The Chancellor Manuscript (31 page)

Phyllis Maxwell
. It was insane! What she had said was crazy. And Peter had to give a lot of rapid explanations. Yes. There was a character in his book that some might—only might—think was possibly—only possibly—reminiscent of her! But it could just as easily be reminiscent of half a dozen others!

No!
He hadn’t set out to destroy her. Or anyone or anything! Except the reputation of J. Edgar Hoover, and for that there would be no apologies! For Christ’s sake,
no!
He worked alone! Whatever research he did, whatever sources he used, none of it had anything to do with her!

Or … Paula Mingus … whoever the hell
she
was.

There was no reasoning with the voice on the other end of the line—one moment faint and inaudible, the next shrill and hysterical. Phyllis Maxwell was losing her mind. And somehow he was responsible.

He tried speaking rationally; it was useless. He tried shouting at her; it was chaos. Finally, he extracted her promise to meet him.

She would not come to the Hay-Adams. She had been with him at the Hay-Adams. Didn’t he remember that? Was it so repulsive?

Jesus Christ! Stop it!

She would not meet him anywhere of his choosing. She did not trust him; for God’s sake, how could she? And she would not meet any place where they might be seen together. There was a house on Thirty-fifth Street Northwest, near the corner of Wisconsin, behind Dumbarton Oaks. It belonged to friends who were out of the country;
she had a key. She was not sure of the number; it didn’t matter, there was a white porch with a stained-glass window over the door. She’d be there in a half hour.

She hung up with the words: “You were working with them all along, weren’t you? You must be very proud of yourself.”

A taxi swerved up to the curb. Chancellor jumped in, gave the address to the driver, and tried to collect his thoughts.

Someone had read his manuscript; that much was clear. But who?
How?
It was the
how
that frightened him because it meant that whoever it was had gone to extraordinary lengths to get it. He knew the precautions the typing service took; they were a part of the service, one of its strongest recommendations. The typing service had to be ruled out.

Morgan!
Neither by design nor permission, but by accident! Tony had the aristocrat’s carelessness. His peripatetic mind crashed about, overseeing dozens of projects simultaneously. It was entirely possible that Morgan had absently left the manuscript on someone’s desk. Or, God forbid, the men’s room.

The taxi reached the intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue and Twentieth Street. There was an empty telephone booth on the corner. Peter looked at his watch; it was ten minutes to five. Tony would still be in the office.

“Pull up to that telephone, will you please?” he said. “I have to make a call. I won’t be long.”

“Take your time, mister. The meter’s running.”

Peter closed the door of the glass booth and dialed Morgan’s private number.

“It’s Peter, Tony. I’ve got to ask you a question.”

“Where the hell
are
you? I spoke to Mrs. Alcott this morning, and she said you were in town. I called the apartment, but all I got was the machine.”

“I’m in Washington. I haven’t time to explain. Listen to me. Someone’s read the Hoover manuscript. Whoever it was has done a terrible thing, made an awful mistake—?”

“Hey,
wait
a minute,” broke in Morgan. “That’s impossible. First things first. What terrible thing? What mistake?”

“Told someone she—he—was in the book.”

“He or she?”

“What
difference
does it make? The point is someone read it and is using the information to scare the hell out of somebody else!”

“Was it a mistake? Is there such a character?”

“Not really. It could be half a dozen different people, but that doesn’t matter.” There was no time for Morgan’s questions.

“I only meant that several of your characters are loosely based on people down there. That general, for one.”

“Oh, God …” In the convoluted process of inventing a character he had taken one aspect of Phyllis Maxwell’s life—her career as a newspaperwoman—and built another person.
Another
person, not
her
! Not Phyllis. The person he created was the victim of extortion; that wasn’t Phyllis! It was fiction! But the voice on the Hay-Adams telephone was not a product of fiction. “Have you let anyone else read the manuscript?”

“Of course not. Do you think I want people to know how unpublishable you are before my editorial hand goes to work?”

It was the usual joke between them, but Chancellor did not laugh. “Then, where’s your copy?”

