Part 8

Yet to me it was evident that it most certainly had been Vina whom she had in mind. The association test of the waking state quite accorded with the results of the dream study which Kennedy had made.

Moreover, it was now evident that Honora was holding back something, that she had taken refuge in silence. Vainly Kennedy now strove to restore the relaxed condition, in which she might let her thoughts wander at will. It was of no use. She simply would not let herself go.

Deftly he changed his tactics altogether and the conversation drifted off quickly to inconsequential topics, such as would restore any shaken confidence in him. Clearly it was too early to come to an open break with her. Besides, I understood, Kennedy would rather have allowed her to believe that she had come off victor than to have pressed any minor advantage.

"Please don't repeat this," he remarked, as we were leaving. "You can readily understand the reason. I quite appreciate the uncomfortable position in which the city detectives have placed you, Mrs. Wilford. Depend on me, I shall use every influence I have with them to mitigate the hardship of their presence. Besides, I know how brutally annoying they can be. You understand--my position is quite different. And if I can be of any assistance to you, no matter in what way, don't fail to command me."

I had expected her to be a bit put out by our continued quizzing. On the contrary, however, she seemed to be actually grateful for Kennedy's sympathy, now that he had ceased treading upon dangerous ground.

"Thank you," she sighed, as we rose to leave her. "I feel that you are always trying to be fair to me."

Kennedy hastened to assure her that we were, and we left before the final good impression could be destroyed.

"I consider you an artist, Craig," I complimented, as we left the elevator a few minutes later, after a brief talk with McCabe in which Kennedy urged him to keep a close watch, but to seem not to be watching. "We go to cross-examine; we leave, friends. But I don't yet understand what the idea was of trying the association test on her."

"Couldn't you see that when we came there she was in a state verging on hysteria?" he replied. "No doubt, if McCabe had stayed she would have been quite over the verge, too. But it would not have done them any good. They always think that if any one 'blows up,' as they call it, they'll learn the truth. That's not the case with a woman as clever as Honora. If she gave way to hysteria, she would be infinitely more likely to mislead them than to lead them. Besides, in the study of hysteria a good deal of what we used to think and practise is out of date now."

I nodded encouragingly, not so much that I cared about the subject of hysteria, either what was known of it now or long ago, as that I was deeply interested in anything whatever that might advance the case.

"Perhaps," he went on, "you are not aware of the fact that Freud's contribution to the study of hysteria and even to insanity is really of greater scientific value than his theories of dreams, taken by themselves. Study of Freud, as you can see, has led us already to a better understanding of this very case."

"But what sort of condition did you think her in before you reassured her at the start by the association test?"

Kennedy thought a moment. "Here is, I feel, what is known as one of the so-called 'borderline cases,'" he answered, slowly. "It is clearly a case of hysteria--not the hysteria one hears spoken of commonly as such, but the condition which scientists to-day know as such.

"By psychanalytical study of one sort or another we may trace the impulse from which hysterical conditions arise, penetrate the disguises which these repressed impulses or wishes must assume in order to appear in the consciousness. Such transformed impulses are found in normal people, too, sometimes. The hysteric suffers mostly from reminiscences which, paradoxically, may be completely forgotten.

"Thus, obsessions and phobias have their origin, according to Freud, in sexual life. The obsession represents a compensation, a substitute for an unbearable sex idea, and takes its place in consciousness."

"That is," I supplied, "in this case you mean that her husband's lack of interest in her was such an unbearable idea to her that in her mind she tried to substitute something to take its place?"

"Precisely. In normal sex life, as you recall, the Freudists say that no neurosis is possible. Also recall what I said, that sex is one of the strongest of impulses, yet subject to the greatest repression--and hence is the weakest point in our cultural development. Often sex wishes may be consciously rejected, but unconsciously accepted. Well, now--hysteria arises through the conflict between libido--the uncontrollable desire--and sex repression. So, when they are understood, every hysterical utterance has a reason back of it. Do you catch the idea? There is really method in madness, after all.

