The Interpretation of Murder

Chapter Twenty-five

The telephone rang in my hotel room, waking me. I didn't remember falling asleep; I hardly remembered returning to my room. It was the front desk on the line.

'What time is it?' I asked.

'Just before midnight, sir.'

'What day?' The fog in my brain wouldn't clear.

'Still Friday, sir. Excuse me, Dr Younger, but you asked to be informed if Miss Acton had any visitors.'

'Yes?'

'A Mrs Banwell is on her way to Miss Acton's room now.'

'Mrs Banwell?' I said. 'All right. Don't let anyone else up, without calling me first.'

Nora and I had taken the train back from Tarry Town. We barely spoke. When we arrived at the Grand Central, Nora begged me to take her back to the Hotel Manhattan — to see whether her room there was still booked in her name. If so, she asked, couldn't she stay there until Sunday, when she need no longer fear that her parents might have her hospitalized against her will?

Contrary to my better judgment, I agreed to take her to the hotel. I warned her, though, that tomorrow morning, no matter what, I would notify her father of her whereabouts. I felt sure — and told her as much — that she would be able to come up with some fictitious story to keep her parents at bay for a mere twenty-four hours. As it happened, she was right about her room: it had never been released. The clerk handed her the keys, and she disappeared into an elevator.

I did not consider Mrs Banwell's midnight visit wise: her husband could have followed her. Nora must have telephoned her. But if Nora could deceive me as thoroughly as she had, Clara could probably deceive her husband about an evening's errand.

Freud's remarks about Nora's feelings for Clara came back to me. He still believed, of course, that Nora harbored incestuous wishes. I no longer did. In fact, given my interpretation of 'To be, or not to be,' I dared to think I finally had upended the whole Oedipus complex. Freud was right all along: yes, he had held the mirror up to nature, but he had seen in it a mirror image of reality.

It's the father, not the son. Yes, when a little boy enters the scene with his mother and father, one party in this trio tends to suffer a profound jealousy — the father. He may naturally feel the boy intrudes on his special, exclusive relationship with his wife. He may well half want to be rid of the suckling, puling intruder, whom the mother proclaims to be so perfect. He might even wish him dead.

The Oedipus complex is real, but the subject of all its predicates is the parent, not the child. And it only worsens as the child grows. A girl soon confronts her mother with a figure whose youth and beauty the mother cannot help resenting. A boy must eventually overtake his father, who as the son grows cannot but feel the churning of generations coming to plow him under.

But what parent will acknowledge a wish to kill his own issue? What father will admit to being jealous of his own boy? So the Oedipal complex must be projected onto children. A voice must whisper in the ear of Oedipus s father that it is not he — the father — who entertains a secret death wish against the son but rather Oedipus who covets the mother and compasses the father's death. The more intense these jealousies attack the parents, the more destructively they will behave against their own children, and if this occurs they may turn their own children against them — bringing about the very situation they feared. So teaches Oedipus itself. Freud had misinterpreted Oedipus: the secret of the Oedipal wishes lies in the parent's heart, not the child's.

The pity of it was that this discovery, if such it was, now seemed so stale, so profitless to me. What good was it? What good did thinking ever do?

'This is an outrage,' said Coroner Hugel, with what looked like a barely controllable indignation. 'I demand an explanation.'

George Banwell grunted in pain as Mrs Biggs applied a plaster to his skull. Blood remained clotted in his hair, but it was no longer running down his cheeks.

'What is the meaning of this, Littlemore?' asked the mayor.

'You want to tell him, Mr Hugel?' was the detective's answer. 'Or should I?'

'Tell me what?' asked McClellan.

'Let go of me,' the coroner said to Reardon.

'Let him go, Officer,' ordered the mayor. Reardon complied at once.

'Is this another of your jokes, Littlemore?' asked Hugel, straightening his suit. 'Don't listen to anything he says, McClellan. This is a man who pretended to be dead on my operating table yesterday.'

