(1961) The Chapman Report

by Irving Wallace

For a split second, Mary’s step faltered, the stimulus of an elder’s voice imposing upon her Pavlov’s conditioned reflex, and then, with an effort of will greater than she realized that she possessed, she nodded and blindly hurried on. She knew that Miss Damerel was watching her, surprised and disapproving. She also knew that Miss Damerel would tell her father. But today Mary McManus did not care. She did not care at all.

  At night, Villa Neapolis was illuminated by rows of blue and yellow lights shining from the roofs of the terraces on two levels, and by four hooded white floodlights projected from steel poles at the corners of the swimming pool. Seen at a distance, because the motel was on a hill against an arch of blue-black sky, the dots of colored light appeared to be a galaxy of artificial stars in a man-made firmament. But up near, from the vantage point of the pool, the effect was quite different. It was like setting up housekeeping under a mammoth Christmas tree, Paul Radford decided, as he came out of the shadowed dining room into the blaze of rainbow colors.

  He had been preceded into the patio by Benita Selby, who had changed for dinner and was wearing a lilac Orion sweater, new, over a sleeveless pale blue dress, old, and he was followed by Dr. Chapman, lighting his cigar, and Horace and Cass.

  By mutual agreement, they had dined late, meeting at eight-thirty and eating at two tables joined together and lighted by four candles. The first day of interviewing had been, as it usually was in every new community, completely enervating, and this, combined with a constant sensibility of Dr. Chapman’s dictum that the day’s interviews not be gossiped about in his presence, reduced sociability to sporadic small talk and prolonged gaps of silence.

  Once they were in the patio again, Cass wondered aloud if the two rented automobiles were spoken for. Benita said that she had to catch up on her journal and then write a letter. This same letter she wrote five nights a week to her invalid mother in Beloit, Wisconsin. Horace thought that he might want one of the cars. There was a movie in Westwood that he wished to see. Dr. Chapman told Cass that he could have the other car, since he and Paul were going to finish some work.

  After Horace and Cass had gone off to the garages, and Benita had returned to her room, Dr. Chapman led Paul to a pair of wicker chairs near the hibiscus bushes at the far end of the pool. The patio was relatively quiet now, except for the two couples playing a vocal game of gin rummy behind the diving board. But now they were far enough away so that the card players’ groans and hilarity were indistinct.

  Dr. Chapman loosened his leather belt, rolling his. cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, and Paul filled his briar pipe and lighted it.

  “Well, I’ve been waiting to hear about you and Victor Jonas,” said Dr. Chapman. “All I got from you this morning was that there wasn’t much hope.” He searched Paul’s face. “Does that mean some hope or no hope?”

  “No hope,” said Paul flatly and unmistakably.

  Dr. Chapman grunted. “I see,” he said. He stared down at the flagstone, thinking. At last, he said, “Tell me what happened.”

  Paul told him the events of the previous evening concisely and bluntly. He described Dr. Jonas, his wife, his sons, his house. He repeated parts of the early conversation in the rear bungalow, the parts where Dr. Jonas had deduced that Paul had been sent to do Dr. Chapman’s “dirty work,” and where Paul had defended Dr. Chapman’s honesty, omitting only Dr. Jonas’ remark that he was glad Paul had come alone. Then Paul related how he had been taken fully off guard by Dr. Jonas’ knowledge of the work in progress.

  Dr. Chapman’s head lifted up and his eyes narrowed. “How can he know what we’re doing?”

  “That’s exactly what I asked him. He said you were filing carbons of your female findings with the Zollman Foundation-“

  Paul halted, and waited for an explanation. Dr. Chapman met his gaze frankly. “Yes, that’s true. They’re meeting before our report will be ready, and I decided it would be in our favor to keep them up to scratch.”

  “But the work’s not ready-it’s raw.”

  “They’re not children. There are scientists in the Foundation. They know how to read and project unfinished data. I’m sure it’ll serve us.”

  “Then it’s serving Jonas, too. The minority group at Zollman who hired him-they sent him photostats-“

  “Bastards,” said Dr. Chapman. “They’ll do anything.” He was livid. Paul could not remember ever seeing him this way before.

