Or, such was the situation if Cheims facts were accurate.
Besides, a junior member of the firm of Martin, Reade and Weiss had represented Mrs. Gladys Jellicoe when shed won her divorce suit, though that struck me as unlikely to have engendered any really maniacal resentment in Wilfreds heart. On the other hand, while he might not have cut his wrists because he could no longer lovingly eye Gladys chops over his morning coffee, it was doubtful that Jellicoe enjoyed forking over those three thousand little bills a month.
Last of the three: Zena Tabur.
You’ve all heard of these apparently unending contests to choose: The Girl Id Most Like to Bake a Cake With; or The Girl Id Most Like to Ski in the Alps With; or The Girl Id Most Like to Take a Screen Test With; and so on and on. Well, Zena Tabur was the gal chosen by a vast majority of male moviegoers as The Girl Id Most Like to With.
The producers of the contest did not phrase the proposition with quite that lack of delicacy. But any boy approaching puberty could have read the meaning between the lines. And Zena Tabur won easily, outdistancing her nearest rival — an exceptionally beauteous and glandular tomato herself — by more than a million votes.
Not tall, she made up in other dimensions than height for her lack of statuesque lissomeness, a lack to which nobody Id ever heard of had yet objected, or even commented upon. She looked much like what you might expect of a gal with the name Zena Tabur: dark skin, slanted green-gray eyes, torchy lips, thick black hair that tumbled and waved all the way down to her derriere, which unquestionably belonged in the forefront of any collection of memorable behinds.
She was Turkish or Egyptian or Italian or Spanish, or something else, from Istanbul or Tangier or Israel or Singapore — nobody seemed to know for sure. So it was said. But she looked like, and her voice sounded like, a potpourri of all that plus the best hours and houris of the Arabian Nights.
Shed shot her husband. Shot him dead.
Again, so it was said; it was only a rumor. Nobody really knew about that for sure, either. Well, a few people did. Cheim. Undoubtedly Jellicoe. And me.
So that was it. Barr, Martin, Tabur. True, I knew of no relationship between Wilfred and Zena. But there was that lead of over a million votes, and Id have given ten to one — particularly in the light of what Id been told by Sylvia — that one of those votes had been Jellicoe’s.
Warren Barr was just finishing one of the last scenes of the day when I reached the set. I stopped far enough away so that I wouldn’t interfere with the shooting, and watched the action. Apparently Barr had already wrapped up the scene in which he beat up three or four dangerous outlaws, because this time he was indulging not in heroics, but in what passed in Stampede for romance. I suppose, though, it could have been called heroic romance.
He and a not-too-slim girl in tight blue Levis and a bulging white shirt stood facing each other before the rolling cameras. I couldn’t hear clearly what the girl was saying, but she was doing all the talking.
Barr just looked down at her, strong, silent, unmoving.
Wham, the girl slapped him: Barr moved. He folded his arms across his chest and stared, strong, silent, again unmoving, down at the girl.
She turned and walked rapidly away from him. Then her steps slowed. It was easy to see she simply couldn’t tear herself away from her man, not that far away. She stopped. She turned. Oh, Bart! she cried in a kind of cracked voice — Barr was Bart Steele in the film — and, flinging out her arms, ran lickety-split toward him.
Barr, or Bart, just stood there. Strong, silent, unmoving.
She grabbed him and latched on like a gal about to climb a tree. She wrapped her arms around his neck, lifted herself up, and somehow got her lips planted on his stern chops.
Bart moved.
He put his arms around her. He held her there, legs dangling. They kissed, like an irresistible farce meeting an unmoving object.
It was pretty awful.
Cut! the director yelled.
Bart stood there a while longer, strong, silent and presumably unmoving.
Cut, goddammit! the director yelled, and — when they finally did cut it — continued, Beautiful! Baby, that was it! Print that one! Baby, sweetheart, that was what weve been after! Just gorgeous. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to the boy or the girl; but that’s the way it is in Hollywood.