"Take an example," he continued. "When hysteria in a wife gains her the attention of an otherwise inattentive husband, it fills, from the standpoint of her deeper longing, an important place. In a sense it might even be said to be desirable for her. You see, the great point about the psychanalytic method, as discovered by Freud, is that certain symptoms of hysteria disappear when the hidden causes are brought to light and the repressed desires are gratified."

"But," I interrupted, "how does this analysis apply to the case of Honora Wilford?"

Kennedy considered a moment. "Very neatly," he answered. "Honora is suffering from what the psychanalysts call a psychic trauma--a soul wound, as it were. Recall, for instance, what our dream analysis has already shown us--the old love-affair with Shattuck. To her mind, that was precisely like a wound would have been to the body. It cut deeply. Seemingly it had healed. Yet the old scar remained--a repressed love. It could no more be taken away than could a scar be taken from the face."

"Yet was not open and visible like a physical scar," I agreed.

"Quite the case. Then," he pursued, "came a new wound--the neglect by her husband whom she thought she loved, and the discovery of Vina Lathrop as the trouble-maker."

"I begin to see," I returned. "Those two sets of facts, the old scar and the new wound, are sufficient, you think, to explain much in her life."

"At least they explain about the hysteria. In her dream, a wave of recollection swept over her and, so to speak, engulfed her mind. In other words, reason could no longer dominate the cravings for love so long repressed. The unconscious strain was too great. Hence the hysteria--not so much the hysteria and the isolated outburst which Doyle saw, as the condition back of it which must have continued for days, perhaps weeks, previous to the actual murder of Wilford."

I frowned and objected inwardly. Was Craig, also, laying a foundation for the ultimate conviction of Honora?

Before I could question him there was an interruption at the door and I sprang to open it.

"Hello, Jameson!" greeted Doctor Leslie; then catching sight of Kennedy, he entered and asked, "Have you discovered anything yet, Professor?"

"Yes," replied Craig, "I should say I have."

Leslie was himself quite excited and did not wait for Craig to go on. "So have I," he exclaimed, searching Kennedy's face as he spoke. "Did you find physostigmine in the stomach contents I sent you? I did in what I retained."

Kennedy nodded quietly.

"What does it mean?" queried Leslie, puzzled.

Kennedy shook his head gravely. "I can't say--yet," he replied. "It may mean much before we are through, but for the present I think we had better go slow with our deductions."

Leslie evidently had hoped that Kennedy's active mind would have already figured out the explanation. But in cases such as this facts are more important than clever reasoning and Kennedy was not going to commit himself.

"Doyle tells me that he has put in a dictagraph in the Wilford apartment," ventured Leslie, changing the subject unwillingly.

"Has he learned anything yet?"

"No, not yet. It's too soon, I imagine."

Leslie paused and glanced about impatiently. Things were evidently not going fast enough to suit him. Yet, without Kennedy, he felt himself helpless. However, there was always one thing about Leslie which I was forced to like. He was no poser. Even when Doyle and the rest did not recognize Kennedy's genius, Leslie quite appreciated it. Although he was a remarkably good physician, he knew that the problems which many cases presented to him were such that only Kennedy could help him out.

"You've heard nothing more about the gossip regarding Mrs. Lathrop and Shattuck?" I asked.

"No, nothing about that. But there is something else that I have found out," he added, after a moment--"something that leads to Wilford's office."

Kennedy was interested in a moment. We had been so occupied with the case that we had not even a chance to go down there yet, although that would have been one of the first things to do, ordinarily, unless, as in this case, we were almost certain that the ransacking of Doyle and Leslie had destroyed those first clues that come only when one is called immediately on a case.

"I've been looking about the place," went on Leslie, encouraged by Kennedy's interest. "I knew you'd be busy with other things. Well, I've discovered one of the other tenants in the building who did not leave his office on the same floor until just after seven o'clock last night."

"Yes?" inquired Craig. "Did he see or hear anything?"

Leslie nodded. "Early in the evening there must have been a woman who visited Wilford," he hastened.

