(1961) The Chapman Report

by Irving Wallace

  Geoffrey rolled up the dancers. “I’m tired of him. I’m going to unload the whole bunch. I think I should get three times what we paid.” He lifted himself to his feet. “Every artist sooner or later becomes a guest who’s stayed too long,” he said with regret.

  “I don’t think people will ever tire of Da Vinci or Shakespeare. Minor artists come and go. Lautrec was a curiosity. The classicists remain.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” said Geoffrey. “Shakespeare fell into disrepute and neglect for a long period after his death. His revival is modern. He may tumble again. Even disappear.”

  For once, Teresa did not feel like pursuing this sort of thing further. “Maybe you’re right,” she said wearily. “I need a bath.”

  “One second.” He was at the desk. “This came in the mail.” He handed her the post card. “The brink of adventure,” he added.

  She read it. “Wednesday-ten-thirty to eleven-forty-five.”

  “I want a full report, play-by-play.”

  “Silly, what could I report that you didn’t already know? You collaborated in everything I’m going to say.”

  “Well, now, I didn’t think of that.” He seemed self-satisfied, and momentarily she resented it. “The next few weeks should be exciting,” he went on. “A community catharsis.”

  “It’s healthy,” she said to say something, and was at once perplexed at her indifference to the Chapman interview. But then another thought came, and grew, and she began to feel better. “You know what might be fun?” She considered it.

  “What?”

  “A party-a big party. We haven’t had one in a month. A celebration of the new freedom. A costume affair. Something like-I have it-a come-as-the-person-you-would-like-to-have-been-when-Dr. Chapman-interviewed-you. Wouldn’t it be mad fun?”

  “Marvelous, Teresa. We have a load of pay-backs to tick off, anyway.”

  For Teresa, the day was coming alive again. She moved through the room. “I can just see it. Naomi Shields as Ulysses’ perfect Penelope, Sarah Goldsmith as-quick, Geoffrey, name some dreadful courtesan-“

  “Hester Prynne. Harriette Wilson. Cora Pearl.”

  “Yes,” she said excitedly, “any one of them; and the McManuses -Mary as Ninon-“

  “I see. You think each woman will want to be her opposite.”

  “Don’t you? The chaste would secretly long to be unchaste and the unchaste would prefer to appear before the good doctor as pure and maidenly.”

  “And you, my dear-how would you want to appear?”

  Teresa saw the trap. Marie Duplessis? Intuitively, she sidestepped it. “As myself, darling! Isn’t that cunning? But I mean it. Why would I ever want to be anything but what I am?”

  Naomi Shields, wearing only her slip, lay curled on the unmade bed, and fitfully dozed. Gradually, the part of her that was still conscious was penetrated by the singsong bar of melody. It persisted, the same hideous music, and she opened her eyes, rolled flat on her back, and listened. At last, she realized that it was the doorbell.

  She sat up. Her head felt dizzy and apart and extremely high above her body, like a toy balloon attached to a string. She knew that she had been perspiring. The cleft between her breasts felt sticky, and, except where she wore her pants, the slip clung to her. She brought the electric clock into focus. It was ten minutes before noon. She had meant to lie down a few minutes after breakfast, and it had been over two hours.

  She tried to remember: yes, she had awakened at nine, fully aware of the resolve she had made after her last drink the night before. Monday, she had determined, would be a new day, a new week, a new life. Even the program had been clear in mind. Before her marriage she had gone to secretarial school for eight months. Touch typing was like dancing and a foreign language. Once learned, it was never forgotten, she hoped. Monday, she had determined, she would telephone Ursula Palmer, much as she disliked her-or, maybe better, Kathleen, who knew all those important aircraft people. She would phone one of them, both maybe, and they would help her. Why hadn’t she done this long ago? It would give her life regularity and purpose, and there were always single men in an office, and maybe she would find someone wonderful. It was so sensible. She had carried the resolve to breakfast and seen it dissolve in the first bitter sip of coffee. Why had she taken all that vodka? She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to remember how she got back on the bed.