Warren Barr said something to the gal, then swaggered off the set, in my direction. But when he lamped me he stopped swaggering and merely stood stock still, looking at me. Then he stepped rapidly toward me. I could see the hair rippling, cleft chin, expression like a visible growl. Man, I would have been in real trouble — if the cameras had been on me.
But I felt, too, a small pain. Approximately where I sit down. Hoods tailing me. Cheim yelling at me. Lash snarling and trying to freeze me with his eyes. Burper burping. And now this goddamned hero was coming at me with the air of one about to commence the charge at Balaklava.
He stopped close in front of me. What the hell do you want this time, buster?
Scotts the name. Shell Scott. Id appreciate a few more words with you, Mr. Barr, if you don’t mind.
I do mind. Don’t you remember? So beat it.
It will only take a minute of your time, Mr. Barr.
No, it wont. I told you, beat it, buster.
I shook my head sadly. Well, I’m afraid I cant do that. Or, rather, wont. And — in case you didn’t hear me before, friend — the name is Scott.
I believe I’ve mentioned that he had a square, muscular face. It seemed to get more square, and certainly more muscular. He tightened his jaws, bunched his lips at the corners a bit, knit his brows and attempted to deepen the cleft in his chin. It was quite dramatic. As if he had just bunched a hand into a fist. Which, I happened to note, he also did.
Don’t make me knock your hair off, I said. If you force me to, Mr. Barr, I’ll try not to mark up your famous face, but I will certainly damage you internally, break your collarbone, possibly rupture your spleen, and then take off your high heels and hide them.
He had his right hand down at his side, balled into that big — and scarred — fist, but he held it there for a moment longer. Whats with the big mouth?
That’s the way I talk to big-mouths. Who started this tough-man bit?
He shrugged. I did. So I guess I’ll have to finish it.
Barr stepped back just a little, shifted his feet, and — I felt reasonably certain — prepared to hit me.
I know what Jellicoe talked to you about Friday, I said. He hadnt swung yet, so I went right on. But if you take a poke at me, friend, I wont report you to the fuzz, I’ll report you to the nearest hospital.
It was happening again. Much as it had happened this morning. His face became, not a lethal instrument, merely a face. But a face rapidly paling beneath the tan, giving his features the same sickly cast theyd worn for a while during our previous chat, that washed-out, faded look. It seemed even more pronounced, but maybe that was because he was now clean-shaven — for the heroically romantic scene, no doubt.
What do you mean — he stopped and thought for a few seconds — youll report me to the fuzz?
Well, if youd slugged me, that would have been a felony, wouldn’t it? You could do some time — some more time. I gave him the date, the city, the state and the sentence. You fought under the name Tiger Yates. You were good. Not as big as you are now — not as wide, I mean. You’ve put on more muscle. But you were good outside the ring, too. The first two or three amateurs you knocked around didn’t file complaints. A pro who clobbers an amateur in effect commits ADW — assault with a deadly weapon — but I guess you know.
He folded his thick arms over his chest. Go on.
The next time, though, or one of the next times, the guy you muscled happened to be the husband of the gal you were buying drinks for at the time, and he didn’t say lets let bygones be bygones. In short, you got stuck, and fell for it. You did more than a year in the state pen. Then the ex-con came to Hollywood, to fame a
nd fortune. I paused. Only you’ve popped a few out here, too, haven’t you?
There was a silence. Finally he said again, Go on.
That’s it. But its what Jellicoe hit you with Friday, isn’t it?
He was quiet for several more seconds, looking at me oddly. You mean, I didn’t snatch any old ladies purses or steal candy from kids?
Don’t start the big-mouth again, Barr. I added a little more. I happen to know Jellicoe has embarked on a career of blackmail. Well . . . at least, he’s got his hands on a manuscript with a lot of dirt in it, dirt he can undoubtedly use for extortion should he be so inclined. And he’s taken the first step, of what I figure will turn out to be several steps. You being step number two, or maybe three.
There was another long silence. Then, Willie the blackmailer, huh? And you think he tried — with what you’ve just told me — to put the bite on me.
You don’t deny the informations true, do you?