'Did you?' the mayor asked Littlemore.

'Yes, sir.'

'You see?' said Hugel to McClellan, his voice rising. 'I am no longer in the city's employ. My resignation was effective at five o'clock today; it is on your desk, McClellan, although no doubt you did not read it. I am going home. Good night.'

'Don't let him go, Mr Mayor,' said Littlemore.

The coroner paid no heed. Placing his hat on his head, he began striding toward the door.

'Don't let him go, sir,' Littlemore repeated.

'Mr Hugel, remain as you are, if you please,' ordered McClellan. 'The detective has already shown me one thing tonight I would not have believed possible. I will hear him out.'

'Thank you, Your Honor,' said Littlemore. 'I better begin with the photograph. Coroner Hugel took the picture, sir. It's a photograph of Miss Riverford with Mr Banwell's initials showing on her neck.'

Banwell stirred at the foot of the stairs. 'What's that?' he asked.

'His initials? What are you talking about?' asked McClellan.

'I have a copy of it here, sir,' said Littlemore. He handed the picture to the mayor. 'It's kind of complicated, sir. You see, Mr Hugel said Miss Riverford's body was stolen from the morgue because there was a clue on it.'

'Yes, you mentioned that to me, Hugel,' said the mayor.

The coroner said nothing, eyeing Littlemore warily.

'Then Riviere develops Mr Hugel's plates,' the detective continued, 'and sure enough, we find this picture of Miss Riverford's neck with some kind of imprint on it. Riviere and I didn't get it, but Mr Hugel explained it to us. The murderer strangles Miss Riverford with his tie, the tie still has his pin on it, and the pin has his monogram. So you see, Your Honor, the picture shows the murderer's initials on Miss Riverford's neck. That's what you told us, right, Mr Hugel?'

'Astounding,' said the mayor, who peered at the photograph, holding it close to his eyes. 'By God, I see it: GB.'

'Yes, sir. I've also got one of Mr Banwell's tiepins, and you can see they're alike.' Littlemore drew Banwell's tiepin from his trousers pocket and handed it to the mayor.

'Look at that,' said the mayor. 'Identical.'

'Rubbish,' said Banwell. 'I'm being framed.'

'Good Lord, Hugel,' said the mayor, ignoring Banwell. 'Why didn't you tell me, man? You had proof positive against him.'

'But I don't — I can't — let me see that photograph,' said Hugel.

The mayor gave the coroner the picture.

Hugel shook his head as he scrutinized it. 'But my picture — '

'Mr Hugel's never seen that photograph, Your Honor,' said Littlemore.

'I don't understand,' said the mayor.

'On Mr Hugel's photograph — on his original photograph, sir — the initials on the girl's neck weren't GB. They were the reverse of GB, the mirror image.'

'Well, as a matter of fact, the initials should have been in reverse, shouldn't they?' McClellan pointed out. 'The monogram should have left a reverse imprint, just like the seal on an envelope.'

'That's the trick of it,' said Littlemore. 'You got it right, Your Honor: the pin would have left a reverse imprint, so the reverse GB on Mr Hugel's photograph made it look like Mr Banwell was the killer. That's exactly what Mr Hugel said. The only problem was that Mr Hugel's photograph was already a reverse image. Riviere told us. That's what Mr Hugel didn't realize, sir. His picture showed a backward GB — okay? — but his photograph was already a reverse image of the girl's neck. That meant the imprint left on her neck was a true GB, and that meant the murderer's monogram was not a true GB but a reverse GB!

'Say that again,' said McClellan.

Littlemore did. In fact, he repeated the point several times until the mayor understood it. He also explained that he had made Riviere produce a reverse image of Hugel's picture, turning the GB around again, making it forward- facing, so he could compare the initials to Mr Banwell's actual monogram. This reversed picture was the one he had just shown the mayor.

