The Cheim Manuscript (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I’m not swearing at you. I’m just . . . swearing, getting a bit frustrated, that’s all.

  You men! You’re all alike, arent you? She leaned toward me, fixed the big green eyes on my face, and said, You really do know about it, don’t you?

  Know what about it? I wondered. I really was getting frustrated with this babe. What about it? I asked her. I pounded a fist gently against my forehead. What about it?

  She sighed. All right.

  All right? I asked, puzzled. Her replies seemed to be answers to questions I wasn’t asking. For a moment I wondered if she might be as mentally retarded as she was physically advanced. Maybe she heard voices. . . .

  I said I would, didn’t I? Sylvia paused, looking at me intently. Maybe I’m wrong. But — well — you don’t want money from me, do you?

  Money? From you? Of course I don’t want any money from you.

  I didn’t think so. Wilfred didn’t want any money, either — the little monster. But of course you know that, don’t you? You big monster.

  Well, one thing was clear. It was clear this tomato and I had got off on the wrong conversational foot from the first instant, and were simply going to have to start all over.

  But before I could think of anything to say that might clarify the situation, she asked me, Whats your name?

  Shell Scott.

  Id like to at least know your name first.

  First? While I pondered that, Sylvia rose from the couch with a sudden but graceful movement and took the yellow kerchief from around her neck. Then she unbuckled the belt and dropped both items to the carpet. Staring steadily at me, she crossed her arms before her slim waist, gripped opposite sides of her yellow sweater, and in one smooth — and extraordinarily stimulating — movement, pulled the sweater up over her head and threw it also to the carpet.

  I still had not the faintest idea what had gotten into Sylvia Ardent nor what was behind her perplexing words and actions, but I’ll tell you the truth: it was becoming a question of supreme indifference to me.

  Sylvia Ardent in pale-yellow skirt and fuzzy sweater had been as exciting as those erotic statues carved on Indian temples at Konarak, Belur and Khajuraho, but standing only three feet from me, wearing a pale-yellow skirt below, and above only a hopelessly inadequate — inadequate if it was meant to conceal anything vital — lacy yellow half-bra, she was telepathic testosterone, a hormonic transfusion, a new incarnation of the Moslems transcendental Loolooeh — Loolooeh, sliding down the zipper of her skirt.

  Syl — Sylvia! I cried, disconcerted.

  You don’t have to make such a noisy celebration about it, she said. Then, with some heat, I didn’t really think Wilfred would kiss and tell. But I suppose you do, too.

  Do what, too?

  Kiss and tell.

  Maam, I don’t do anything and tell.

  Ha! That’s what they all say. That’s what Wilfred said. But he told you, didn’t he?

  I stood up. Miss Ardent, I said severely, I think we have, through some marvelous process of cumulative confusion, failed to reach an absolute meeting of minds. . . .

  But by then the skirt was sliding down. Down, slowly, over firm, well-rounded hips, long white thighs, shapely calves, slim ankles. She stepped from the bunched yellow cloth and gave it a little kick to the side.

  Ah . . . I said. Well, if you don’t want to listen to reason, I said. I sat down again. Umm — well — you cant say I didn’t try, didn’t I? I wasn’t quite saying what I meant to, but it was by this time difficult to formulate lucid sentences.

  It was difficult because Sylvia now stood facing me, weight on her left foot, right leg relaxed, one hand resting on the outthrust ultrafemininity of her rounded hip, swelling breasts thrusting at what little there was of the lacy half-bra. And those ample hips were clad in another wisp of lacy yellow about the size and shape of a babys bikini bottom.

  Sylvias left hand was still resting on her hip but with her right she had reached behind her back and was fiddling with something there. I had a hunch I knew what she was fiddling with, a hunch confirmed when hooks came unhooked and the wispy brassiere drooped, almost fell. Almost, not quite. The yellow cloth dropped from one high, heavy breast, slid over its smooth roundness, baring it, but clung — precariously — to the other white mound.

  She stood quite still for a moment, looking at me. I should have stayed a call girl, she said with more than a little heat. At least it was more honest than this.

