The Cheim Manuscript (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  When Cheim had been head of Premiere, Barr had worked for him during a ten-year period, and for three of those years he had been the studios number-one box-office draw. He was still one of the three or four top Western stars in the land.

  This was the first time his name had been linked with Cheims since the former Power had gone into semiretirement, and a lot of people wondered why he was starring in a small-budget Western for Cheim when he could have demanded — and received — much larger loot from Premiere or almost any other major studio. Maybe he’d been guaranteed a fat chunk of the gross; maybe he was simply more loyal than I would have suspected.

  There was also, of course, the possibility that I was wrong about Barr. Id never met the man. Maybe in person he was as sweet as strawberry shortcake. . . .

  He wasn’t.

  3

  Warren barr was sitting in a canvas-backed chair smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper when I walked up.

  Fifty feet away men were moving cameras, setting up reflectors, stepping over what looked like miles of electrical cables. A man in Bermuda shorts and a bright striped shirt was standing at the base of a huge camera boom, cursing with a richness of invective wonderful to hear.

  The set was the familiar dusty main street of an Old West town, lined on both sides with wooden buildings — saloons, feed store, blacksmiths shop, office of the towns MD, who was called Good Old Doc, a rooming house, plus the combined booze house, gambling house and whorehouse, in which dusty men drank everything from redeye to sarsaparilla, lost deeds to their ranches and gold mines to slickers with black moustaches, and the girls energetically plied their trade, which — for movie purposes — was dancing energetically with the dusty men.

  How do you do, Mr. Barr?

  He looked up, failed to recognize me as anybody important, I guess, and turned to gaze at the activity on the set.

  I’m Shell Scott. I’d like a few words with you, if you don’t mind.

  Yeah, I mind. Get lost. Barr returned his gaze to his newspaper, and let me look at his hair.

  It was worth looking at. He had the kind of hair that bald men can see from a distance of half a mile on a foggy day. It was thick, luxurious, healthily abundant, gently waving, a center of hirsute splendor which would have been noticeable even in a universe of hair, and it was a wig.

  I hadn’t seen his teeth yet, but I knew they were expertly porcelain-capped. I also knew that when he rose to his full six-foot height he was standing on cowboy boots built up on the inside another two inches.

  Id merely like to ask you a couple questions, Mr. Barr.

  Finally he said, What about?

  Wilfred Jellicoe, I said.

  It was a routine comment but it got a queer reaction out of Warren Barr. His hands jerked and he tore the newspaper about an inch down the crease at the top. Then he held still for a moment and said, Willie? What about him?

  I understand he talked to you here on the set Friday.

  Barr was still looking at his newspaper. He ran a hand over his stubbled — for his current role — chin and said, Yeah, he talked to me. So?

  He’s a friend of yours, Mr. Barr?

  I wouldn’t say that. He paused. What in hell makes it any of your business?

  I’m a private investigator. Jellicoe’s ex-wife hasn’t been able to get in touch with him for several days, so she hired me to find out what’s happened to him, if anything. I understand he saw you here on the set Friday, and I hoped you might be able to tell me where he is now.

  Barr glanced up at me again. Then he rose to his feet. Maybe it was my imagination but I got the impression that he was suddenly more relaxed. Still, he seemed pale beneath his deep tan, the skin appearing oddly washed out, faded.

  He was a wide-shouldered, thick-armed man with a square muscular-looking face, brilliant blue eyes, a dashing cleft in his heavy chin. Rubbing his stubbled chin again, he said, Far as I know he’s at his hotel. Last I saw of him was Friday.

  He seem normal? I mean, anything special on his mind? Any indication he might be leaving town, taking a trip?

  Barr shook his head. You couldn’t prove it by me. Reason he was here, he works for Cheim. Cheim’s producing this epic of Americana. I’m the star of this epic. Were a little over budget and schedule, trying to finish up in the next couple days. Willies an old maid. He frets. He just came out here to try speeding things up, and complain a little.

  I gave him my card and asked him to call me if he saw Jellicoe again.

  Is that all? he said, not very pleasantly. I’ve got to beat the hell out of three dangerous outlaws in about another minute.

