(1969) The Seven Minutes Read Online Free PDF Page B

distinguished or had become a best seller. Not one had made a major subsidiary-sales strike to book clubs or paperback reprinters. At last, with the courage born of sheer desperation, Philip Sanford had made an effort to escape his father’s shadow and become his own man. He had determined to publish what he wanted to publish and not what he thought his father might have published. He had acquired a novel that he had read and admired during a sea crossing from Le Havre to New York, a book that had never been permitted to be published openly in any English-speaking nation in the world. It was a work called The Seven Minutes, and on the publication and success of this novel Philip Sanford had staked his entire future.
    When Barrett had dined with Sanford in New York that last time, Sanford had been manic about the book’s possibilities. For the first time in modern literary history, the climate was right for the appearance of such a book, Sanford had insisted. A Western world that had finally accepted Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Fanny Hill would be mature enough to accept The Seven Minutes. The book was already on the presses. Interest within the trade was mounting. It promised to be a smash hit. And then Sanford would have his publishing house, his haven, his future, and he would finally be his own man. Discussion of Phil’s survival had occupied most of their evening together. Only in the last ten minutes had Barrett been asked about himself. He had complained about his own crawling career at Thayer and Turner. He had cited as the only bright spots Abe Zelkin’s offer and his own fondness for Willard Osborn’s daughter.
    And now, suddenly, Philip Sanford wanted to speak to Barrett about something urgent. Considering what he knew of Sanford’s life, what could possibly be urgent that might concern him?
    The telephone at his elbow was ringing.
    He snatched up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
    ‘Mike ?’ It was Sanford’s voice. No secretary had preceded him. That underlined urgency. ‘Is that you, Mike?’
    ‘None other. How’ve you been, Phil ? Sorry to have missed your calls. I just got in. How’s everything?’
    ‘As usual, as usual, if you mean the family. This is something else. It’s a business matter. Mike, I’m certainly relieved you called this soon.’
    Barrett was immediately aware of the tone of Sanford’s voice. It was nervous, harried. ‘You sound as if there’s something important on your mind. If it’s anything I can - *
    ‘You can, you can help me.5
    ‘Shoot.’
    ‘Mike, remember when you were here last, I told you that I was having a rough go of it with my first list, my books, not the carryovers from Wesley R?’
    Barrett remembered that Sanford had always referred to his father, Wesley R. Sanford, as Wesley R. He had never been able to call him Father. ‘Yes, but you were optimistic -‘
    ‘Exactly. Because of one book I had in the works. The Seven Minutes, by J J Jadway. I was putting all my chips on that one. All or nothing. Remember?’
    Barrett nodded at the telephone. “That’s right. The novel no one had dared publish in thirty-five years. I saw your opening ad last Sunday. Tremendous.’
    Sanford’s voice had become anxious. ‘You’ve seen the book, haven’t you? I had an advance copy airmailed to you.’
    Guiltily, Barrett’s eyes flicked toward his bedroom door. He had received the advance complimentary copy about three weeks ago, and the book had been resting unopened on the lamp table beside his double bed ever since. He had intended to read it so that he could write his friend an encouraging thank-you note, but there had been so much happening to him since that he had been unable to get to it. Goddam good intentions. ‘Yes, I received it, Phil. It’s next to my bed. Every day I’ve resolved to write and thank you, wish you well, but I’ve just been up to my ass in a million things. I skimmed the whole thing, and I’d say the book is everything you’ve been saying,