(1969) The Seven Minutes (24 page)

your words.’

‘I promised you more than words,’ said Cardinal MacManus. ‘I promised you help.’

‘Anything you can offer I shall appreciate.’

‘The Holy Father has authori2ed me to offer you the services of Father Sarfatti - one of the two priests in the Vatican directly in charge of the Index - as a leading witness for your prosecution. Before proscribing The Seven Minutes, the members of the Holy Order carefully investigated the author, J J Jadway, while he was still alive. The findings of three and a half decades ago are at Father Sarfatti’s fingertips. I am authorized to inform you that Father Sarfatti is prepared to make public, for the benefit of your prosecution, not only his own experience with Jadway, but all of the classified information the Church has on the infamous book and its equally infamous author.’

‘About this information,’ said Duncan eagerly, ‘I’m curious to learn if you can give me any idea of its -‘

‘Did you know that the author, J J Jadway, was a Catholic when he wrote the book? Did you know that he was excommunicated before his death for producing this work? Did you know that his death, following his excommunication, was not accidental, as the newspaper reports have been saying, but that he died by his own hand, as a suicide?’

Duncan’s jaw fell open, and he sat dazed on the sofa. ‘Jadway killed himself?’

‘After his book appeared he committed suicide, and his remains were cremated.’

Duncan was on his feet, his features twitching, as his fingers absently fumbled for a cigarette. ‘No -I didn’t know any of that. Outside of this room, no one in the United States knows that. But they should know. Everyone should know.’

With a grunt, Cardinal MacManus rose from the sofa. ‘It is the truth. There is more. Do you wish Father Sarfatti as a witness for the prosecution?’

‘Do I wish him? Yes, a thousand times yes, I must have him.’

‘When do you want him in Los Angeles?’

‘Within three days, four at the most, if possible.’

‘It is possible. I will notify the Vatican. Father Sarfatti will be here. And the Lord will bless our cause. We are ever mindful of St Augustine’s instruction, “He who created us without our help will not save us without our consent.” We want America to be saved, and you will help us get the consent of our citizens. Thank you, Mr Duncan.’

“Thank you, Your Eminence.’

Leaving Ben Fremont’s Book Emporium, Mike Barrett decided to walk the three blocks to the Oakwood Branch Library. After depositing another dime in the parking meter, he left his

car and set out on foot. Since Oakwood was nearer the beach than Beverly Hills, where he had finished lunch less than an hour ago, the air was cleaner, less muggy, more invigorating, and he inhaled deeply as he strode through the shopping district,

Barrett reviewed the conversation he had just concluded with Ben Fremont. It amused Barrett that the thin, nearsighted bookseller was now less unprepossessing than when they had first met on the afternoon of Fremont’s arrest. On that afternoon, Fremont had been shriveled by fright and his speech reduced to a gurgle. But the subsequent attention he had received had inflated his ego. He enjoyed receiving the sympathies of that minority of customers, friends, fellow bookmeni who considered him a heroic martyr. He reveled even more in his sudden role as notorious pawn of Satan ascribed to him by the STDL and the sensationalists of the press and television. In his tone of voice Barrett had detected the faintest resentment that J J Jadway and The Seven Minutes were getting more recognition than he himself. At one point, Fremont had shyly admitted that his wife was keeping a scrapbook. Further, his bearing was straighter, his speech more authoritative, and the old whining and cringing had all but disappeared. Barrett understood, and liked him. Most men, the very ones who live lives of quiet desperation, receive public recognition only twice in their lives, with their birth notice and their obituary, neither of which can they read. Life had given this obscure bookseller an unexpected bonus. He was, incredibly, fleetingly, a public figure.

But whenever Barrett talked to him, Fremont would eventually become realistic about bis status. He was the defendant, under criminal indictment. Incarceration in a jail was a possibility. And so, when Barrett appeared, Fremont was cooperative and before long realistic, as he had been for the last half hour.