'But it still makes no sense,' said the mayor irritably. 'It makes no sense at all. How could the monogram shown in Hugel's original photograph be the exact reverse of George Banwell's?'

'There's only one way, Your Honor,' said Littlemore. 'Somebody drew it.'

'What?'

'Somebody drew it. Somebody etched it right onto the dry plate before Riviere developed it. Somebody who had access both to Mr Banwell's tiepin and to Mr Hugel's plates. Somebody trying to make us think Mr Banwell killed Elizabeth Riverford. Whoever did it must have worked at it real hard. They did almost everything right, but they made one mistake: they made the photograph show a mirror image when they shouldn't have. They knew the imprint on Miss Riverford's neck had to be the mirror image of the real monogram. So they figured the photograph had to show a mirror image. But what they forgot was that a ferrotype is already a mirror image. That was their big mistake. When they put a reverse GB into the photograph, they gave the game away.'

Hugel broke in. 'Why, even I can't understand what the harebrain is saying. We have a clear photograph here of the girl's neck. And it says GB on it — not a negative, or a double negative, or a triple negative, or whatever Littlemore is babbling about. Just a simple GB. It is proof that Banwell was the murderer.'

There was a brief silence; the mayor broke it. 'Detective,' he said, 'I believe I have followed your reasoning. But I must say things are turned around so many times I am at a loss to know who is in the right. Is this the only reason you have for believing that Mr Hugel has tampered with evidence? Is it possible that Hugel is correct? That your photograph proves George Banwell to have been the murderer?'

Littlemore frowned. 'Let's see,' he said. 'I guess there is a lot of evidence against Mr Banwell, isn't there? Mr Mayor, could I put a couple of questions to Mr Banwell?'

'Go ahead,' replied McClellan.

'Mr Banwell, can you hear me okay, sir?'

'What do you want?' Banwell growled.

'You know, Mr Banwell, now that I think of it, I'm pretty sure we can convict you of Miss Riverford's murder. I found the secret passageway between your apartments.'

'Good for you,' was Banwell's reply.

'There was clay in her apartment that matches the clay at your construction site.'

'That's proof for you.'

'And we found the trunk with Miss Riverford's things in it — the one you buried in the East River below the Manhattan Bridge.'

'Impossible!' cried Banwell.

'Got it last night, Mr Banwell. Just before you flooded the caisson.'

'You were in the Manhattan Bridge caisson last night, Littlemore?' McClellan demanded.

'Yes, sir,' said Littlemore sheepishly. 'Sorry, Mr Mayor.'

'Oh, never mind,' replied McClellan. 'Go on.'

'I'm being framed,' Banwell interrupted. 'McClellan, I was with you all Sunday night. At Saranac Inn. You know I couldn't have killed her.'

'That's not how the prosecutor will see it,' Littlemore replied. 'He'll say you had someone drive Miss Riverford down to Saranac, that you snuck out of the dinner with the mayor, met her somewhere for a few minutes, and killed her. Then you had her body driven back to the Balmoral where it would look like she died there. You figured you'd use the mayor himself as your alibi. Too bad you left your initials on her neck. That's what the prosecutor will say, Mr Banwell.'

'I didn't kill her, I tell you,' said Banwell. 'I can prove it.'

'How can you prove it, George?' asked McClellan.

'Nobody killed Elizabeth Riverford,' said Banwell.

'What?' said the mayor. 'She's still alive? Where?'

Banwell shook his head.

'For God's sake, man,' said McClellan, 'explain yourself.'

'There is no Elizabeth Riverford,' said Banwell.

'Never was,' added Littlemore.

Banwell expelled a deep breath. Hugel took one. The mayor expostulated. 'Will someone explain to me what's going on?'

'It was her weight that first got me thinking,' said Littlemore. 'Mr Hugel's report said Miss Riverford was five- foot-five and weighed a hundred fifteen pounds. But the ceiling thing she was tied up to wouldn't have held a hundred- fifteen-pound girl. It would've broken right off. I tested it.'

