perfectly unrelated subjects with her, as though to remove from her
mind as much is possible the memory of what had been said and done.
"There is just one other thing I want," he added, as he picked up the
list again and handed it to me, his finger significantly on the third
column that he had laid out. "It won't take long, Mrs. Wilford, now
that you understand the game. Walter, take that other column. I am
merely going through the list rapidly again. Don't try to recollect the
answers you gave--but then, on the other hand, don't try to make them
different. Do you get what I mean? Don't force your ideas. Just remain
relaxed, easy, natural. Let me have just what comes into your mind, the
moment it occurs to you--please don't try to change it."
"I see," she murmured, but I thought in a manner that showed she was
just a little bit on her guard, and determined, if she made any slips
before, not to repeat them.
In quick staccato Kennedy repeated the words from the list, beginning
with "foot," to which again, almost mechanically, she responded with
"shoe." I noted the answering words, as before, while he recorded the
time.
It did not take me long to see that what Kennedy was after was to
discover whether, on the second trial, she would make any very
significant changes in the words.
Nor was he giving her a chance to cover up. The words came so fast that
even I had no time to dwell on them. I shall not pause to do so here,
for later Kennedy analyzed them carefully. Here is our third list,
complete:
1 2 3
foot shoe shoe
gray black black
dream Lathrop Lathrop
struggle escape escape
ship ocean ocean
bean baked white
lion path beard
book newspaper newspaper
false true true
voyage Europe Europe
money poor poor
sad myself myself
quarrel Vail words
marry Vail Vail
bull breath field
sleep dream dream
foolish wise wise
despise love like
finger hand hand
friend none none
serpent hiss crowd
face man stranger
chair sit sit
bottle stopper stopper
glass empty empty
Even as I was going along under Kennedy's high pressure, I mentally
noted that there were some remarkable similarities in the answers
that Honora gave, but, more particularly, that there were also some
significant changes, although neither so far conveyed much information
to me. I knew that even to Kennedy the process would most likely
require analysis in the quiet of the laboratory and I refrained
absolutely from comment, though I could see that Honora would have
liked to appeal to me, had it not been for the restraining presence of
Kennedy.
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Wilford," said Kennedy, when he had finished
with both his words and reaction times and was putting away the papers
in his pocket.
"Is that all?" she asked.
"I think so."
A look of relief passed over her face. Quite naturally, she was growing
tired of always being forced to play a part, whether before Doyle and
McCabe or before us.
I had rather expected that Kennedy would take the occasion to make
some reference to the recent discoveries we had made both in Greenwich
Village and over the dictagraph, more especially as they concerned
Shattuck and herself. But he did not. Nor did she show any anxiety or
make any inquiry herself. It seemed to me that, perhaps, Honora and
Kennedy were themselves playing a game, a war of wills, as it were. At
any rate, the test over, there was a truce.
Some time later we returned to the laboratory and there Kennedy set to
work carefully comparing the lists of words and his own records of time.
"What was that test?" I asked, at length, seeing that a question would
not disturb him. "What do you call it and what was it really for?"
"That," he explained, "was the Jung association word test. Doctor Jung,
who developed it, was, I think, a Swiss. You'll notice that on the
words of little or no significance there was no hesitation, and the
second time practically no change, either. But when the significant
words came out she took just a fraction of a second longer before she
answered. I find that her average reaction time for the innocuous words
was somewhere about two-fifths of a second. She answered very quickly.
"But, take her reply when I said the word 'bean.' It was nearly a
second--to be exact, four-fifths, or twice her average on the words of
no consequence. Don't you think that significant?"
I nodded reluctantly. "Y-yes. I suppose she knows--something."
"The same thing was the case," he continued, "on such words as 'bull,'
'serpent,' and 'face,' all of which, you recollect from her dreams,
were significant words. Even on the words which she did not change
the second time there was frequently a marked hesitation. Thus, on
the word 'dream' the first time she hesitated a fraction of a second
before answering 'Lathrop,' whose name evidently was suggested to her
by his treatment of her nervous troubles and asking her about her
dreams. But the second time there was no hesitation when she answered
'Lathrop' to the word 'dream.' The same thing was true of other words
which she did not change. She hesitated the first time, but not the
second. They were such groups as 'money-poor-poor,' 'friend-none-none,'
'bottle-stopper-stopper,' and 'glass-empty-empty.'"
