Tommaso Campanells - "The City of the Sun"

Rex Beach - "The Silver Horde"

Gertrude Atherton - "Senator North"

F. Marion Crawford - "Sant' Ilario"

The Dream Doctor

A >> Arthur B. Reeve >> The Dream Doctor




Masterson had risen. His suavity masked a final determination to
say no more.




II

The Soul Analysis


The day was far advanced after this series of very unsatisfactory
interviews. I looked at Kennedy blankly. We seemed to have
uncovered so little that was tangible that I was much surprised to
find that apparently he was well contented with what had happened
in the case so far.

"I shall be busy for a few hours in the laboratory, Walter," he
remarked, as we parted at the subway. "I think, if you have
nothing better to do, that you might employ the time in looking up
some of the gossip about Mrs. Maitland and Masterson, to say
nothing of Dr. Ross," he emphasised. "Drop in after dinner."

There was not much that I could find. Of Mrs. Maitland there was
practically nothing that I already did not know from having seen
her name in the papers. She was a leader in a certain set which
was devoting its activities to various social and moral
propaganda. Masterson's early escapades were notorious even in the
younger smart set in which he had moved, but his years abroad had
mellowed the recollection of them. He had not distinguished
himself in any way since his return to set gossip afloat, nor had
any tales of his doings abroad filtered through to New York
clubland. Dr. Ross, I found to my surprise, was rather better
known than I had supposed, both as a specialist and as a man about
town. He seemed to have risen rapidly in his profession as
physician to the ills of society's nerves.

I was amazed after dinner to find Kennedy doing nothing at all.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Have you struck a snag?"

"No," he replied slowly, "I was only waiting. I told them to be
here between half-past eight and nine."

"Who?" I queried.

"Dr. Leslie," he answered. "He has the authority to compel the
attendance of Mrs. Maitland, Dr. Ross, and Masterson."

The quickness with which he had worked out a case which was, to
me, one of the most inexplicable he had had for a long time, left
me standing speechless.

One by one they dropped in during the next half-hour, and, as
usual, it fell to me to receive them and smooth over the rough
edges which always obtruded at these little enforced parties in
the laboratory.

Dr. Leslie and Dr. Ross were the first to arrive. They had not
come together, but had met at the door. I fancied I saw a touch of
professional jealousy in their manner, at least on the part of Dr.
Ross. Masterson came, as usual ignoring the seriousness of the
matter and accusing us all of conspiring to keep him from the
first night of a light opera which was opening. Mrs. Maitland
followed, the unaccustomed pallor of her face heightened by the
plain black dress. I felt most uncomfortable, as indeed I think
the rest did. She merely inclined her head to Masterson, seemed
almost to avoid the eye of Dr. Ross, glared at Dr. Leslie, and
absolutely ignored me.

Craig had been standing aloof at his laboratory table, beyond a
nod of recognition paying little attention to anything. He seemed
to be in no hurry to begin.

"Great as science is," he commenced, at length, "it is yet far
removed from perfection. There are, for instance, substances so
mysterious, subtle, and dangerous as to set the most delicate
tests and powerful lenses at naught, while they carry death most
horrible in their train."

He could scarcely have chosen his opening words with more effect.

"Chief among them," he proceeded, "are those from nature's own
laboratory. There are some sixty species of serpents, for example,
with deadly venom. Among these, as you doubtless have all heard,
none has brought greater terror to mankind than the cobra-di-
capello, the Naja tripudians of India. It is unnecessary for me to
describe the cobra or to say anything about the countless
thousands who have yielded up their lives to it. I have here a
small quantity of the venom"--he indicated it in a glass beaker.
"It was obtained in New York, and I have tested it on guinea-pigs.
It has lost none of its potency."

I fancied that there was a feeling of relief when Kennedy by his
actions indicated that he was not going to repeat the test.

"This venom," he continued, "dries in the air into a substance
like small scales, soluble in water but not in alcohol. It has
only a slightly acrid taste and odour, and, strange to say, is
inoffensive on the tongue or mucous surfaces, even in considerable
quantities. All we know about it is that in an open wound it is
deadly swift in action."

It was difficult to sit unmoved at the thought that before us, in
only a few grains of the stuff, was enough to kill us all if it
were introduced into a scratch of our skin.