  “I suppose all is fair-“

  “The hell it is,” said Dr. Chapman. “What did he say about the new material?”

  “He was very frank about that and about the bachelor survey. He put all his cards on the table-or most of them.”

  “Like what?”

  Paul summarized Dr. Jonas’ objections, recounting all that he could now recall, except Dr. Jonas’ remarks that Dr. Chapman was too much a politician and publicist to be a pure scientist. When Paul had finished, he saw that Dr. Chapman was chewing his cold cigar bitterly.

  “I hope you didn’t take all of this lying down,” said Dr. Chap man.

  “It was give and take. He hits hard, but I counter-punched. He never conceded that we were right, but I think he knows now that we are sincere.”

  “Well, it’s more than I can say about that bloodsucker. There’s a whole tribe of them in this country-every country-ineffectual mental cripples, without imagination or guts, werewolfs lying in wait to pick up the leavings or lap up the blood of the pioneers, innovators, scientists with vision who march ahead of the pack. They have nothing to build, so they tear down. It’s their way to stay alive. What has Jonas ever done except scavenge?”

  Paul did not disagree with Dr. Chapman. He had accurately characterized a certain breed of scientist, the calumniators who lay in wait and prey upon the investigators. But, despite his respect for his mentor’s insight, Paul secretly did not feel Dr. Jonas was one of these. There was that new marriage-counseling clinic that was going up in Santa Monica. Dr. Jonas had even offered him a job. He knew that he could not mention the job, but he was tempted to mention the clinic, until he remembered that it had been told to him in confidence.

  “He insists that he has the same goal that we have,” said Paul obliquely.

  “Blasphemy, if I ever heard it,” said Dr. Chapman. “I hope you called him on that.”

  “No, I didn’t. There was no reason to call him a liar. I think he means what he says-that we have a common goal-but different approaches.”

  “What constructive approach has that sniping pygmy got?”

  “He’s been in marriage counseling for years-“

  “Paul, are you out of your mind? That’s microscopic, individual work, the work of a country doctor, no more, no less. Beside him, all like him, our program and accomplishments are Herculean. We’re out to help everyone, the nation, the wide world, and we’re doing it at great sacrifice, and we’ll do more, far more, if a minor Judas like Jonas doesn’t ambush us when our backs are turned.” He studied Paul closely a moment. “He hasn’t sold you a bill of goods, has he?”

  Paul laughed. “Christ, no. He was impressive, certainly-he’s smart and overwhelming-but I know what I believe in, what I stand for, and nothing was said that would make me repudiate it.” Dr. Chapman seemed relieved. “I’ve always counted on your good sense.” He threw the wet stub of his cigar into the hibiscus bushes, pulled a fresh cigar from his lapel pocket, bit the end and lighted it.

  “I think what I’m trying to get across,” said Paul, “is that Jonas may not be on the side of the angels, but he’s decent enough. No one is simply black or white.”

  Dr. Chapman exhaled a stream of smoke. “When you’re at war, everyone is either black or white. Equivocate, and you’re dead. You can’t fight with one arm tied behind your back. If you’re not on the side of the angels, then you’re in league with the devil.” “Maybe so.” Paul’s interest in the argument was dwindling. “How did you present our offer?” asked Dr. Chapman. “Straightforwardly,” said Paul. “There are no child�
�s games with this man. I said that you thought he might be useful to us, and that he could have a job as a consultant. I put it just like that. No adornment.” “What did he say?”

  “He said you wanted to buy him out-and that he wasn’t selling. That was it, in effect.”

  Dr. Chapman tilted back in the wicker chair, blowing clouds toward the sky. At last, he straightened with a thump. “Well, I can see we’re not dealing with an ordinary adversary.” “No, we’re not.”

  “He’ll rough us up in his critique to the Zollman people.” “I have no doubt of that.”

  “Well, I can’t get the Mafia after him or anything like that. I’ll have to fight him myself, fact for fact.” He stared at Paul. His voice was soft and controlled again. “I’ll lick him, you know.” Paul knew that he would. “Yes,” he said.

