(1961) The Chapman Report

by Irving Wallace

  He had her about the waist, off her feet. She tried to tear at him, tried to block, but he continued with her toward the blackness. There was no sound but their breathing and his feet biting the gravel, and then there was a shaft of light behind, a door slamming, other feet.

  Wash dropped her and whirled about, too late to lift his hands, as Horace’s fist exploded in his vision. The blow sent Wash reeling backward, crashing into the side of the car. Grotesquely, he hung there, then slipped down to the ground. Horace was over him again. Groggily, Wash pawed for his legs, missed, and received the full impact of Horace’s shoe on his jaw.

  By the time Wash had brought himself to a sitting position, the pair of them were beyond the bright area and out of sight. Wash touched his mouth, a meaty mass, then considered the palm of his hand that now held his blood and a broken tooth. He blinked incredulously. All this, and she wasn’t even a good lay.

  When Horace reached the car, Naomi’s hysteria had subsided. Until then, she had clutched him desperately, and wept, to the bewilderment of the parking attendant and a passing couple, and not once had she spoken a coherent word.

  Paul was waiting with the car door open.

  “Is she all right, Horace?”

  “I think so, I caught up with them in the parking lot. I really slugged him.”

  Horace worked her into the front seat, then pushed in beside her. “We’d better move,” said Paul. “We’ll have the whole gang on our necks.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Horace. “One of the men in the orchestra told me where she was. For twenty bucks.”

  Later, as they were driving alongside the bridle path through Beverly Hills, after she had wiped her eyes with Horace’s handkerchief, and blown her nose, Naomi spoke at last.

  She pointed to the torn knees of her stockings. “Look at me,” she said.

  ‘You’re all right. That’s all that counts,” said Horace.

  “Never leave me, Horace-never, never leave me.”

  “Never, I promise.”

  “I’ll do what you say-whatever you say. Get me an analyst, put me in a place, a sanitarium-have them help me, Horace. I want to be well, that’s all I want.”

  He brought her close to him. “Everything’s going to be all right,

  darling. From now on. Just leave it to me.” Her voice was muffled. “You won’t think of the other?” Horace’s eyes were full. But he tried to smile. “What other?” he asked.

  After leaving Horace and Naomi at her house, Paul returned to the Villa Neapolis.

  Now, trudging between the stately royal palms to the motel entrance, Paul thought once more of Kathleen. The incident in the car had been curious. As curious as her temper the first night he had met her. As curious, in fact, as the spontaneous kiss she had favored him with as he left her several hours before. And then, so long ago it seemed, the sex history she had recited at him through the screen. No truer woman on all the earth existed, of that he was certain, yet her history had been incredibly false. Or credibly false? It depended on the point of view. She seemed to care for him, that was evident, and he knew the churning excitement he felt this moment, thinking of her. Yet, between them, stood an unidentifiable barrier, as real as the cane and walnut folding screen that had separated them the day of the interview. Perhaps between every woman and man, there rose this screen, defying total intimacy. Perhaps between every woman and the entire world, there was a screen, always… .

  At the reception desk, the night clerk, who resembled a retired jockey, gave him his key and a sealed envelope. Puzzled, Paul opened the envelope and extracted a penciled note.

  “Paul,” it read, “Ackerman just called and is coming over. I’m anxious that you be present during this meeting. Whenever you return, come to my room. Urgent. G.G.C.”

  The wall clock above the desk showed the small hand between the twelve and the one, nearer the one, and the big hand on the ten. Twelve-fifty. Could Dr. Chapman possibly want to see him at this hour?

  Paul went outside, past the placid pool, then mounted the wooden staircase. At the door to Dr. Chapman’s suite, he paused and listened. There were voices behind the door. He knocked.

  The door was opened by Dr. Chapman, whose casual blue smoking jacket did nothing to offset the tension at the corners of his mouth.

  “Ah, Paul,” said Dr. Chapman. “I’m glad you made it before we broke up. You know Emil Ackerman-” he indicated the portly Ackerman, and then waved his hand at a small, slender young man, of college age, with a high head of hair combed back, bulging eyes, and a sallow face, slumped in the chair across the living room- “and his nephew, Mr. Sidney Ackerman.”

  Paul crossed to shake Ackerman’s genial hand, and then went to the nephew, who tentatively made an effort to rise, and Paul shook his hand, too.