  I grinned. Three? All at once?

  He didn’t grin. I always beat up three or four at once. Otherwise it wouldn’t be fair to my fans. I’m the star.

  I said, There is one other thing, Mr. Barr. What kind of shape was Jellicoe in Friday afternoon? I know he was out on the town with Miss Ardent Thursday night, and got a bit stoned at the Panther —

  Miss who?

  Ardent. Sylvia Ardent.

  He was standing facing me, hands on his hips, head slightly lowered, and with one eyebrow raised. He didn’t do anything at all. He simply stood there like a stone statue for at least five long seconds.

  Then he said, barely parting his lips, Sylvia Ardent? And Willie? Little Willie?

  Yeah. They were at the Panther Room Thursday night, and I guess Jellicoe kind of lived it up —

  You’ve got to be kidding.

  I was still carrying the Panther Room photo, out of its cardboard frame so it would fit into my coat pocket. I showed it to Barr. That’s Sylvia Ardent, I said. And I’m reasonably certain the exceedingly euphoric fellow is Wilfred Jefferson Jellicoe.

  Barr moved finally. He thrust out an arm, gripped the photo and held it before his staring eyes. Both brows were raised now, way up.

  Why, the sonofabitch, he said. The sonofabitch. He appeared to have forgotten I was there, even though I was standing no more than a foot and a half from him. An expression of great perplexity grew upon his wide, well-muscled face. But how? How could it be? Why would she —

  He stopped. And then another of those queer reactions took place somewhere within Warren Barr. His expression changed from that of a man vastly confounded to that of one gazing upon a bright and excruciatingly painful light. He shoved his teeth together, breathed out violently through flaring nostrils. His jaw muscles bulged alarmingly.

  This was a significant moment, I felt pretty sure. But its significance wasn’t entirely clear to me. So, probing, I encouraged Barr. Yes? Kind of surprised you, huh?

  It didn’t encourage him. He handed the photo back to me, relaxed his jaws, wiggled them a moment and said, Sorry I cant help you, Scott. Now run along, I’m busy.

  Well, I’m a little curious —

  Beat it. He was standing with his hands on his hips again. I’ve got to go slug the hell out of three or four guys. He paused, then added — significantly, I thought — Or five.

  I grinned. Five? I hope you don’t mean what that sounds like you mean. You’re not a sacred cowboy to me, Barr. And up till now I’ve been a jolly fellow, right? Probably I should have kept my mouth shut. But my forbearance wears a bit thin at times. Truly, I don’t go around asking for trouble. But occasionally, when it calls, I answer.

  Barr said, Yeah, you’re a jolly fellow. Just get lost. Guys come around bugging me, it destroys my mood. You wouldn’t understand, but I got to keep the right mood between scenes.

  You’ve got to get in the right mood to slug the hell out of three or four guys? Or five?

  He let me see his jaw muscles bulge alarmingly again. Just don’t come around bugging me anymore, Scott. Or I’ll make it clear what I mean.

  Thanks for your time, I said. See you in the movies.

  He looked at me for a second longer, then walked away.

  The assistant director was yelling for everybody to be quiet, quiet, and then there were the calls of, Roll em . . . Speed . . . Act
ion! before I found Lucilla Mendez. She wouldn’t be needed before the cameras for another hour or so, when they filmed her big scene — she was going to get raped by two bandits, which would probably take all the rest of the morning and half the afternoon — and was sitting at a long table under a canvas shade, drinking coffee.

  Lucilla was a soft-mouthed little Mexican sweetie with eyes like burning coals and black hair with the gleam of ebony in the reflected sunlight. I told her who I was and that Hazel had given me her name, and she said, Ah, Hazel, yes. She has told me much of you, Mr. Scott.

  Much? Then . . . call me Shell, huh?

  She flashed her white teeth and winked.

  Uh . . . about this meeting between Jellicoe and Warren Barr. Hazel said you told her Barr seemed disturbed after the talk.

  Plenty. They talked away from the others, then Mr. Jellicoe left. Mr. Barr, he just stood there awhile. When he came back where the rest of us were, he seemed like he was thinking about something he didn’t enjoy much, frowning, missing his cues, like that. And he blew some of his lines, for maybe a half hour. Everybody could tell he was real upset.

