The Cheim Manuscript (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I stubbed out my cigarette butt, used the car phone to call Mac Kiffer.

  There was no answer at his home. It took me four more calls, but I got him at Antonios, in LA, an Italian restaurant where Kiffer and some of his boys often spent the evening consuming vast quantities of beer and oddments of pasta. Antonios was only four blocks from the LA Police Building, which perhaps gave the boys a feeling of adventure.

  When he answered the phone I said, Kiffer, I want thirty seconds on the phone with you, then you can decide if you feel like continuing the conversation. OK?

  Whos this?

  Shell Scott.

  A three- or four-second silence. Then, Where you at?

  Come on. I should tell you where, so you can send Putrid to blow some holes in my head?

  Don’t be a dumb crud, Scott. We got nothing against you.

  So why were you and Putrid on my can this afternoon?

  Uh. I guess you seen us.

  I guess I did. If you’ve got nothing against me, why were you tailing me?

  Well, we just — we was just curious about something.

  Uh-huh. I don’t suppose you want to tell me what.

  Nope.

  You feel like telling me why Eddy Lash went to see Gideon Cheim this afternoon?

  He went to see Cheim? I’ll be goddamned. Then why the hell — He chopped it.

  I said, Maybe you’re as curious as I am about why Eddy made that visit.

  Maybe.

  Id like to set up a meet with you. What do you say?

  Whats in it for me?

  Maybe nothing. What I want is info from you. Maybe youll pick up a bit or two from me thatll do you some good, maybe not. But there just might be info we can trade. We wont know till we give it a try.

  Well . . . yeah. I’ll level with you, Scott. I got troubles you wouldn’t believe.

  Maybe I can help.

  It aint likely.

  Hell, it cant hurt to talk about it, can it?

  Guess not. Yeah, OK. But I pick the place. I aint going into no dark corners for no reason.

  That didn’t surprise me. Well, I said, you’re at Antonios now. How about there? Its public enough.

  OK. Yeah, you come here, then. Only not for, say, an hour or so. There’s friends with me now.

  What say we make it nine p.m.?

  That’s about right. I’ll fix it so we got the back room, the one with the poker tables. You know the place?

  I know where it is.

  That way nobody cant hear us. Or see us — my reputation would be ruint if I was to be seen with you.

  Smart thinking, I said. See you at nine.

  When I walked into room 16 at the Weston-Macey, Gideon Cheim was sitting up in bed, but he looked a bit more haggard than when Id first seen him. The creases above the point where his eyebrows joined were deeper and the skin was even more puckered and wrinkly around his black eyes.

  But his voice was just as vibrant — and loud — as before. What the hell do you mean by phoning me and saying you want some straight answers? Goddammit, are you implying —

  Knock it off. I pulled a chair over close to the bed, sat down and leaned toward Gideon Cheim. Why did Eddy Lash come to see you this afternoon?

  I’ll not be cross-examined by you . . . or anybody else. Therell be no goddamned third degree —

  OK. I stood up. You play it cute, keep giving me this God Almighty Cheim act, and that’s it. Youll get no help, no cooperation, from me — none. And I’m still more concerned about finding Jellicoe than your blasted manuscript, anyway. But if I do find it, I’ll probably wrap it in cement and drop it in a convenient ocean, just for meanness.

  Hold on. I . . . He stopped, and scowled at me. It was the scowl which assuredly had struck great apprehension and possibly systolics into the hearts of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of his former employees.

  You have a goddamned irritating manner, he said. I sat down again. You’re a bit abrasive yourself. Why did Lash come to see you this afternoon?

  Well, I — I’m not sure.

  Dammit, Cheim —

  Its the truth. I barely know the man. But he is aware that Mr. Jellicoe works for me, and for some reason he wanted to know if I could tell him where Wilfred is.

  For some reason. You don’t know what the reason was?

  No, how could I? I said I barely know the man.

  Yeah. And in our first delightful dialogue you told me you didn’t know any hoods.