'I could have been slightly off in height and weight,' said Hugel. 'I have been under considerable strain.'

'You weren't off, Mr Hugel,' said Littlemore. 'You did it on purpose. You also didn't mention that Miss Riverford's hair wasn't really black.'

'Of course it was black,' said Hugel. 'Everyone at the Balmoral will testify it was black.'

'A wig,' said Littlemore. 'We found another one just like it in Banwell's trunk.'

Hugel appealed to the mayor. 'He's lost his mind. Someone is paying him to say these things. Why would I deliberately misrepresent Miss Riverford's physical appearance?'

'Why, Detective?' said McClellan.

'Because if he had told everyone that Elizabeth Riverford was five-foot-two, a hundred and three pounds, with long blond hair, things would have gotten real sticky when Miss Nora Acton, five-foot-two, a hundred and three pounds, with long blond hair, turned up with the identical wounds the very next day — the same day Miss Riverford's body disappeared — wouldn't they, Mr Hugel?'

Nora buried herself in Clara's arms the moment the latter entered her hotel room.

'My darling,' said Clara. 'Thank heaven you're all right. I'm so glad you called.'

'I'm going to tell them everything,' Nora exclaimed. 'I've tried to keep it secret, but I can't.'

'I know,' said Clara. 'You said so in your letter. It's all right. Tell them everything.'

'No,' Nora replied, close to tears, 'I mean really everything.'

'I understand. It's all right.'

'He didn't believe I'd been hurt at all,' said Nora. 'Doctor Younger. He thought I had painted on my wounds.'

'How awful.'

'I deserved it, Clara. Everything went wrong. I am so bad. It was all for nothing. It would be better if I were dead.'

'Hush. We need something to calm our nerves, both of us.' She went to a credenza on which stood a half-filled decanter and several glasses. 'Here. Oh, what awful brandy. But I'm going to pour us a little. We'll share it.'

She handed Nora a snifter with a little golden liquor swirling in its bowl. Nora had never had brandy before, but Clara helped her taste it and, after the first burning sensation had passed, to finish the glass. A little spilled onto the front of Nora's dress.

'Goodness,' said Clara. 'Is that my dress you have on?'

'Yes,' said Nora. 'I'm sorry. I went to Tarry Town today. Do you mind?'

'Of course not. It looks so well on you. My things always suit you.' Clara poured another finger of brandy into the snifter and took a little for herself, closing her eyes. Then she put the glass to Nora's lips. 'Do you know,' she said, 'I bought that dress with you in mind? These shoes were meant to go with it — these, the ones I am wearing now. Here, you try them. You have such a fine ankle. Let's put everything out of our minds and dress you up, just as we used to.'

'Shall I?' said Nora, trying to smile.

'You mean Elizabeth Riverford was Nora Acton?' an uncomprehending Mayor McClellan asked Detective Littlemore.

'I can prove it, Your Honor,' said Littlemore. He gestured toward Betty as he pulled a photograph from his pocket. 'Mr Mayor, Betty here was Miss Riverford's maid at the Balmoral. This is a picture I found in Leon Ling's apartment. Betty, tell these people who this woman is.'

'That's Miss Riverford on the left,' said Betty. 'The hair is different, but that's her.'

'Mr Acton, would you please look at the photograph now?' Littlemore handed Harcourt Acton the picture of Nora Acton, William Leon, and Clara Banwell.

'It's Nora,' said Acton.

McClellan shook his head. 'Nora Acton was living at the Balmoral under the name of Elizabeth Riverford? Why?'

'She wasn't living there,' grumbled Banwell. 'She was going to come up a few nights a week, that's all. What are you looking at? Look at Acton, why don't you?'

'You knew?' McClellan asked Mr Acton incredulously.

'Certainly not,' answered Mrs Acton for her husband. 'Nora must have done it on her own.'

Harcourt Acton said nothing.