  Would you have an idea what they talked about?

  She shook her head. They were off by themselves.

  Barr didn’t say anything about it?

  No.

  He and Jellicoe didn’t have any obvious trouble?

  Just talk. Mr. Barr — you know he’s a kind of rough one. I nodded. He acted like he was going to get rough with Mr. Jellicoe for a little bit. You know, balled up his hands and made fists, like that. But nothing happened. She was silent for a few moments. He did hit him once, though.

  Barr slugged Jellicoe?

  Knocked him cold for half an hour. Cold as a mackerel.

  Friday?

  She opened the dark eyes wider. No, a long time ago. Maybe three years, almost.

  You saw it happen?

  Me and like a hundred other people. It was when we were making Loves of Jesse James for Premiere — when Mr. Cheim was still boss there. Mr. Barr was the hero, Jesse James. There was a whole bunch of us standing around while Mr. Jellicoe was telling Mr. Barr off.

  You mean bawling him out?

  Like that. Mr. Barr — well, he drinks sometimes. A few times he came on the set — oh — pretty happy. Mr. Jellicoe was telling him it just couldn’t be tolerated, they were spending three million dollars on the picture, that kind of thing. A little severe. Mr. Barr kept getting madder. Anyway, he just pow, hit him. Then he walked off the set.

  What did Jellicoe do?

  He just lay there, cold as a mackerel.

  I mean, what happened when he came to?

  He got up, and held his face for a while. Then he looked around at the ones of us still on the set and left.

  Well, this little Lucilla Mendez was lots of fun, but I had work to do. Had to get the old nose to the grindstone. Had to get cracking. Had to see Sylvia Ardent.

  I stood up. Thanks, Lucilla. You’ve been a big help.

  She smiled. And I got cracking.

  According to Hazels report Sylvia Ardent wasn’t working this day, and presumably would be at home.

  Home was one of the six-room, fifteen-hundred-dollar-a-month lodges on the grounds of the world-famous Indian Ranch, a hundred yards from poetically named Tanglewood Lane, just north of a line drawn between the heart of Beverly Hills and Bel Air. Each lodge had an individual name — Iroquois, Mohawk, Apache, Sioux and similar dandies — and in the main hotel building were such marvels as the Sitting Bull Dining Room and Custers Last Stand Bar. They were cute as a babys scalp at Indian Ranch.

  Shortly after noon on this hot, bright Monday I was standing before the Cree Lodge, pushing on the black iron arrowhead, which I presumed was a bell, and which I had managed to find in something under a minute and a half.

  While waiting to see if anything exciting would happen, I mentally ran over the few things I knew about Miss Ardent. I understood shed started out as a model, but I myself recalled with some vividness when she had come to the delighted attention of citizens, at least male citizens, at large.

  She had posed for an unprecedented six-page foldout in one of the most popular of the slick mens magazines, which immediately became even more popular. Shed been caught by the camera in a shaded spot beneath an apple tree, wearing only a skin-tight pair of faded blue jeans rolled up over her shapely calves, on tiptoe and reaching high over her head for a juicy-looking red apple, a delicate pattern of light and shadow on her youthfully blooming face and seminude body, and with a single strong shaft of sunlight falling full on one startling, and startlingly white, bare breast.

  The comparison with Eve was inevitable, and was made time and time again, both in speech and in print, and undoubtedly in numberless fevered imaginations, because that shot sure stirred up the old Adam. Shortly afterward she was in Hollywood, where shed appeared in two or three films, the last one a big money-maker in which Sylvia had starred and which received favorable attention even from the critics. Then television. Girls Dorm and the top of the TV heap.

  The door opened. I hadnt heard any buzzer buzz or bell ring inside the low L-shaped lodge, but suddenly there she stood, and then the bells rang and buzzers buzzed, or so it seemed. There she was, the baby-doll babe of TV, the gal with too much too-much, Sylvia Ardent in the flesh.

  Well, not exactly flesh.