  I don’t — didn’t. I mean, I met Mr. Lash only briefly, some years ago. He wanted to invest in the industry — that is, in a film I was producing. Id had some difficulty getting sufficient money from my bankers — that was right after my disastrous Gideons Knot, if you remember it.

  I remembered. It had been a bomb.

  Thinking about it, Cheim assumed a forlorn expression, then continued. I didn’t know then that he was a — a criminal. Fortunately, I had managed to complete arrangements for the additional financing needed shortly before Mr. Lash approached me. He paused, shaking his great nearly bald head. Otherwise, I daresay I would have accepted his offer, and his money. Which later, without doubt, I would greatly have regretted.

  Uh-huh. And that’s the only contact you’ve ever had with Edward Lash?

  Yes. Yes, I swear it.

  The bastard was lying to me . . . about something. I knew it. What I didn’t know was whether, of all he had so far told me, only ten percent, or possibly ninety-nine percent, had been the old baloney.

  But I merely said, You’ve no idea, then, why Lash wanted to locate Jellicoe?

  No. He cocked his head on one side. In fact, I had some difficulty understanding Mr. Lash. His mouth —

  I know. I did that to him.

  You? He didn’t say anything about —

  He wouldn’t have. I met him outside your room. Which is how it just happened I knew he was coming to see you.

  You did that to him, eh? Cheim said reflectively.

  I asked him, Was there anything in your autobiography about Lash?

  No. Ah — well — a bare paragraph, hardly worth mentioning.

  Mention it.

  Only what I’ve already told you, Mr. Scott. It was merely the matter of my financial difficulty, Mr. Lashs offer and so on. And — ah — the fact that I later discovered he was a criminal.

  Anything in that autobiography about any other crook, hood, thug, criminal? Members of Lashs gang?

  He was shaking his head.

  Mac Kiffer? Putrid Stanley? Burper McGee?

  No . . . no . . . no, while continuing to shake his head.

  OK, I’ll buy that. For now. Fact: I know that over the years you’ve employed a lot of people who do the same kind of work I do. Investigators, a detective agency. We hit that lightly this morning, only I don’t think you indicated the unusual extent to which you’ve employed such investigators.

  It was essential to know something of those who worked for me, Mr. Scott. A man in my position cannot afford —

  We can save the motivation for later. Heres the big question: Did that valuable wax-sealed case which you entrusted to Jellicoe actually contain a valid, completed autobiography? Or was it, conceivably, some of the dope those numerous detectives of yours dug up on half the characters in Hollywood? In short, did you truly write — and arrange to have published — a book, I!, the autobiography of Gideon Cheim?

  Those flames licked the insides of his eyes again. Every once in a while this guy could look fierce as hell. But he merely snorted through the cavernous nostrils of his fleshy nose and said sharply, You’re goddamn right I did.

  Whos going to publish the book?

  I didn’t think he was going to answer for those first few seconds. He grew an even fiercer look on his face. But at length he said, The publisher will be — if the goddamned book is ever published — The Satyr Press, owned by Mr. Regnor Phaidren. Does that satisfy you?

  Not exactly. Call him. Get him on the phone.

  Are you quite serious?<
br />
  Quite.

  But . . . at this hour?

  Its only a little after eight.

  But its past eleven p.m. in New York. I cant —

  So its past eleven. Call him anyway. Is there any reason why you would prefer I didn’t talk to Mr. Phaidren?

  His wide chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath and let it out, glaring at me. No, there is not, be said flatly.

  He reached for the phone.

  When you get him, I said, tell him Id like a few words with him. Please.

  While Cheim placed a person-to-person call to New York, I thought a bit about The Satyr Press. It was a legitimate firm, not one of the giants but of respectable size and with all of its stock privately held, most of it by Regnor Phaidren. The firm published thirty to forty titles a year, a lot of erotica, a few avant-garde and extraordinarily incomprehensible novels, and an occasional unauthorized biography of some well-known figure — who usually sued them. Nine times out of ten the books were that kind of biography, lots of scandal and the real inside dirt, more about the heel than about Achilles. It made sense that Satyr would want to publish Cheims autobiography, if they could get it. And if there was one.

