The Chancellor Manuscript (18 page)

Chancellor’s mind was the key. His life was expendable. The files were everything.

The driver removed the wide-brimmed hat and the sunglasses. Hands swiftly unscrewed the top of a cold-cream jar; Kleenex was pulled from a box on the seat, dipped into the cream, and scrubbed over the mouth until the lipstick faded. The scarf and the jacket were taken off and thrown to the floor of the car. Finally Varak removed the dark brown shoulder-length wig. And it, too, was deposited on the floor of the car. He checked his watch; it was ten minutes past six.

Word had reached Bravo. The high-pitched whisper
might have made contact with another subject of Hoover’s private files. There was a congressman named Walter Rawlins, chairman of the powerful House Subcommittee on Reapportionment. Within the past week his behavior on the Hill had shocked his colleagues. Rawlins was a closet racist whose intransigence on several bills—one especially—had collapsed without explanation. He had absented himself during a number of crucial meetings, voting sessions he had sworn to attend.

If Rawlins had been reached, another name would be fed to Peter Chancellor.

As Peter approached the bank of elevators, he saw his image in a lobby mirror. He was, as Officer Donnelly had so aptly put it, a mess. His jacket was torn, his shoes filthy, his face streaked with dirt and dried blood. He was not exactly the picture of respectability the Hay-Adams was used to; he had the impression the desk clerks wanted him out of the lobby just as rapidly as possible, which was all right with him. He wanted a hot shower and a cold drink.

He saw a woman approaching as he waited for the elevator. It was the newspaperwoman Phyllis Maxwell, her face familiar from scores of televised press conferences.

“Mr. Chancellor? Peter Chancellor?”

“Yes. Miss Maxwell, isn’t it?”

“I’m flattered,” she said.

“So am I,” he replied.

“What in heaven’s name happened? Were you mugged?”

Peter smiled. “No, not mugged. Just in a minor accident.”

“You’re a mess.”

“There seems to be general agreement about that. I’m going to my room to clean up.”

The elevator arrived; its doors opened. Phyllis Maxwell spoke quickly. “Afterward would you agree to an interview?”

“Good lord, why?”

“I’m a newspaperwoman.”

“I’m not news.”

“Of course you are. You’re a best-selling author, probably in Washington to research another book like
Counterstrike!
I find you limping across the Hay-Adams lobby,
looking as though a truck had run over you. That’s potential news.”

“The limp’s not new, and the accident was minor.” Peter smiled. “If I were working on something, I wouldn’t talk about it”

“Even if you did and you didn’t want it public, I wouldn’t print it”

Peter knew she was telling the truth. He’d heard his father call her one of the best correspondents in Washington. Which meant she was a
student
of Washington; she might tell him things he wanted to know. “Okay,” he said. “Give me an hour, will you?”

“Fine. In the lounge?”

Chancellor nodded. “Okay. See you in an hour.” He entered the elevator, feeling foolish. He was about to suggest that she could wait upstairs in his suite. Phyllis Maxwell was a striking woman.

He showered for nearly twenty minutes, far longer than usual. It was part of his recovery process when he was agitated or depressed. He’d learned little tricks over the past months, small indulgences that helped restore whatever equilibrium he had temporarily lost. He lay down naked on the bed and stared at the ceiling, breathing deeply.

The time passed; his calm was restored. He dressed in a brown leisure suit and went downstairs.

She was at a small table in the corner. The lounge was so dimly lit he could barely see her, but the flickering candles picked up the features of her handsome face. If not the youngest, Phyllis Maxwell was the best-looking woman there.

The opening conversation was relaxed and comfortable. Peter ordered a round of drinks, and then a second. They talked about their respective careers from Erie, Pennsylvania, and Chillicothe, Ohio, to New York and Washington. Peter ordered a third drink.

“I shouldn’t,” said Phyllis firmly, but not firmly enough. “I can’t remember when I’ve had three drinks at one sitting. It gets in the way of my imprecise shorthand. But then I can’t remember interviewing a most attractive … young novelist before.” Her voice slipped into a low register, Somewhat nervously, thought Chancellor.