  She wore a pale-yellow knitted sweater and skirt, and — all in a darker shade of yellow — a chiffon kerchief tied about her neck, a narrow belt and high-heeled pumps. The sweater was one of those very fuzzy items and her narrow belt was cinched tight, the combination making her alleged dimensions, which appeared exaggerated in print, seem conservative in fact.

  She stood framed in the doorway and smiled at me. Hello, she said.

  Hello. Possibly I put a bit too much oomph into the word. It came out more like Hello! But a guy does not often gaze suddenly upon such as Sylvia Ardent. She was everything Sylvia was on color television, only everything was better, including the color: creamy white skin, eyes the shade of melted emeralds, golden-red hair, lips that would spook a bull.

  A faint crease appeared between her smooth eyebrows. Do I — do we know each other?

  Not . . . yet. I smiled. Of course, I know you, Miss Ardent. Who didn’t? I was thinking.

  She moistened those muleta-red lips and smiled again. Did you want to see me about something?

  Yes. Yes, indeed.

  I was remembering those two studio photos Id found in Jellicoe’s room, in one of them Sylvia looking to her left with unconcealed lust in her eyes, in the other Sylvia looking to her right with unconcealed lust in her eyes. She was looking straight at me now, but I couldn’t see any kind of lust in her eyes.

  Well, what is it? What do you want to see me about?

  I knew that what had started out to be a friendly smile was becoming a perhaps too-friendly grin — at least, too-soon too-friendly — but it had been difficult not to remember that six-page foldout which had introduced us, and consequently Id been thinking of the new Eve and that old apple, and of my previous musings about the at-least-possible death of Wilfred Jellicoe, gloriously assassinated.

  But the edge of sharpness in Sylvias tone brought me back to the here and now. Then I couldn’t remember what shed asked me. I thought for a while. What do you want to see me about? Sure, that’s what it had been.

  So I wiped the smile off my face and replied soberly, all business, Wilfred Jellicoe. I know about —

  I stopped in midsentence because Sylvia had taken a deep breath and was holding it, and those previously startling dimensions became you-wouldn’t-believe-it.

  But I tried. — Thursday night, I managed. You and Wilfred at the Panther Room. And then . . . It ended in a kind of mumble. She was just going to have to let her breath out.

  She did, finally. Let it out in a long sigh and then said, Wilfred? You’re here because of Wilfred?

  Yes. Wilfred Jellicoe. I tried to sum it up in one brisk
sentence without any mumbles. You see, I know you were with him at the Panther Room Thursday night. And I’m very interested in what happened there, and after you left —

  Shed stopped me again. But not with a deep breath. This time one might say of Sylvias smile not only that it had died but that rigor mortis had set in. Her eyes ceased looking like liquid emeralds and appeared to become green stones. She gazed at me stonily. Then she said, Did he send you here?

  He didn’t send me. I have simply been investigating his recent activities, checking up on him. I am attempting to follow in his footsteps, so to speak —

  In his footsteps. Ha! That’s an interesting way to put it.

  I cocked my head on one side. At least half of this conversation was escaping me. Maybe I’m not making myself clear, I said, choosing my words with care. I know you and Wilfred Jellicoe were together Thursday night. I simply want to talk to you about what he said and did at the Panther Room, and what happened to him after that —

  All right, all right! she cried. You don’t have to go into details about it!

  I cocked my head on the other side. Miss Ardent, do you mind if we step into your lodge? I would like to pursue this further, but, especially at the rate were going, Id prefer not to do it standing here in your doorway.

  She smiled oddly. Well, I should hope not!

  I rolled that one around, then walked into her lodge as she stepped aside. Sylvia shut the door behind me — and, for some reason, locked it — then walked over thick-napped white carpet to a massive dove-gray couch on which were scattered half a dozen fluffy bright pillows, and sank down upon it.

  As I followed her I noticed other spots of color, abstract paintings on one wall, a rustic wooden bar with four stools before it on my right. Then I sat at the other end of the couch and looked at Sylvia appraisingly, wondering where our conversation had gone astray.

  Perhaps Id better tell you exactly what I’m after, I said.

  Id rather not talk about it.

  But I want to talk about it. That’s why I’m here. What the hell —

  Please don’t swear at me.