Read Online (1961) The Chapman Report by Irving Wallace - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Irving Wallace
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you. When can I see you?”
“I … I don’t know. I’ve been so busy-“
“So now you’ll be busier.”
Before she could think of what to say, she heard the noisy approach of a car in the driveway. It puzzled her. “Ted, one sec, there’s someone here. I’ll be right back.”
Rising hastily from the table, she went to the window and peered outside. A battered station wagon was moving around the circular drive to her entrance. The car was familiar, and then, as it braked to a halt, she recognized the driver. At once, she remembered. Last night, James Scoville had telephoned just as Grace Waterton came calling. In haste and confusion, she had consented to let Scoville drop by in the morning. He had said that he wanted only a few minutes. Something about straightening out several points in the fourth chapter.
Kathleen hurried back to the telephone. “Ted, I’m sorry. It’s Jim Scoville. I promised to help him this morning.”
“Hasn’t he finished that book yet?”
“It takes time.”
“Well, what about our date?”
She knew that she would have to see him. Until three weeks ago it had been painless enough, sometimes even welcome, for it gave her companionship at the movies. If Ted had only not spoiled it by making a pass at her. But he had been drunk. “All right,” she said. “Thursday. Join Deirdre and me for dinner. We can go to a show after.”
“Swell, Katie. Until then.”
Scoville was rapping the brass door knocker discreetly. After a troubled glance at the list of names, Kathleen hurried to the door and admitted the writer.
“Hello, Jim,” she said. “I really should have called you. I’m all tied up this morning.”
“It’ll only be a minute,” he said in his apologetic way.
“Well, if it’s only that-“
“No more. I finished chapter four, and there’s just the matter of verifying some dates and straightening out a couple of inconsistencies.”
“Very well.” She nodded. “Let’s sit down. Do you need paper?”
“No, no. I have everything.”
They went to the arrangement around the Biedemeir pear wood tea table. Kathleen sat on the sofa, and Scoville lowered himself to the edge of the turquoise chair, tugging a wad of yellow paper from his sport coat pocket and finding a ball point pen which he clicked open.
“How’s the book going?” asked Kathleen.
“I think I can finish in two months.”
“That’s fast.”
“Yes. I guess I’m enthused. Sonia had to force me to bed at midnight last night.”
Kathleen had a kind of acquaintance affection for James Scoville. He was so knocked about and unobtrusive. He gave the impression of being almost six foot-the manner of his head pulled into worn, hunched shoulders, protectively, like a tortoise, made accurate estimates of his height impossible. He had dull, ash-blond hair, a bland, freckled face that seemed Albino pink, watery eyes, and receding chin, and his clothes always appeared as if he had slept in them. It was Metzgar of Radcone Aircraft who had arranged for Scoville to do the biography of Boynton.
Metzgar was wealthy and important, but like all sedentary men who had risen through use of desk and telephone, he worshiped men of action. Although he had hired Boynton, he knew that Boynton did not work for him. Boynton was his own man and respected no channels except those direct to God. This, as well as Boynton’s reckless courage (in most men, born of fear, but in Boynton’s case; as Kathleen alone knew, born of insensitivity and a curious, egotistical, divine sense that he was too young and too needed to be touched by death), made Metzgar his suppliant.
When Boynton had gone down in flames, in the experimental jet, crashing and disintegrating on the baking desert near Victorville, Metzgar (and he not alone) refused to accept this evidence of his idol’s mortality. To keep him alive, forever living in the dreams of others, Metzgar conceived of the biography. Promising a renowned Manhattan publisher a
“I … I don’t know. I’ve been so busy-“
“So now you’ll be busier.”
Before she could think of what to say, she heard the noisy approach of a car in the driveway. It puzzled her. “Ted, one sec, there’s someone here. I’ll be right back.”
Rising hastily from the table, she went to the window and peered outside. A battered station wagon was moving around the circular drive to her entrance. The car was familiar, and then, as it braked to a halt, she recognized the driver. At once, she remembered. Last night, James Scoville had telephoned just as Grace Waterton came calling. In haste and confusion, she had consented to let Scoville drop by in the morning. He had said that he wanted only a few minutes. Something about straightening out several points in the fourth chapter.
Kathleen hurried back to the telephone. “Ted, I’m sorry. It’s Jim Scoville. I promised to help him this morning.”
“Hasn’t he finished that book yet?”
“It takes time.”
“Well, what about our date?”
She knew that she would have to see him. Until three weeks ago it had been painless enough, sometimes even welcome, for it gave her companionship at the movies. If Ted had only not spoiled it by making a pass at her. But he had been drunk. “All right,” she said. “Thursday. Join Deirdre and me for dinner. We can go to a show after.”
“Swell, Katie. Until then.”
Scoville was rapping the brass door knocker discreetly. After a troubled glance at the list of names, Kathleen hurried to the door and admitted the writer.
“Hello, Jim,” she said. “I really should have called you. I’m all tied up this morning.”
“It’ll only be a minute,” he said in his apologetic way.
“Well, if it’s only that-“
“No more. I finished chapter four, and there’s just the matter of verifying some dates and straightening out a couple of inconsistencies.”
“Very well.” She nodded. “Let’s sit down. Do you need paper?”
“No, no. I have everything.”
They went to the arrangement around the Biedemeir pear wood tea table. Kathleen sat on the sofa, and Scoville lowered himself to the edge of the turquoise chair, tugging a wad of yellow paper from his sport coat pocket and finding a ball point pen which he clicked open.
“How’s the book going?” asked Kathleen.
“I think I can finish in two months.”
“That’s fast.”
“Yes. I guess I’m enthused. Sonia had to force me to bed at midnight last night.”
Kathleen had a kind of acquaintance affection for James Scoville. He was so knocked about and unobtrusive. He gave the impression of being almost six foot-the manner of his head pulled into worn, hunched shoulders, protectively, like a tortoise, made accurate estimates of his height impossible. He had dull, ash-blond hair, a bland, freckled face that seemed Albino pink, watery eyes, and receding chin, and his clothes always appeared as if he had slept in them. It was Metzgar of Radcone Aircraft who had arranged for Scoville to do the biography of Boynton.
Metzgar was wealthy and important, but like all sedentary men who had risen through use of desk and telephone, he worshiped men of action. Although he had hired Boynton, he knew that Boynton did not work for him. Boynton was his own man and respected no channels except those direct to God. This, as well as Boynton’s reckless courage (in most men, born of fear, but in Boynton’s case; as Kathleen alone knew, born of insensitivity and a curious, egotistical, divine sense that he was too young and too needed to be touched by death), made Metzgar his suppliant.
When Boynton had gone down in flames, in the experimental jet, crashing and disintegrating on the baking desert near Victorville, Metzgar (and he not alone) refused to accept this evidence of his idol’s mortality. To keep him alive, forever living in the dreams of others, Metzgar conceived of the biography. Promising a renowned Manhattan publisher a
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