(1969) The Seven Minutes

by Irving Wallace

  A spattering of applause had begun, but Olivia St Clair gestured for it to stop so that she might be heard.

  ‘The unanswered questions are now answered, and they are answered by the only person on earth who can speak for J J Jadway. According to the French publisher, Jadway wrote the book because he was desperate to have money. Jadway lived a dissolute and. immoral life on the Left Bank of Paris, dissipating his savings on dri nk and drugs and his latest mistress. Yes, a mistress he had taken, and whom he was able to keep happy only by lavishing gifts upon her. According to Leroux, the pornographer repaid her for her devotion, repaid her by using her as the model for his lascivious, lewd, shameless heroine in The Seven Minutes. This poor creature’s real name was Cassie McGraw, and she was made to perform as the Cathleen of that filthy novel. When Jadway had no more money, he dashed off this narrative of unremitting salaciousness for the underground press to get his hands on quick and easy cash. But Jadway had come from a religious background, and after his book had been published he saw the harm that the book was doing to innocent people. At last he realized the depths of his depravity and the extent of his mortal sin. And tonight Christian Leroux has confirmed what our District Attorney had already learned from another reliable source - that in his final moment of sanity J J Jadway understood the horrendous crime he had perpetrated on his fellow men, and he knew that his soul could be saved only if he renounced the disgusting and dangerous book. And so, out of remorse for what he had done, J J Jadway committed suicide!’

  There were gaspings and mutterings throughout the ballroom.

  Mrs St Clair pitched her voice higher. ‘If the author of the book could kill himself out of shame for having written it, he deserves to have us unite our energies in order to kill this monstrous work for him so that he can know salvation. To help us do this, to help our District Attorney do this, Christian Leroux is on his way to Los Angeles to appear as a witness for the prosecution. His courage and

  his appearance assure us of a historic victory in a court of law, and we will honor Mr Leroux as our guest speaker at our very next victory rally. Thank you, friends and members!’

  The ballroom had become a bedlam of shouts and cheers.

  Mike Barrett had heard the announcement in stunned silence. Every word and sentence from the stage had fallen upon him like a meat cleaver. Now, all but beaten, he found his instinct for survival shoring up his resistance to the announcement, suggesting the impossibility of its being true. But he had to know for certain.

  He gripped Faye’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he said harshly.

  They broke through the milling crowd into the foyer.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Faye wanted to know.

  ‘I can’t believe what she was saying,’ said Barrett, marching Faye with him toward the lobby. “This can’t be. Six hours ago we had Christian Leroux locked up as our witness and ready to defend Jadway’s motives and his book, and suddenly Duncan claims to have him and to have him vilifying Jadway and the book. I’ve got to find out the truth.’

  They had reached the middle of the lobby. ‘Look, Faye,’ he said, ‘you wait here, have a cigarette. I won’t be long. I’ve got to call Abe Zelkin. He should be able to confirm or deny.’

  Barrett hurried off in search of a phone booth, and when he found one he enclosed himself in it, deposited the necessary coins, and dialed Abe Zelkin.

  ‘I was staying up, waiting for you to get home,’ said Zelkin in a voice as overwrought as Barrett’s own. ‘I had to speak to you. We just heard from that detective, Dubois, in France. He just rang us. Do you know what? Our star witness, our Christian Leroux, he’s disappeared. No one knows where in the devil he is.’

  Barrett closed his eyes and slumped back against the side of the booth. Then it was true. ‘Abe, I know where that bastard is. He’s on his way to Elmo Duncan.’

  ‘You’re kidding ? Oh, no, don’t say it.’

  ‘Abe, I’m saying it. I’m still at the Hilton. You know what I just heard announced?’ Painfully he recounted every detail of Olivia St Clair’s public statement.

  When he was through, Barrett added wearily, ‘I don’t know how it could have happened. We had him hidden, and under another name, and he was agreeable to our terms. Only one possibility occurs to me. Our offer made Leroux realize his own value in the marketplace. The minute our man left him alone, Leroux probably got in touch with Duncan and offered to sell out for a higher bid.’

