Jed Rubenfeld - The Interpretation of Murder

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 -