"Who was she?"

"The tenant doesn't know."

"Did he see her?"

"No. He remembers hearing a voice on the other side of the door to the hall. He didn't see any one, he says, and it is quite likely. When I asked him if he overheard anything, he replied that he could catch only a word here and there. There was one sentence he caught as he closed his own door."

"And that was--?"

"Rather loudly, the woman said: 'Give her up, Vail. Can't you see she really doesn't love you--never did--never could?'"

Leslie paused to watch the effect of the sentence on us. I, too, studied Kennedy's face.

"Did she leave soon?" asked Craig.

Leslie shook his head. "I don't know. The tenant left and that was all I heard."

"Well, Wilford was not dead then, we know," considered Craig. "Could she have been there when he died? Of course you don't know."

"It's possible," replied Leslie.

To myself, I repeated the words: "Give her up, Vail. Can't you see she really doesn't love you--never did--never could?"

A few hours ago I should have been forced to conclude that only Vina might have said it, knowing as she did the peculiar nature of Honora and the relations between Wilford and his wife. But now, with the hints discovered by Leslie and amplified by Miss Balcom, I could not be so sure. The remark might have come equally well from Honora herself and have applied to Vina--for Honora, too, might have known that it was not love for Wilford that prompted Vina's interest in her husband, but the desire to make sure of her divorce for the purpose of being free to capture Vance Shattuck.

Interesting and important as the discovery was, it did not help us, except that it added to the slender knowledge we had of what had taken place at the office. A woman had been there. Who it was, whether Honora or Vina, we did not know. Nor did we know how long she had stayed, whether she might merely have dropped in and have gone before the crime was committed.

"You've told Doyle?" asked Kennedy.

"Naturally. I had to tell him. Remember, it was much later that he found that some one else had been at the office, according to the janitor's story."

"I do remember. That's just what I have been thinking about. I suppose he'll tell it all around--he usually does use such things in his third-degree manner."

Leslie smiled, then sobered. "Quite likely. Does it make any difference?"

"Not a bit. I'm rather hoping he does tell it around. I've decided in this case to play the game with the cards on the table. Then some one is sure to make a false move and expose his hand, I feel sure."

Quickly I canvassed the situation. All might be involved, in one way or another--either Vina or Honora might have been the early visitor; later it might have been either Shattuck or even Lathrop, or perhaps neither, who had been there, as far as the janitor's vague observation was concerned.

"There was something strange that went on at that office the night of the murder," ruminated Kennedy. "Maybe there is some clue down there, after all, that has been overlooked. You've searched, you say. Doyle has searched. The place must have been pretty well gone over. However, I can see nothing left but to search again," he decided, quickly. "We must go down there."

X

THE ORDEAL BEAN

Wilford's office was in an old building of the days when a structure of five or six stories, with a cast-iron, ornamented front, was considered a wonderful engineering achievement. It was down-town, in the heart of the financial district, and had been chosen by Wilford, without a doubt, to convey an impression of solidity and conservatism, a useful camouflage to cover the essential character of his law practice as scandal attorney.

We climbed the worn stairs with Leslie, and, as we mounted, I noticed that there was also, down the hall, a back stairway, evidently placed there in case of fire. Hence, it was possible, I reasoned, for a person to have slipped in or out practically unobserved from the front.

We knew now that at least one person, probably two, had been there, though who they were we did not know. Nor was there yet any clue, except that certainly a woman had visited Wilford, at least early in the evening.

Wilford's office was on the third floor, in the front. We entered and looked about. Past the outer railing and outer office was his own sanctum.

It was furnished lavishly with divans and settees in mahogany and dark leather, with elaborate hangings over the windows and on the walls. There were law-books, but only, it seemed, for the purpose of giving a legal flavor to the place. Most of the legal library was outside. The office was rather like a den than a lawyer's office.

