definitively as if he had left us a calling card, except in mirror image. The letter on the right is a reverse G, because G is the first initial of the man who killed Elizabeth Riverford. The letter on the left is a reverse B, because that man was George Banwell. Now we know why he had to steal her body from the morgue. He saw the telltale bruise on her neck and knew I would eventually decipher it. What he did not foresee was that stealing the corpse would be useless — because of this photograph!'
'Mr Hugel, sir?' said Detective Littlemore.
The coroner heaved a sigh. 'Shall I explain it again, Detective?'
'Banwell didn't do it, Mr Hugel,' Littlemore said. 'He's got an alibi.'
'Impossible,' said Hugel. 'His apartment is on the same floor of the very same building. The murder occurred between midnight and two on a Sunday. Banwell would have returned from any engagement before that.'
'He's got an alibi,' Littlemore repeated, 'and what an alibi. He was with the mayor all Sunday night until early Monday morning — out of town.'
'What?' said the coroner.
'There is another flaw in your argument,' interjected Riviere. 'You are not so familiar with photographs as I. You took these pictures yourself?'
'Yes,' replied the coroner, frowning. 'Why?'
'These are ferrotypes. Most retrograde. You are fortunate I keep a supply of iron sulfate. The image you have here differs from the reality. Left is right, and right is left.'
'What?' said Hugel again.
'A reverse image. So if the mark on the girl's neck is the reverse of the true monogram, then the photograph is the reverse of the reverse.'
'A double reverse?' asked Littlemore.
'A double negative,' said Riviere. 'And a double negative is a positive. Meaning that this picture shows the monogram as it would actually look, not a reverse of it.'
'It can't be,' cried Hugel, more injured than disbelieving, as if Littlemore and Riviere were deliberately trying to rob him.
'But undoubtedly it is, Monsieur Hugel,' said Riviere.
'So that was a J,' said Detective Littlemore. 'The guy's named Johnson or something. What's the first letter?'
Riviere put his eye to the glass again. 'It does not look like a letter at all. But it is possibly an E, I would like to say — or no, maybe a C.'
'Charles Johnson,' said the detective.
The coroner only stood where he was, repeating, 'It can't be.'
At last a taxi pulled up at Brill's building, and the four men — Freud, Brill, Ferenczi, and Jones — piled out. It turned out they had gone to a moving-picture show after lunch, a cops-and-robbers affair with wild chases. Ferenczi could not stop talking about it. He had, Brill told me, actually dived out of his seat when a locomotive appeared to steam straight at the audience; it was his first motion picture.
Freud asked me if I wanted to take an hour in the park with him to report on Miss Acton. I said I would like nothing more but that something else had come up; I had received unpleasant news in the post.
'You're not the only one,' said Brill. 'Jones got a wire this morning from Morton Prince up in Boston. He was arrested yesterday.'
'Dr Prince?' I was shocked.
'On obscenity charges,' Brill continued. 'The obscenity in question: two articles he was about to publish describing cures of hysteria effected through the psychoanalytic method.'
'I shouldn't worry about Prince,' said Jones. 'He was mayor of Boston once, you know. He'll come out right.'
Morton Prince was never mayor of Boston — his father was — but Jones was so definite I didn't want to embarrass him. Instead I asked, 'How could the police know what Prince was planning to publish?'
'Exactly what we have been wondering,' said Ferenczi.
'I never trusted Sidis,' added Brill, referring to a doctor on the editorial board of Prince's journal. 'But we must remember it's Boston. They'll arrest a chicken breast sandwich there if it's not properly dressed. They arrested that Australian girl — Kellerman, the swimmer — because her bathing costume didn't cover her knees.'
'I'm afraid my news is even worse, gentlemen,' I said, 'and it concerns Dr Freud directly. The lectures next week are in doubt. Dr Freud has been personally attacked — I mean, his name has been attacked — in Worcester. I cannot tell you how sorry I am to be the messenger.'
I proceeded to summarize as much as I could of President Hall's letter without entering into the sordid accusations against Freud. An agent representing an exceedingly wealthy New York family met with Hall yesterday, offering a donation to Clark University that Hall described as 'most handsome.' The family was prepared to fund a fifty-bed hospital for mental and nervous disorders, paying for a new building as well as all the most modern equipment, nurses, staff, and salaries sufficient to attract the best neurologists from New York and Boston.
'That would cost half a million dollars,' said Brill.
'Considerably more,' I replied. 'It would make us in one blow the leading psychiatric institute in the nation. We would surpass McLean.'
'Who is the family?'
'Hall doesn't say,' I replied to Brill.
'But is this permitted?' asked Ferenczi. 'A private family paying a public university?'
'It is called philanthropy,' answered Brill. 'It is why American universities are so rich. And why they will soon overtake the greatest European universities.'
'Bosh,' ejaculated Jones. 'Never.'
'Go on, Younger,' said Freud. 'There is nothing amiss in what you have told us so far.'
'The family has stipulated two conditions,' I continued. 'A member of the family is apparently a well-known physician with views about psychology. The first condition is that psychoanalysis cannot be practiced at the new hospital or taught anywhere in Clark's curriculum. The second is that Dr Freud's lectures next week must be canceled. Otherwise the gift will go to another hospital — in New York.'
Various exclamations of dismay and denunciation followed. Only Freud remained stoic. 'What does Hall say he will do?' he asked.
'I'm afraid that is not all,' I said. 'Nor is it the worst. President Hall was given a dossier on Dr Freud.'
'Go on, for God's sake,' Brill scolded me. 'Don't play hide-and-seek.'
I explained that this dossier purported to document instances of licentious — indeed, criminal — behavior by Freud. President Hall was told that Freud's gross misconduct would soon be reported by the New York press. The family was certain that Hall, after reading the contents, would agree that Freud's appearance at Clark must be canceled for the good of the university. 'President Hall did not send the file itself,' I said, 'but his letter summarizes the charges. May I give you the letter, Dr Freud? President Hall asked me specifically to say he felt you had a right to be informed of everything said against you.'
'Sporting of him,' remarked Brill.
I don't know why — perhaps because I was the letter's bearer — but I felt responsible for the unfolding disaster. It was as if I had personally invited Freud to Clark, only to destroy him. I was not anxious solely for Freud's sake. I had selfish reasons for not wanting to see this man brought down, on whose authority I had staked so many of my own beliefs — indeed, so much of my own life. None of us is saintly, but somehow I had formed the belief years ago that Freud was different from the rest of us. I imagined that he (unlike myself) had through psychological insight acceded to a plane above the baser temptations. I hoped to heaven the accusations in Hall's letter were false, but they had that degree of detail that imparts the ring of truth.
'There is no need for me to read the letter privately,' said Freud. 'Tell us what has been said against me. I have no secrets from anyone here.'
I started with the least of the charges: 'You are said not to be married to the woman you live with, although you hold her out to the world as your wife.'
'But that's not Freud,' cried Brill. 'It's Jones.'
'I beg your pardon,' Jones replied indignantly.
'Oh, come, Jones,' Brill said. 'Everyone knows you're not married to Loe.'