“Where? As a matter of fact it’s in the drawer of my bedside table, and we haven’t been robbed in over six months. I think it’s a record.”

“When did you last look?”

Morgan paused, suddenly serious, obviously recognizing the depth of Peter’s concern. “The other night. And the drawer’s locked.”

“Did you make a Xerox for Joshua?”

“No, he’ll get one when the editing’s finished. Could anyone have read your copy?”

“No. It’s in my suitcase.” Chancellor stopped.
The suitcase
. His briefcase was in the car with the suitcases! The night in Rockville! The early morning, the racing footsteps; the horrible, severed legs of an animal; the bloodstained suitcase. It could have happened then. “Never mind, Tony. I’ll call you in a day or so.”

“What are you doing in Washington?”

“I’m not sure. I came down to learn something. Now I don’t know.…” He hung up before Morgan could speak.

* * *

He saw the white porch and the dim light shining through the stained-glass window above the front door. The block was lined with old homes, once stately, now beyond their time.

“That’s the house,” he said to the driver. “Thanks a lot, and keep the change.”

The driver hesitated. “Hey, mister,” he said. “I could be wrong, and it’s none of my business. Maybe you expected it, maybe it’s why you telephoned. But I think you were followed out here.”

“What? Where’s the car?” Peter spun around and looked out the rear window of the taxi.

“Don’t bother looking. He waited until we slowed down; then he made a left turn at the corner back there. He slowed down pretty good himself. To see where you stopped, maybe.”

“Are you sure?”

“Like I said, I could be wrong. Headlights at night, they’re all just a little bit different. You play games.”

“I know what you mean.” Peter thought for a moment. “Do you want to wait here for me? I’ll pay.”

“Hey, no thanks. This trip took me way the hell out. My old lady’s gonna’ be groaning as it is. Wisconsin’s just down the way. Plenty of cabs heading back into town.”

Chancellor got out and closed the door. The cab sped off down the street; Peter turned toward the house. Except for the dim light in the hall there were no other lamps turned on. Yet it was almost an hour since he’d talked to Phyllis Maxwell. She should be here by now. He wondered if she was in a sane enough frame of mind to follow her own instructions. He started up the path to the porch.

He reached the top step and heard the metallic click of a lock. In front of him the door opened, but no one came into view.

“Phyllis?”

“Come in quickly,” was the whispered reply.

She was standing against the wall to the left of the door, her back pressed against the faded wallpaper. In the dim light she looked much older than she had over the candles in the Hay-Adams dining room. Her face was pale with fear. Lines of strain were pronounced at the edges of her mouth. Her eyes were penetrating but devoid of the
flair he remembered; there was no curiosity in them now, only dread. He closed the door.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me. You never did. I mean that, Phyllis.”

“Oh, young man, you’re the worst kind,” she said, her whisper filled with sadness and contempt. “You kill sweetly.”

“That’s utter nonsense. I want to talk to you. And not standing where I can’t see you.”

“There’ll be no lights turned on!”

“At least now I can hear you.” Suddenly, Peter’s thoughts were on the cab driver’s alarming information. There was a car outside on the streets. Watching, waiting. “All right, no lights. May we sit down?”

Her answer was a glare followed by a sudden movement away from the wall. He walked behind her through an archway into a dark living room. In the wash of hall light he could see overstuffed chairs and a large sofa. She went directly to the chair opposite the sofa, the rustle of her skirt the only sound. He took off his topcoat, throwing it on the arm of the couch, and sat down across from her. Her face caught the light from the hallway better than if she’d been sitting next to him.

“I’m going to tell you something,” he began. “If I tell it awkwardly, it’s because I’ve never had to explain anything like this before; maybe I’ve never analyzed what is dubiously called the creative process.” He shrugged, denigrating the term. “I was awfully impressed with you,” he said.

“You’re too kind.”

“Please. You know what I mean. My father’s been a newspaperman all his life. When we met, I’m sure I was more impressed than you were. The fact that you wanted to interview me struck me as kind of foolish. You gave me a lift when it didn’t hurt, and it had nothing to do with my books. You’re part of something very important, with a significance I don’t have. I was
damned
impressed, and it was a terrific evening. I drank too much and so did you, but what of it?”