  Cheim was saying, Reg? Its Gideon, Reg. Yes, still in the hospital but feeling great, just great. Be out of here in a few days. Yes, good to talk to you, too, Reg.

  I leaned over, so Cheim could see me smiling at him, and after a little more dialogue he handed the phone to me.

  I talked to Regnor Phaidren for about two minutes. Yes, Satyr was planning to publish Mr. Cheims autobiography, just as soon as they could get it — Mr. Phaidren apologized for saying that, since the book was to be published posthumously, but he was sure I understood. I told him sure, I understood. Yes, they had selected a title, I! Short and eye-catching, what? He apologized for that, too.

  He had, indeed, seen the manuscript. On the Coast last year, stayed with Gid, read the first half of the book or a bit more than, the rest was done but not in the shape Gid had wished it to be. But Mr. Phaidren had been enormously impressed. No, not a typed manuscript, all in longhand — Gid was a queer old duck, but they all just loved him. I ran out of questions, thanked Mr. Phaidren and hung up.

  Cheim said icily, That was fascinating. Why don’t you simply call me a goddamned liar and be done with it?

  Id reached the point where I wasn’t sure an autobiography really existed, and it was important that I be sure.

  Would you very much mind telling me why?

  It would take too long. And I’ve got an appointment. I’ll keep in touch.

  Wait just a moment, please.

  Please? From Gideon Cheim? I waited.

  Whatever doubts you had concerning the existence of my autobiography should now have been eliminated. I want that manuscript. I will pay anything, do anything within my power, if you will concentrate your efforts on getting it back for me.

  Weve been over this. Too many times. When and if I locate Jellicoe well talk about it.

  Should you succeed in finding the autobiography — there are, by the way, some . . . supporting documents, material supporting anecdotes and tales in certain chapters — I assume you will refrain from reading the manuscript, examining the — ah — supporting documents.

  He waited a moment, then continued. I intend, of course, to make drastic, very drastic changes in the manuscript. But until it is published, it is a very private possession. It is my property, my personal, private property. Ah . . . I am sure you are a man of honor, trustworthy, that you would not examine another persons personal, private property? It sounded like a question. I may feel certain, may I not, that you would refrain from reading any of the manuscript, or the — ah — supporting material? That was for sure a question.

  To repeat, I said, we can talk about all that when and if I locate Jellicoe. Anything else?

  This time it was Cheim who remained silent. He looked sort of irritated, angry, apprehensive, frustrated and unhappy.

  But, then, so far as I knew, that was the way he always looked.

  11

  At twelve minutes before nine I parked a block and a half from Antonios, walked down an alley that ran behind the restaurant and, passing two foul-smelling garbage cans, entered the kitchen. A short plump cook, sweating profusely, glanced at me with total lack of interest, then continued stirring something in a ten-gallon iron pot. I could smell garlic, cheese, dough, spices, sweat and several unidentifiables.

  When I stepped out of the kitchen, the swinging doors across the hallway, leading into the dining room and bar, were closed. I walked to the room on my left, turned the knob and stepped quickly inside. I was ready to shoot or run — even had my hand under my left lapel — but the only reaction I got was from Mac Kiffer, slouched in one of the chairs around the felt-topped poker table.

  He eyed me sleepily through his horn-rimmed glasses and said in his lazy way, You’re early, Scott. Then, as I glanced around the room, made sure when I shut the door that nobody had been hidden behind it, and finally let my right hand fall to my side, he added, You’re a trusting soul, aint you?

  He didn’t smile. Mac didn’t smile much. He didn’t move around much, either — though he could move pretty well when he wanted to. Id heard he worked out with weights every day, kept himself in good physical condition. Except perhaps for his guts, the intestinal fortitude area, as I’ve mentioned.

  That, in fact, was the main reason he’d split with Eddy Lash a couple of years back, or so Id been told. There had often been friction between Eddy and Mac, even near violence on occasion, and the guy who always backed down was Mac Kiffer.

