(1961) The Chapman Report (52 page)

“If Sarah’s-if Sam’s cousin gets here-I’ll be free all day. Any time.”

“I’m tied up in the morning. Chapman’s on television, and Horace, Cass, and I have orders to watch. But after lunch-some time after lunch, okay?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

He smiled tiredly. “So will I.”

When Paul entered the small, tasteful room that served as the lobby of the Villa Neapolis, there was no one behind the reception desk. Paul made his way around the counter to the letter slots, found his key, then noticed a patch of white in the deep recess of his slot. He felt inside and withdrew the envelope. It bore his name in script, the handwriting slanted in a style that seemed familiar.

Puzzled, Paul returned to the lobby, tearing open the envelope as he did so. He extracted the letter, unfolded it, noticed that the sheet was the motel stationery, then glanced down at the signature. Slowly, he began to read, and then quickly read to the end.

Having finished, he realized that the hand that held the letter was trembling. The numbness that had formed in his intestines now opened, like an umbrella, through his whole system.

“Oh, Mr. Radford-“

He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the night clerk, with the facial characteristics of a Jivaro shrunken head and the aspect of an old jockey, had returned.

“I was just telling the reporters-they’re all in the bar waiting-that Dr. Chapman’s still out with the police. I’m sure sorry about it, Mr. Radford. It must be a bad blow. That Mr. Miller was sure a fine gentleman. But people who don’t know those mountain roads shouldn’t be driving them. Bet there’s at least three accidents like that every few months up there. They ought to do something about it. I guess you must feel pretty shaken up.”

“Yes,” said Paul.

“Like I said, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” said Paul.

The clerk turned on the patio lights and busied himself with the ledger. Paul moved to the doorway, beneath the overhead lamp, and held up the letter again, and reread it.

Dear Paul,

I’ve just done an insane thing, and I have to pay for it. One of the women I interviewed last week, she got under my skin because she was a sinner, and she had children. I’ve been watching her. This morning, I met her. I wanted to make love to her, but. she wouldn’t. She’s been sleeping with another man every day. I kept after her. I don’t remember details. I forced her to make love. She fell down and died. It was an accident, but fat chance I’d have of proving it. The woman’s name is Sarah Goldsmith. I’m taking the Dodge and driving somewhere and going off a bridge or cliff, whatever is easiest. It’s the best thing, and I’ll be glad. The Grand Master can pay for the car out of my GI insurance. I never liked him, and I don’t care if this blows the project to hell, because all this emphasis on sex is no good. Make them cremate me. See you one year soon.

Cass Miller June 7th

Paul folded the letter carefully, and then, holding it, he remained standing in the doorway, gazing out at the swimming pool. At first, the full significance of Cass’s last testament did not penetrate. His concern was with the fact of Cass dead by suicide. The suddenness of it made the fact unacceptable. Yet the fact existed, verified by the desk clerk. Somewhere in the city, Dr. Chapman had identified a basket of bones and shredded flesh.

In life, he had not cared for Cass, Paul remembered, but now Cass was no more, and of the dead say nothing but good, think nothing but good. It was all part of a civilized game. He thought, You like everyone after they are dead, because you are alive and therefore superior, so you like them in the same way you like the poor, the deformed, the minority, the very old, because you are up and they are down, and fair is fair. Poor, bitter, driven Cass. Then, finally, came the shock of significance. Poor, bitter, driven Sarah. Poor Sam.

For a moment, he realized, he was the Omnipotent. In one morgue lay Cass Miller. In another, or the same, lay Sarah Goldsmith. And behind the bars of a cell, soon to be as dead as they, a corpulent tradesman named Sam. Yet here, high on a garish hill, stood he, Paul Radford, author, scientist, with the paper in hand that would release to the world of living and superiority, a broken human being doomed to die.

At first, he had not paid attention to the sedan moving up the steep road, and then, as it turned into the guest parking lot, he discerned that it was white and black and a squad car of the Los Angeles police. He watched Dr. Chapman emerge, speaking animatedly, gesturing, and the man behind the wheel remained behind the wheel, but another in the back seat, in plain clothes, emerged to join Dr. Chapman and walk with him toward the patio.