  She shrugged her shoulders. The bra slid down her white arms and fell to lie, a small spot of yellow, at her feet.

  Sylvia’s lovely face — when I managed a quick peek at it — was flushed with anger. At least, I assumed it was anger because as she continued to speak her voice rose, became more shrill.

  First Gideon! she cried. Then Wilfred. Now you! Wholl be next?

  I think you’re cuckoo, I said. Whats all this about Gideon and —

  I might as well still be a call girl! she cried. Whats the difference? Except now I’m extorted into it. Gideon! Wilfred! You! I suppose now youll hold it over my head like the Sore of Damocles!

  Wait a minute! Extorted? Gideon? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

  But Sylvia was beyond listening, beyond even hearing, by this time. She hooked her thumbs in the sides of her bikini pants and started to slide them down, then stopped and stepped even closer to me. Only inches from her, I could feel the heat of her bare body, smell the delicate scent of feminine lotions and oils and perfumes.

  Her voice was less strident when she spoke. Shell Scott, is it? Well, you don’t look like the type, Shell Scott. No, you don’t. Different circumstances, I might have gone for this like it was my own idea, instead of being extorted into it.

  Then she slid her hands down her thighs, thumbs dragging the triangle of yellow cloth.

  It was now or never, I thought. This was the moment of truth. I moved like lightning. That is, I moved one hand like lightning. I shot it out and grabbed her wrist. Barely in time.

  Hold it, I said.

  What? She appeared perplexed.

  Just hold it a second. I mean, don’t take your pants off.

  What?

  Don’t take your pants off.

  I’m certainly not going to keep them on.

  Oh, yes, you are.

  No, I’m not!

  Down she shoved her hands again, but I got as much muscle as I could into the effort to keep one of her wrists up, then got her other wrist in my still free hand. Even then it was quite a struggle. Gad, she was strong. Of course, I was in an awkward position, seated and leaning way forward, while she had the advantage of being on her feet and shoving down on her pants with a kind of maniacal fixity of purpose.

  For a few seconds it wasn’t clear whether I was winning or losing. It was, actually, quite embarrassing. I certainly didn’t want to lose to a girl. . . .

  Right then a singular thought flitted into my mind, like a moth fluttering toward a flame. Here I was with one of the shapeliest, sexiest, most gorgeous tomatoes on the planet, a tomato determined to overpower me and get her pants off, and . . . well, the thought that fluttered into my mind was: What am I doing?

  4

  What am I doing? I thought.

  But then I said grimly, Listen, baby, weve got to get something straight here. Just keep those damned pants on!

  Are you cracked? she yelped. You some kind of nut?

  Sylvia, you said something which vastly intrigued me. I’ve got to think about it.

  You’ve got to think about it? You’ve got to think?

  This was simply no time for rational argument, that was clear. First I had to subdue her, and then maybe we could argue rationally. I braced myself, leaned back and yanked. Pulled off balance, she fell against me, squirming. Her right breast got me a good smack in the left eye, and as I let go of her wrists and tried to reach around her she got an elbow free and smacked me on the other eye with it. That elbow hurt. But I managed to get both arms around h
ers and my hands clamped behind her back. I thought I had her then.

  But Sylvia was not a woman easily subdued. She was a gal who didn’t know the meaning of defeat. She was going to get those pants off one way or another. Even in the heat of battle, I had to admire her determination.

  She got a foot planted against the couch and shoved, trying to pull me back with her. She didn’t manage that, but she did kick hard enough to send the couch sliding out from beneath me, and down both of us went. But that was, for all practical purposes, the end of the struggle. I landed half on top of her, got her wrists in my hands, squeezed and waited.

  Ten seconds, fifteen, then she relaxed suddenly.

  OK, she said. You win. So what do we do now?

  Nothing.

  Nothing?

  Well, talk.

  You want to talk, she said slowly. She looked past me, up at the ceiling. Her arched brow furrowed. What . . . about?

  Wilfred Jellicoe, I said.

  We were right back where wed started. Well, almost.