  I said, I’m a trusting soul, all right. When in the company of angels.

  Ha-ha, he said mirthlessly. You know Putrid, don’t you?

  Yeah.

  Putrid Stanley was seated across from Kiffer, looking, as always, as if he had his nose stuffed with small skunks. His long bald head glistened in light from the shaded bulb hanging above the poker table, and his brightly gleaming dome contrasted sharply with the black stubble of whiskers poking at, and through, the leathery skin of his chin and cheeks.

  I walked to the far side of the poker table and pulled a chair out another foot so I could sit facing the door with the wall behind me.

  This aint gonna do no good, Scott, Kiffer said.

  You never can tell. For openers, we could start slow and easy by your filling me in with what you know about those three pills which narrowly missed your valuable person yesterday. Like who maybe tossed them and such.

  What for are you so interested about who shoots at me and misses? Or even don’t miss.

  Its just one small piece I hope to fit into a puzzle. Maybe it wont even fit.

  Well, we can let that lay there for a while. I got a better idea. This is your play, you called me. So lets get it goin with you tellin me more about what you said on the phone. About Lash goin to see Cheim.

  I shrugged. OK. When you and Putrid latched onto me I was on my way to the Weston-Macey Hospital to see Gideon Cheim, but before I headed out there he’d called my office three times himself, wanted to see me. After I shook you two, I went to the hospital. I talked to Cheim, and when I started to leave the room I damn near smacked into Lash, who was about to come in. We had a beef in the hallway, and the upshot was I kind of ruined his mouth. And I kind of left right then, before he came to.

  Kiffers usually sleepy-looking eyes became brighter as the lids lifted. Eddy? You hammered him in the mush?

  My best shot.

  Well, gahdamn. Kiffer smiled, revealing even teeth, perfectly white except for a small gold filling near the corner of his mouth. That’s good news.

  Putrid spoke for the first time. If you slammed Eddy cold and blew, how do you know if he seen Cheim or not?

  I was surprised. It was an intelligent question.

  Because I’ve been back to the hospital and talked to Cheim since then. I haven’t seen Lash, which is maybe just as well —

  You better beli
eve it, Putrid broke in.

  He was saying a lot of intelligent things tonight.

  So all I know is what Cheim told me, I continued. At least, what Cheim claims Eddy was after.

  Well, don’t stop there. That was Kiffer again. What was he after?

  Nothing very important, at least on the surface, I said casually. But I was not casual about keeping my eyes on Kiffer, hoping I might catch a slight twitch of lip, lifted brow, twitch of finger. All of which proved to be, in this instance at least, entirely unnecessary.

  According to Cheim, I said, all Eddy Lash was trying to do was find a guy. Man named Wilfred Jellicoe.

  The sonofabitch! Kiffer yelled, raising his right hand and slamming it down, closed into a fist, onto the green felt of the poker tables top. Yeah, I knew it, the bastard. So that’s why the sonofabitch tried to blast me. He raised his other fist, and with it also slammed the tabletop.

  After a moment he told Putrid to wait outside.

  Putrid got up and left the room.

  Then Kiffer looked straight at me, his usually rather pleasant features contorted. Yeah, he growled, he already tried once, and hell keep on tryin to kill me — unless I get lucky and knock off the bastard first. He frowned, looking unhappy. Which aint very damned likely, he added morosely.

  I said quietly, So it was Eddy Lash tried to chill you, huh?

  Who else? Maybe not him, but one of those fleepers what work for him.

  Which one?

  I aint certain. But the way it come to me, it was Luddy.

  Luddy. Clarence Ludlow. He hated the name Clarence. He hated damn near everything in the universe, for that matter. He was a large, bumbling oaf of enormous physical strength, but with very little juice flowing through his gray matter. In the three years he’d been working for Lash, the boss had often used him for such utilitarian projects as conk-crushing or arm-and-leg breaking, when such became in Eddys view desirable.