  ‘No, Mike. Dubois was clever enough to think of that. Dubois checked with the hotel concierge, telephone operator, manager. From the moment Dubois checked him into that hotel in Antibes, Leroux never left his room, sent no letters, messages, cables, made no outgoing calls and received no calls. All the hotel could report was that a few hours before Dubois went by to pick him up for us a

  Frenchman asked to see Leroux in his room. Shortly after, Leroux checked out of the hotel, leaving with his visitor, and disappeared.’

  Barrett had another thought. ‘There’s only one explanation, then. Dubois. Our private detective. He knew he had hot goods. He could have sold us out.’

  ‘Absolutely not, Mike,’ said Zelkin. ‘I brought that up with Phil Sanford and Leo just before you called. They both said no. Sanford had given us the name of his father’s French representative, and it was he who recommended Dubois to us. He vouched for Dubois. A man of long-standing integrity. Incorruptible. No, I doubt if it was Dubois.’

  ‘It was someone, something,’ protested Barrett. ‘One minute he’s here. Presto. The next minute he’s melted away. One minute we have him, the next minute they have him. There’s got to be an explanation, I don’t mind dealing with events I can see and handle - win, lose, or draw - but I’m helpless When I have to deal with the supernatural.’

  ‘No use wasting a single erg of energy on speculation. I’m not interested in what happened after the fact. It happened. We lost a round.’

  ‘That was round fifteen, Abe.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. Let’s get some sleep and see what we can salvage tomorrow.’

  When Barrett wearily returned to the lobby, Faye tamped out her cigarette and got up from the sofa to meet him.

  She looked at him worriedly. ‘Was Mrs St Clair’s announcement true, Mike?’

  ‘It was true.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mike. Is this real bad for you?’

  ‘Disastrous.’

  ‘Does this make your case hopeless?’

  ‘As things stand now - yes - yes - I’m afraid so.’

  Faye linked her arm in his. “Then, Mike, will you listen to me? I’m the one person who can help you. Please, listen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just two little words.’ She paused. ‘Get out.’

  He pulled away and peered down at her. ‘Get out? You mean quit?’

  T mean get out of it while you can. I can admire a man more for having the sense to abandon a sinking ship than for blindly insisting it isn’t sinking and then going down with.it. You knew from the start that both Dad and I felt you were on the wrong side, mixed up with all that dirty publicity and all kinds of slimy, unprincipled people. You don’t belong in that kind of case. But I wanted you to pay your debt, be satisfied, so I went along. Now I think you’ve done everything you can do. You’ve discharged your debt to Sanford. There’s a limit to what you owe him. You don’t have to commit suicide for him. You’ve said it’s become a hopeless cause.

  So for my sake, for Dad’s, show that you’re a man, big enough to know when to reject a lost cause. Promise me you’ll do it now, before that horrible trial begins.’ He looked at her a moment longer, and then he said, ‘No, Faye.’ ‘You’re being unreasonably stubborn. Weren’t you listening to me? I said you’ve paid your debt to Sanford -‘

  ‘It’s not Sanford that I give a damn about. It’s Jadway. You see, I’ve read his book. I know Jadway couldn’t have been all those things Leroux says he was. I’m convinced Leroux is a fake and a liar. There’s only one problem, my dear. How in the hell am I
going to prove it?’

  Mike Barrett steered his convertible into the entrance of the parking lot behind Mount Sinai Hospital, stopped the car to drop a quarter into the meter, waited for the striped gate to creak upward, and then drove into the lot. It was the afternoon visiting hour, and the lot was almost filled to capacity. In the far lane Barrett saw a car backing out, and he sped toward the vacated slot and eased his convertible into it.

  The dashboard clock told him that it was ten minutes after three o’clock. He was in no hurry. There would be time enough to learn what more he could of Sheri Moore, the victim of rape, who still lay in a coma on a hospital bed on the fifth floor.

  Barrett wanted an interlude in which to gather his wits about him. He sought his shell pipe, packed it, passed a flame over it, and remained seated behind the wheel, smoking, thinking, seeking some degree of optimism. As his mind returned to last night, his feeling of gloom remained unrelieved. The loss of Christian Leroux had been a terrible blow, and he had not yet recovered from it. None of them had.