  “Have a seat, Paul,” said Dr. Chapman. “We’re almost finished.”

  Paul took a straight chair from the wall, carried it closer to the group, and sat down.

  “I like to have Paul in on everything I do,” Dr. Chapman was telling Ackerman. “He has good judgment.”

  “Maybe you better bring him up to date, George,” said Emil Ackerman.

  Dr. Chapman bobbed his head. ”‘Yes, I intend to.” He shifted on the big chair toward Paul. “You know, of course, how deeply interested Emil is in our work.” ‘Yes,” said Paul, “I do.”

  Ackerman beamed. The nephew, Sidney, scratched his scalp and worked his upper lip over his yellow buck teeth.

  “I think, in a way, he’s appointed himself my West Coast representative,” said Dr. Chapman. Ackerman chuckled, pleased.

  “At any rate, Paul, to make a long story short, Emil has been looking out for our interests and keeping an eye on the activities of his nephew Sidney.” “I’ve guided him every step of the way,” said Ackerman. “I’m sure you have, Emil,” Dr. Chapman agreed, projecting admiration. He sought Paul’s attention once more. “Sidney’s a sociology major at the university here. He graduates in two weeks. The young man’s ambition is to be associated with our project. Emil feels he can be most useful to us.” “I’m positive of it,” said Ackerman.

  “I’ve tried to explain,” Dr. Chapman continued to Paul, “that our roster is temporarily filled, but, of course, we’ll be expanding very soon. He knows we have an impressive waiting list, many eminent scientists with excellent records-still, as Emil has pointed out, we dare not shut our eyes to fresh young minds, eager young newcomers.”

  “Plenty of rookies have helped make pennant winners,” said Ackerman.

  “Indeed they have,” agreed Dr. Chapman. Then to Paul: “I’ve been briefing Sidney on our operation, and I’ve been inquiring into his background. And that’s where we stand now.” He looked across the room at Sidney. “Perhaps you’d like to ask some questions of us?”

  Sidney hoisted himself erect, crossed his legs, and then uncrossed them. He picked at his scalp nervously. “I read your books,” he said.

  Dr. Chapman nodded paternally. “Good.”

  “I’ve been wondering-what’s your next project?”

  “We haven’t determined that yet, Sidney,” said Dr. Chapman. “We have several under consideration. We may undertake the whole subject of motherhood-a survey of mothers.”

  “You mean, a lot of old women?”

  “Not exactly. There are millions of young mothers, too-in fact, some very young ones. After that, we may tackle married men.”

  “I’d like to be on the women survey,” Sidney said flatly. He grinned, revealing the protruding yellow teeth. “That’s normal, isn’t it, Doctor?”

  The good-natured social expression on Dr. Chapman’s face hardened. He moved his bulk uneasily in his chair. “Yes,” he said, “yes, I suppose it is.”

  Paul tried to watch Sidney’s face without too obviously staring. Perhaps he was being unfair, but he felt that he had detected a bright, leering quality in the young man’s bulging eyes. There was about his manner, his voice, the rancid air of unhealthy sex. His questi
ons reflected the voyeur, not the scientist. Paul had seen him before, in many places, lounging before small-town drugstores to comment on girls’ bosoms and legs, telling a dirty story as he cued the tip of his pool stick in some shadowed billiard parlor, standing at a magazine rack devouring the semi-nude reproductions of models and starlets. Paul decided: He thinks our project is like attending a daily stag film.

  “Uncle Emil will tell you,” Sidney was saying, “I’ve always made a study of women. I’ve read everything that exists-history, biology, sociology.”

  “That’s right, George,” Ackerman said to Dr. Chapman.

  “I want to be part of your great movement,” Sidney went on. “I think when you can get women to talk about sexual intercourse, that’s an important advance. Like the survey you’re just finishing-it’s like the bachelor one you wrote about, isn’t it?”