  “Type up a complete record of your meeting with Jonas. Every word of criticism of our survey. I want it as soon as possible. Start tonight.” i “All right. I’m not sure I remember it all-” “Whatever you do remember. Right after we get out of The Briars, we’re going to whip the report into shape in half the time I’d originally planned, ship it to the Zollman directors before they meet. Then I’m going to write an overall paper anticipating and refuting all of Jonas’ objections. As a matter of fact, Paul, I’m beginning to think that you accomplished more by learning his line of attack than by winning him over to us.”

  Paul felt no elation at the compliment. Instead, he felt a twinge of sadness at having acquired and delivered the enemy’s battle plans. Of course, he had to remind himself, the battle plans were not secret, and Dr. Chapman’s enemy was also his enemy.

  “Yes,” Dr. Chapman was saying complacently, “this may work out better than either of us planned. I’ll be able to thoroughly discredit and demolish him.” He rose heavily to his feet. “Nothing on earth’s going to stop me. Thanks, Paul. Work hard. Good night.” He walked toward the Christmas tree of lights. Paul remained seated, looking after him. For a moment, the figure of the pure scientist was bathed in a halo of white light. And then, the next, he was streaked by the garish colors of blue and yellow, and, in that last moment before disappearing inside, he seemed less pure than earlier.

  AT EIGHT FORTY-FIVE the following morning, which was Wednesday morning and the beginning of the second day of interviewing in The Briars, Paul Radford sat at the table in the conference room of the Association building and sorted

  questionnaires. Through the open window, he could see the top of the post office, and above it, the sky leaden and overcast. There was the slightest breeze in the air, nipping and teasing the limp flag

  across the way. When the door opened, Paul looked up hopefully, expecting Dr.

  Chapman. It was Cass.

  “Hi-di-ho,” Cass called out cheerfully, going directly to his papers. “Earthquake weather, according to the gasoline station attendant.”

  “Ignore false prophets,” said Paul. He peered through the window. “It’s not humid enough.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was around here for a year during the war. We had two quakes. It was always humid.”

  Cass began separating his papers. “Were the quakes bad?”

  “The effect of two stiff vodkas. In the first one, a lot of crockery was displaced. In the second, we got a shimmy, but some village just over the border in Mexico fell down.”

  “Always Mexico,” said Cass. “Where’s the third musketeer?”

  “Horace? In bed. He’s sick. But he’ll survive.”

  Cass was surprised. “I thought germs were afraid of him.”

  “Maybe they are. This was demon rum.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “I know, but that’s it. I hit the sack at one, and the next thing I knew, someone was bumping over the furniture. He smelled like a distillery. I got him to bed, but he threw up twice during the night. I finally settled him down with a sleeping pill. This morning, his face still looked off-center, like a Picasso, so I let

  him be.”

  “What happened to our cub scout?”

  “Haven’t the faintest idea. Don’t mention it to Dr. Chapman.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  Paul stood up and moved to the open window, searching the empty street. “I couldn’t find Dr. Chapman this morning. He’ll have to spell Horace.”

  Impatiently, Paul crossed to the door and poked his head into the corridor. He saw Dr. Chapman at Benita’s desk going over the ledger with her. With relief, Paul went to join them,

  “Doctor-“

  Dr. Chapman lifted a hand and waved two fingers in greeting. Paul had seen several Popes, in newsreels and on television, make

  the same gesture of acknowledgment. “Morning, Paul. Did you work last night?”

  Paul nodded. “Half done … I’m afraid you’ll have to pinch-hit for Horace today. He’s under the weather.”

  Dr. Chapman’s concern was immediate. “What’s the matter?”

  “A virus, I’m sure. Twenty-four-hour variety.”

  “Did you call in someone?”

  “I had the comer pharmacy send pills. I read it’s all over the city. He’ll be on his feet tomorrow.”

  Dr. Chapman shook his head. “I hope so… . All right. I’d better get ready.”

  He hurried off to the conference room. Paul lingered behind, then faced Benita. “Honey, call Horace, first chance. Tell him the word for today is virus, and he can take it easy. Say that Dr. Chapman’s taking his place.”

  “Will do.” Benita smiled her pale smile. “You forget my room’s next to yours.”

  “Then you know.”

  “It’s so unlike him. What happened?”