Barrett had arrived armed with questions. The police had confiscated eighty copies of The Seven Minutes, and Sanford House’s sales-department accounts showed that an advance order of one hundred copies had been shipped to Fremont’s Book Emporium. Were those figures correct? ‘Yes, sir, Mr Barrett.’ Did that mean that Fremont had sold twenty copies before his arrest? ‘Yes, sir, except, wait, no, I had one copy at home which my wife was reading. So that means I sold nineteen, two of them to the police officers who arrested me.’ Did Fremont have any record of the other seventeen customers who had purchased the book? ‘Only those who charged it, and that would take some looking up. Most of my customers pay cash.’ Would Fremont mind going through his charge-account records covering the short period between his receiving the shipment and his arrest, and keep an eye open for Jerry Griffith’s name? T can answer that right off, Mr Barrett. None or the Griffiths carries a charge in this store.’ Then perhaps Jerry had come in and paid cash for the book? T doubt it. I’ve got a good memory for names and faces. The boy’s picture has been in

all the papers, and I don’t remember ever seeing him in this store. Of course, there’s a hundred bookstores around L.A. where he might have got a copy.’ Barrett realized that, and he already had Kimura and several aides canvassing other stores with photographs of Jerry Griffith in hand. ‘I sure envy those other stores, Mr Barrett. They must be selling copies like hotcakes, and all because of me.’ Barrett had doubted that many stores outside Oakwood dared to display the book. Most were waiting the outcome of the trial. ‘Not all of them, Mr Barrett,’ Fremont had said knowingly.

This had given Barrett pause. He had eyed the bookseller closely. Did Fremont mean that some of his colleagues were selling the book from under the counter? ‘A few, a few.‘DidFremontrecollect Barrett’s earlier advice? ‘What was that? Oh, yeah, I remember, you mean about me not trying to Sell from under the counter? Don’t worry. No chance. Besides, where would I get the copies? God knows, I wish 1 could sell the book. You have no idea how many phone calls I get every day asking if 1 have it for sale. Why, you know who called this morning? Rachel Hoyt. Great gal. You don’t know her? You should. She’s the head branch librarian for the Oakwood Library. Speak of guts. She’s stood up against Mrs St Clair and the STDL for two years. She’s absolutely indignant about my arrest and this attempt to ban The Seven Minutes. She thinks that’s the real crime. She’s so sore that she’s not even waiting to order the book through the county acquisitions department. She wants to buy one herself and put it right out on the open shelves and have a showdown with the STDL. That’s why she phoned me, trying to get a copy. I was afraid to let her have the one my wife is reading. But that Rachel, she’ll find a copy somewhere.’

And now Mike Barrett had reached the modern one-story structure that was the Oakwood Branch Library, and was entering it, determined to speak to Rachel Hoyt, librarian.

It had been a long time since Barrett had been inside a public library, and the physical appearance of the interior of the building, as well as the atmosphere there, took him by surprise. His youthful memories of libraries were associated with words like ‘darkened,’ ‘musty,’ ‘staid,’ ‘hushed.’ The Oakwood Branch Library was bright, light, airy, and the scene was one of restrained liveliness. Several college-age boys and girls were gathered along the table of Periodical Guides, talking in lowered but animated voices and trying to repress their laughter. Other visitors were comfortably seated at long tables, leisurely reading or studiously note-taking. A romantic couple emerged from the well-illuminated stacks, bis free arm around her, and her arms loaded with books. Near the entrance, there was a rack bearing a sign, New Arrivals, as well as a cork board carrying dust jackets of the latest acquisitions. Barrett hastily examined the fiction titles. The Seven Minutes was not yet among them.

At the checkout counter, Barrett asked for Miss Rachel Hoyt

and gave his name and his business, and the tiny clerk stared at him with wide eyes and then darted through a doorway behind her.

When she returned, Rachel Hoyt was right at her heels, and Barrett enjoyed his second surprise since his arrival. Like most adults, Barrett’s remembrance of librarians who had populated his school years had merged with time into one stereotyped librarian. This stereotype had bunned hair, rimless spectacles, a pointed disap-, proving nose, and invisible compressed lips. The stereotype was a loveless priss, efficient, mousy, humorless, juiceless.

And here was Rachel Hoyt, branch librarian, as pretty as a Marie Laurencin picture, yet ascolorfulasapsychedelicposter.Her hair was pulled back softly and held at the nape of her neck by an enameled barrette. There was bright lipstick on her moist lips, and a pink blouse was joined by a wide belt to a short gray wool dirndl. She was smallish, compact, neat, with an impudent expression and a kind of bursting vitality. She was probably nearer forty than thirty, but she looked thirty. Barrett had no doubt that she had one hell of an intellect. He also had no doubt that she did not allow it to interfere with her social life.

