IX THE ASSOCIATION TEST

"I think I ought to visit Mrs. Wilford, after that," decided Kennedy, the moment Doyle had left. "This case is really resolving itself into a study of that woman, or rather of her hidden personality."

Accordingly he doffed his acid-stained smock which he wore about the laboratory, and we set out for the Wilford apartment.

When we arrived we were not surprised to find Honora in a highly nervous state, really bordering on hysteria, as we had been told by Doyle. McCabe had taken up a less conspicuous place in which to watch her, from a neighboring apartment in which he had got himself placed.

As we met her, it actually seemed as if Honora had turned from Doyle and McCabe to Kennedy.

"Were the dreams I wrote for you all right?" she asked, with a rather concealed anxiety.

"Perfectly satisfactory," replied Kennedy, reassuringly. "I haven't finished with them yet. I'll tell you about them later. They were all right, [124] but I never have enough of them. I suppose Doctor Lathrop used to say that too?"

She nodded. Evidently Craig had won her confidence, in spite of what she must have known about us by this time.

"Are there any other dreams that you have thought of since?" he inquired, pressing his advantage.

She passed her hand over her forehead wearily and did not answer immediately.

"You look tired," Craig remarked, sympathetically. "Why not rest while we talk?"

"Thank you," she murmured.

As he spoke, Kennedy had been arranging the pillows on a chaise-longue. When he finished, she sank into them, resting her head, slightly elevated.

Having discussed the various phases of the psychanalysis before with Kennedy, I knew that he was placing her at her ease, so that nothing foreign might distract her from the free association of ideas.

Kennedy placed himself near her head and motioned to me to stand farther back where she could not see me.

"Avoid all muscular exertion and distraction," he continued. "I want you to concentrate your attention thoroughly. Tell me anything that comes into your mind. Tell all you know of your feelings. Concentrate. Repeat all you think about. Frankly express all the thoughts you have, even though they may be painful and perhaps embarrassing."
[125]

He said this soothingly and she seemed to understand that much depended upon her answers and the fact that she did not try to force her ideas.

"Tell me—of just what you are thinking," he pursued.

Dreamily she closed her eyes, as though allowing her thoughts to wander.

"I am thinking," she replied, slowly, still with her eyes closed, "of a time just after Vail and I were married."

She choked back the trace of a sob in her voice.

"It is a dream," she went on. "I seem to be alone, crossing the fields—it is at the country estate where we spent our honeymoon. I see a figure ahead of me. It is Vail. But each time that I get close to him—he has disappeared into the forest that skirts the field."

She stopped.

"Now—I see the figure—a figure—but—it is not Vail—no, it is another man—I do not know him—with another woman—not myself."

She had opened her eyes as though the day-dream was at an end, but before she finished the sentence she had deliberately closed them again.

From what I learned of the method of psychanalysis, I recalled that it was the gaps and hesitations which were considered most important in arriving at the truth regarding the cause of any nervous trouble.

More than that, as she had said the words, it was easy to read into her remarks the fact that she knew [126] there had been another woman in Wilford's life. It had wounded her deeply, in spite of the fact—as Kennedy had demonstrated by the Freud theory—that she really had not cared as greatly for Wilford as even she herself had thought.

Even to me it was plain in this day-dream recollection that the man throughout it was really Vail. She knew it was Vail and she knew that woman with him was Vina. But in her wish that it should not be so, she had unconsciously changed the face on the "figure" she saw. It was her endeavor to preserve what she desired. She had unconsciously striven not to have it her husband, as it was not herself she saw in the vision with him.

"Go on," urged Kennedy, gently. "Is there anything else that comes into your mind?"

"Yes" she murmured, dreamily. "I am thinking about some of Vail's clients."

"About any of them in particular?" hastened Kennedy, eager to catch the fleeting thought before she might either lose or conceal it. "About any one contemplating a suit for divorce?"

"Y-yes," she replied before she realized it, her eyes opening as she came out of the half-relaxed state again, recalled by the sound of Kennedy's voice.

"What were you thinking about that person?"

"That he was devoting entirely too much time to that sort of practice," she answered, quickly, avoiding a direct reply. "I can remember when [127] I first knew him that he was in a fair way to be a very successful corporation lawyer. But the money and the cases seemed to come to him—the divorce cases, I mean."

Kennedy ignored the last, explanatory part of the remark, as though he penetrated that it disguised something. He did not wish to put her on guard.

"Devoting too much time to the practice?" he queried, "or do you mean you think he was devoting too much time and attention to the particular client?"

Honora was thoroughly on guard now, in spite of him. Had she known, she probably would never have allowed herself to be led along until Kennedy struck on such an important "complex." But, quite evidently, she knew nothing of the Freud theory and trusted that her own control of herself was sufficient. And, indeed, it would have been had it not been that the dreams betrayed so much, that even she did not realize, to one who understood the theory. She did not answer.

"Who is it that you were thinking about?" persisted Craig, refusing to be turned aside.

"Oh, no one in particular," she replied, quickly, with a petulant little shrug.

Yet it was plain now that she had been thinking of some one, both in the last remarks and perhaps in the day-dreams she had repeated. She was now trying to hide the name from us.

By this time, also, Honora was sitting bolt-up-right [128] on the chaise-longue, staring straight at Kennedy, as though amazed at her own frankness and a bit afraid of what it had led her into.

"Was it Vina Lathrop?" he asked, suddenly.

"No—no!" she denied, emphatically.

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 [129] 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 [130] 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 [131] 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 [132] 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 [133] 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.
[134]

"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 [135] 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, [136] 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."
[137]

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."