The Chancellor Manuscript: A Novel

  And then the moment passed. Varak imposed self-control. “It’s a fair question,” he said calmly. “I’ll answer it as concisely as I can. As you know, I work alone except in rare instances where I employ others who can never trace my identity. A case in point was a taxi driver in New York. He picked up Chancellor and the girl and drove them to the airport; their conversation was taped. The driver reached me in Washington and played it over the telephone. It was the first I heard about their staying in Rockville. I had very little time to get my equipment, drive out to the house, and install it. I was fortunate to mount even one camera with the proper infrared film. That’s my answer.”

  Again the silence as the members of Inver Brass studied Varak. Beneath the table St. Claire removed his finger from the trigger. He had spent a lifetime learning to discern the truth when he heard it. In his judgment he had just heard the truth.

  He hoped to God he was right.

  21

  Habit caused Peter to wake up at four thirty in the morning. Custom willed him to get out of bed, go to his briefcase on a bedroom chair, and remove his leather notebook.

  They were in a suite at the Hay-Adams, and it was Alison’s introduction to his odd hours of work.

  She heard him and bolted upright in the bed.

  “Is there a fire?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d hear me.”

  “I know I can’t see you. It’s dark out. What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. It’s morning. It’s when I like to work. Go back to sleep. I’ll be in the next room.”

  Alison fell back into the pillow, shaking her head. Peter smiled and carried his notebook into the sitting room. To the coffee table and the couch.

  Three hours later he had finished the eighth chapter. He had not referred to the outline; it was not necessary. He knew the emotions he was defining for Alexander Meredith. He had been gripped with fear; he had panicked. He knew what it was to be the object of a violent chase; he had heard racing footsteps in the darkness.

  Alison awoke shortly before eight. He joined her and they made love. Slowly, enfolded in each other, each awakened response more lovely, more exciting than the last, until they were caught in the desperate rhythm of their combined hunger, neither allowing the other to lessen the intensity.

  And they fell asleep in each other’s arms, the comfort each sought found in the other.

  They awoke at ten thirty, had breakfast in the room, and began thinking about the rest of the day. Peter had promised her a day of “luxuriating”; he wanted to provide it. She deserved it. As he watched her across the breakfast table, he was struck by something that he should have noticed before. In spite of the strain and the sadness Alison had a quality of quiet humor within her; it was never far away.

  Cathy had had that quality.

  Peter reached across the table for her hand. She took it smiling, her eyes searching his with kindness.

  The telephone rang. It was her father’s lawyer. There were various papers to sign and government forms to be filled out and legal rights to be understood. The general’s will was simple, but the army’s death procedures were not. Would Alison please be at his office at two o’clock? If there were no complications, she’d be finished by five.

  Chancellor promised that they would luxuriate tomorrow. Actually they would start at one minute after five.

  Because the next day, Peter thought to himself, he would bring up the subject of the Rockville house.

  Alison left at one thirty for the lawyer’s office. Chancellor returned to his leather notebook.

  Chapter 9—Outline

  The chapter’s objective is the meeting of Alex Meredith and the senator. It will take place in the hotel room after a harrowing chase during which Alex must elude those following him. In meeting the senator, Alex becomes aware that there is a group of powerful men willing to fight Hoover. He is not alone. It is the beginning of his journey back to sanity.

  He accepts the dangers that will face him now, for there are people he can turn to; his dependence on them is established immediately. His relief is given added impact by the senator’s revelation of the identities of his two closest associates: the former cabinet officer and the newspaperwoman. They, too, want to meet with Meredith.

  There is a plan. Alex does not know what it is, but the fact that one exists is enough. He is committed without fully understanding his own commitment.

  The hours passed; the words were compulsively there. He had reached the point where the senator explains the conversion of Hoover’s messenger. Chancellor read the words, which he’d use virtually intact in the actual chapter, with satisfaction.

  “For reasons of survival Alan Long has seen the error of his ways. His past is no more immune to scrutiny than anyone else’s. An isolated fact can be twisted here, taken out of context there. It’s only the source that matters, the damning imprimatur—like the letters F-B-I. Long is about to retire from the bureau because of a terminal illness. A report has been sent to the director to that effect. In truth, however, Long is going to work for us. Although one could not exactly say he’s been washed in the blood of the lamb, he is less inclined toward the archangel of darkness. He’s afraid. And fear is a weapon he knows well.”

  It was not a bad day’s work, thought Peter, looking at his watch. It was nearly four thirty. The late afternoon sun created blocks of shadows on the buildings outside the hotel window. The December wind was harsh; every now and then a leaf spiraled up beyond the glass.

  Alison would be back soon. He would take her to a small restaurant he knew in Georgetown, where they would have a quiet dinner and look at each other and touch each other. There would be the laughter in her eyes, and in her voice, and he would be grateful for her nearness. And they would come back to the hotel and make love. So wondrously. With meaning. There had been no meaning in his bed for so long.

  Peter got up from the couch and stretched, revolving his neck. It was habit; when the pain came to his temples, it helped to move his head in circles. Yet there was no pain now. In spite of the stress of the past forty-eight hours, there had been only a few brief moments when he’d felt the alarms. Alteon MacAndrew had come into his life. It was really as simple as that.

  The telephone rang. He smiled, reacting like an adolescent. It had to be Alison; no one else knew he was there. He picked up the phone, expecting her to tell him with her own particular brand of laughter that all the cabs in Washington were avoiding her; she was marooned in a concrete zoo and the animals were snarling.

  It was a woman’s voice, but it was not Alison’s. Only the hard, strained tones of a frightened human being.

  “What in God’s name have you done? How could you put me in your book? Who gave you the right?”

  It was Phyllis Maxwell.

  It was the beginning of the madness.

  He left a note for Alison, a second message at the desk in case she overlooked the note. He had no time to explain; there was an emergency, and he had to leave for an hour or so. He’d call her at the first opportunity. And he loved her.

  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 extracte
d 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 an
ything 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?”