‘You are the head librarian’?’ he asked.

‘None other,’ said Rachel Hoyt, shoving a collection of bangle bracelets high on her slender forearm. She cocked an amused eye at him. ‘What were you expecting - Minnie Mouse or a Bloomer Girl ? They threw away that cookie cutter years ago. But then, Mr Barrett, you don’t look like those criminal attorneys we read about or see portrayed on television. You don’t look like a shrewd gallus-snapper or a wonderful drunken mumbler defending underdogs. You don’t look like Darror or Rogers - or Howe or Hummel, for that matter.’

1 don’t ?’ Barrett complained with mock hurt. ‘Why not?’

‘Too clean-cut and too much jaw. Your eyes aren’t even slightly bloodshot. Your ties is expensive. Charles Darnay, maybe. Sydney Carton, no.’

Tf you knew what I was sacrificing to take on this case, you’d say Sydney Carton, and how.’

Rachel Hoyt laughed. ‘Okay, Sydney, come on in.’

He went around the checkout counter and followed her into an office as neat and open as her own person, except for the table in the center that served her as a desk. It was piled high with new books, and stacks of the Library Journal, the Top of the News, and the Wilson Library Bulletin. There were also on the table clutches of three-by-five slips of paper held together by rubber bands, a cup of pencils, an electric percolator bubbling, a paper plate containing part of a sandwich.

‘Mind if I finish my ham and cheese and have coffee ?’ she asked, going behind the table and pouring coffee into a paper cup. ‘Will you have some?’

‘No, thanks.’

Then pull up and make yourself at home.’

He started for a chair, but was distracted by a large framed placard on the wall. It bore the heading: Library Bill of Rights. It had been prepared by the Council of the American Library Association.

‘Our six commandments,’ called out Rachel Hoyt. ‘Look at number three and number four.’

He looked at number three. It read: ‘Censorship of books, urged or practiced by volunteer arbiters of morals or political opinion or by organizations that would establish a coercive concept of Americanism, must be challenged by libraries in maintenance of their responsibility to provide public information and enlightenment through the printed word.”

His eyes moved down to number four. It read: ‘Libraries should enlist the cooperation of allied groups in the fields of science, of education, and of book publishing in resisting all abridgment of the free access to ideas and full freedom of expression that are the tradition and heritage of Americans.’

He turned back and brought the chair to a position across the table from her. ‘I guess that about says it all,’ he said.

She finished the last bite of her sandwich. ‘Not quite,’ she said. ‘I’d say almost every librarian subscribes to those two policies, in fact to all six. Where we come apart is on interpretation of what is or is not “enlightenment through the printed word.” Whether he knew it or not, President Eisenhower once underlined our problem in a fine speech he gave at Dartmouth College many years ago. “Don’t join the book burners,” he told his audience. He felt that you can’t conceal faults by concealing the evidence that they exist. We shouldn’t be afraid to go into a library and read every book there as long as our own ideas of decency are not offended. “That should be the only censorship,” said Eisenhower.’

She gulped down her coffee. “Three cheers for Ike. But, indeed, what should be the only censorship ? Why, that which offends our ideas of decency, of course. Still, whose ideas exactly? Take a given book. Maybe an Eisenhower says it’s indecent, a Justice Warren says it is decent. Take another book. An American Communist says that politically it’s decent, a member of the John Birch Society says indecent. Take The Seven Minutes. You and I say decent, but Elmo Duncan and Frank Griffith shout indecent. Yes, take this same Jadway book. I say it has social value and literary merit, and I intend to buy it and display it on the shelves of the Oakwood Branch Library. At the same time, the librarians at the book-selection meeting of the Free Library of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, may decide that the book has a prurient appeal as well as an inferior writing style, and they may refuse to buy and circulate it. The head of some Alabama public library may feel the book has social importance, but, because of fear of some organization like the DAR, he will precensor the novel and not allow his librarians to

buy it. Which brings us back to the same question - whose idea of decency should we follow ? Being a librarian today is about as non-controversial a job as being a politician. It’s one of the most hazardous occupations on earth. No more room for mice. Oh, there are plenty of mice in the profession. But there are more tigers in these hallowed reading rooms, far more, believe me. And yours truly is one of them. I’ll growl and stalk and fight to the death to protect my brood, my book collection, my free and open shelves. And now, Mr Barrett, what in the devil are you doing here?’