  Just talk?

  That’s right.

  You don’t want to . . .

  No.

  You really don’t want to?

  No.

  She sighed. She squirmed slightly against me. Then she sighed again, and squirmed a bit again. And then she smiled that slow, wise, infuriatingly self-satisfied smile which is inherent in every female, the age-old smile of victorious surrender and triumphant defeat, and she said softly, The hell you don’t.

  Well, I’m not, I said.

  What are we doing on the floor, then?

  Well, I’m resting.

  Why do you want to talk about Wilfred?

  I’m a detective. And —

  A detective? A policeman? Ye gods!

  No, no — a private investigator. Just a . . . citizen. I’m not going to arrest you or anything.

  Or anything?

  I already told you.

  I know. I didn’t believe you.

  I gathered that.

  So you’re a detective. Then why are you here? You really didn’t come here to rape me?

  Rape you? Rape? Are you out of your mind? I never raped a woman in my life. I’m no sex fiend. At least, I — ah — I paused and added, perhaps a bit stuffily, What sort of man do you think I am?

  That’s what I’m trying to figure out. You mean you really didn’t know Wilfred raped me? Well, kind of raped me. And he didn’t tell you about it?

  No, he did not tell me about it. I paused again, pondering a semantic problem. How do you kind of rape somebody?

  She didn’t answer. Instead she moistened her flaming lips and said, Move a little, will you? You’re awfully heavy.

  Oh, I beg your pardon, Sylvia. I shifted to a more comfortable position. More comfortable for her, anyway, I supposed. All right?

  That’s a lot better. For talking. You were squashing the breath out of me.

  OK, lets talk. I think I should make it clear that the only thing I’m trying to do is find Wilfred Jellicoe. He’s not staying at his hotel. I know he was alive and apparently normal Friday afternoon. I presume he’s in no real trouble, but the thought crossed my mind that it was at least possible he was no longer among the living. Even that somebody might have killed him. My only other lead to him is the fact that he was with you Thursday night.

  Thursday night, and part of Friday morning.

  Anyhow, I know he was gadding about Friday afternoon, so that lets you out. At least, you couldn’t have killed him.

  She smiled slightly. Not quite. I think that’s when he started living.

  Ah . . . yes. But . . . have you seen him since Thursday night, or heard from him since then?

  No. Should I have? That one night was the bargain. Of course, you really cant trust extorters, I suppose, can you?

  I said, Sylvia, during the past few minutes you’ve mentioned extortion two or three times. You said something about having been a call girl, I think. And you mentioned Wilfred — and Gideon. I presume the Gideon was Gideon Cheim?

  Yes. The old creep. Id like to drop his carcass in shark-infected waters. She paused. Shell?

  Yeah?

  My legs going to sleep.

  Sorry. I moved a bit more to the side. Now, Wilfred — uh — extorted you? How? What did he have on you?

  She closed the smooth, silken lids over her eyes, let her head fall easily to one side. Well, I was a call girl once — I thought you already knew when I mentioned it. That was quite a while ago. And until Thursday I didn’t think anybody here in Hollywood knew about it, about my . . . scarlet past, except Gideon. I worked for him when he was head of Premiere, you know; that was when I made my three pictures — those two bombs and then the big one, the good one.

  Uh-huh. And Jellicoe?

  He knew all about it, too. I’m pretty sure Gideons the only other one who knew, so he must have told Wilfred. She pressed her lips together. It was only for about six months, years and years ago. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not ashamed of it, either. Not really. I was young, and hungry, and broke, but — well — attractive. And I’m pretty dumb, anyway.

  You could have fooled me.

  I saw the lids slide up as she turned her head slowly to look at me. Well, you’re not so smart yourself, she said.

  It was truly a lovely face. Skin clear and creamy-smooth, emerald eyes liquid and deep, a moist and almost luminous green. Lips soft and full, gleaming, slightly parted. Fantastic breasts, truly remarkable. And the very slightly rounded abdomen, generous hips with only that wisp of yellow. . . .

  Ah . . . I said. Why don’t we get up and sit on the couch?