"What do you think it indicates?" I asked.
"From some you can draw your own conclusions," he replied. "They are
perfectly evident. She feels alone, friendless, and almost penniless.
As to the bean sequence, I am inclined to think she knows much about
the Calabar bean--both before and after the use in this case. Perhaps
even she knows of the drug from it. But whether that knowledge is such
that it has given her a first-hand direct acquaintance with the use of
it--well, that is another question.
"So, also, she was guarded in her reply to the words 'bottle' and
'glass.' She remembered the belladonna bottle and eagerly seized on the
innocuous word, 'stopper,' referring to the ground-glass stopper, no
doubt. As to the glass, or glasses, found on Wilford's desk, which must
have been in her mind, because by the words I was planting and leading
up to that, she was equally guarded. To reply 'empty,' could certainly
not be construed as anything but innocuous, she probably thought."
"How about the changes?" I questioned. "Do they show anything that is
evidential?"
Craig considered a moment. "They are, of course, the most important
of all, those changes," he replied, taking the list and checking off
the words at the third column. "She actually changed her answers seven
times, and there was hesitation each time, both on the original answer
and the change in this third column."
Kennedy studied the list before him for some minutes.
"Let's run down this list," he said, finally. "Take the
first--'foot-shoe-shoe.' Nothing there, of course. Wasn't
intended to be. Here--'dream-Lathrop-Lathrop.' We have already
discussed that. Consciously, she refuses to tell me anything in
'struggle-escape-escape' with reference to that dream of hers of her
husband. 'Ship-ocean-ocean'--I put that word in for camouflage and she
seizes it eagerly, falling over herself to answer in her best reaction
time, thus helping me to locate her hesitations.
"Now we come to the crucial word, 'bean.' She hesitated, and in that
moment of hesitation she probably reasoned something like this: 'I
must just get as far from the Calabar bean which they tell me he has
discovered as I can.' So she answered 'baked.' Yet that did not satisfy
her. It wasn't definite enough. Any bean could be baked. So to make it
absolutely explicit she corrected that to 'white bean.' She knows, all
right."
I said nothing, and Kennedy resumed. "'Book' was also to disarm her
and she quickly replied in both cases, 'newspaper.' But 'lion' was
different. I'll wager she thought first of Doctor Lathrop, for she
went right back to the dream and answered 'path'--then, the second
time, perhaps before she knew it, she answered 'beard'--which Lathrop
has--when in fact I'll bet that if we tried it over again the answer
she would give to cover it up would be 'mane.'
"'False-true-true' and 'voyage-Europe-Europe' need not be discussed.
'Money-poor-poor' we've already touched on and 'sad-myself-myself'
falls into the same class--showing her despondency. With
'quarrel-Vail-words' her mind shows all is still fresh in her
recollection. We know pretty well now what her inner feelings were
toward him. However, quite naturally and stereotyped comes the
next--'marry-Vail-Vail.' Of course. Consciously she would never think
of herself marrying any one else--until there is a new deal, so to
speak.
"But now we come to the most significant parts of all--the 'bull'
sequence. The moment she heard that she hesitated, realized that she
must not hesitate, and in a sort of mental panic answered the thing
that came crowding into her mind, the pursuit by the bull and its hot
'breath,' which, you remember, we have already discussed. She must
have regretted allowing herself to say it. That was one reason why I
wanted to try the test over. Sure enough, the second time she corrected
it to something quite innocent connected with the dream--'field.'
Whether she realized it or not, it confirms what the Freud analysis
showed us.
"Then," he went on, quite enthusiastic over the progress of his
association test, "I reassured her by the next words and did not expect
to obtain anything--'sleep-dream-dream' and 'foolish-wise-wise.' The
next brings us squarely back to the subject that interests me most in
my study of her, her real feelings toward Shattuck. I said 'despise.'