  Usually the morning of a new day held out the promise of some bright and buoyant expectation. But had he been awakened at dawn by Dr Pangloss and Mr Micawber together, plying him with pep pills, he knew that his mood could not have been improved. His mood, like the bleak day itself, was overcast and gray. The morning paper had done little to lift his spirits. There had been a front-page story reporting Duncan’s speech and Mrs St Clair’s sensational announcement, as well as later news that Leroux would be arriving from France tomorrow to await his appearance as a witness for the State.

  In the office there had been no fresh breaks or leads. Continuing in the effort to turn up something helpful about the author of The Seven Minutes, Kimura had reported that he was still on the trail of Norman C. Quandt, the pornography specialist who had acquired publication rights to the novel from Leroux and resold them to Phil Sanford. Despite the knowledge that Quandt had relocated himself in Southern California, Kimura had been unable to find out more about him.

  Lunch had been better. For Barrett, it had given the day, if not hope, then direction at least.

  He had dined at the bustling, celebrity-filled Bistro restaurant in Beverly Hills with Dr Yale Finegood, a lively young psychiatrist

  who had once worked at the Reiss-Davis Child Study Center, but who was now on his own. Finegood, a specialist in the problems of disturbed adolescents, felt that there was no connection between reading a book or viewing a motion picture and committing an act of violence. In fact, he pointed out, many of his colleagues credited pornographic books with keeping down the crime rate, since reading provided an outlet in the form of fantasies of sexual cravings which might otherwise be acted out. Dr Finegood quoted a study that had been made by a pair of research criminologists, Eleanor and Sheldon Glueck, a study of one thousand delinquent boys in and around Boston. What the Gluecks had learned was that the real factors contributing to their subjects’ delinquency were unhappy family relationships, lack of education, conflict with the prevailing culture, inherent psychological problems, and bad social habits such as drug addiction, the use of alcohol, sexual promiscuity. The reading of pornography was no significant factor.

  ‘What specifically might provoke a quiet, shy twenty-one-year-old boy from an upper-class family to become sexually violent?’ said Dr Finegood, echoing Barrett’s question. ‘Every individual case varies, but sexual violence is usually a reflection of sexual incompetence. Rape removes the rapist’s feeling of constant inferiority. A boy coming out of a middle-or upper-class environment who commits rape may simply be rebeling against years of repressed resentment toward his mother or father. Most likely the rapist may have had a domineering parent or parents, or, conversely, he may have had an indifferent or inadequate parent or parents. Show me a boy made submissive by a father he fears, and you will be showing me a young man with the potential to assert himself one day by an act of violence in which he can degrade his victim.’

  When their lunch had ended, and they were leaving the Bistro, Dr Finegood gave Barrett one last piece of advice. ‘The importance of information on Jadway to your case I can understand. At the same time, don’t overlook the importance of the actors in that rape case. I know you’ve been frustrated in your efforts to learn more about Jerry Griffith, his family, his friends. Nevertheless, I would suggest you redouble your efforts to obtain more information. If you do, I feel certain you’ll unearth other reasons for Jerry’s behavior - and then, perhaps, you can convince a jury that Jad-way’s book was not the motivating force behind the young man’s criminal outburst. And if I were you, I would go even further. I’d lose no time in trying to find out something about the victim, that eighteen-year-old girl whom Jerry raped. You’d be surprised what an investigation of both the rapist and the raped can bring to light. I’m not predicting that this will lead to anything. I’m merely advising you to leave no stone unturned. Well, good luck. Do keep me fully informed. I looked forward to taking the stand in this trial, even though the prosecution, I hear, will have a psychiatrist

  no less prominent than Dr Roger Trimble to contradict me. But I think I can hold my own.’

  After lunch, Barrett had decided to take Dr Finegood’s advice. He would have a brief look at the life and times of eighteen-year-old Sheri Moore. He doubted whether anything would come of it, but he must turn this stone also.