  The doorbell again. She swung off the bed, searched for her mules, and then forgot about them. She started for the living room, remembered that she was in her slip, and hurried back to the dressing room. Once in her white peignoir, she groped, barefooted, through the hall to the living-room door. Working the chain free, she pulled the door open, then shut her eyes and averted her face from the explosion of sunlight and the blast of hot air.

  A tall, slender man, in t-shirt, faded blue denims, and leather sandals, was leaving across the lawn.

  “Hi,” she called out.

  He halted and turned. “Hello, there.”

  “Were you the one ringing?”

  “That’s right.”

  He was returning, and she waited. As he drew nearer she saw that his face was ugly and striking. His chestnut-colored hair was shaggy and in need of a trim, his eyes were narrow, and deep in the sockets, his thin lips curved in a mocking smile, and there was too much jaw. He was chicken-breasted.

  “Are you selling something or what?” she asked.

  He reached the screen door and looked her over, top to bottom, unhurriedly and insolently. She saw now that his pale cheeks were pocked and he seemed debilitated. It was oddly attractive.

  When he spoke, his lips hardly moved. She watched them, fascinated. “… just down the block,” he was saying.

  “I’m sorry. I’m still not awake. What did you say?”

  “I said I live just down the block. About five doors down. My name’s Wash Dillon.”

  She wrinkled her forehead. The name was familiar.

  “Maybe you’ve heard my band. We’ve cut some records.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  “You’re Mrs. Naomi Shields.”

  “Miss Shields,” she said quickly.

  “How could that he?” His eyes were on her bosom. “Well, anyway-” he dug back into his hip pocket and pulled out a post card -“it says here Mrs.”

  “What is that?”

  “Your mail. The mailman must have hung one on. He put it in my box by mistake. It looked like some kind of interview for a job. Afraid you might not get it in time, so I came over, good neighborly like.”

  “Thank you.” She opened the screen slightly and took the card.

  “I figured nobody was home, and I was hunting for the mailbox. Where is it?”

  “Next to that bush in front. It’s grown over. I’ll have to tell the gardener.” She peered at the card and realized what it was. Her interview was on Wednesday from five-thirty to six-forty-five.

  “Something important?” he asked.

  She looked up. “In a way.” He was very tall and curious, and she

  through the dining room to the front door. She didn’t care about her hair, or the tear, or anything, only that she wanted the door wide open. She yanked it open.

  A skinny, sallow boy of about twelve stood against the screen. “My father came here-“

  Wash appeared behind Naomi.

  “Pop,” the boy said, “Ma says to come home-“

  Wash’s smile was gone. “I’ll be along. Beat it now-“

  “She says I ain’t to come home without you, or she’ll come and get you.”

  Trembling, Naomi looked up at Wash. His smile was back, less mocking than brazen. “That’s the way the cookie crumbles,” he said. He nodded to the boy. “Okay, Johnny.” He stared at Naomi again, then shrugged and started out.

  “You son-of-a-bitch,” she said.

  He paused, turned his head, and considered her. “You look awful hungry, honey,” he said. “Come over to Jorrocks’ some night-if you want to be fed.
”

  She slammed the door after him and hit the wood with her fists, and after a while, after she had ceased her sobbing, she composed herself and started back into the kitchen toward the liquor cabinet. Well, there was always Tuesday.

  WELL,” said Dr. Victor Jonas, emerging from the hall into the living room, “they’re in bed, at last. Now we can have a little time to ourselves.”

  Paul Radford, who had been sitting on the sofa beside Peggy Jonas watching the opening scenes of an old movie on television, quickly pushed himself to his feet. “You’ve got two attractive boys there,” he said to Dr. Jonas. “How old are they?”

  “Thomas will be twelve in September,” said Dr. Jonas, “and Matthew was just nine.”

  Peggy Jonas’ eye left the movie a moment. “Perhaps Mr. Radford would like some coffee or tea,” she said to her husband. She was a small, friendly young woman, with a frank and freckled Irish face.

  “Nonsense,” said Dr. Jonas. He turned to Paul. “I’ve got something better for you out in back.”

  Peggy Jonas settled into the corner of the sofa. “I’ll be right here, then. If you need me, make whimpering sounds.”

  Dr. Jonas had Paul by the arm. “Let’s go,” he said. “It’s through the kitchen.”