"Until recently chemistry was powerless to solve the enigma, the
microscope to detect its presence, or pathology to explain the
reason for its deadly effect. And even now, about all we know is
that autopsical research reveals absolutely nothing but the
general disorganisation of the blood corpuscles. In fact, such
poisoning is best known by the peculiar symptoms--the vertigo,
weak legs, and falling jaw. The victim is unable to speak or
swallow, but is fully sensible. He has nausea, paralysis, an
accelerated pulse at first followed rapidly by a weakening, with
breath slow and laboured. The pupils are contracted, but react to
the last, and he dies in convulsions like asphyxia. It is both a
blood and a nerve poison."

As Kennedy proceeded, Mrs. Maitland never took her large eyes from
his face.

Kennedy now drew from a large envelope in which he protected it,
the typewritten note which had been found on Maitland. He said
nothing about the "suicide" as he quietly began a new line of
accumulating evidence.

"There is an increasing use of the typewriting machine for the
production of spurious papers," he began, rattling the note
significantly. "It is partly due to the great increase in the use
of the typewriter generally, but more than all is it due to the
erroneous idea that fraudulent typewriting cannot be detected. The
fact is that the typewriter is perhaps a worse means of concealing
identity than is disguised handwriting. It does not afford the
effective protection to the criminal that is supposed. On the
contrary, the typewriting of a fraudulent document may be the
direct means by which it can be traced to its source. First we
have to determine what kind of machine a certain piece of writing
was done with, then what particular machine."

He paused and indicated a number of little instruments on the
table.

"For example," he resumed, "the Lovibond tintometer tells me its
story of the colour of the ink used in the ribbon of the machine
that wrote this note as well as several standard specimens which I
have been able to obtain from three machines on which it might
have been written.

"That leads me to speak of the quality of the paper in this half-
sheet that was found on Mr. Maitland. Sometimes such a half-sheet
may be mated with the other half from which it was torn as
accurately as if the act were performed before your eyes. There
was no such good fortune in this case, but by measurements made by
the vernier micrometer caliper I have found the precise thickness
of several samples of paper as compared to that of the suicide
note. I need hardly add that in thickness and quality, as well as
in the tint of the ribbon, the note points to person as the
author."

No one moved.

"And there are other proofs--unescapable," Kennedy hurried on.
"For instance, I have counted the number of threads to the inch in
the ribbon, as shown by the letters of this note. That also
corresponds to the number in one of the three ribbons."

Kennedy laid down a glass plate peculiarly ruled in little
squares.

"This," he explained, "is an alignment test plate, through which
can be studied accurately the spacing and alignment of typewritten
characters. There are in this pica type ten to the inch
horizontally and six to the inch vertically. That is usual.
Perhaps you are not acquainted with the fact that typewritten
characters are in line both ways, horizontally and vertically.
There are nine possible positions for each character which may be
assumed with reference to one of these little standard squares of
the test plate. You cannot fail to appreciate what an immense
impossibility there is that one machine should duplicate the
variations out of the true which the microscope detects for
several characters on another.

"Not only that, but the faces of many letters inevitably become
broken, worn, battered, as well as out of alignment, or slightly
shifted in their position on the type bar. The type faces are not
flat, but a little concave to conform to the roller. There are
thousands of possible divergences, scars, and deformities in each
machine.

"Such being the case," he concluded, "typewriting has an
individuality like that of the Bertillon system, finger-prints, or
the portrait parle."

He paused, then added quickly: "What machine was it in this case?
I have samples here from that of Dr. Boss, from a machine used by
Mr. Masterson's secretary, and from a machine which was accessible
to both Mr. and Mrs. Maitland."

Kennedy stopped, but he was not yet prepared to relieve the
suspense of two of those whom his investigation would absolve.

"Just one other point," he resumed mercilessly, "a point which a
few years ago would have been inexplicable--if not positively
misleading and productive of actual mistake. I refer to the dreams
of Mrs. Maitland."

I had been expecting it, yet the words startled me. What must they
have done to her? But she kept admirable control of herself.

"Dreams used to be treated very seriously by the ancients, but
until recently modern scientists, rejecting the ideas of the dark
ages, have scouted dreams. To-day, however, we study them
scientifically, for we believe that whatever is, has a reason. Dr.
Ross, I think, is acquainted with the new and remarkable theories
of Dr. Sigmund Freud, of Vienna?"

Dr. Ross nodded. "I dissent vigorously from some of Freud's
conclusions," he hastened.