  If you want to.

  I scrambled up and got planted on the cushions while Sylvia, taking more time about it, rose easily to her feet and stretched, rubbing one hand against her back. Then she sat on the couch next to me.

  Ah . . . I said. You might as well put your clothes back on, what?

  Wouldn’t that be a little silly? Now, I mean. Its not like as if I was still a big mystery to you. After all, you cant put the chicken back in the egg, can you?

  Whatever that meant. Well, I said, you will keep your pants on, wont you?

  She laughed. You’ve really got a big thing about pants, haven’t you?

  She did move a foot or so farther away from me, however, and that helped a little. Not a lot. After a moment she went on, Anyway, if it got told around, about my — my scarlet past, well, maybe it wouldn’t matter too much to some. But thered be plenty of others whod fix it so I probably couldn’t even stay in town. Anyhow, it for sure would be good-bye career. And I really enjoy Girls Dorm. They write such nice words for me to say. And all the pretty clothes . . .

  She got up from the couch and began pacing back and forth, as one will often do when thinking. But Sylvia was clad only in those yellow bikini-type pants and high-heeled shoes, and never had I seen even a genius doing more interesting thinking.

  Her first sentence or two failed to make any impression on me at all, but then I heard her saying, So Wilfred knew the story, all right. The part of a year when I was making a living that way, the city where I was then, even where I was staying. Maybe not every little thing, but enough.

  And he threatened to spill? Spread the story around?

  You know it. He told me either I did what he wanted or he’d plant the story — plus enough details so it could be checked if anybody cared that much — where it would do the most good. Ruin me the most, that is. Producers, gossip columnists, newspapers, the trades, all that.

  She stopped in the middle of the room, lifted her right hand and gently caressed her left breast.

  Don’t do that, I said.

  She appeared not to have heard me. Wilfred knew I couldn’t afford to let that happen. I told him Id pay him, almost any amount, if he’d just please not spread the story around. She dropped her hand to her side, began pacing again. He didn’t want money, though. Not any money at all. Just . . . me.

  When did Jellico
e first talk to you about this?

  Last Thursday. Early in the afternoon.

  Just a little while before you went out with him Thursday night, then.

  Yes. That was part of the deal. Out on the town . . . first. Big night. Big night for him, maybe. The creep. He got pretty drunk. But so did I, a little. She paused. Well, then we came here.

  And you haven’t seen him or even heard from him since?

  She shook her head, turned and walked across the room, swung around and started back, a pensive expression on her face.

  Sylvia, I said sternly, please go stand in the corner, or else come over and sit on the couch. Just stop moving, will you?

  She laughed, but walked to the couch and sat at its end, as far as she could get from me. She picked up a pillow covered with satin of the shade called hot pink, fluffed it in her hands, then put it behind her head and leaned back, sinking slowly onto other brightly colored pillows already there.

  Better? she asked.

  She knew it wasn’t. So I looked away. Then, thinking, I scowled and turned back toward her.

  Why, you must have thought — you thought I was trying to pull the same thing Jellicoe. . . . But that’s ridiculous!

  Not to me, it wasn’t. It had just happened to me, remember. Whenever I think of that creep Wilfred its all I can think about.

  But, Sylvia, you couldn’t possibly have thought that I —

  Why not? I didn’t know anything about you. You were just a big hulk of a brute standing there looking at me like you were going to take my clothes off before we even got inside —

  What rot!

  I said Hello, and you said Hello like it was something else. When I asked if we knew each other you told me we didn’t. Not yet, you said, but you knew me, all right. . . .

  I was merely commenting that of course I, like everybody else, know who Sylvia Ardent —

  She went right on. The main thing was you didn’t say what you wanted, just looked at me like — oh, I couldn’t describe it. You were grinning fiendishly, and your eyes were glittering —

  Sylvia, please! This is ridic —

  But then, when I asked you again what it was you wanted to see me about, you stopped smiling and sort of stared at me, looking very fierce, and said, like it was the secret word, Wilfred Jellicoe! You sounded like Fu Manchu —