  Paul followed his host across the dining room and kitchen. Dr. Jonas held the rear screen door open, and Paul went through it.

  “Careful,” said Dr. Jonas. “There are two steps.”

  They tramped across the wet grass toward the far side of the yard. Despite the slight drifts of fog, the moon was visible. For a moment, they walked in silence.

  Paul had arrived at Dr. Jonas’ modest early-American house in Cheviot Hills at ten minutes after eight. Whatever apprehension he had suffered in his drive from The Briars was swiftly dissipated by Dr. Jonas’ cordial welcome. The Devil’s Advocate, as Dr. Chapman had bitterly characterized him, would have been completely miscast in the role of Inquisitor. He was perhaps five feet nine or ten. His rust hair, parted on the side, hung down his forehead in the Darrow manner. His gray eyes were lively and blinking, and his nose was a great hooked beak that seemed to obscure a cheerful mouth. He wore an open sport shirt, and corduroys, and he moved like a man who still had five more things to do. His pipe-which he had been smoking when he greeted Paul at the doorwas an aged corncob. On anyone else, it would have been an affectation.

  Dr. Jonas had been reading to his boys when Paul arrived. At once, after introducing them to Paul, he had shouted out for Peggy. Paul had insisted that he finish whatever he was reading, and immediately, without apology or self-consciousness, he had waved Paul to the large wing chair and returned to the sofa where the boys were waiting and had resumed. Paul liked that. Peggy appeared just after the story had been finished, and Paul rose to acknowledge the introduction. Then, they all sat for ten or fifteen minutes, Peggy and Dr. Jonas conversing with Paul on the science fiction just read, on comic books, the press in Los Angeles, the fog in Cheviot Hills, the beauty of The Briars, life in California versus

  life anywhere else, the public schools, and the Dodgers. It had all been so easy and natural that Paul felt he had been part of this family and this house for years.

  Now, walking beside Dr. Jonas in the shrouded moonlight, he realized that they had arrived at a miniature bungalow located at the farthest extremity of the yard.

  “My workshop,” said Dr. Jonas. “I think this is why we bought

  the house.”

  He opened the door, turned up the lights, and they were inside a large single room. Paul surveyed it quickly. It was dominated by a worn oak desk piled high with loose papers and manuscripts. The armless swivel chair faced an old typewriter. A door, partially ajar, revealed a narrow lavatory. Against a wall were four file cabinets. A brick fireplace dominated another wall, and near it was a cot and then an entire wall of books.

  As Dr. Jonas went to open a window, Paul, as was his habit whenever he entered a new study, strolled along the shelves and noted the book titles. He saw Dr. Chapman’s book at once, and then a second copy of it. There were volumes by Freud, Adler, Jung, Alexander, Fenichel, Bergler, Dickinson, Terman, Stone, Stopes, Gorer, Hamilton, Krafft-Ebing, Lynd, Reik, Weissenberg, Mead, Ellis, Guyon, Trilling, Kierkegaard, Riesman, Russell.

  “Chartreuse, dry sherry, or cognac?” asked Dr. Jonas. He was standing beside a low table of bottles that Paul had not seen when he came in.

  “Whatever you say,” said Paul.

  “I recommend the chartreuse highly,” said Dr. Jonas.

  “Perfect.”

  Dr. Jonas filled two liqueur glasses, set one on his desk and brought the other to the lamp table next to the plastic upholstered chair across from the desk. Paul settled in the plastic chair while Dr. Jonas filled his corncob from the walnut humidor on the desk.

  “I suppose you know all about me, Mr. Radford,” Dr. Jonas

  said suddenly.

  Paul was taken aback. “Why, a little, of course-I always try to … to read up on someone .- . . before meeting them.”

  “So do I.” He smiled. “I even read your book.”

  “Oh, that-“

  “You showed real promise. It’s a pity you haven’t written more. I presume you don’t, now. One writer in the family’s enough.”

  Paul refused to meet the allusion to Dr. Chapman head-on. “We-all of us work together on Dr. Chapman’s books. I’m afraid that’s enough to keep me occupied.”