"Let me state them first," resumed Craig. "Dreams, says Freud, are
very important. They give us the most reliable information
concerning the individual. But that is only possible"--Kennedy
emphasised the point--"if the patient is in entire rapport with
the doctor.

"Now, the dream is not an absurd and senseless jumble, but a
perfect mechanism and has a definite meaning in penetrating the
mind. It is as though we had two streams of thought, one of which
we allow to flow freely, the other of which we are constantly
repressing, pushing back into the subconscious, or unconscious.
This matter of the evolution of our individual mental life is too
long a story to bore you with at such a critical moment.

"But the resistances, the psychic censors of our ideas, are always
active, except in sleep. Then the repressed material comes to the
surface. But the resistances never entirely lose their power, and
the dream shows the material distorted. Seldom does one recognise
his own repressed thoughts or unattained wishes. The dream really
is the guardian of sleep to satisfy the activity of the
unconscious and repressed mental processes that would otherwise
disturb sleep by keeping the censor busy. In the case of a
nightmare the watchman or censor is aroused, finds himself
overpowered, so to speak, and calls on consciousness for help.

"There are three kinds of dreams--those which represent an
unrepressed wish as fulfilled, those that represent the
realisation of a repressed wish in an entirely concealed form, and
those that represent the realisation of a repressed wish in a form
insufficiently or only partially concealed.

"Dreams are not of the future, but of the past, except as they
show striving for unfulfilled wishes. Whatever may be denied in
reality we nevertheless can realise in another way--in our dreams.
And probably more of our daily life, conduct, moods, beliefs than
we think, could be traced to preceding dreams."

Dr. Ross was listening attentively, as Craig turned to him. "This
is perhaps the part of Freud's theory from which you dissent most
strongly. Freud says that as soon as you enter the intimate life
of a patient you begin to find sex in some form. In fact, the best
indication of abnormality would be its absence. Sex is one of the
strongest of human impulses, yet the one subjected to the greatest
repression. For that reason it is the weakest point in our
cultural development. In a normal life, he says, there are no
neuroses. Let me proceed now with what the Freudists call the
psychanalysis, the soul analysis, of Mrs. Maitland."

It was startling in the extreme to consider the possibilities to
which this new science might lead, as he proceeded to illustrate
it.

"Mrs. Maitland," he continued, "your dream of fear was a dream of
what we call the fulfilment of a suppressed wish. Moreover, fear
always denotes a sexual idea underlying the dream. In fact, morbid
anxiety means surely unsatisfied love. The old Greeks knew it. The
gods of fear were born of the goddess of love. Consciously you
feared the death of your husband because unconsciously you wished
it."

It was startling, dramatic, cruel, perhaps, merciless--this
dissecting of the soul of the handsome woman before us; but it had
come to a point where it was necessary to get at the truth.

Mrs. Maitland, hitherto pale, was now flushed and indignant. Yet
the very manner of her indignation showed the truth of the new
psychology of dreams, for, as I learned afterward, people often
become indignant when the Freudists strike what is called the
"main complex."

"There are other motives just as important," protested Dr. Boss.
"Here in America the money motive, ambition--"

"Let me finish," interposed Kennedy. "I want to consider the other
dream also. Fear is equivalent to a wish in this sort of dream. It
also, as I have said, denotes sex. In dreams animals are usually
symbols. Now, in this second dream we find both the bull and the
serpent, from time immemorial, symbols of the continuing of the
life-force. Dreams are always based on experiences or thoughts of
the day preceding the dreams. You, Mrs. Maitland, dreamed of a
man's face on these beasts. There was every chance of having him
suggested to you. You think you hate him. Consciously you reject
him; unconsciously you accept him. Any of the new psychologists
who knows the intimate connection between love and hate, would
understand how that is possible. Love does not extinguish hate; or
hate, love. They repress each other. The opposite sentiment may
very easily grow."

The situation was growing more tense as he proceeded. Was not
Kennedy actually taxing her with loving another?

"The dreamer," he proceeded remorselessly, "is always the
principal actor in a dream, or the dream centres about the dreamer
most intimately. Dreams are personal. We never dream about matters
that really concern others, but ourselves.

"Years ago," he continued, "you suffered what the new
psychologists call a 'psychic trauma'--a soul-wound. You were
engaged, but your censored consciousness rejected the manner of
life of your fiance. In pique you married Price Maitland. But you
never lost your real, subconscious love for another."

