The Interpretation of Murder [Paperback]

Experienced readers of crime and thrillers tend to stifle a yawn these days when they encounter a mountain of hype about a new book or author. But the fevered word of mouth that has been generated by Jed Rubenfeld’s The Interpretation of Murder is, for once, justified. This is a remarkably ambitious book, taking on a powerful suspenseful narrative, assiduously researched historical detail and a brilliant evocation of time and character. It's not surprising that the book has already been sold in 20 different countries, and is already something of an international publishing phenomenon. The secret, of course, is in plotting, and few carry this off as adroitly as the author does here. But there is some wonderful historical detail here also, and a conjuring up of real-life characters that is very intelligently done.

Despite the outward success of his visit to the USA, Sigmund Freud always spoke as if some trauma had befallen him there. He blamed the country for physical ailments that afflicted him long before his visit. Freud’s biographers have been bemused by his reaction, wondering whether some terrible unknown event might have happened in America that could explain this. The Interpretation of Murder is strikingly written literary thriller constructed around Freud’s American visit. An attractive young debutante is discovered bound, whipped and strangled in a luxurious New York apartment and another society beauty narrowly escapes the same fate. But nothing about the attacks--or the victims--is as it seems.
--Barry Forshaw --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

'A spectacular debut... fiendishly clever... a fascinating recreation of a golden age in which much of the New York of today is recognisable'

(Guardian )

'Rubenfeld writes beautifully, his style skillfully evoking the period, as he weaves all these threads into an intriguing mystery with a fascinating glimpse into the early days of psychoanalysis'

(Sunday Telegraph )

'An unusually intelligent novel which entertains, informs and intrigues on several levels'

(The Times )

`Richly evocative'

'An unusually intelligent novel which entertains, informs and
intrigues on several levels'

`Rubenfeld is a good descriptive writer and talented plotter. The
Interpretation of Murder is a great read'

A dazzling literary thriller - the story of Sigmund Freud assisting a Manhattan murder investigation. Think SHADOW OF THE WIND meets THE HISTORIAN.

THE INTERPRETATION OF MURDER is an inventive tour de force inspired by Sigmund Freud's 1909 visit to America, accompanied by protégé and rival Carl Jung. When a wealthy young debutante is discovered bound, whipped and strangled in a luxurious apartment overlooking the city, and another society beauty narrowly escapes the same fate, the mayor of New York calls upon Freud to use his revolutionary new ideas to help the surviving victim recover her memory of the attack, and solve the crime. But nothing about the attacks - or about the surviving victim, Nora - is quite as it seems. And there are those in very high places determined to stop the truth coming out, and Freud's startling theories taking root on American soil.

The Interpretation of Murder is an intricately plotted literary thriller
based on true events - the story of Sigmund Freud's 1909 visit to New York.
Around this kernel of fact, Jed Rubenfeld has spun a spectacularly
entertaining fiction centred upon murder. As fiendishly ingenious a
thriller as you could hope to read, The Interpretation of Murder cuts to
the heart of what it is that makes Freud's ideas so fascinating and hugely
engaging. It's also the ultimate New York story: the construction of the
skyscrapers, glittering high society salons, Chinatown opium dens, brothels
and asylums, all have their part to play in his dazzling vision of
Manhattan. A compelling tour through the dark places of a city, and of the
human mind, The Interpretation of Murder is a storytelling triumph, and
marks the debut of a major new talent.

Currently the Robert R. Slaughter Professor of Law at Yale University, Jed Rubenfeld has been described as 'one of the most elegant legal writers of his generation'. He lives in New Haven, Connecticut, with his wife and two daughters. His first novel, THE INTERPRETATION OF MURDER, published in thirty-six territories, was the bestselling UK adult paperback title of 2007, and winner of the Richard and Judy Bookclub. THE DEATH INSTINCT is his second novel.

At the beginning of the twentieth century, an architectural
paroxysm shook New York City. Gigantic towers called skyscrapers soared up
one after the other, higher than anything built by the hand of man before.
At a ribbon-cutting on Liberty Street in 1908, the top hats applauded as
Mayor McClellan declared the forty-seven-story redbrick and bluestone
Singer Building the world's tallest structure. Eighteen months later, the
mayor had to repeat the same ceremony at the fifty-story Metropolitan Life
tower on Twenty-fourth Street. But even then, they were already breaking
ground for Mr Woolworth's staggering fifty-eight-story ziggurat back
downtown.
On every block, enormous steel-beam skeletons appeared where empty lots
had been the day before. The smash and scream of steam shovels never
ceased. Capital and speculation drove everything, releasing fantastic
energies, distinctly American and individualistic.
The Balmoral, on the Boulevard - New Yorkers at the time referred to
Broadway from Fifty-ninth to 155th Street as the Boulevard - was one of the
grand new edifices. Its very existence was a gamble. In 1909, the very rich
still lived in houses, not apartments. They `kept' apartments for short or
seasonal stays in the city, but they failed to comprehend how anybody could
actually live in one. The Balmoral was a bet: that the rich could be
induced to change their minds if the accommodations were sufficiently
opulent.
The Balmoral rose seventeen stories, higher and grander than any
apartment building - any residential building - had ever climbed before.
Its four wings occupied an entire city block. Its lobby, where seals
cavorted in a Roman fountain, shone with white Carrera marble. Chandeliers
in every apartment sparkled with Murano glass. The smallest dwelling had
eight rooms; the largest boasted fourteen bedrooms, seven baths, a grand
ballroom with a twenty-foot ceiling, and full maid's service. This rented
for the appalling sum of $495 a month.
The Balmoral's exterior belonged to the Beaux-Arts school at its most
flamboyant. Crowning the roofline were a quartet of thirteen-foot
floor-to-ceiling glass-paned concrete arches, one at each corner of the
property. Because these great arched windows gave off the top floor's four
master bedrooms, someone standing outside them could have had a very
compromising view inside. On Sunday night, August 29, the view from outside
the Alabaster Wing would have been shocking indeed. A slender young woman
was standing within, lit by a dozen flickering candles, barely clothed,
exquisitely proportioned, her wrists tied together over her head, and her
throat embraced by another binding, a man's white silk tie, which a strong
hand was making tight, exceedingly tight, causing her to choke.
Her entire body glistened in the unbearable August heat. Her long legs
were bare, as were her arms. Her elegant shoulders were nearly bare as
well. The girl's consciousness was fading. She tried to speak. There was a
question she had to ask. It was there; it was gone. Then she had it again.
`My name,' she whispered. `What is my name?'