“Not that attractive and, God knows, not so young.”

“The point is, neither am I. My days of irreverent youth took place when you were learning algebra.”

“That’s downright condescending, as well as false. Look around you, lady. There’s no one here in your league.”

“Thank God it’s dark, or I’d have to describe you as a charming liar.” The drinks came; the waitress left. Phyllis took out a small notepad. “You don’t want to discuss whatever you’re working on. That’s all right. Tell me what you think of today’s fiction. Has entertainment returned to the modern novel?”

Peter looked across the table at the speckled, anxious eyes. The candlelight made them appear larger and softened the lines on her face. “I didn’t know you wrote for the comics section. Or am I categorized?”

“Are you offended? I think it’s an interesting subject. What does a well-paid, well-received storyteller think? God knows you make your theories clear. They’re hardly comic.”

Chancellor grinned. Phyllis Maxwell was succinct; she was no doubt devastating to any storyteller who took himself too seriously. Peter answered carefully, eager to get to another subject. She jotted down notes as he talked. She was an expert interviewer, as he had expected.

Their drinks were finished. Peter nodded at the glasses. “Another?”

“No thanks! I just misspelled
the.”

“Do you use
the
in shorthand?”

“Another reason I should refuse.”

“Where are you having dinner?”

Phyllis hesitated. “I have an engagement.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t looked at your watch. Organized women check their watches if they have dinner engagements.”

“Not all women are alike, young man.”

Peter reached across the table, covering her wrist. “What time’s your dinner date?”

At his touch she stiffened. Then quickly resumed the game. “That’s not fair.”

“Come on, what time?”

She smiled, blinking her eyes. “Eight thirty?”

“Forget it,” he said, removing his hand. “He’s given
up and left. It’s ten past nine. You’ll have to have dinner with me.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“We’ll eat here, okay?”

Again she hesitated. “All right.”

“Would you rather go someplace else?”

“No, this is fine.”

Peter grinned. “We may not be able to tell the difference.” He signaled the waitress, indicating a refill. “I know, I know. I’m incorrigible,” he said. “May I ask
you
a couple of questions? You know Washington as well as anyone I can think of.”

“Where’s your notebook?” She put hers away in her purse.

“I’ve got a running tape in my head.”

“That’s not reassuring. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about J. Edgar Hoover.”

At the sound of the name, Phyllis’s eyes made sharp, angry contact with his. And yet there was more than anger, thought Chancellor.

“He was a monster. I speak ill of the dead without the slightest compunction.”

“All bad?”

“Within recent memory, yes. I’ve been in Washington sixteen years. I can’t remember a year when he didn’t destroy someone of extraordinary value.”

“You put it strongly.”

“I feel strongly. I despised him. I saw what he did. If ever there was an example of terror by fiat, he personified it. The story hasn’t been told. I don’t think it ever will be.”

“Why not?”

“The bureau will protect him. He was the monarch. The heirs apparent won’t let the image be tarnished. They fear infected bloodlines, and they damned well should.”

“How can they stop it?”

Phyllis coughed a derisive laugh. “Not can, did. The furnaces, dear; little dark-suited robots went through the whole damn building burning anything and everything remotely harmful to their deceased progenitor. They’re after canonization; it’s their best protection. Then it’s business as usual.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“The word—and I grant you it’s hearsay—is that Clyde showed up at Eddie’s house before the body was
cold. They say he and a few courtiers went from room to room with portable shredders.”

“That Toison?”

“The Tulip himself. What he didn’t burn, he banked.”

“Are there witnesses?”

“I suppose so.” Phyllis stopped. The waitress was at the table; she removed the empty glasses, replacing them with new drinks.

Peter looked up at the girl. “Should we reserve a table in the dining room?”

“I’ll take care of it, sir,” replied the waitress, backing away.

“The name is—?”

“I know, sir. Maxwell.” The waitress left.

“I’m impressed,” said Chancellor, smiling, seeing the satisfaction in Phyllis’s eyes. “Go on. Were there witnesses?”

Instead of answering, she leaned forward. The open space at the top of her blouse swelled as her breasts rose. Peter was drawn to them; she seemed oblivious to his interest.