As they came nearer, Paul’s fingers tightened on the letter. He issued his last ukase as the Omnipotent: Yes, I, Paul Radford, with the holy paper, do decree that you, Sam Goldsmith, may have the gift of life, and because of this, that you, George G. Chapman, must have the black kerchief of death. An eye for an eye, the relentless Hebraic dictum. Sarah on the kitchen floor to be balanced on the scale by the corpse of Dr. Chapman’s report.

They had passed before Paul without seeing him. Dr. Chapman listened as the big-shouldered detective spoke. Paul caught a snatch of it.

“… since the report on the car shows no internal tampering or defective gear. Yet, those witnesses insist the car swerved sharply. You’re positive that he did not drink?”

“Only socially, socially. He was temperate to an extreme. Take alcohol tests. You’ll-“

“Tests of what’s left?”

They were out of Paul’s vision, but they had apparently halted at the foot of the veranda stairs.

“Well, you’ll have to take my word,” said Dr. Chapman. “Mr. Miller did not drink.”

“Have you any reason to believe that he was despondent?”

“On the contrary. When I saw him last night, he was cheerful. He looked forward to getting back home-to the school, that is.”

“Well, it beats me. There were no skid marks, so I can’t say if he lost control or was even traveling at excessive speed. I suppose it was an accident.”

“I’m positive of that.”

“Those are dangerous roads. Sometimes a gopher jumps out or a prairie dog, and your instinct is to avoid it, and there’s no apron, no leeway, nowhere to go but down. Well, thanks, Dr. Chapman. Sorry to put you through all this. Part of the job, you understand. Routine. You’ve been very co-operative.”

“I owe it to Mr. Miller.”

“Yes. Too bad, but that’s that. I’ll have the accident report typed up and send over a copy tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Paul remained immobile, watching the detective slowly pass before him again, retracing his steps toward the squad car, studying

a pad in his hand. Paul shook himself and stepped into the patio. Dr. Chapman was midway up the wooden stairs. Paul called to him. “Doctor-“

“There you are, Paul.” He came rapidly down the stairs again. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you. You’ve heard, haven’t you?” Paul nodded. “Yes. Cass told me.” “What?” It wasn’t an accident.” He handed the letter to Dr. Chapman, who accepted it without looking at it, his eyes still trying to read the expression on Paul’s face. Unhurriedly, he opened Cass’s note, scanned it, and then, just as Paul had done, he reread it slowly. When he raised his head to Paul, his face was gray. “I don’t believe it,” he said.

“It’s true,” said Paul. “There’s a woman named Sarah Goldsmith who was killed this morning. You can check with the police.”

“That doesn’t mean he did it. He was a mental case. We can all testify to that. He may have heard and-like those compulsive confessions-decided he wanted the notoriety.” “To enjoy after he committed suicide?” “He didn’t commit suicide. He’s one of our associates-” “Doctor, he was well enough to work side by side with us, all these months, and right here. I think the police will accept his confession as truthful.”

Dr. Chapman looked fixedly at Paul, with a certain growing horror. “The police-“

“I’m afraid so. There’s another man’s life involved. The police are holding Mrs. Goldsmith’s husband for the crime Cass committed.” Dr. Chapman nodded dumbly. “That note will free the man,” said Paul. Dr. Chapman nodded again. “I’ll get it to the right-” Paul reached out and pulled the letter from Dr. Chapman’s fingers. “The letter was addressed to me. I think I’d better take care of it.” ‘What are you going to do, Paul?”

Paul looked off toward the guest parking lot, and Dr. Chapman followed the direction of his gaze. The detective had reached the squad car and was opening the front door. “I’m going to turn it over to them,” said Paul. “Paul, wait-let’s not be-let’s consider the-“

But Paul had already gone, swiftly, in long strides, hurrying to intercept the squad car. Not once did he look back. He knew that there was a crack in the armor, at last, and he did not want to see it, now or ever.

THE ALARM ERUPTED with a brassy scream. Paul Radford’s hand fumbled for the clock, clamped over it, pressing down the button and suffocating the reveille.

It was nine-thirty, Sunday morning.

For a while, allowing consciousness to rise, Paul lay motionless on his back. The only evidences of hangover were a thin wire of. pressure inside his forehead and a tongue that had been coated with dry gravel. He sat up, unbuttoning his pajama top, and then he remembered the day.

Leaving the bed, he took up the telephone in one hand, removed the receiver with the other, and dialed the desk.