  The newspaper file in the office had supplied only sketchy information on the victim. Sheri Moore was the youngest of five children. Her parents were long divorced. Her father, Howard Moore, was an engineer at North American Rockwell Corporation, and he lived in Santa Monica. Sheri was a freshman at Santa Monica College. She shared an apartment with a girl friend, Darlene Nelson, on Doheny Drive in West Hollywood. The last two facts alone puzzled Barrett. Why would anyone live in West Hollywood if she was attending school in Santa Monica? It was a long commuting trip to make daily, especially for a girl who owned no automobile. The solution to this, as well as more detailed biographical information, might best be found at Sheri’s school. And so Barrett had set out to visit Santa Monica College.

  There had been only one surprise, and this had come from the records in the administration department. Despite the press stories, Sheri Moore was no longer a student in good standing at the college. After receiving passing grades during the first semester of her freshman year, she had become increasingly erratic about attending classes regularly and handing in papers, and during her second term her tests had consequently been poor. One month before becoming the victim of rape, she had dropped out of Santa Monica College.

  Barrett had been introduced to a dozen of Sheri’s former classmates, young men and women who were either gathered in raucous conversational groups before the college cafeteria and bookstore or basking in the sun on the grassy slopes of the campus. None of Barrett’s questions had elicited an objective or detailed response. One girl, an honor student, recalled that Sheri had become bored with school and had spoken of a career as a model or actress, and that then she had quite school to move to West Hollywood, where she hoped to find a part-time job that would support future acting lessons. A football player had mumbled something about Sheri’s being ‘a fun kid, a swinger.’ But listening to the other students, any visitor would have thought that they were speaking of Joan of Arc. The fact that one of their own had become the victim of a crime, was seriously injured and still lay in critical condition, seemed to have the effect of making most of them speak of her with reverence, extolling her virtues. Perhaps, Barrett had told himself as he had left the campus, he was being unfairly cynical. Perhaps Sheri Moore had indeed been virtue personified.

  Now, on the final lap of his inquiry into the life and times of Sheri Moore, he had arrived at Mount Sinai Hospital.

  After locking the door of the convertible, Barrett crossed die parking lot, went up the steps quickly, and entered the rear corridor that led to the downstairs lobby and to the elevators. He caught an elevator to the fifth floor and went directly t
o the nurses’ counter.

  A Negro registered nurse greeted him from her desk.

  Td like to inquire about Sheri Moore,’ said Barrett. ‘I’m a friend.’

  ‘She’s doing just about as well as can be expected,’ said the nurse. ‘She’s still in a coma.’ Momentarily she searched for the chart, then gave up. ‘She had a comfortable night. Do you want to see her? Because if you do, I must tell you visitors are restricted to the names on a list the doctor left. If you want me to check it for your name-‘

  ‘No, never mind. I only wanted to find out how she’s doing.’ He hesitated. ‘Are there many people on that visitors’ list?’

  Now it was the nurse’s turn to be hesitant. ‘You’re not from the press are you?’

  “The press? God, no, I’m a friend who -‘

  ‘We can’t be too careful. The reporters are around here all the time. Well, I suppose there’s nothing wrong in telling you that Sheri’s relatives and her one closest girl friend are allowed to see her. In fact, her father and her girl friend, the one she was rooming with, Darlene Nelson, they’re in her room right now.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Barrett. ‘I wonder whether you could let me know when Miss Nelson leaves. I’ll be in the waiting room.’

  ‘Well, no need your having to wait for that. Darlene’s just sitting there. I’d be glad to fetch her for you, Mr…’ She drew out the ‘Mister,’ turning it into a question.

  ‘Barrett,’ he said. ‘Mr Barrett. Thank you ever so much.’

  He walked down the hall and turned into the visitors’ waiting room, a small alcove furnished with chintz and wicker and a television set. The waiting room was unoccupied. Barrett halted before an ashtray, emptied his pipe, refilled it, and circled the room, smoking, going over Darlene Nelson’s connection with the rape case. It was Darlene, he remembered, who had returned to their apartment on Doheny Drive, to discover Sheri Moore sprawled on the bedroom floor, bloodied and only half conscious. It was then that Darlene had heard Sheri murmur that she had been raped, and after that Sheri had lost consciousness. It was Darlene who had summoned the ambulance and the police.