“Kill sweetly, young man,” she whispered.

Peter held his breath, controlling himself. “I went to bed with a great lady. If that’s my crime, I’m guilty.”

“Go on.” Phyllis closed her eyes.

“I asked you a lot of questions about Hoover that
night. You gave me answers, told me things I didn’t know. Your vehemence was electric. Your morality had been deeply offended, and you showed me an anger in person that I’d never read in anything you’d written.”

“What are you driving at?”

“It’s part of my awkward explanation. I was in Washington getting background; a few days later I started work. Your anger was very much on my mind. Beyond that, it was a woman’s anger. An articulate, successful woman. So it was a logical step to invent a variation of that woman, someone possessing the same characteristics. That’s what I did. That’s my explanation. You gave me the idea for the character, but you’re
not her
. She’s only an invention.”

“Did you also invent a general who was buried yesterday at Arlington?”

Chancellor sat motionless, stunned. Her dead eyes stared at him through the dim spill of light. “No, I didn’t invent him,” he answered quietly. “Who told you about him?”

“Surely you know. A horrible, flat, high-pitched whisper over the telephone. It’s frighteningly effective for something so basic. Surely you know.” Phyllis spaced her words out, as if afraid to hear herself say them.

“I don’t know,” replied Peter, indeed not knowing but beginning to perceive the spreading of a terrible pattern. He struggled to remain calm, to sound reasonable, but he knew his anger showed. “I think this has all gone far enough. Whispers over a telephone. Words painted on walls! Houses broken into. Animals cut up! Enough!” He got up and turned around. “It’s going to stop.” He saw what he was looking for: a large lamp on a table. Deliberately he went to it, put his hand beneath the shade, and pulled the chain. The light went on. “There’s not going to be any more hiding, no more dark rooms. Someone’s trying to drive you crazy, drive Alison crazy, drive me out of my goddamned mind! I’ve
had
it. I’m not going to let—?”

It was as far as he got. A pane in one of the front windows exploded. Simultaneously there was a harsh splitting of wood; a bullet imbedded itself somewhere in a molding. Then another pane shattered; glass fragments shot through the air, cracks of plaster sliced the wall like the jagged edges of black lightning.

Instinctively, Peter lashed out his hand, sending the lamp spiraling off the table onto the floor. It landed on
the side of its shade, the bulb still lit, eerily projecting light across the room on the floor.

“Get
down!” screamed Phyllis.

Chancellor realized as he dove to the floor that there were bullets, but there were no gunshots! And terrifying images came back to him.

Dawn at the Cloisters! A man killed in front of his eyes; a circle of blood abruptly, without warning, formed on a white forehead. A body in spastic contortion before it fell.
There had been no gunshots then!
Only sickening spits that had disturbed the stillness and filled it with death.

Move!
For Christ’s sake,
move
! In his panic he had lunged toward Phyllis, pulling her to the floor with him.

Another pane of glass exploded, another bullet cracked the plaster. Then another, this one ricocheting off stone somewhere, smashing the glass of a photograph on the wall.

Move!
There is
death
!

He had to get the tight. They were targets with it on. He pushed Phyllis away, holding her down, hearing her moans of fear. He darted his eyes to his right, then his left. Stone! There had to be a fireplace! It was directly behind him and he saw what he wanted. A poker leaning against the brick. He lurched for it.

Glass erupted; twin cracks appeared on the walls, partly obscured by shadows. Phyllis screamed, and for an instant Peter thought she might be heard, but then he remembered the house was on the corner, the nearest house at least a hundred feet away. The night was cold; windows and doors were shut. Her screams would bring no help.

He crawled toward the lamp, raised the poker, and smashed it down on the shade as if killing a deadly animal.

There was still the light in the hallway! It took on the intensity of a searchlight, the spill probing corners, washing the room with a brightness he would never have thought possible. He lunged up, racing to the archway, and heaved the poker toward the fixture in the ceiling. It spun through the air like a whirling crossbar and crashed into the teardrops of glass. All went dark.