“Good morning,” a woman’s voice said.

“This is Mr. Radford. Room twenty-seven. Do you have the Sunday papers?”

“Only one left, sir. The other is sold out.”

“Can you send it up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Also, tomato juice, two eggs sunnyside up, coffee black.”

“Will that be all?”

“Don’t forget the paper.”

“Very well.”

After returning the telephone to the table between the beds, Paul untied the cord of his pajama trousers, let them drop to the floor, lifted one foot free, then, with the other, kicked the trousers upward into his hands. He folded both halves of his pajamas and set them inside his open wardrobe, already packed. He checked the apparel he had hung out for his last day in The Briars. Gray sharkskin suit. Check. Blue dacron shirt and knit tie. Check. Shorts on the chair, socks and shoes on the floor. Check, check. He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, shave, and shower.

When he had finished the cold shower and begun to dry himself with the abrasive surface of the white Turkish towel, he finally reviewed the events of the night before.

He had intercepted the two detectives in time, introduced himself, shown them Cass Miller’s letter, and replied to a dozen questions. They had been excited about the letter, grateful to Dr. Chapman and himself, and had driven down the hill recklessly to deliver the confession to their chief and, Paul assumed, eventually to the district attorney. Returning to the pool, he realized at once that Dr. Chapman was nowhere in sight. Later, having packed, Paul had learned from the desk clerk that Dr. Chapman had departed in the Ford, leaving word for the press that he would not have a statement until the following day. The series of violent and sad events that had warped the entire day had finally had their effect on Paul, and he had gone off to the Beverly Wilshire bar in Kathleen’s car. During a long evening, he had consumed five Scotches and fallen into a conversation with an Englishman on the next stool who had recited the history of Mount Everest, being particularly affecting in the passages pertaining to Andrew Irvine and George Leigh-Mallery. At midnight, Paul had returned to the motel and slept at once.

Now, thoroughly dried, and dressing, Paul wondered if this last day in The Briars were not the last day of Dr. Chapman’s entire project. He tried to imagine the consequences of Cass Miller’s letter. Certainly Sam Goldsmith would be released by now-to what?- and the press notified. The newspapers, this Sunday morning, would be full of the sensation. He imagined the headlines: “Dr. Chapman Protege Goes Sex Mad; Slays L.A. Housewife … Mother of Two Murdered by Sex Crazed Chapman Associate … Chapman Co-Worker Commits Suicide after Killing Woman He Had Interviewed … Chapman Sex Expert Strangles Society Matron; Destroys Himself … ‘She Was a Sinner!’ Cries Dr. Chapman Colleague after Garroting Actress.”

Paul had no doubt that already the hound dogs of virtue and retribution had been loosed on Dr. Chapman. A telegram from the Zollman Institute, withdrawing. A phone call from the president of Reardon, suspending. A letter from the publisher, canceling. The coded questionnaires of more than three thousand married women would rest, untouched, in the bank safes until the curiosity of another age found them. A Sex History of the American Married Female would join the population of creative works stillborn, like Lord Byron’s Memoirs and Sir Richard Burton’s The Scented Garden. And millions of women, young and old, unmarried and married, awaiting liberation from fear and ignorance, would continue to stagnate in that darker part of the soul. Yet, Paul told himself, other great men had survived lurid scandals. He tried to recollect their names. Henry Ward Beecher for one, yes. But not Shoeless Joe Jackson. Say it ain’t so, Joe. No, not Shoeless Joe.

Paul felt sorry for Dr. Chapman, and as sorry for himself, for having been the agent of his mentor’s destruction. Judas had done it for money, unforgivable, and all those atomic traitors, Fuchs, the rest, for love and money, unforgivable, but at least he had done it to save an innocent life. You’re welcome, Sam Goldsmith.

He was dressed, except for his shoes, when the knocking on the door came. He opened the door, and a bald-headed dining-room waiter entered with the breakfast tray and the thick Sunday newspaper. Paul signed the bill, gave the waiter a half dollar, and closed the door after him.

Alone again, he peeled through the endless sections beneath the colored comics, located the news section, and yanked it free. Drinking his orange juice, he opened the front page wide on his lap.

The banner headline: President Says Berlin something.

Photograph and caption: Singer Elopes Las Vegas.

Smaller headline: Earthquake Razes Mexican something.