At once, instead of associating, she sought the opposite--'love.' Yet
that seemed, perhaps unconsciously, a bit strong. So she softened it
next to 'like.' She did that for her own benefit. She herself would
never betray to the world her own emotions. Therefore 'like' was a
better word to use than 'love.' She has been trying to make them
synonymous--with poor success."
I nodded. Somehow I felt that in her heart of hearts Honora had found
love, whether she admitted it to herself or not. But I realized that
even if she had, she would be the last to betray it to the outside
world if she could help it.
"'Finger-hand-hand'--another of the off-guard words," continued
Kennedy, quickly. "'Friend-none-none'--we have touched on this idea
already. But now we come again to something very important--'serpent.'
At once she answered 'hiss.' Then she changed it and the thought
uppermost was the recollection of the 'crowd' in her dream. Remember
Freud?--a crowd, something secret?
"The most important change of all, though, is the next--'face.' She
knew that already I had questioned her on that point in the dream--the
attributing of human faces to the animals that appeared to her in her
dreams. Perhaps she recollected that she had told Doctor Lathrop once
that the face in the dream resembled that of Shattuck. But she never
would admit that to me. I fenced about with her on that point, both in
the spoken and written dream, without getting a bit of satisfaction
from her. She simply would not admit a thing. Yet I'm convinced that
she told the truth first, that the face was that of Shattuck. However,
with that still in her mind, she hesitates in recalling the dream. I'm
sure her first thought was 'Shattuck.' But she put that out of her mind
in the fifths of a second that elapsed. Instead, she answered just
as quickly as she could, in the hope she had betrayed nothing, the
colorless, 'man.'"
I said nothing. I was always fearful of whither Kennedy's psychanalysis
was tending.
"Even the general 'man' was not explicit enough for her," he proceeded.
"She meant that there should be no mistake as far as I was concerned.
'Man' might include Shattuck. So, on the second questioning she became
more particular in her identification of the 'face.' This time it was
'stranger.' Doubtless she felt that it would eliminate both herself
and Shattuck from consideration. But she was mistaken," he concluded,
triumphantly. "Instead, it really points to Shattuck--and to herself,
too. Unconsciously now, she is really trying to eliminate both herself
and her lover--and she knows that he is that."
Kennedy flipped the list, as he added: "'Bottle-stopper-stopper' and
'glass-empty-empty.' An effort to get away from anything incriminating.
Clever, too."
I said nothing. What did it mean? Was she, after all, guilty--or at
least a party to the crime? The very idea was repugnant to me. I
knew it was of no use to quiz Craig. He was still non-committal and
impartial. At least I hoped he was still impartial to her.
XV
THE CONFLICTING CLUES
It was early the following morning that Doyle burst in on us, very
excited and waving a morning paper.
"Have you read the news?" he demanded, slapping the paper down in front
of Kennedy.
We read at the point where Doyle's forefinger indicated. It was a
personal inserted among the advertisements by Doctor Lathrop himself.
No longer, it announced, would he be responsible for the debts of Vina
Lathrop, his wife. Lathrop had at last definitely broken with her.
Kennedy and I exchanged glances. I recalled the quarrel we had
interrupted on our last visit to them. Evidently that had been the
climax. Nor was I surprised. It had seemed inconceivable to me, since
my conversation with Belle Balcom, that ever Lathrop could be the kind
of man to sit complacently under the growing gossip about Vina. How he
had even waited so long was a mystery, unless to assure himself that
what he heard was the truth. For men of Lathrop's stamp are the last to
condone anything in a wife, no matter what may be their own standards
for themselves.
"Well, at any rate," conjectured Doyle, rather heartlessly, I thought,
"I don't think people will waste a great deal of sympathy on her. It
leaves Vina Lathrop no more than she deserves. The man she tried to use
is dead. The man she sought to capture has turned her down cold. Now
the husband she had no use for, except as a meal ticket, has left her.
I can't see but what that dame had it all coming to her."
Kennedy refrained from comment. "Where has she gone?" he asked merely.
"Do you know?"
Doyle shook his head. "This is the first that I knew that they were
separated," he responded. "No, I haven't any idea where she is."
"What of Doctor Lathrop?"
