The Manticore

Dr. von Haller looked younger than I; about thirty-eight, I judged, for though her expression was youthful there was a little gray in her hair. Fine face; rather big features but not coarse. Excellent nose, aquiline if one wished to be complimentary but verging on the hooky if not. Large mouth and nice teeth, white but not American-white. Beautiful eyes, brown to go with her hair. Pleasant, low voice and a not quite perfect command of colloquial English. Slight accent. Clothes unremarkable, neither fashionable nor dowdy, in the manner Caroline calls "classic." Altogether a person to inspire confidence. But then, so am I, and I know all the professional tricks of how that is done. Keep quiet and let the client do all the talking; don't make suggestions – let the client unburden himself; watch him for revealing fidgets. She was doing all these things, but so was I. The result was a very stilted conversation, for a while.

"And it was the murder of your father that decided you to come here for treatment?"

"Doesn"t it seem enough?"

"The death of his father is always a critical moment in a man's life, but usually he has time to make psychological preparation for it. The father grows old, relinquishes his claims on life, is manifestly preparing for death. A violent death is certainly a severe shock. But then, you knew your father must die sometime, didn't you?"

"I suppose so. I don't remember ever thinking about it."

"How old was he?"

"Seventy."

"Hardly a premature death. The psalmist's span."

"But this was murder."

"Who murdered him?"

"I don't know. Nobody knows. He was driven, or drove himself, off a dock in Toronto harbour. When his car was raised he was found clutching the steering-wheel so tightly that they had to pry his hands from it. His eyes were wide open, and there was a stone in his mouth."

"A stone?"

"Yes. This stone."

I held it out to her, lying on the silk handkerchief in which I carried it. Exhibit A in the case of the murder of Boy Staunton: a piece of Canadian pink granite about the size and shape of a hen's egg.

She examined it carefully. Then, slowly, she pushed it into her own mouth, and looked solemnly at me. Or was it solemnly? Was there a glint in her eye? I don't know. I was far too startled by what she had done to tell. Then she took it out, wiped it very carefully on her handkerchief, and gave it back.

"Yes; it could be done," she said.

"You're a cool customer," said I.

"Yes. This is a very cool profession, Mr. Staunton. Tell me, did no one suggest that your father might have committed suicide?"

"Certainly not. Utterly unlike him. Anyhow, why does your mind turn immediately to that? I told you he was murdered."

"But no evidence of murder was found."

"How do you know?"

"I had Dr. Tschudi's report about you, and I asked the librarian at our Neue Zurcher Zeitung to check their archive. They did report your father's death, you know; he had connections with several Swiss banks. The report was necessarily discreet and brief, but it seemed that suicide was the generally accepted explanation."

"He was murdered."

"Tschudi's report suggests you think your stepmother had something to do with it."

"Yes, yes; but not directly. She destroyed him. She made him unhappy and unlike himself. I never suggested she drove him off the dock. She murdered him psychologically -"

"Really? I had the impression you didn't think much of psychology, Mr. Staunton."

"Psychology plays a great part in my profession. I am rather a well-known criminal lawyer – or have you checked that, too? I have to know something about the way people function. Without a pretty shrewd psychological sense I couldn't do what I do, which is to worm things out of people they don't want to tell. That's your job, too, isn't it?"

"No. My job is to listen to people say things they very badly want to tell but are afraid nobody else will understand. You use psychology as an offensive weapon in the interest of justice. I use it as a cure. So keen a lawyer as yourself will appreciate the difference. You have shown you do. You think your stepmother murdered your father psychologically, but you don't think that would be enough to drive him to suicide. Well – I have known of such things. But if she was not the real murderer, who do you think it might have been?"

"Whoever put the stone in his mouth."

"Oh, come, Mr. Staunton, nobody could put that stone in a man's mouth against his will without breaking his teeth and creating great evidence of violence. I have tried it. Have you? No, I thought you hadn't. Your father must have put it there himself."

"Why?"

"Perhaps somebody told him to do it. Somebody he could not or did not wish to disobey."

"Ridiculous. Nobody could make Father do anything he didn't want to do."

"Perhaps he wanted to do this. Perhaps he wanted to die. People do, you know."

"He loved life. He was the most vital person I have ever known."

"Even after your stepmother had murdered him psychologically?"