prompter.”
“You mean the tapes?”
She nodded. “They’ll be numbered, and you’ll know what’s covered in each one.”
“Good,” I said.
She smiled. “And don’t forget, it’s only the first week you have to be careful. After that, it doesn’t matter.”
I looked at her. I’d forgotten that, and it was one of the really brilliant angles of the whole thing. This girl was clever. And all she wanted out of life was to kill a man. It seemed a senseless waste. The thought startled me, and I shrugged it off. It was her life, wasn’t it?
“All right,” I said. “Roll One.”
* * *
“Harris Chapman was born in Thomaston April fourteen, nineteen-eighteen. Father’s name: John W. Chapman. Owned the Ford agency, and was one of the largest stockholders in the Thomaston State Bank. His mother’s maiden name was Mary Burke, and she was the only child of a Thomaston attorney. John W. sold out and retired in nineteen-forty, and moved to California. Both still living, in La Jolla.
“Only two children. Keith is two years older than Harris. The summer he was nineteen, after his freshman year at Tulane, he hit a twelve-year-old girl with his car. She wasn’t seriously injured, but shortly afterwards he began to go to pieces. He quit sleeping, or if he did sleep nobody could figure out when, and lost weight and became withdrawn. It was the onset of schizophrenia, of course, and probably the accident had little or nothing to do with it. At any rate, his condition became hopeless, and he’s spent more than half the past twenty-two years in one mental institution or another.
“Harris has always been haunted by this, as I told you, particularly because there had been a prior case of mental illness in the family, a great uncle or something. Fear of an hereditary taint, you see. Foolish, of course, but I told you he has a tendency toward hypochondria.
“He finished high school in nineteen-thirty-six. His mother wanted him to go to a Catholic school, so he went to Notre Dame. He graduated in nineteen-forty-one, and Pearl Harbor caught him in his first year at Tulane Law School.”
She stopped the tape, and reached for a cigarette. I lit it for her. “Any questions?” she asked.
“One,” I said. “Bring me up to date on the brother. Where is he now?”
“La Jolla, with his parents.” She pressed the “Record” switch and the tape began to roll again. “Harris finished out the term at Tulane and went in the Navy, and was commissioned an ensign that summer. He just barely got past the physical, with that bad ear.”
He’d had a tour of sea duty on an aircraft carrier. She went on talking. She’d pushed the hassock aside now and was sitting cross-legged on the rug with the stenographic notebook between her knees. I leaned back against a chair and watched her, studying the proud and slender face that could have been downright arrogant except for the saving loveliness of the eyes. It occurred to me she was the most striking-looking, and most fascinating, woman I’d ever seen.
She reached over and stopped the tape. “Are you listening?” she asked crisply.
“Sure,” I said, and repeated the last thing she’d said. Chapman had been transferred to shore duty in Seattle.”
“Oh,” she said. “The way you were looking at me—”
“Simply because I think you’re beautiful.”
She sighed. Going into the bedroom, she returned with a pillow. She dropped it beside the coffee table. “Lie down, facing the other way, and close your eyes. Concentrate.”
I lay down. She went on, pausing now and then to arrange her notes so there wouldn’t be any blank areas on the tape. Chapman was a full lieutenant at the end of the war. He went back to Tulane Law School at the beginning of the spring term in 1946, and before the end of it he was married to a New Orleans girl he met at a Mardi Gras ball. Her name was Grace Trahan. She was a slight, dark girl with a delicate constitution, very pretty in an ethereal
“You mean the tapes?”
She nodded. “They’ll be numbered, and you’ll know what’s covered in each one.”
“Good,” I said.
She smiled. “And don’t forget, it’s only the first week you have to be careful. After that, it doesn’t matter.”
I looked at her. I’d forgotten that, and it was one of the really brilliant angles of the whole thing. This girl was clever. And all she wanted out of life was to kill a man. It seemed a senseless waste. The thought startled me, and I shrugged it off. It was her life, wasn’t it?
“All right,” I said. “Roll One.”
* * *
“Harris Chapman was born in Thomaston April fourteen, nineteen-eighteen. Father’s name: John W. Chapman. Owned the Ford agency, and was one of the largest stockholders in the Thomaston State Bank. His mother’s maiden name was Mary Burke, and she was the only child of a Thomaston attorney. John W. sold out and retired in nineteen-forty, and moved to California. Both still living, in La Jolla.
“Only two children. Keith is two years older than Harris. The summer he was nineteen, after his freshman year at Tulane, he hit a twelve-year-old girl with his car. She wasn’t seriously injured, but shortly afterwards he began to go to pieces. He quit sleeping, or if he did sleep nobody could figure out when, and lost weight and became withdrawn. It was the onset of schizophrenia, of course, and probably the accident had little or nothing to do with it. At any rate, his condition became hopeless, and he’s spent more than half the past twenty-two years in one mental institution or another.
“Harris has always been haunted by this, as I told you, particularly because there had been a prior case of mental illness in the family, a great uncle or something. Fear of an hereditary taint, you see. Foolish, of course, but I told you he has a tendency toward hypochondria.
“He finished high school in nineteen-thirty-six. His mother wanted him to go to a Catholic school, so he went to Notre Dame. He graduated in nineteen-forty-one, and Pearl Harbor caught him in his first year at Tulane Law School.”
She stopped the tape, and reached for a cigarette. I lit it for her. “Any questions?” she asked.
“One,” I said. “Bring me up to date on the brother. Where is he now?”
“La Jolla, with his parents.” She pressed the “Record” switch and the tape began to roll again. “Harris finished out the term at Tulane and went in the Navy, and was commissioned an ensign that summer. He just barely got past the physical, with that bad ear.”
He’d had a tour of sea duty on an aircraft carrier. She went on talking. She’d pushed the hassock aside now and was sitting cross-legged on the rug with the stenographic notebook between her knees. I leaned back against a chair and watched her, studying the proud and slender face that could have been downright arrogant except for the saving loveliness of the eyes. It occurred to me she was the most striking-looking, and most fascinating, woman I’d ever seen.
She reached over and stopped the tape. “Are you listening?” she asked crisply.
“Sure,” I said, and repeated the last thing she’d said. Chapman had been transferred to shore duty in Seattle.”
“Oh,” she said. “The way you were looking at me—”
“Simply because I think you’re beautiful.”
She sighed. Going into the bedroom, she returned with a pillow. She dropped it beside the coffee table. “Lie down, facing the other way, and close your eyes. Concentrate.”
I lay down. She went on, pausing now and then to arrange her notes so there wouldn’t be any blank areas on the tape. Chapman was a full lieutenant at the end of the war. He went back to Tulane Law School at the beginning of the spring term in 1946, and before the end of it he was married to a New Orleans girl he met at a Mardi Gras ball. Her name was Grace Trahan. She was a slight, dark girl with a delicate constitution, very pretty in an ethereal
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