'You must make a different sound.'
The girl shook her head again. She wanted to speak but couldn't.
'Yes. You must. I know you can. I told you how. Don't you remember?' The razor was now replaced 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 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 building must be told immediately that nothing is to be touched.