(1961) The Chapman Report

by Irving Wallace

  At five to six, the day still light and muggy, Paul directed the cabbie to Kathleen’s driveway, then paid him the fare, and stepped out of the taxi.

  The morning, the search for Cass, had been utterly futile. All that he and Dr. Chapman had been able to learn was that Cass had gone off somewhere, early, in the Dodge. Dr. Chapman had taken the wheel of the Ford back to the Association building, fuming all the way. Once inside, because they were behind schedule, Dr. Chapman and he had conducted their interviews right through lunch, taking only two coffee breaks.

  When Paul had concluded his final interview at five-thirty, and met Horace in the corridor after the women had departed, both were surprised to find that Benita had gone, in some haste apparently, for her desk was still in disarray, and Dr. Chapman was nowhere to be found. To add to the mystery, the Ford was missing from its accustomed parking place. Briefly, Paul and Horace had discussed phoning Villa Neapolis to check with Dr. Chapman, but there seemed no point to it, especially since each was eager to keep an appointment. They had walked to The Village Green together, found taxis, and Horace had gone off to relieve the nurse at Naomi’s, and Paul had given the cabbie Kathleen’s address.

  Now, entering the driveway on foot, Paul could see Kathleen’s Mercedes parked past the curve of the half circle. Reaching the front door, Paul touched the doorbell. Albertine appeared at once, carrying Deirdre.

  “Hello, Albertine.” He placed his hands under the curly-haired Deirdre’s arms and took her to him. “How’s my favorite octopus today?” The last time, when he had greeted the child by name, she had corrected him, informing him that she was “a little octopus.” Now she settled in his arms. “I’m not an octopus,” she said with the gravity of a diminutive adult. “I’m me. Do you want to eat with us?”

  “Well, I’d like to,” Paul said, “but-“

  Deirdre twisted toward the housekeeper. “Can he, ‘Bertine?”

  Albertine shrugged. “Jus’ means opening another can.”

  But already Deirdre’s mind had shifted to more immediate pleasures. “Give me a rocket ride like always,” she said to Paul.

  He hoisted her high above his head, whirling her round and round as Albertine backed off, and then he lowered her to the carpet. “There,” he said. “We’re on the moon.” Straightening, he faced Albertine. “Is Mrs. Ballard in?”

  “She went scootin’ off to Mrs. Goldsmith’ couple hours ago and said for you to come there. Seemed awful fussed, like she was workin’ up to a good cry.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “Goldsmith’s? Go left two blocks, left again, Hayes Drive, then the third from the corner, left. Name’s on the box.”

  “Thanks, Albertine… . See you in a little while, Moon-maid.”

  Walking south on the wide thoroughfare, close to the curbing to avoid the occasional oncoming car, he wondered why Kathleen had been fussed, as Albertine had described it, and what she had come to the office to tell him this morning.

  The mingled fragrance of a thousand flowers engulfed him, and he peered past the rows of eucalyptus, the hedges and bushes and ferns, the grilled gates, and once saw a fabulous bed of geraniums, and then orange and pink hibiscus, and, beside a banana tree, a profusion of purple asters bordered by white petunias.

  How difficult, he thought, to reconcile this outer front of Utopia with the people who inhabited it, especially the women he had interviewed these two weeks past, the specific mistresses of these specific mansions. Look at them, he thought, staring at the front lawns and gardens and magnificent mansions, here everything is regulated and aesthetically enticing. The thick foliage the greenest, the homes the largest, the garages crowded with gleaming chariots, the sun-touched children, the maids. Here is an earthly heaven, you would say, placid, solved, happy; and the mammals within, placid, solved, happy-this you would say, until you had been inside. For he had been inside, he and Horace and Cass and Dr. Chapman had been inside, and what had they found behind the gracious facade?- crouching creatures fighting the human plagues that infest, not only here but everywhere, stagnation and dry rot of the mind, famine of the heart, and the airless dying of the soul. Everywhere? He tried to recapture fragments of interviews, the ones reinforced by warm strong love, true intimacy, the fully integrated ones. There had been some. A few. Very few. But for the rest … and which was Kathleen?