Reflecting, I could see the reason. Society must be made welcome here, and at ease. Besides, the conservative surroundings were quite valuable in covering up the profession--I had almost said, business--of divorce made easy and pleasant. I recalled Rascon and the crook detectives who made little concealment of their business--"Evidence for divorce furnished." Doubtless many of these gentry had found occupation from this source. What stories these walls might have told! They would have made even Belle Balcom's ears tingle.

At once Kennedy began his search of the office, going over everything minutely but quickly, while we waited, apart.

"Not even a finger-print has been left unobscured!" he exclaimed, finally, almost ready in disgust to give it up. "It is shameful--shameful," he muttered. "When will they learn to let things alone until some one comes who knows the scientific importance of little things! If only I could have been first on the job."

"There's the typewriter," suggested Leslie, trying to divert attention and smooth things over.

"Have you the letter?" asked Craig.

Leslie drew it eagerly from his pocket and unfolded it. Kennedy took it, spread it out and studied it a moment:

HONORA:

Don't think I am a coward to do this, but things cannot go on as they have been going. It is no use. I cannot work it out. This is the only way. So I shall drop out. You will find my will in the safe. Good-by forever.

VAIL.

Then Craig moved over and sat at the typewriter. Quickly he struck several keys, then made a hasty comparison of the note with what he had written.

"The 's' and the 'r' are out of alignment, the 'e' battered--in both," he concluded, hurriedly, as though merely confirming what he was already convinced of. "There are enough marks to identify the writing as having been done on this machine, all right. No, there's nothing in this note--except what is back of it, and we do not know that yet. Did Wilford write that letter, or was it written for him? It could hardly have been done voluntarily."

"It was in this desk chair that we found him sprawled--so," illustrated Doctor Leslie, dropping into the chair. Then, straightening up, he indicated the big flat-topped desk in the middle of the room. "The two glasses were on this desk--one of them here, the other over there."

As he pointed the spots out, one of them near where he was, the other near the outer edge of the desk, Kennedy's eye fell on the desk calendar.

"I removed the pages I told you about," supplied Leslie, noticing the direction of Craig's glance. "It's a loose-leaf affair, as you see. Here they are."

Leslie drew from his pocket the leaves for the various days, and we looked at them again, with their notations--one reading, "Prepare papers in proposed case of Lathrop _vs._ Lathrop." Others read, "Vina at four," and other dates, with hours attached. There were several of them, more than would seem to have been necessary were the relation merely that of lawyer and client for so brief a time. There were none for the day of the murder however.

Kennedy continued the search, now rummaging the papers, now directing either Leslie or myself to bring him objects.

He had asked me for a letter-file, and I was turning from a cabinet to hand it to him when my foot kicked some small, soft object lying along the edge of the rug. The thing, whatever it was, flew over and hit the baseboard.

Mechanically I reached down and picked the object up, holding it in the palm of my hand.

It seemed to be a rough-coated, grayish-brown bean, of irregular, kidney shape, about an inch long and half an inch thick, with two margins, one short and concave, the other long and convex. The surfaces were rounded slightly, but flattened. The coat of the bean was glossy.

Kennedy, with quick eye, had noted that I had picked up something and was over at my side in a moment.

"What's that?" he asked quickly, taking the thing from my hand as I turned to him.

He looked at it critically for a moment. Then he pressed the hard outer coat until it parted slightly, disclosing inside two creamy white cotyledons. He studied them for some time, then pressed the bean back into shape again as it had been before.

I was about to ask what he thought it was, and where it came from, when there was a noise in the direction of the door. We turned to see that it was a man in overalls shuffling in, his cap in his hand.

"Oh, beggin' your pardon, Doctor," he addressed Leslie, "I heard some one here. I didn't know it was you."

It was the night watchman who had been off the job on perhaps the only occasion in years when it would have meant much for him to have been on it, but was making up for his laxity now by excessive vigilance.

"Pete," demanded Leslie, sharply, "did you see a woman here that night?"