  “Yes” said Dr. Chapman quietly. “Well, I think that’s something,” said Sidney. He scratched his scalp with his nails. “Imagine getting women to talk about … about how they feel. They do, don’t they?” “Most of them,” said Dr. Chapman grimly, After ten more minutes, the meeting was concluded. Dr. Chapman and Paul walked Ackerman and Sidney down to the guest parking area, beside the top of the road, where Ackerman’s shining Cadillac stood alone, Before getting into the car, Ackerman looked at Dr. Chapman. “Well, George,” he said, “what do you think?” “You’re sure you want him in this kind of work?” asked Dr. Chapman. “It’s drudgery and exacting, you know.” “It’s what he wants. That’s the important thing, I think. En-“Mmm. All right, Emil. Let me see what I can work out. I’ll do After the Cadillac had gone down the hill, Paul and Dr. Chap man remained standing by the roadside, in the cool night, Paul hated to look at Dr. Chapman, but then he did. He knew what his eyes sought: the crack in the armor. As he had waited to find it in Dr. Jonas, and had not, he waited now for sight of it in the giant figure who, heretofore, had been invincible. He waited, his chest constricted by the suspense. He waited, “Imagine the nerve of him,” Dr. Chapman said angrily, “trying to foist that snot-nosed pervert on us. Did you hear the little fiend? He thinks we’re staging sex circuses and films.” He took Paul’s arm and guided him toward the motel. “Remember, I once told you Ackerman’s in the business of making people beholden to him. Well, this time, I assure you, he’s not getting paid off. I’d sooner junk, the whole project than take that little brute on. I’ll placate Uncle Emil with a letter that will be a masterpiece of generalities. I’ll tell him we’re keeping Sidney on file. He’s got as much chance of getting out of that file as out of a time capsule buried in concrete. Right, Paul?” “Right,” said Paul, and even on this moonless night, he could see that Dr. Chapman’s armor shone brighter than ever.

  TERESA HARNISH had just swung the convertible to the curbing, preparatory to delivering Geoffrey to the art shop, when the announcer on the car radio began the weather forecast.

  Geoffrey had opened the door to leave, but now, one foot still on the convertible floor board, he listened to the forecast. “… although today, Friday, June fifth, promises to be the hottest June fifth in twenty years, with the temperature reaching a high of ninety-five or thereabouts, there is every likelihood that by nightfall the temperature will drop to the low seventies.”

  Teresa turned off the radio, impatient for Geoffrey to leave. The forecast had made her aware of her discomfort. The boiling air had the consistency of an updraft from a blast furnace, dry and scorching. Geoffrey stepped out of the car and squinted toward the sun.

  “A real sizzler,” he said. “Thank God, it’ll cool down tonight Maybe we should serve drinks and the buffet in the patio?” Teresa’s head jerked toward him, revealing an expression of surprise.

  The expression on his wife’s face puzzled Geoffrey. “Anything the matter, Teresa?” he asked.

  What had astounded Teresa was Geoffrey’s sudden reminder that they were giving a large party this evening. Since the day before yesterday, the event had left her mind completely. Even since breakfast, an hour ago, she had been preoccupied with the greater event eight hours off. Yet, suddenly, at almost the same time, she was expected to perform as wife and hostess.

  Geoffrey was still gazing at her curiously. Quickly, danger signals blinked red warnings across her mind. In the recent past, the Dark Ages, parties and dinners had been her most devoted activity and favorite social pleasure. To have forgotten this would invite grave suspicion.

  Don’t just sit, she told herself; say something, anything. She a something, anything. “There’s nothing the matter,” she said, “except I’ve been so busy arranging the dinner, I completely forgot to rent a costume.”

  “Didn’t you decide to cancel the costume part of it?”

  She remembered that she had, indeed, decided just that, but had

  neglected to inform her guests of it. “No, I changed my mind again. I decided it would be more fun to keep the status quo-women in costume, men optional.” “Well, fine. You’ve got the whole day to find something. What

  do you intend to wear?” “I haven’t had a moment till now to think about it.” “What about the get-up you wore at that Waterton supper party you know, New Year’s Eve-three years ago?” “George Sand?”

  “Absolutely. It was most becoming. Isn’t she the person you wish you had been when Dr. Chapman interviewed you?” “Of course not. She’s too masculine. Still, it’s an idea. The only thing that bothers me is that I’ll be repeating myself; it won’t seem very imaginative.”

  “Oh, hell, half the crowd hasn’t seen it before.” He dug the shop keys out of his linen jacket. “Do as you wish. I suppose you’ll want me home early?” “No,” Teresa answered quickly, “that won’t be necessary.” “Well, scoop me up no later than six, anyway. I’ll want time to shower and dress.”