'If he didn't know, he's a damned fool,' announced Banwell. 'But I never touched her. It was all Clara's idea anyway.'

'Clara knew too?' The mayor was even more incredulous.

'Knew? She arranged it.' Banwell's voice broke off. Then he resumed. 'Now let me go. I've committed no crime.'

'Except for running me over yesterday,' said Detective Littlemore. 'Plus trying to bribe a police officer, trying to kill Miss Acton, and killing Seamus Malley. I'd say you had a pretty full week, Mr Banwell.'

At the sound of Malley s name, Banwell struggled to rise from the floor, despite the handcuffs attaching him to the railing. In the commotion, Hugel broke for the door. Both men failed to achieve their object. Banwell succeed only in injuring his wrists. The coroner was caught by Officer Reardon.

'But why, Hugel?' asked the mayor.

The coroner didn't speak.

'My God,' the mayor went on, still addressing the coroner. 'You knew Elizabeth Riverford was Nora. Was it you who whipped her? Dear God.'

'I didn't,' Hugel cried out, miserably, still in Reardon's grip. 'I didn't whip anyone. I was only trying to help. I had to get him convicted. She promised me. I would never — she planned everything — she told me what to do — she promised me — '

'Nora?' asked the mayor. 'What in God's name did she promise you?'

'Not Nora,' said Hugel. He jerked his head toward Banwell. 'His wife.'

Nora Acton slipped out of her own shoes and tried on Clara's. The heels were high and pointed, but the shoes were made of a lovely, soft black leather. When the girl looked up, she saw in Clara's hand an unexpected object: a small revolver, with a mother-of-pearl grip. 'It is so hot in here, my dear,' said Clara. 'Let's go out on your balcony.'

'Why are you pointing a gun at me, Clara?'

'Because I hate you, darling. You made love with my husband.'

'I didn't,' Nora protested.

'But he wanted you to. Quite desperately. It's the same; no, it's worse.'

'But you hate George.'

'Do I? I suppose so,' said Clara. 'I hate both of you equally.'

'Oh, no. Don't say that. I would rather die.'

'Well, then.'

'But Clara, you made me — '

'Yes, I made you,' said Clara. 'And now I will unmake you. Just consider my position, darling. How can I let you tell the police what you know? I am so close to success. All that stands in my way is — you. Up, my dear. To the balcony. Go. Don't make me shoot you.'

Nora rose. She tottered. Clara's stiletto heels were much too high for her. She could barely walk. Supporting herself on the back of the sofa, then on an armchair, then on a table, she made her way to the open French doors that led to the balcony.

'That's it,' said Clara. 'Just a little farther.'

Nora took a step onto the balcony and stumbled. She caught herself on the railing and stood up, facing out to the city. Eleven flights above ground, a strong breeze was blowing. Nora felt this cooling breeze on her forehead and cheeks. 'You put me in these shoes,' she said, 'so that it would be easy to push me over, didn't you?'

'No,' answered Clara, 'so that it will look like an accident. You were not used to the heels. You were not used to the brandy, which they will smell on your dress. A terrible accident. I don't want to push you, my darling. Won't you jump? Just let yourself go. I think you would rather.'

Nora saw the clock on the Metropolitan Life tower a mile to the south. It was midnight. She saw the brilliant glow of Broadway to the west. 'To be, or not to be,' she whispered.

'Not to, I'm afraid,' said Clara.

'Can I ask one thing?'

'I don't know, my dear. What is it?'

'Will you kiss me?' Nora asked. 'Just once, before I die?'

Clara Banwell considered this request. 'All right,' she said.

Nora turned, slowly, her arms behind her, gripping the railing, blinking away the tears in her blue eyes. She tipped her chin up, ever so slightly. Clara, keeping her revolver trained on Nora's waist, brushed a hair from Nora's mouth. Nora closed her eyes.