"He seemed to have taken it very calmly. From what I hear, he hasn't
even interrupted his practice. He stays there at the Drive address
where he has his office. I suppose she has gone to a hotel, or perhaps
out of town. I'll find out for you and have her watched, if you want."
Kennedy nodded, but did not say anything, and I know Doyle's attitude
had not raised that gentleman any higher in Craig's estimation. It all
seemed very strange, and, I felt sure, however, well worth following up.
"Of course, you know we haven't neglected the Wilford telephone wire,"
put in Doyle, sensing that all was not just as it should be, yet not
knowing just why.
"What did you do?"
"Put in a tap. Then I had McCabe and others listening in in relays in
another room."
"Yes?"
"Here's a report of what they got this morning."
Doyle pulled out a sheet of thin paper on which had been typed some
notes.
"There was a call early this morning for her," he said, as he ran
his eye down the sheet. "It was from Shattuck--without a doubt. He's
suspicious. The first part of the conversation shows that, you see."
"Let me read it, if you don't mind?" asked Kennedy.
"Not at all," agreed, Doyle, handing the copy to Craig.
Together we read it.
"Good morning," it began. "Is this you, Honora?"
"Oh, good morning," she replied.
(It was apparent that Mrs. Wilford recognized the voice, but
she was cautious about repeating the name.)
"I've something very important to tell you--but--well, not
over the telephone. Is anybody listening?"
"I don't know. I suppose there is. Everything I do is spied
on and watched. I can't write a letter. I can't go out--"
"I suppose that's right. If you went out you'd be followed.
There's no place that's safe. Probably somebody's getting
an earful of this," came back the other voice. "Still, I've
something very important to say to you. Hang it! I'm going to
drop in and see you, Honora. This isn't an autocracy--yet.
They can't prevent me talking to you in your own home.
Though, I suppose, even that is an offense. However, I'll
call. Keep a stiff upper lip. Don't let them put anything
over on you."
Mrs. Wilford must have tried to laugh it off, for the operative had
drawn a line indicating a laugh and had added merely the repetition of
the words, "Good-by."
Doyle looked at our faces as we read. "I have a scheme," he announced,
craftily. "See what you think of it. There's that dictagraph I put in,
you know."
Kennedy nodded. Although our opinion of Doyle was not of the highest,
it was not impossible that here was a situation that called for no
great amount of cleverness to surmount.
"Want to use it?" he asked.
Kennedy considered.
"I put the thing in right. There's a receiver in every room, and I've
got a sort of central office there. You can listen in on any room you
please by just throwing a switch."
Kennedy assumed a flattering manner. "Just the thing, Doyle," he
acquiesced. "Now look here. This is the way to work it. You go there
first--not to the room, but to the apartment. Stay around there a bit
as though you were looking for something, then leave and take care to
make it certain that they know you are going away some distance and
will be gone some time."
"I get you," agreed Doyle. "Then McCabe--"
"Confound McCabe!" interrupted Kennedy. "He must clear out, too. He's
buzzing around that maid, Celeste. Well, for once it may lead to
something. Give McCabe something to do that will take him away, too.
Then tell him to let Celeste know. Get it? Make it as plain as day
to her that for once you are all off the job. Then she'll think it's
safe--unless she's clever," added Kennedy. "Meanwhile Jameson and I
will slip into that little listening post of yours. Maybe we'll get
something. You can't tell."
"It sounds all right," commented Doyle, loosening a key from a ring.
"There's the key--it's Apartment K where the dictagraph is."
"All right," remarked Kennedy, taking it. "Now go along and get your
end of the plant working. Do everything you can to let her believe that
you've relaxed. I'll get there in half an hour. We can't put this off
too long."
Doyle left with alacrity. For once he could understand Kennedy's method
and approve it.
Half an hour later we entered the Wilford apartment-house, taking care
to do so at a time when the elevator was not down at the ground floor.
As far as we knew, no one interested had seen us come in. That was the
one chance we were forced to take. Its only disadvantage was that it
made it necessary for us to walk up eight flights of stairs, and even
then to go carefully, lest we meet some one in the hall.
However, we found Apartment K at last without any difficulty,
opened the door, and admitted ourselves quietly. Doyle had located
the dictagraph in this room, two floors below the apartment of the
Wilfords', in this vacant suite.