  As he turned toward the shop, she called out after him. “Dearest, is it dreadful of me to ask you to take a taxi home tonight? I’m so afraid I’ll be up to my ears in Mrs. Symonds and Mr, Jefferson.” Mrs. Symonds was the German cateress who prepared the hors d’oeuvres and dinner for a fee of twenty-five dollars, and Mr. Jefferson was the elderly, solemn, colored bartender. “Very well,” said Geoffrey. “Don’t forget the cigar.”

  “George Sand.”

  After Geoffrey had unlocked the front door of the shop and disappeared inside, Teresa remained a minute longer before the yellow curb, trying to gather her wits about her. She had promised to meet Ed Krasowski, in his beach apartment, at five-thirty. She had invited ten couples to come to drinks and dinner at seven. That meant the first arrivals would appear at seven-fifteen. The Goldsmiths were always early.

  Teresa calculated the time. Between five-thirty and seven-fifteen lay-lay, now wasn’t that clever of her?-one hour and forty-five minutes. Subtracting the thirty minutes it would take her to drive back to The Briars from the beach, there was left one hour and fifteen minutes. This was insufficient for what she had to offer, and for what Ed would give her. Grand romance could not be constricted by the clock. What to do? Common sense dictated that she should call him at once and postpone the assignation for another day-tomorrow or-no, that would be Sunday, and Geoffrey would be home-tomorrow or the beginning of next week. But now the ardor that burned within, across her chest, across her loins, was too demanding, too insistent, too immediate. Common sense was decimated and routed. And at once she was happy again.

  It would be today, this afternoon, exactly as planned, she decided. She would simply be late to her own party. It was even amusing. George Sand had not been without similar audacity. But a foolproof excuse must be invented. What, possibly? She recalled that at the time she had conceived the party, she had considered as the piece de resistance of her dinner buffet a Danish ham baked inside a bread. She had featured this gourmet’s delight once before, and it had been a gastronomic sensation and earned her gratifying compliments, but this time she had rejected it finally because the bakery was a forty-minute drive out Ventura Boulevard in the horrible valley. Th
e valley would be an oven today, but the exotic Danish ham seemed to make Ed Krasowski possible.

  Now, then, the modus operandi. She would telephone the bakery, place a rush order, and pick the ham up before noon. She would smuggle it into the house, to preserve it from the heat, and then return it to the luggage compartment of her car before going to Ed’s. At five o’clock, departing for the beach, she would leave a note for Geoffrey: Have decided on Danish ham in bread and gone to valley to pick it up. Will be back shortly. Everything under control. In haste, Teresa.

  Then, thinking, more modus, more operandi. She and Ed would have consummated their love-it was now “their” love-by seven-thirty. It would probably be difficult parting from Ed, she recognized that; he would want her to stay the night, the evening, any-way, and she would want it, too, but she would be firm. Poor deal boy. Well, there was a life of nights ahead. She would assure him Anyway, anyway, seven-thirty, yes. She would drive to the first pub lie phone. By then there would be guests, and Geoffrey would be worried ill. She would inform him that, returning with the ham in bread, the car had stalled in the middle of nowhere and was this moment being repaired by the nearest gas station. Carburetor trouble sounded the right note. She knew nothing about what

  made vehicles go, but Geoffrey knew less. She would reassure Geoffrey of her return within a half hour and promise to be on the receiving line, in costume (with cigar), within fifteen minutes of her return. There, now. Easy? Teresa shifted the gear, and the idling convertible was propelled forward into the day, as was Teresa herself. As the day grew older, Teresa was never unmindful of the oppressive sun. Everywhere she went, an afternoon newspaper met her with the boldfaced streamer: angelenos swelter in record heat wave. There was a large photograph, beneath, of a leggy model, generally unsheathed, dancing gratefully beneath a hose of water applied by two briefly clad starlets, their latest motion-picture credits advertised in the caption. Teresa disliked heat because it undid neat-ness of person. But this day, she resented it less. Somehow, tropical weather seemed appropriate for her passion, although, most likely, Ed’s lovely beach place would be cooled by the nearness of the lapping waves. Teresa moved steadily, efficiently, toward five o’clock. From a stifling glass booth beside a filling station, she telephoned the valley bakery and ordered the ham in bread for one o’clock. Then she telephoned Mrs. Symonds to advise her to include the ham in bread on her menu and ignore the cold cuts. Leaving the booth, she remembered the original purpose of her meeting with Ed. She located an art-supply store, intending to purchase easel, canvas, and paints, and then thought this camouflage too elaborate and foolish, and settled for charcoal and pad.