Standing over my hotel room sink, I splashed cold water on my face. It was clear to me now that Nora "had been, in her family, the target of an Oedipus complex of exactly the mirror-image kind I had just conceived. Without doubt, her mother was killingly jealous of her. But Nora's case was more complex because of the Banwells. Freud was right: the Banwells had in a sense become Nora's substitute mother and father. Banwell had wanted Nora — reverse Oedipus complex again — but Nora had apparently wanted Clara. That didn't fit. Neither, really, did Clara. Her position was the most complex of all. She had befriended Nora, as Freud pointed out, taking her into her confidence, describing her own sexual experiences. Freud believed Nora must be jealous of Clara. But by my lights, Clara should have been jealous of Nora. She should have hated her. She should have wanted to -

I leapt off my bed and ran from the room.

The moment their lips met, Nora seized Clara's hand, the hand holding the gun. The revolver fired. Nora was unable to dislodge the gun from Clara's hands, but she had managed to direct the barrel away from her own body. The bullet flew into the air above the city.

Nora scratched at Clara's face, drawing blood above and below her eye. When Clara cried out in pain, Nora bit Clara's hand — again, the one holding the gun — as hard as she could. The revolver fell to the concrete floor of the balcony and skittered back into the hotel room.

Clara struck Nora in the face. She struck her a second time, then pulled the girl by the hair to the balcony's edge. There she bent Nora backward over the railing, Nora's long tresses hanging straight down in the direction of the street far, far below.

Nora raised one of her shoes from the floor and brought it down on Clara's foot, the stiletto heel digging into Clara's bare instep. Clara let out a fearful cry and lost her grip on Nora, who tore herself away. She made it past Clara, through the French doors, but fell to the floor, unable to run in Clara's heels. On hands and knees she went on, crawling to reach the gun. Her fingertips had actually touched the pearl handle when Clara yanked her backward by her dress. Clara cast Nora aside, leapt over her, strode to the middle of the room, and seized the pistol.

'Very good, my dear,' said Clara, breathing hard. 'I had no idea you had it in you.'

They were interrupted by a crash. The locked door flew open, bits of wood scattering in the air, and Stratham Younger burst in.

'Dr Younger,' said Clara Banwell, standing in the middle of Nora's living room and pointing a small revolver directly at my midsection, 'how lovely to see you. Please close the door.'

Nora lay on the floor a dozen feet away. I saw a bruise on her cheek but, thank God, no blood anywhere. 'Are you hurt?' I asked her.

She shook her head.

Exhaling the breath I hadn't realized I was holding in, 1 closed the door. 'And you, Mrs Banwell,' I said, 'how are you this evening?'

The corners of Clara's mouth edged up ever so slightly. She was badly scratched above and below her left eye. 'I will be better shortly,' she said. 'Step out onto the balcony, Doctor.'

I didn't move.

'Onto the balcony, Doctor,' she repeated.

'No, Mrs Banwell.'

'Really?' Clara returned. 'Shall I shoot you where you stand?'

'You can't,' I said. 'You gave your name downstairs. If you kill me, they will hang you for murder.'

'You are quite mistaken,' replied Clara. 'They will hang Nora, not me. I will tell them she killed you, and they will believe me. Have you forgotten? She is the psychopath. She is the one who burned herself with a cigarette. Even her parents think so.'

'Mrs Banwell, you don't hate Nora. You hate your husband. You have been his victim for seven years. Nora has been his victim too. Don't be his instrument.'

Clara stared at me. I took a step in her direction.

'Stop where you are,' said Clara sharply. 'You are a surprisingly poor judge of character for a psychologist, Dr Younger. And so credulous. What I told you, you think true. Do you believe everything women tell you? Or do you believe them only when you want to sleep with them?'

'I don't want to sleep with you, Mrs Banwell.'

'Every man wants to sleep with me.'