  “He said he was going to the movies. I guess they spiked the popcorn… . Here come the girls. On your toes.”

  At ten minutes to eleven, Dr. Chapman had been on his second interview of the morning for twenty minutes. His elbow on the card table, his chin propped on a fist, he continued to ask his questions in a dry monotone and record the answers with automatic precision. Usually he enjoyed these sessions, this fruitful adding to the storehouse of knowledge, but this morning, his mind was on Dr. Victor Jonas. Only half his mind received what he must inscribe. The other half wrote and rewrote the remarkable paper that would render his enemy impotent.

  He had just finished jotting down a Solresol answer and was preparing to pose another question-he would not deign to ennoble all of Jonas’ ridiculous charges by refuting each, he finally decided, but would take the offensive from the start-when the woman’s voice on the other side of the screen interrupted him.

  “May I ask a question?” inquired Teresa Harnish.

  “Why, of course. If there’s something you don’t understand-“

  “No, it’s not that. I may be all wrong, but I think I recognize your voice. May I ask-am I being interviewed by Dr. George G. Chapman?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “I’m deeply honored. I simply had to know. My husband and I read your first two books, and we look forward to this one. We venerate your work. I wanted to be sure it was you. Had I gone to an analyst in Vienna at the turn of the century, I would have wanted to know if he were Sigmund Freud. I hope you understand?”

  Dr. Chapman’s full mind was turned toward the screen and the remarkably intelligent woman, with the well-bred accent, behind it. “You’re very kind,” he said.

  “This is a memorable moment for me.”

  “Most generous. Actually, Mrs. -” he sought her name on the appointment card, and found it- “Hamish, Mrs. Harnish, I handle my interviews no differently from my associates.”

  “Forgive me my prejudice, but I feel I know you, and I simply feel you have more understanding.”

  “I try my best.” He was pleased. Yes, remarkable young lady. He examined the sheet. Thirty-six. Vassar. Kansas City. Christian Science. (“All reality is in God and His creation, harmonious and eternal,” Dr. Chapman remembered. “That which He creates is good, and He ma
kes all that is made. Therefore the only reality of sin, sickness or death is the awful fact that unrealities seem real to human, erring belief, until God strips off their disguise. They are not true, because they are not of God.” It seemed odd now that he had once read Mrs. Eddy. It was shortly after Lucy’s death, he remembered. Well …) Irregular churchgoer. Married. First husband. Ten years. Art dealer. Part-time assistant to husband. “Shall we proceed?” he asked. “Please, Dr. Chapman.”

  “To return to the series of questions on premarital love-making. You stated that you had one partner before you married at twenty-six.”

  “Yes. But two if you wish to count my husband. After we were engaged, the marriage was delayed a year, due to family circumstances. His mother was ill, and it took all of Geoffrey’s money and time. But, of course, we were adult about out relationship. Sexual union seemed quite proper. Shortly after Geoffrey’s mother passed away, and he had money to open the shop, we had our wedding in Kansas City. It was quite the social event of the season, but the difficult part was, all that trying week, pretending to play the blushing bride. My parents are very rigid and formal about these

  matters. About Geoffrey and me-before we were married-do you wish the details?”

  Dr. Chapman wet his lips. The caution sign went up in his head. Mrs. Harnish was being too easy, too liberated; too knowing. From long experience, Dr. Chapman knew that female frankness must be automatically met with wariness and a degree of distrust. Frankness was unnatural under the circumstances, he always found. It was the quick disguise that disarmed and deceived laymen.

  “You mentioned two partners,” he said. “Let’s talk about the first.”

  “I’d rather draw a veil over that,” she said lightly.

  “You mean literally?”

  “Of course not, Dr. Chapman. I’m joking. I was just out of Vassar and considering going into the theater-as a scenic designer, of course. But to my mind, Broadway is so overrated. The theaters are dreary, and those grubby, overaged actors, and all the mutual admiration and to-do about mediocrity. I simply wasn’t going to tramp those alleys. But during that dark age, I met an older man, a poet. He had been published, and he really did know everyone. I was impressed. The whole Greenwich Village thing was new to me, and I decided to marry him and have a salon. So when the time came, I allowed him to make love to me.”