  He was approaching Hayes Drive when he saw her come around the corner toward him, rust cardigan over her shoulders, blouse and skirt and low-heeled shoes. He waved and waited. She made no acknowledgment in return.

  When she was beside him, he observed the strain on her features. “I was just going to find you, Kathleen.”

  “Do you have a cigarette? I’m all out.”

  “No,” he apologized, lifting his pipe stem from the coat pocket.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Her hands were nervous. “It’s just been terrible. Have you heard?”

  “What?”

  She resumed walking toward her house, and he fell in step beside her.

  “Sarah Goldsmith,” she said. “She’s dead.”

  “Who?”

  “Sarah-you met her, Paul, last night, just last night She was the one with the black hair pulled back in a chignon, like a Spanish dancer. Mata Hari.”

  At once, he recalled her. He remembered a Latin face to which the Semitic name had not seemed to belong. And the tights and beaded scarves. And the rounded thighs.

  “Yes,” he said, “I remember. What happened to her?”

  “No one knows. The police say her husband murdered her.”

  It was easier to recall the husband of Mata Hari. A nice rumpled blob, with apologetic eyes and a hand like gelatin. Aaron? Abe? Sam? Yes, Sam.

  “Sam Goldsmith,” he said. “Why did he do it?”

  “It’s all garbled, I’m sure. I got it secondhand. Her neighbor, Mrs. Pedersen, phoned me after the police and ambulance left. She found my name in Sarah’s personal phone book. I was the nearest neighbor friend, so she called. She has her own children, and the sitter was too upset to stay. So I went over to help out, after the children came from school.”

  “They arrested Sam?”

  “Yes, I think so. No, they took him in for questioning. That’s it. They found a note in the bathroom and her luggage packed. Apparently, she was leaving Sam this morning-going off to meet another man-she’d been having an affair-of all people, Sarah. I swear, I can’t believe it.”

  “It happens,” he said gently.

  She looked at him with troubled eyes. “Yes. I’m sure you hear it all the time. But Sarah-“

  “The police, I suppose they figured Sam heard about it and tried to stop her?”

  “That’s right. They said he came home-he wasn’t in the store this morning, it turns out-and found her leaving, and maybe the note, and he tried to stop her. They fought. He killed her. I can’t believe it, though, even under the circumstances. He’s the sweetest man.”

  “Someone did it, Kathleen.” “Maybe it was an accident?” “How did it happen?” Paul asked.

  “The sitter got a message to be there at noon, the key was to be under the mat, and wait for the children. She arrived a little late, and no one seemed home, and she went into the kitchen-and there was Sarah on the floor. The police said her neck had been broken.” They had arrived at the front door.

  “I suppose you’re not in the mood to have me in,” said Paul, “That’s not it. I promised to go back. Mrs. Pedersen and I are going to sit with the children until one of Sam’s family comes. His lawyer called a relative in Chicago, and she’s flying out. I think she’ll get in about one in the morning.” Kathleen unlocked the door. “I just came back a few minutes to see that Deirdre is properly fed and to get my coat. Would you like a sandwich, Paul?” “No, I’ll just call for a cab.”

  “Take my car. I won’t need it tonight or tomorrow.” She gave him the keys. “Please.”

  “All right. I’ll have a snack at the motel, and then I’ll have to pack.�
� He waved the keys. “Does this mean I can see you tomorrow?” She stared at him. “I was hoping to see you, if you want to.” “I’m leaving with them tomorrow night. Only one thing could make me stay. This is no time to discuss it again, but-” “I can’t say now, Paul, I really can’t. Don’t be angry.” “You love a person or you don’t. What’s there to think about?” “Paul, please, try to-” “All right. Tomorrow. When?”

  “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 ma
y 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.