'Please lower the gun,' I said. 'You are overwrought. You have every reason to be, but you misdirect your anger. Your husband beats you, Mrs Banwell. He has never consummated your marriage. He has made you — made you perform acts — '

Clara laughed. 'Oh, stop it. You are too comical. You will make me sick.'

It was not the laughter as such, but the condescending note in it, that brought me up short.

'He never made me do anything,' said Clara. 'I am no one's victim, Doctor. On our wedding night, I told him he would never have me. I, not he. How easy it was. I told him he was the strongest man I had ever met. I told him I would do things he would like even better. Which I did. I told him I would bring him other girls, young girls, whom he could do with as he pleased. Which I did. I told him he could hurt me, and I would make him happy while he hurt me. Which I did.'

Nora and I both stared at Clara in silence.

'And he liked it,' she added, smiling.

Again there was silence. I finally broke it. 'Why?'

'Because I knew him,' Clara said. 'His appetites are insatiable. He wanted me, of course, but not me alone. There were going to be others. Many, many others. Do you think

I could consent to be one of many, Doctor? I hated him from the moment I laid eyes on him.'

'It is not Nora,' I said, 'who has brought this upon you.'

'It is,' Clara snapped. 'She destroyed everything.'

'How?' This was Nora.

'By existing,' answered Clara with undisguised venom, declining even to look in Nora's direction. 'It — he fell in love with her. In love. Like a dog. Not a smart dog. A stupid dog. She was so spoiled and yet so unspoiled. What an enchanting contradiction. It became an obsession. So I had to get the dog his bone, didn't I? One can't live with a man slobbering like that.'

'That is why you agreed to have an affair with my father?' asked Nora.

'I didn't agree,' said Clara contemptuously, addressing Younger, not Nora. 'It was my idea. The weakest, most boring man I have ever known. If there is a heaven for selfless women, I — but even then she ruined it. She rejected George. She actually rejected him.' Clara took a deep breath; at last her demeanor lightened again. 'I tried a great many things to cure him of it. Many different things. Really I did.'

'Elsie Sigel,' I said.

A minute flinch at the corner of her mouth revealed Clara's surprise, but she didn't waver. 'You do have talent, Doctor, in the detection line. Have you considered changing careers?'

'You procured your husband another girl from a good family,' I went on. 'You thought it might make him forget Nora.'

' Very good. I don't believe any woman alive could have done it, other than myself. But when I found her Chinaman, I had her. She had written him love letters — to a Chinaman! He sold them to me, and I told the poor girl it was my duty to give them to her father unless she helped me. But my dog of a husband wasn't interested. You should have seen him, going through the motions. His mind was' — now Clara cast an eye at the still-prostrate Nora — 'on his bone.'

'You killed her,' I said. 'With chloroform. The same chloroform you gave your husband to use on Nora.'

Clara smiled. 'I said you should be a detective. Elsie simply couldn't keep her mouth shut. And what an unpleasant voice that one had. She left me no choice. She would have told. I could see it in her eyes.'

'Why didn't you just kill me! ' Nora shot out.

'Oh, it did occur to me, darling, but that wouldn't have done at all. You have no idea what it was like to see my husband's face when he understood that you, the love of his life, were doing everything in your little power to ruin him, to destroy him. It was worth more than all his money. Well, almost more, and I am going to have his money in any event. Dr Younger, I think you've kept me talking long enough.'

'You can't kill us, Mrs Banwell,' I said. 'If they find us both dead, shot by your gun, they will never believe you innocent. They will hang you. Put it down.' I took another step forward.

'Stop!' cried Clara, turning her gun on Nora. 'You are bold with your own life. You won't be so bold with hers. Now go to the balcony.'

I stepped forward again — not toward the balcony, but toward Clara.

'Stop!' Clara repeated. 'Are you mad? I'll shoot her.'

'You'll shoot at her, Mrs Banwell,' I replied. 'And you'll miss. What is that, a twenty-two single-action snub-nose? You couldn't hit a barn door with that unless you were within two feet of it. I'm within two feet of you now, Mrs Banwell. Shoot me.'