He stopped, then added in a low tone that was almost inaudible,
yet which did not call for an answer, "Could you--be honest with
yourself, for you need say not a word aloud--could you always be
sure of yourself in the face of any situation?"

She looked startled. Her ordinarily inscrutable face betrayed
everything, though it was averted from the rest of us and could be
seen only by Kennedy. She knew the truth that she strove to
repress; she was afraid of herself.

"It is dangerous," she murmured, "to be with a person who pays
attention to such little things. If every one were like you, I
would no longer breathe a syllable of my dreams."

She was sobbing now.

What was back of it all? I had heard of the so-called resolution
dreams. I had heard of dreams that kill, of unconscious murder, of
the terrible acts of the subconscious somnambulist of which the
actor has no recollection in the waking state until put under
hypnotism. Was it that which Kennedy was driving at disclosing?

Dr. Ross moved nearer to Mrs. Maitland as if to reassure her.
Craig was studying attentively the effect of his revelation both
on her and on the other faces before him.

Mrs. Maitland, her shoulders bent with the outpouring of the long-
suppressed emotion of the evening and of the tragic day, called
for sympathy which, I could see, Craig would readily give when he
had reached the climax he had planned.

"Kennedy," exclaimed Masterson, pushing aside Dr. Ross, as he
bounded to the side of Mrs. Maitland, unable to restrain himself
longer, "Kennedy, you are a faker--nothing but a damned dream
doctor--in scientific disguise."

"Perhaps," replied Craig, with a quiet curl of the lip. "But the
threads of the typewriter ribbon, the alignment of the letters,
the paper, all the 'fingerprints' of that type-written note of
suicide were those of the machine belonging to the man who caused
the soul-wound, who knew Madeline Maitland's inmost heart better
than herself--because he had heard of Freud undoubtedly, when he
was in Vienna--who knew that he held her real love still, who
posed as a patient of Dr. Ross to learn her secrets as well as to
secure the subtle poison of the cobra. That man, perhaps, merely
brushed against Price Maitland in the crowd, enough to scratch his
hand with the needle, shove the false note into his pocket--
anything to win the woman who he knew loved him, and whom he could
win. Masterson, you are that man!"

The next half hour was crowded kaleidoscopically with events--the
call by Dr. Leslie for the police, the departure of the Coroner
with Masterson in custody, and the efforts of Dr. Ross to calm his
now almost hysterical patient, Mrs. Maitland.

Then a calm seemed to settle down over the old laboratory which
had so often been the scene of such events, tense with human
interest. I could scarcely conceal my amazement, as I watched
Kennedy quietly restoring to their places the pieces of apparatus
he had used.

"What's the matter?" he asked, catching my eye as he paused with
the tintometer in his hand.

"Why," I exclaimed, "that's a fine way to start a month! Here's
just one day gone and you've caught your man. Are you going to
keep that up? If you are--I'll quit and skip to February. I'll
choose the shortest month, if that's the pace!"

"Any month you please," he smiled grimly, as he reluctantly placed
the tintometer in its cabinet.

There was no use. I knew that any other month would have been just
the same.

"Well," I replied weakly, "all I can hope is that every day won't
be as strenuous as this has been. I hope, at least, you will give
me time to make some notes before you start off again."

"Can't say," he answered, still busy returning paraphernalia to
its accustomed place. "I have no control over the cases as they
come to me--except that I fan turn down those that don't interest
me."

"Then," I sighed wearily, "turn down the next one. I must have
rest. I'm going home to sleep."

"Very well," he said, making no move to follow me.

I shook my head doubtfully. It was impossible to force a card on
Kennedy. Instead of showing any disposition to switch off the
laboratory lights, he appeared to be regarding a row of half-
filled test-tubes with the abstraction of a man who has been
interrupted in the midst of an absorbing occupation.

"Good night," I said at length.

"Good night," he echoed mechanically.

I know that he slept that night--at least his bed had been slept
in when I awoke in the morning. But he was gone. But then, it was
not unusual for him, when the fever for work was on him, to
consider even five or fewer hours a night's rest. It made no
difference when I argued with him. The fact that he thrived on it
himself and could justify it by pointing to other scientists was
refutation enough.

Slowly I dressed, breakfasted, and began transcribing what I could
from the hastily jotted down notes of the day before. I knew that
the work, whatever it was, in which he was now engaged must be in
the nature of research, dear to his heart. Otherwise, he would
have left word for me.