"N-no, sir--that is, sir--I don't know. There was some one here--but Mr. Wilford, he kept such late hours and irregular that I thought nothing of it. I thought it was all right, sir. Later, when I didn't hear any voices, I thought they had gone home. I didn't see the lights burnin'--you wouldn't ha' noticed that, except from the other side of the street. I s'pose that's why they didn't discover the body till mornin'. But a woman here--no, sir, I can't say as I'd say that, sir."

Whatever else there might have been said about Pete, it was evident that he was perfectly honest. He even confessed his lack of observation and his inefficiency with utter frankness. There did not seem to be a hope of obtaining anything by questioning Pete. He had told all he really knew. Others might have embellished the story had they been in his place, and so have led us astray. At least he had the merit of not doing that.

"So--here you are," exclaimed a deep voice at the door.

It was Doyle, flushed and excited.

"You may go, Pete," nodded Leslie to the janitor, who backed out of the room, still pulling at his cap.

Alone, Doyle turned to us.

"Confound Shattuck!" he exclaimed. "That man is the limit. I'll get him, if he doesn't look out. He's a game bird--but he flies funny."

"Why, what has he done now?" asked Kennedy.

"Done?" fumed Doyle. "Done? Been threatening, I hear, to have me 'broke'--that's all. I don't care about that, not a whoop--even if he had the influence with the administration. What I care about is that he is putting every obstacle in the way of my finding out anything from that woman. She's hard enough to manage, Heaven knows, without his butting in."

"What about that bean Jameson picked up here?" asked Leslie, impatiently, as Doyle paused. "Have you any idea what it may be?"

"A bean?" inquired Doyle, looking from one of us to the other and not understanding. "A bean? Picked up here? Why, what do you mean?"

I was inclined to be vexed at Leslie for having mentioned it, but I soon saw that Kennedy betrayed no traces of annoyance. On the contrary, he seemed rather eager to answer, as he drew the thing from his pocket, where he had placed it when Pete came in.

"Just something Jameson happened to find on the very edge of the rug, quite by accident, over by the letter-files," Craig explained, with a certain gusto at showing Doyle a thing that he had overlooked. "Ever see anything like it?"

Doyle took the bean, but it was evident that both it and its discovery meant nothing to him.

"No," he admitted, reluctantly. "What is it?"

"Without a doubt it is one of the famous so-called 'ordeal beans' of Calabar," replied Kennedy, offhand.

"Calabar?" I repeated, in surprise. "Why, that's a place on the west coast of Africa, isn't it? What would a Calabar bean be lying on the floor here for?"

"What do you mean--ordeal bean?" questioned Doyle, somewhat incredulously, while Leslie maintained a discreet silence.

"In the Calabar, where these things grow," explained Kennedy, not put out for an instant, "as you perhaps know, they have a strange form of dueling with these seeds. Two opponents divide a bean. Each eats a half. It is some religious ceremony--voodoo, or some such thing, I suppose--a superstition. Sometimes both die--for the bean contains physostigmine and is the chief source from which this drug is obtained."

"You mean they _eat_ it--a poison?" I asked.

"Certainly. Over there, the natives believe that God will decide who is guilty and who is innocent, and that he will miraculously spare the innocent. I suppose that sometimes one gets a half a bean that doesn't contain so high a percentage of the poison--or else some people are not so susceptible to its toxin, or something like that. Anyhow, that's one way they use it."

"Why," I exclaimed, "that is primitive justice, you might say--the duel by poison!"

"Exactly," Craig nodded.

Doyle stared, amazed and puzzled.

"No worse than some of the things our ancestors did, not many centuries ago," reminded Craig. "They used to have all sorts of ordeals, by fire and water and what not. We haven't progressed so far over the savages, after all. Civilization is only a veneer, and pretty thin, sometimes. Underneath we're quite like the savage--only we substitute mechanical war for brute strength and high finance for highway robbery. The caveman and the cavewoman are in all of us--only we manage either to control them or conceal them--except when something happens that means calling in either Doyle or myself."

"What's this--phy--physos--what you call it?" demanded Doyle, forgetting to conceal his ignorance in his curiosity.