“And Dr. Maudsley,” I asked quickly, “do you think it is through him or in spite of him?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. About those words,” he continued, “what did you make of the list and the answers?”
I had made nothing and said so, rather quickly.
“Those,” he explained, “were words selected and arranged to strike almost all the common complexes in analyzing and diagnosing. You’d think any intelligent person could give a fluent answer to them, perhaps a misleading answer. But try it yourself, Walter. You’ll find you can’t. You may start all right, but not all the words will be reacted to in the same time or with the same smoothness and ease. Yet, like the expressions of a dream, they often seem senseless. But they have a meaning as soon as they are ‘psychanalyzed.’ All the mistakes in answering the second time, for example, have a reason, if we can only get at it. They are not arbitrary answers, but betray the inmost subconscious thoughts, those things marked, split off from consciousness and repressed into the unconscious. Associations, like dreams, never lie. You may try to conceal the emotions and unconscious actions, but you can’t.”
I listened, fascinated by Kennedy’s explanation.
“Anyone can see that that woman has something on her mind besides the heroin habit. It may be that she is trying to shake the habit off in order to do it; it may be that she seeks relief from her thoughts by refuge in the habit; and it may be that some one has purposely caused her to contract this new habit in the guise of throwing off an old. The only way by which to find out is to study the case.”
He paused. He had me keenly on edge, but I knew that he was not yet in a position to answer his queries positively.
“Now I found,” he went on, “that the religious complexes were extremely few; as I expected the erotic were many. If you will look over the three lists you will find something queer about every such word as, ‘child, ‘to marry,’ ‘bride,’ ‘to lie,’ ‘stork,’ and so on. We’re on the right track. That woman does know something about that child.”
“My eye catches the words ‘to sin,’ ‘to fall,’ ‘pure,’ and others,” I remarked, glancing over the list.
“Yes, there’s something there, too. I got the hint for the drug from her hesitation over ‘needle’ and ‘white.’ But the main complex has to do with words relating to that child and to love. In short, I think we are going to find it to be the reverse of the rule of the French, that it will be a case of ‘cherchez l’homme.’”
Early the next day Kennedy, after a night of studying over the case, journeyed up to the sanitarium again. We found Dr. Klemm eager to meet us.
“What is it?” asked Kennedy, equally eager.
“I overheard some surprising things over the vocaphone,” he hastened. “Hazleton called. Why, there must have been some wild orgies in that precious set of theirs, and, would you believe it, many of them seem to have been at what Dr. Maudsley calls his ‘stable studio,’ a den he has fixed up artistically over his garage on a side street.”
“Indeed?”
“I couldn’t get it all, but I did hear her repeating over and over to Hazleton, ‘Aren’t you all mine? Aren’t you all mine?’ There must be some vague jealousy lurking in the heart of that ardent woman. I can’t figure it out.”
“I’d like to see her again,” remarked Kennedy. “Will you ask her if I may?”
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE ENDS OF JUSTICE
A few minutes later we were in the sitting room of her suite. She received us rather ungraciously, I thought.
“Do you feel any better?” asked Kennedy.
“No,” she replied curtly. “Excuse me for a moment. I wish to see that maid of mine. Clarisse!”
She had hardly left the room when Kennedy was on his feet. The bottle of white tablets, nearly empty, was still on the table. I saw him take some very fine white powder and dust it quickly over the bottle. It seemed to adhere, and from his pocket he quickly drew a piece of what seemed to be specially prepared paper, laid it over the bottle where the powder adhered, fitting it over the curves. He withdrew it quickly, for outside we heard her light step, returning. I am sure she either saw or suspected that Kennedy had been touching the bottle of tablets, for there was a look of startled fear on her face.
“Then you do not feel like continuing the tests we abandoned last night?” asked Kennedy, apparently not noticing her look.
“No, I do not,” she almost snapped. “You—you are detectives. Mrs. Hazleton has sent you.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Hazleton has not sent us,” insisted Kennedy, never for an instant showing his surprise at her mention of the name.
“You are. You can tell her, you can tell everybody. I’ll tell— I’ll tell myself. I won’t wait. That child is mine—mine—not hers. Now—go!”
Veronica Haversham on the stage never towered in a fit of passion as she did now in real life, as her ungovernable feelings broke forth tempestuously on us.
I was astounded, bewildered at the revelation, the possibilities in those simple words, “The child is mine.” For a moment I was stunned. Then as the full meaning dawned on me I wondered in a flood of consciousness whether it was true. Was it the product of her drug-disordered brain? Had her desperate love for Hazleton produced a hallucination?
Kennedy, silent, saw that the case demanded quick action. I shall never forget the breathless ride down from the sanitarium to the Hazleton house on Riverside Drive.
“Mrs. Hazleton,” he cried, as we hurried in, “you will pardon me for this unceremonious intrusion, but it is most important. May I trouble you to place your fingers on this paper—so?”
He held out to her a piece of the prepared paper. She looked at him once, then saw from his face that he was not to be questioned. Almost tremulously she did as he said, saying not a word. I wondered whether she knew the story of Veronica, or whether so far only hints of it had been brought to her.
“Thank you,” he said quickly. “Now, if I may see Morton?”
It was the first time we had seen the baby about whom the rapidly thickening events were crowding. He was a perfect specimen of well-cared-for, scientific infant.
Kennedy took the little chubby fingers playfully in his own. He seemed at once to win the child’s confidence, though he may have violated scientific rules. One by one he pressed the little fingers on the paper, until little Morton crowed with delight as one little piggy after another “went to market.” He had deserted thousands of dollars’ worth of toys just to play with the simple piece of paper Kennedy had brought with him. As I looked at him, I thought of what Kennedy had said at the start. Perhaps this innocent child was not to be envied after all. I could hardly restrain my excitement over the astounding situation which had suddenly developed.
“That will do,” announced Kennedy finally, carelessly folding up the paper and slipping it into his pocket. “You must excuse me now.”
“You see,”