The Cheim Manuscript (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  Id talked to Luddy a couple of times myself, once in an interrogation room in the LA Police Building. And even though it was true enough that he had all that hate and consequent toxemia inside him, outwardly — when he wanted to — he could appear jolly, pleasant, even overflowing with something that approached happy-go-lucky exuberance. It was perhaps, after the muscle, his one talent.

  That talent had made at least two juries feel he simply couldn’t have done the awful things of which he had been accused, and thus at least two juries had acquitted him. The first on the charge of breaking and entering — only it was breaking and entering a guys head, with the help of a ball-peen hammer — and the second of murder two. The latter charge, originally, had been murder one but it was reduced to second degree and jolly, pleasant, exuberant Luddy beat even that rap. He couldn’t have done it, said a jury of his peers.

  Interestingly, he and Burper McGee, to whom Id briefly talked early this afternoon, were well-nigh inseparable companions. From the time when McGee had joined up with Lash and Company a year and a half ago, he and Luddy had hit it off and started hanging around together. God only knows why. Maybe as some people are color blind, Luddy was odor immune. Maybe it was simply that guys like Luddy and Burper rarely make friends easily, and take what they can get.

  I pulled my thoughts back to Antonios, and asked Kiffer, Whats with Jellicoe? Why is Lash so hot to see him; for that matter, what makes it so damned important to you?

  He pressed both hands to his forehead, then ran them back over his thick, smoothly combed black hair, frowning in concentration. Well . . . it aint easy to explain, he said.

  Then do it the hard way.

  Don’t know as I can. It gets kind of complicated.

  I took another tack. You’ve been yelling your head off about Lash. Why would he want to kill you?

  That’s easy. Well, easier. I know some things he don’t want me talkin about. There was a bunch of us knew the dope I got in mind, but one of em got himself killed a coupla years back, and another one or two drifted off. Way I figure it, I’m the only one Eddys worried about. I guess he’s afraid I might spill. And I just might.

  That was encouraging. But I remained silent, just in case Kiffer felt like going on.

  He looked at me, eyes half-lidded behind his glasses, and said, Its funny as hell. I thought Eddy maybe tried to get me hit yesterday thinking Id finked and already had spilled the beans. But it sure don’t look that way now. I aint the only one knows about . . . what I mentioned, but the crumb is gonna try gettin me killed, anyways.

  Whore the others?

  He shook his head. I aint naming no names — not yet. And don’t ask me what the dope is; I aint saying that, either. But Eddy, I can see hell make it a big point to get me killed, that’s for sure. He paused, a frown on his face. And when Eddy makes up his mind to get a guy killed, that guy don’t usually live a whole lot longer, you can take it from me.

  You ought to know, Kiffer. You worked for the guy yourself for five years.

  He didn’t pay much attention to the remark. Kiffer was quiet for a while, thinking. Then he looked at me. Like Eddy himself always said, a mans got to take care of Number One. Scott, I’m going to tell you a tale. But I tell it so it don’t do you no good, unless I fill it in for you later, see?

  I guess so. But I wont know till I hear the tale.

  I change it a little, leave out names and dates, like that. And the only way I fill it in is if you fix it so I can make me a deal.

  What kind of deal?

  Let that go a minute. I’m going to make up a story for you now, see? With a lot of supposin in it. And maybe I throw in some things that aint true along with some that is, just to screw you up.

  Tell it your way. Just tell it.

  OK. Only I want one or two more things from you first.

  Like what?

  Like whyd Cheim want to see you in the first place?

  Jellicoe’s been Cheims right-hand man for years, and Cheim heard I was looking for the guy. He wanted to know if Id found him.

  Did you? I mean, you know where Jellicoe is at?

  I shook my head. Not yet. I know a lot of places where he isn’t, that’s all.

  Cheim heard you was already looking for Jellicoe? Then he didn’t hire you to find him?

  No. Jellicoe’s ex-wife hired me this morning. The main thing shes flipping about, I gathered, was that shes missed a couple months alimony. I paused. Incidentally, do you happen to know where Jellicoe is?

  Not me. He could be in Africa for all I know.

  I find something rather interesting. I’ve told you Eddy Lash is looking for Jellicoe, that Cheim wanted to know if Id located him, that his ex-wife hired me to find him. Yet not at any time have you indicated the slightest surprise. For all you know he could be in Africa. Obviously, you’ve known for a while that our lad has skipped.

  Oh, hell yes. I knew you was looking for him, too. Word gets around — you know how it goes. Man, there’s lots of guys knows places where he aint.

  That why you and Putrid were tailing me? See if I might lead you to him? Or was there another reason?

  Chop the questions for now, huh? You want to hear this story of mine or don’t you?

  I shrugged. Yeah, I want to hear it.

  Well, supposin a guy killed another guy, and there was another guy seen it happen. Then the first guy, the one what pounded the bejeezus out of the citizen in question, gets another guy to help him out. This other guy has some of his friends, and him, get rid of the killed guy, who nobody ever hears of no more, and then they wrap it all up by killing the guy who seen it happen. Clear so far?