'Very well,' said Clara, shooting me.

I had the distinct though unaccountable impression of seeing a bullet emerge from the cylinder of Clara s revolver, fly slowly toward me, and pierce my white shirt. I felt a twinge below my lowest left rib. Only then did I hear the shot.

The gun recoiled slightly. I seized Clara's wrists. She struggled to free herself, but couldn't. I forced her toward the balcony — I walking forward, she backward, the gun over our heads, pointed at the ceiling. Nora got up, but I shook my head. Clara kicked over an enormous table lamp in Nora's direction; it broke at her feet, sending a shower of glass onto her legs. I forced her on toward the balcony. We crossed its threshold. I pushed her roughly into the balcony railing, the gun still above our heads.

'It's a long way down, Mrs Banwell,' I whispered in the dark, wincing as the bullet worked its way among my entrails. 'Let go of the gun.'

'You can't do it,' she said. 'You can't kill me.'

'Can't I?'

'No. That's the difference between us.'

Suddenly my stomach felt as if a red-hot fire iron were inside it. I had been certain of my ability to prevent her from gaining the upper hand. Now I was certain no longer. I realized my strength might give way at any moment. The burning inside my ribs seized me again. I lifted her a foot off the floor, never letting go of her wrists, and landed her hard against the side wall of the balcony. We came to a standstill face to face, chest to chest, arms and hands entangled between our torsos, her back pressed to the wall, our eyes and mouths only a few inches apart. I looked down at Clara, and she up at me. Rage makes some women ugly, some more beautiful. Clara fell into the latter category.

She still had possession of the gun, her finger at the trigger, somewhere between our two bodies. 'You don't know which of us the gun is pointed at, do you?' I asked, pressing her even harder against the wall, forcing a gasp from her. 'Want to know? It's pointed at you. At your heart.'

I could feel the blood running copiously down my shirt. Clara said nothing, her eyes holding mine.

Gathering my strength, I went on. 'You're right, I might be bluffing. Why don't you pull the trigger and find out? It's your only chance. In a moment I'll overpower you. Go ahead. Pull the trigger. Pull it, Clara.'

She pulled the trigger. There was. a muffled blast. Her eyes opened wide. 'No,' she said. Her body went rigid. She looked at me, unblinking. 'No,' she repeated. Then she whispered: 'My act.'

The eyes never closed. Her body slackened. She fell, dead, to the floor.

I was now holding the gun. I went back inside the hotel room. I tried to go to Nora but didn't make it. Instead, I stumbled to the sofa. There I lowered myself, holding my stomach, the blood running out between my fingers, a large red stain expanding on my shirt. Nora ran to me.

'Heels,' I said. 'I like you in heels.'

'Don't die,' she whispered.

I didn't speak.

'Please don't die,' she begged me. 'Are you going to die?'

'I'm afraid so, Miss Acton.' I turned my gaze to Clara's corpse, then to the balcony railing, past which I could see a few stars in the faraway night. Ever since they illuminated Broadway, the twinkling of stars had become a lost sight over Midtown. Finally, I looked once more into Nora's blue eyes. 'Show me,' I said.

'Show you what?'

'I don't want to die not knowing.'

Nora understood. She turned her upper body, presenting her back to me, as she had on the day of our first session, in this same room. Lying back against the sofa, I reached out with one hand — my clean hand — and undid the buttons of her dress. When the back fell open, I loosened the ties of her corset and drew the eyelets apart. Behind the crisscrossing laces, below and between her graceful shoulder blades, there were several of the still-healing lacerations. I touched one. Nora cried out, then stifled her cry.

'Good,' I said, standing up from the sofa. 'That's settled then. Now let's call the police and get me some medical attention, don't you think?'

'But,' replied Nora, gazing up at me stupefied, 'you said you were going to die.'

'I am,' I replied. 'Someday. But not from this fleabite.'