  Dr. Jonas had the corncob smoldering. He lowered himself into the squeaking swivel chair. “You told your boss that he was also invited tonight?”

  “Of course, but he couldn’t make it. We start the last sampling tomorrow morning. He’ll be up until midnight preparing.”

  “So you have to do the dirty work alone?”

  Paul scowled. He was about to retort that there was no dirty work, but he knew that once he made the proposal this would make him look foolish. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  “I mean simply I can’t believe you came all the way out here-to a stranger-out of mere intellectual curiosity-to pass the time of evening. I may be wrong. If so, forgive me. But that’s what I mean.” Observing that Paul had taken his briar from his pocket, Dr. Jonas pushed the humidor toward him. ‘Try my mixture.”

  Paul worked his way to the edge of the chair, lifted the lid of the humidor, and dipped his pipe into it.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Dr. Jonas, “I’m glad Dr. Chapman didn’t come. I don’t think I’d like him. And I rather think I like you.”

  Paul wanted to be loyal, yet was pleased with the offer of friendship. ‘You might be surprised. He’s intelligent, decent-“

  “I’m sure. But there’s something else about him-I-no, forget it. What I want to say, better say, right off, is that many people who don’t know me find me abrupt and disagreeable. I’m not. Understand that. I’m only frank. I may not always be right, but I am frank. When I’m in this room-the hard-think room-with my intellectual equal, I have no patience for the amenities, the social word game. That’s deplorable waste. I like to get to essentials, get on with it, get the best from my opposite, and give my best, and learn and improve. That’s fun. If you will tolerate that, then we will get along. This could be a valuable evening for both of us.”

  “Fair enough,” said Paul, sinking back in the chair.

  “Need a match?”

  “I have one.”

  “Now, you know how I feel about Dr. Chapman’s highly publicized surveys. I don’t like them, for the most I don’t. You, I assume, believe in them fervently.”

  “I certainly do.”

  “Good. The lines are drawn.”

  Paul recalled the emotions he had felt at Reardon, upon first reading Dr. Jonas’ reviews of the bachelor survey. He had thought them short-sighted and unfair. Had Dr. Chapman’s personal annoyance influenced him at the time? Dr. Chapman had loftily implied that Dr. Jonas was a gnat bothering an elephant. Of course, in all justice, Dr. Jonas’ dissents were ha
ndicapped by lack of publication space. Now, however, the old emotions filtered back. Our work is so simply right, Paul thought. Why can’t an intelligent man like that see it? Was he, as Dr. Chapman contended, crafty and ambitious?

  “You know how I felt about the bachelor book,” continued Dr. Jonas, almost uncannily, as if he were reading Paul’s mind. “A few of my feelings were published. Well, I want you to know I feel even more set against the married female sampling-and the use Dr. Chapman will make of it.”

  “But it’s still in preparation,” said Paul. “How can you be critical of something you haven’t read?”

  Dr. Jonas’ corncob had gone out, and he busied himself lighting it again. When he had it smoking, he looked up at Paul. “There’s where you are wrong. I have read the female findings-most of them-enough of them. As you probably know, I’ve been retained by a certain group connected with the Zollman Foundation in Philadelphia to analyze the female survey-both surveys, in fact. Well, your Dr. Chapman is trying to win those people over; he’s been regularly sending them copies of your findings.” “It’s hard to believe. The work is still in progress.” “Nevertheless, the Zollman directors are abreast of it, and so am I. They’ve supplied me with photostats of what you’ve done.” He pointed off, “I have a couple hundred pages of your newest survey in the top drawer of that second cabinet. Everything, in crude form, up until two months ago. So I believe I am qualified to discuss with you your latest findings.”

  Paul had been totally unprepared for this, had even unconsciously counted on Dr. Jonas’ lack of knowledge of their latest effort to support him, and now he was vaguely disturbed. Why had Dr. Chapman been so quick to rush their undigested efforts to critical outsiders? And why had Dr. Chapman kept this secret from him, leaving him now so vulnerable? Most probably, he supposed, Dr. Chapman had believed that Paul already knew that this must be done, that every calculated risk must be taken to sweep the day. Still, it was disquieting. Nevertheless, meeting Dr. Jonas’ direct gaze