Barr shook his head. No, you got it too close to the way it happened. Sure, I did the time. He was quiet again, briefly. I’m trying to figure out what you’re after, Scott. You want to retire in Bermuda?
Don’t be a sap, Barr. I don’t want anything from you but info about Jellicoe.
Well, I cant help you. I told you that this morning.
You gave me a song and dance this morning, too. Are you going to tell me Jellicoe didn’t throw your ex-pug, ex-con past at you Friday?
Barr stared at me for a while. Finally he said, Well, I guess he did. But if that was a blackmail try, he better find himself another profession.
Come again?
Like I told you this morning, this guy frets. He’s an old maid, see?
I got a queer feeling. A feeling or I’ve been here before. Because, once again, instead of being tight as a drum, Barr appeared completely relaxed. All the tension seemed to have drained out of him.
Willie is just one of those guys gets under my skin. He was giving me the captain-to-the-private bit, like he was maybe head of the studio, and I flipped a little. I was about ready to smack him one.
So?
So he throws up his hands and squeaks, I’ll send you to prison, I know all about you. Like that.
That was all?
No, he told me the rest of it — same thing you just got through telling me. But if that was blackmail, he didn’t get anything out of it. Except I didn’t break his jaw for him.
That’s the only reason you didn’t break his jaw?
Barr looked puzzled. What do you mean?
You knocked him on his tail once before, didn’t you?
He shrugged. Yeah. So I knocked him; he griped me. Howd you happen to hear about that?
A lot of people know about it. Man, arent you worried at all about getting sent back to the slammer?
Well, yeah. But sometimes I forget myself. And, hell, I didn’t think anybody out here knew about that stretch except —
He stopped.
Except? I asked gently.
He chewed on his lip. Its not important.
It is to me, Barr.
He chewed his lip some more. Well . . . Gideon.
It all fit. I knew it was Cheim whod spotted Barr while he was doing extra roles, bit parts, that he’d seen something in the man, magnetism, presence, sex appeal — nobody ever claimed Cheim couldn’t pick them — and given him his start. Of course, as Cheim had admitted to me earlier today, he had then run a routine check on his new find, again employing that detective agency, which I figured he must have paid a huge yearly retainer, and discovered the info about Barrs time in the ring, and the rest of it. It seemed evident he’d been able to keep the story sealed up, however — until Jellicoe entered the picture.
I said, Arent you afraid Jellicoe might go to the law with his tale?
Barr grinned. Willie? Not unless I hit him. Which I shall try very hard not to do. Suddenly he frowned. Hey, you’re not going to spread this around town, are you? It could —
No; if you’ve been leveling with me you can quit worrying. All I want to do is find Jellicoe. I sighed. OK, thanks for the dope. If not the hospitality. If you spot your Willie, let me know.
Barr had been getting his color back for some time; in fact, he looked perfectly normal now, and his voice was actually friendly as he said, Look, Scott, I don’t just pop guys for the hell of it, understand? But some of these slobs want to be like the guy shot Jesse James. Maybe they got a babe with em, want to show off so they can make out like a hero home from the wars. I’m supposed to hang out my chin for them?
I knew what he meant. And he had a valid point. But other stars had the same problem. It was generally Warren Barr who solved it the hard way, however. Maybe he wanted to prove he was really six feet tall. Maybe he liked popping guys. And maybe he’d been conning the hell out of me for these past fifteen minutes.
I did not tell him that, though. I merely said, No, I guess not. But you’re not the sweetest darling in the whole world, are you?
He grinned. Well . . . not in the whole world.
9
The offices of Martin, Reade and Weiss were at the very top of the Abel Towers, which all by itself made the place reek of money, but the carpets and furnishings in the outer — and inner — offices looked rich and expensive, too.
When I walked into the office of G. Lawrence Martin he glanced up from some typed pages, flicked sharp eyes over me and laid the pages flat on his desk. Mr. Scott?
He was a big man. And I mean big. An inch or so taller than I, he had shoulders on him that weighed more than some people, and they were not merely padding in a coat. His coat was draped on a dark wood valet in the corner of his office. He sat behind an unpainted brushed-steel desk wearing a white dress shirt open at the throat and with the cuffs rolled up over thick, brown, hairy wrists. He looked about fifty years old and as solid as the desk before him.
