe way she kept crying over and over: 'Look, don't you see it? She'safire! Her lips shine--they shine, they shine.' I think the girl isdemented and has had some hallucination."
"Too vivid for a hallucination," remarked Kennedy decisively. "It wastoo real to her. Even the opiate couldn't remove the picture, whateverit was, from her mind until you had given her almost enough to killher, normally. No, that wasn't any hallucination. Now, Walter, I'mready."