As we entered, I saw that in the room were merely a deal table and a
couple of chairs. On the table lay the box containing the receiving
end of the dictagraph, to which already were fitted the head and ear
pieces for listening. The switch on the table was marked, showing the
various rooms in which the transmitters had been placed and arranged so
that one might follow from one room to another, if necessary. There was
paper for notes on the table, too, but otherwise the room was bare.
Kennedy adjusted the ear-pieces over his head, much as a wireless
operator might have done, and, noting how he did it, I followed suit.
Then we waited. I could hear the clicks as he moved the switch past one
connection after another, trying out the various rooms to see whether
there was any one in them or not.
There was no one in the living-room, but as we listened we could hear
the striking of a small clock on the mantel. From room to room we went,
in imagination, almost as if we had been there, but able to go about
unobserved. Had Honora been clever enough to penetrate our ruse? Or had
Doyle and McCabe executed their end of the scheme clumsily?
We waited impatiently, wondering whether, after all, it was a fools'
errand for us.
Suddenly I could hear a dull, rhythmical noise above the mild buzzing
of the dictagraph.
"What's that?" I asked, almost in a whisper, which was involuntary.
"Footsteps of some one coming down the hall into the library," replied
Kennedy. "I fancied from slight noises which I heard that Honora was in
there, alone, reading perhaps. I thought I caught the rustle of paper."
I could now make out the vibrations more clearly, then the low, almost
inaudible buzz of a voice.
"Now it's plainer," I whispered.
Kennedy frowned. "They can't hear you," he reminded. "Still--don't
forget _I_ can."
I took the broad hint and was silent. Kennedy adjusted the machine for
loudness and gradually I could hear the lowered voices being caught and
played up.
It was Honora speaking to her maid, Celeste, who had just entered.
"You've been down in Mrs. Smith's apartment?" we heard Honora ask.
"Yes, madame."
Kennedy shot a glance at me. Two, then, could play at the same game of
watching. Evidently the maid had evolved the scheme of visiting some
friendly maid in the building, and from that vantage-point watching the
watchers. I trusted that she had seen nothing of us. It could hardly
be that she had--or at least that they suspected the presence of the
dictagraph, or they would not have talked even in whispers, when they
might have written and thus have been safe from being overheard. I was
beginning to be relieved.
"Why did that McCabe tell you he had a day off?" asked Honora,
thoughtfully. "Did he really go?"
"Yes, madame. And the other man hasn't come in. Mr. Doyle was here, but
he didn't stay long. I heard him telephone for a taxicab to take him to
the Grand Central. He seemed to be catching a train and looked as if
prepared to stay away overnight."
"A train?" caught up Honora, eagerly. "Very well, Celeste. When Mr.
Shattuck comes, let him in. Watch. Let me know if you see any one
watching. It--it seems--I can't understand it."
The maid murmured something soothing in French to Honora and departed.
For some time--it seemed an hour--we waited in silence. Finally
Kennedy reached over and touched my elbow. Again I could hear that low
vibration, as of some one walking.
"It's Shattuck--I'll bet," Craig cried, excitedly.
Sure enough, it was, as we soon found out both by his voice and the
conversation.
"You've heard about Vina and the doctor?" he asked, almost as soon as
he entered.
"No," replied Honora. "What about them?"
"They've separated. Lathrop has put a notice in the papers that he will
no longer be responsible for his wife's debts."
Honora uttered a quick exclamation of surprise.
"Rather a nasty thing for the doctor to do, though," commented
Shattuck, then added, hastily, "I mean the way he did it--publicly, in
the papers, and all that sort of thing."
"I suppose so," came reluctantly from Honora's lips.
Kennedy smiled. It was very human, after all. Nor could one blame
Honora for having scant sympathy with the woman who had caused her so
much pain and anguish.
There was silence for several moments, in which I trusted that Shattuck
was duly chastened for having expressed any sympathy for Vina, even in
a casual way.
"Tell me, Vance," she asked, finally, with just a trace of eagerness
showing in her voice in spite of herself. "You never really cared for
her--did you?"