Yes, sir, I said. Thanks for letting me bust in without an appointment, Mr. Martin.
I stopped in front of the desk and shook his extended hand, then sat down in a comfortable chair — one big enough, for a change — upholstered in nubby linen.
What did you want to see me about, Mr. Scott?
He glanced at his watch. Not obviously, but giving enough attention to it so I couldn’t miss the meaning: this was a very busy man; his time was valuable.
Well, so is mine. Blackmail, I said.
He blinked. You’re being blackmailed?
No. I thought maybe you were.
He got a half-amused look on his face. Well, I’m not, he said pleasantly. Never have been — yet. He kept looking at me and continued, Why would you assume I might be?
I sighed. Wasn’t doing so well today, I thought. Not with the men, anyhow. I’m attempting to locate a man named Wilfred Jellicoe, I said. The name mean anything to you?
No. He frowned slightly. I think I may have heard the name, that’s all.
You may have heard it — if not since then — when your firm represented a Mrs. Gladys Jellicoe in a divorce suit. About a year ago.
He nodded. Probably. That would have been handled by one of the junior members of the firm, however.
True enough. That much I already knew. Martin glanced at his watch again. A bit more obviously this time.
So I started in and gave it to him straight — the out-of-state legislature, the dog track that became a horse-racing track, stock payoffs, and the rest of it. I, finished by explaining my conclusion — with which I was beginning to approach hesitant disagreement — that Jellicoe, with such information, might have approached him and attempted extortion, particularly because of Martins prominence, wealth and the possibility he was considering running for Congress.
During the whole spiel Martin sat quietly. When I finished he said, Is that all?
I nodded, and he continued briskly. One. I do not know your Mr. Jellicoe, to my knowledge have never met him, and — here he smiled slightly — trust that I never shall. Two. Consequently he has not spoken to me or attempted to
blackmail me — nor has anybody else, for I would throw any such individual through that window, beneath which is a very solid sidewalk, sixteen floors down.
With a thumb he casually indicated draped windows behind him.
Three. I do recall having heard, at some time not now clear to me, the story of a dog track, or race track — what was it? He smiled. He knew the story, all right. However, the individual there involved was a George Martin, or George L. Martin. I am G. Lawrence Martin, an entirely different individual. There is no relationship. Four. Even this George Martin committed no crime which could possibly cause him any legal difficulties, nor even sufficient embarrassment to allow him to submit — of this I am certain — to an attempt to practice extortion upon him. Five. Therefore, none of this has anything whatsoever to do with me. Clear?
Clear.
Six. If I have to look at my watch again, I shall throw you through that window, beneath which is —
Yeah, I know. A very solid sidewalk, sixteen floors down.
He smiled at me, I smiled at him, and I left.
It was more than an hour before sundown, but when I rang the bell at Zena Taburs door the sky already looked as if oil had been poured on it and lighted. We were going to have another of those glorious sunsets we so often enjoy in Southern California. I took that as a good omen.
I knew that Miss Tabur was between pictures. Thus I assumed, or at least hoped, she would be at home, home being a small — for Bel Air — and somewhat unusually shaped house centered in a beautifully landscaped two acres of that ultrarespectable and expensive retreat of the rich only two or three miles northwest of downtown Beverly Hills.
The house was low, angular, with slanting wings, and planted around it I recognized dozens of silk oaks, jacarandas, willows, Senegal date palms and banana trees, huge-leafed philodendron, elephant ears, plus numerous trees and shrubs and flowers I couldn’t identify. Narrow footpaths wound among the plantings. It was beautiful.
Zena Tabur was home — things were looking up at last — and when she opened the door I simply stood there staring, probably obviously, even rudely staring. She, too, was beautiful. More than beautiful. This was the first time I had seen her other than on the screen, the first time in person and close to her, and I simply stood there like an unplugged robot.
The Cheim Manuscript (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 9
