Jed Rubenfeld - The Interpretation of Murder

After I had finished, no one spoke for a considerable time. At last Ferenczi burst out, 'But that one's Jung, for heaven's sake!'

'Sandor!' Freud rejoined sharply.

'Jung wrote that?' asked Brill. 'To a patient's mother?'

Ferenczi threw his hand over his mouth. 'Oop,' he said. 'But, Freud, you can't let them think it's you. They are going to tell newspapers. I am imagining headlines already.'

I was too: FREUD CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES.

'So,' Brill mused darkly, 'we are under attack in Boston, in Worcester, and New York at the same time. It cannot be a coincidence.'

'What is attack in New York?' asked Ferenczi.

'The Jeremiah and Sodom and Gomorrah business,' Brill answered, irritably. 'Those two messages weren't the only ones I've received. There have been many.'

We were all surprised and asked Brill to explain.

'It began right after I started translating Freud's hysteria book,' he said. 'How they knew I was doing it is a mystery. But the very week I started, I received the first one, and it's been getting worse ever since. They turn up when I least expect them. I am being threatened, I feel sure of it. Every time it's some murderous biblical passage — always about Jews and lust and fire. It makes me think of a pogrom.'

No one sought to obstruct Littlemore this time as he climbed the stairs at 782 Eighth Avenue. It was four o'clock — dinner preparation hour at the restaurant, from which came shrieks of Cantonese, punctuated by the sizzling hiss of chicken parts plunged into burning oil. Littlemore, who hadn't eaten since morning, wouldn't have minded some pork chop suey himself. He felt eyes upon him at every landing but saw no one. He heard someone running in a hallway above and a whispering of voices. At Apartment 4C, his knock yielded the same result it had before: nothing but the sound of hurried footfalls retreating down the back stairs.

Littlemore looked at his watch. He lit a cigarette to combat the odors wafting through the corridor, hoping he would get to Betty's in time to ask her to dinner. A few minutes later, Officer John Reardon came trooping up the stairs with a submissive, frightened Chinese man in tow. 'Just like you said, Detective,' said Officer Reardon. 'Barreled out the back door like his pants were on fire.'

Littlemore surveyed the miserable Chong Sing. 'Don't want to talk to me, Mr Chong, do you?' he asked. 'Suppose we have a look around your place. Open up.'

Chong Sing was much shorter than Littlemore or Reardon. He was of stocky build, with a flat, broad nose and rutted skin. He gestured helplessly, trying to indicate that he spoke no English.

'Open it,' Littlemore commanded, banging on the locked door.

The Chinaman produced a key and opened the door. His one-room apartment was a model of order and cleanliness. There was not a mote of dust or a teacup out of place. Two low cots, with seedy coverings, apparently did triple duty as beds, sofas, and tables. The walls were bare. Several sets of incense sticks burned in one corner, giving an acrid tang to the hot, motionless air.

'All cleaned up for us,' said Littlemore, taking it in. 'Thoughtful. Missed a spot, though.' With an uptick of his chin, Littlemore signaled overhead. Both Chong Sing and Officer Reardon looked up. On the low ceiling was a thick blackish smudge, almost three feet in length, over each of the two cots.

'What's that?' asked the policeman.

'Smoke stain,' answered Littlemore. 'Opium. Jack, you notice anything funny about that window?'

Reardon glanced at the room's one small casement window, which was closed. 'No. What about it?' he asked.

'It's closed,' answered Littlemore. 'A hundred degrees, and the window's closed. See what's outside.'

Reardon opened the window and leaned out into a narrow airshaft. He returned with an armful of items he found on a ledge underneath: a glass-covered oil lamp, half a dozen long pipes, bowls, and a needle. Chong Sing appeared to be in complete confusion, shaking his head, looking from the detective to the police officer and back to the detective.

'You run an opium joint here, don't you, Mr Chong?' said the detective. 'You ever go up to. Miss Riverford's apartment at the Balmoral?'

'Hah?' said Chong Sing, shrugging helplessly.

'How'd you get red clay on your shoes?' the detective persevered.

'Hah?'

'Jack,' said Littlemore, 'take Mr Chong to the lock-up at Forty-seventh. Tell Captain Post he's an opium dealer.'

When Officer Reardon seized him by the arm, Chong spoke at last. 'Wait. I tell you. I only live in apartment in daytime. I don't know opium. I never see opium before.'

'Sure,' said Littlemore. 'Get him out of here, Jack.'

'Hokay, hokay,' said Chong. 'I tell you who sells opium. Hokay?'

'Get him out of here,' said the detective.

At the sight of Reardon's handcuffs, Chong cried out, 'Wait! I tell you something else. I show you something. You follow me hallway. I show you what you looking for.'

Chong's voice had changed. He sounded genuinely afraid now. Littlemore signaled Reardon to let Chong precede them into the dark, narrow corridor. From two flights below, the clattering of the restaurant could still be heard, and as they followed the Chinaman down the hall, past the stairwell, Littlemore began to hear the twanging, dissonant chords of Chinese string music. The smell of meat grew stronger. Every door was slivered open to allow the residents within to observe the goings-on — every door but one. The lone closed door belonged to the room at the farthest end of the corridor. Here Chong stopped. 'Inside,' he said. 'Inside.'

'Who lives here?' asked the detective.

'My cousin,' said Chong. 'Leon. He live here before. Now no one.'

The door was locked. There was no response to Littlemore s knock, but the moment the detective got close enough to rap his knuckles, he knew the overpowering meat odor was not coming from the restaurant after all. He drew from his pocket two thin metal picks. Littlemore was adept with locked doors. He had this one open in short order.

The room, though identical in size, contrasted in every other way with Chong Sing's. Gaudy red ornaments adorned every surface. A dozen vases, large and small, were scattered about, most of them carved in the form of dragons and demons. On the windowsill was a lacquered rouge box, with a round face mirror perched behind it; on a dresser, a painted statuette of the Virgin and Child. Nearly every square inch of wall was covered with framed photographs, all depicting a Chinese man who himself offered a stark contrast to Chong Sing. The man in the photographs was tall and arrestingly handsome, with an aquiline nose and a smooth, unblemished complexion. He wore an American jacket, shirt, and tie. Nearly all the pictures showed this man with young women — different young women.

What most commanded attention, however, was a single massive object planted squarely in the center of the room: a large closed trunk. It was the kind of trunk that well- to-do travelers use, with leather sides and brass hinges. Its dimensions were these: two feet in height, two in depth, three in length. Coils of stiff awning rope bound it shut.

The air was fetid. Littlemore could hardly breathe. The Chinese music was coming from the room directly above them; the detective found it difficult to think. The trunk seemed, impossibly, to be rippling in the thick atmosphere. Littlemore opened his pocket knife. Officer Reardon had one too. Together, wordlessly, they approached the chest and began to saw at the heavy ropes. A crowd of Chinese, many with handkerchiefs pressed against their mouths, gathered at the doorway to watch.

'Put your knife away, Jack,' said Littlemore to Officer Reardon. 'Just keep your eye on Chong.'

The detective worked at the ropes. When he severed the last coil, the lid of the trunk burst open. Reardon staggered back, either from surprise or from the explosion of rank gas that escaped from the trunk's interior. Littlemore covered his mouth with his sleeve but remained where he was. Inside the chest were three things: a ladies' hat crowned with a stuffed bird; a thick stack of letters and envelopes tied together with string; and the crumpled body of a young woman, viciously decomposed, clad only in under- things, a silver pendant on her chest and a white silk tie tightly wound around her neck.