No word came from him, however, all day, and I had not only caught
up in my notes, but, my appetite whetted by our first case, had
become hungry for more. In fact I had begun to get a little
worried at the continued silence. A hand on the knob of the door
or a ring of the telephone would hare been a welcome relief. I was
gradually becoming aware of the fact that I liked the excitement
of the life as much as Kennedy did.

I knew it when the sudden sharp tinkle of the telephone set my
heart throbbing almost as quickly as the little bell hammer
buzzed.

"Jameson, for Heaven's sake find Kennedy immediately and bring him
over here to the Novella Beauty Parlour. We've got the worst case
I've been up against in a long time. Dr. Leslie, the coroner, is
here, and says we must not make a move until Kennedy arrives."

I doubt whether in all our long acquaintance I had ever heard
First Deputy O'Connor more wildly excited and apparently more
helpless than he seemed over the telephone that night.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Never mind, never mind. Find Kennedy," he called back almost
brusquely. "It's Miss Blanche Blaisdell, the actress--she's been
found dead here. The thing is an absolute mystery. Now get him,
GET HIM."

It was still early in the evening, and Kennedy had not come in,
nor had he sent any word to our apartment. O'Connor had already
tried the laboratory. As for myself, I had not the slightest idea
where Craig was. I knew the case must be urgent if both the deputy
and the coroner were waiting for him. Still, after half an hour's
vigorous telephoning, I was unable to find a trace of Kennedy in
any of his usual haunts.

In desperation I left a message for him with the hall-boy in case
he called up, jumped into a cab, and rode over to the laboratory,
hoping that some of the care-takers might still be about and might
know something of his whereabouts. The janitor was able to
enlighten me to the extent of telling me that a big limousine had
called for Kennedy an hour or so before, and that he had left in
great haste.

I had given it up as hopeless and had driven back to the apartment
to wait for him, when the hall-boy made a rush at me just as I was
paying my fare.

"Mr. Kennedy on the wire, sir," he cried as he half dragged me
into the hall.

"Walter," almost shouted Kennedy, "I'm over at the Washington
Heights Hospital with Dr. Barron--you remember Barron, in our
class at college? He has a very peculiar case of a poor girl whom
he found wandering on the street and brought here. Most unusual
thing. He came over to the laboratory after me in his car. Yes, I
have the message that you left with the hall-boy. Come up here and
pick me up, and we'll ride right down to the Novella. Goodbye."

I had not stopped to ask questions and prolong the conversation,
knowing as I did the fuming impatience of O'Connor. It was relief
enough to know that Kennedy was located at last.

He was in the psychopathic ward with Barron, as I hurried in. The
girl whom he had mentioned over the telephone was then quietly
sleeping under the influence of an opiate, and they were
discussing the case outside in the hall.

"What do you think of it yourself?" Barron was asking, nodding to
me to join them. Then he added for my enlightenment: "I found this
girl wandering bareheaded in the street. To tell the truth, I
thought at first that she was intoxicated, but a good look showed
me better than that. So I hustled the poor thing into my car and
brought her here. All the way she kept crying over and over:
'Look, don't you see it? She's afire! Her lips shine--they shine,
they shine.' I think the girl is demented and has had some
hallucination."

"Too vivid for a hallucination," remarked Kennedy decisively. "It
was too real to her. Even the opiate couldn't remove the picture,
whatever it was, from her mind until you had given her almost
enough to kill her, normally. No, that wasn't any hallucination.
Now, Walter, I'm ready."




III

THE SYBARITE


We found the Novella Beauty Parlour on the top floor of an office-
building just off Fifth Avenue on a side street not far from
Forty-second Street. A special elevator, elaborately fitted up,
wafted us up with express speed. As the door opened we saw a vista
of dull-green lattices, little gateways hung with roses, windows
of diamond-paned glass get in white wood, rooms with little white
enamelled manicure-tables and chairs, amber lights glowing with
soft incandescence in deep bowers of fireproof tissue flowers.
There was a delightful warmth about the place, and the seductive
scents and delicate odours betokened the haunt of the twentieth-
century Sybarite.

Both O'Connor and Leslie, strangely out of place in the enervating
luxury of the now deserted beauty-parlour, were still waiting for
Kennedy with a grim determination.

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