“You’re working on a book about Hoover, aren’t you?”

“Not the man himself. Not his story as such, although it’s a vital part. I have to know as much as I can learn. Tell me what you know. Then I’ll explain, I promise.”

She began in the lounge and continued at dinner. It was an angry narrative, the anger heightened by her professionalism. Phyllis would not print what she could not document, and the documentation was impossible, regardless of the existing truth.

She spoke of senators and congressmen and cabinet members made to toe the Hoover line or face the Hoover wrath. She described powerful men weeping, remaining silent when silence was abhorrent to them. She detailed Hoover’s actions following the assassinations of both Kennedys and Martin Luther King. His behavior had been obscene, his joy apparent, his responsibility denied.

“The press is convinced he withheld damaging information from the Warren Commission. God knows how devastating it was; it might have altered the judgments at Dallas. And Los Angeles,
and
Memphis. We’ll never know.”

She outlined Hoover’s use of electronic and telephone
surveillance; it was worthy of the gestapo. No one had been sacrosanct; enemies and potential enemies had been held at bay. Tapes had been spliced and edited; guilt had come by remote association, innuendo, hearsay, and manufactured evidence.

As she talked, Peter sensed a fury beyond mere contempt She drank wine during the meal; she drank brandy afterward. When she was finished, she was silent for several moments, then forced a smile. Her anger had burned up much of the alcohol; she was in control of herself, but she was not quite sober.

“Now, you promised. And I promised not to print it. What are you working on? Another
Counterstrike!?”

“There’s a parallel, I suppose. It’s a novel based on the theory that Hoover was assassinated.”

“Fascinating. But not credible. Who would dare?”

“Someone who had access to his private files. That’s why I asked you if there were any witnesses to the burning or shredding of Hoover’s papers. Anyone who actually saw them destroyed.”

Phyllis was transfixed, her eyes riveted on him. “And if they weren’t destroyed?…”

“That’s the assumption I’ll work under. Fictionally.”

“What do you mean?” Her voice was flat, abruptly cold.

“That whoever—fictionally—killed Hoover now has those files and is capable of extortion just as Hoover was. Not only capable, but actively operating. Reaching influential people, forcing them to do what he wants them to do. Hoover was obsessed with sex, so that’ll be a primary weapon. It’s always effective. Simple, very powerful blackmail.”

Phyllis moved back in her chair, her hands flat on the table. Peter could hardly hear her. “With a whisper over the telephone, Mr. Chancellor? Tell me, is this some kind of terrible joke.”

“Is it a what?”

She stared at him, her eyes wide, filled with an odd dread. “No, it couldn’t be,” she continued in that same cold, distant tone. “I was here in the lobby; it was my choice to be here. I saw you; you didn’t see me.…”

“Phyllis, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, dear God, I’m losing my
mind.…
”

He reached across the table for her hand. It was cold,
trembling. “Hey, come on.” He smiled reassuringly. “I think the last brandy was doctored against you.”

Her eyes blinked. “Do you really find me attractive?”

“Of course I do.”

“May we go up to your room?”

He looked at her, trying to understand. “You don’t have to suggest that.”

“You don’t want me, do you?” There was no question in her words, not as she spoke them.

“I think I want you very much. I—”

She suddenly leaned forward, gripping his hand almost viciously, cutting him off. “Take me upstairs,” she said.

She stood above him, naked, beside the bed. Her firm breasts denied her years. Her hips swelled invitingly below her slim waist; her thighs were tapered, somehow Grecian. He reached for her hand, inviting her to the bed.

She sat down gracefully but hesitantly. He released her hand and touched her breast. She trembled and held her breath; then suddenly, unexpectedly, she turned and slid her hand over his stomach, to his groin.

Without words she rolled her naked body over his and pressed her face against his cheek. He could feel the moisture of her tears. She rolled again, now beside him, now spreading her legs, now pulling him on top of her.

“Be quick! Be
quick
!
”

It was the strangest act of sex Peter had ever experienced. For the next several minutes—blurred, perplexing, without explanation—he made love to an accommodating but totally unresponsive body. He was making love to dead flesh.