  I wasn’t exactly sure. I went over it in my mind and said, Like this? A kills B and C is the witness. A enlists the aid of D. D and friends dispose of Bs body and murder C.

  Kiffer frowned. It don’t sound the same, he said. But it don’t matter. I’m making it all up. You can use numbers for em if you want to. There’s some more goes with it. This guy with the friends what does the dirty work — who was he? C?

  D.

  OK, D. He’s putting the bite, heavy, on another guy.

  Call him E.

  Jesus. You got a thing for the alphabet, don’t you? What if we run out of letters?

  There’s that many people messing around in this story you’re making up?

  No. Only a few. He paused, nodding. I get how you’re doing it. Yeah, listen to this now. This guy D is the one has the friends help him bury the stiff and all that; well, these friends, theyre F, G, H, I — and that last one is me.

  I is you?

  I is me.

  I got it.

  So do I. I think. Jesus, let me think a minute.

  He scratched his black hair for a while, scowling. Then he said a foul four-letter word, after which he continued, One of them other letters, not I — which is me, if I haven’t got it screwed to hell up — knows about all this, because he’s one of them in on it, one of them letters. . . . Kiffer spat out the foul word again.

  Then he said, The hell with it. One of them birds knows about the squeeze this guy is putting on the other dude, so he makes a deal with this dude — gives him proof of all that happened, what I just got through telling you — for a large pile of dough. He gets the dough, the dude gets the proof, and the dude having this proof, it makes him able to use it to stop the guy whos squeezing him from doing any more squeezing — he gets unsquoze. Its a standoff. You got it?

  I nodded. It was a bit difficult to follow Kiffers story line, but I thought I understood. It would help a lot, I told him, if youd be just a little more specific.

  I aint going to be that. Not unless I get a deal worked out first. He held up two fingers. I know you’re like that with the fuzz, and especially Samson. Which is one reason I told you OK, come on out and well talk. Because I figure you got more chance of making your buddy take it easy on me, especially with what I got to give him, than anybody else.

  Kiffer referred to Phil Samson, who happ
ens to be not only my best friend in LA but also the Captain of Central Homicide. Sam is a tough, hard-working career cop, as honest a man as youll find, and he didn’t often make a deal. But if the DA felt he could put half a dozen hoods in prison for a long time, and Kiffer in the can for even a short time, something could possibly be worked out.

  I’ll talk to Sam, I said. But I cant promise a damn thing — and I doubt that he will, either. But I’ll find out how all this sounds to him and the DA. I’ll let you know.

  Get on it fast, will you? I’ll level: what happened yesterday was too close already, and its likely to happen again damned soon, closer than that. I know some of them fleepers is trying to get close enough to hit me. If you don’t move like a rabbit I might not be around to tell you no more.

  I’ll go straight to the LAPD when I leave here, Kiffer. And I promise I’ll do my best to get some kind of deal worked out. I shook my head, looking serious. But it may not be easy, I said soberly. You’re talking about two murders, arent you? And both about the same time? Or were they the same day? It could make a difference.

  First guy got it one afternoon, the other one was plugged the next morning. Whats the difference?

  What Id meant, though naturally I did not mention it to Kiffer, was that it could make a difference to me. I said, The point is there were two murders — and you’re involved in both of them, at least as an accessory. If this was a simple heist it would also be simpler to cop out to a lesser charge. But cold-blooded, premeditated murders, and two of them at that . . .

  Kiffer was looking just a little worried. I can still come out OK if you do your stuff right. And it aint as bad as you make it sound, Scott. About them murders, one of them wasn’t supposed to be; I mean, it didn’t start out with the guy meaning to kill the guy. So you cant call that one premedicated. And, hell, I didn’t have nothin to do with that, none of us . . . letters did. It was only the second one it was planned on hitting. And I didn’t have nothin to do with that, either, its the Gods truth. Hell, all I did was help lug off the first stiff, help dig a hole in the ground.

  I nodded encouragingly. That could be your story, anyway. It does make you sound innocent as a babe. But you’re at least accessory before the fact of murder, if you knew in advance that this egg was going to be shot in the morning.

  His eyes rolled right and left. Suddenly he nodded and said, Man, I didn’t know nothin about that. It come as a complete surprise to me when I heard about it.

  Yeah. Well, if the DA would accept — mind you, I don’t say he would, or that he’d even consider it — a plea to the effect that you merely kept quiet about a homicide or two which you knew to have been committed . . .

  I felt I was, perhaps, being a little unfair. And I felt a little twinge of conscience when Kiffer seized on my words almost gratefully, crying, Yeah, that’s it, all I did was keep my trap shut about it. Whats so illegal? I should be a rat?

  I have to tell you it might be a lot worse than the way you see it now, Kiffer. A lot worse.

  Well, you get the hell busy, Scott, and either you get me a deal or all you gots a handful of letters that don’t spell nothin. But if it works out, I’ll fill in the names, dates, the whole bit. And your Captain Sam will have Eddy Lash for one, and a few more. Only I get off easy, I get to cop a soft plea.

  I smiled. And Eddy Lash wont be so available to knock you off, will he?

  Kiffer shrugged. I admit that entered into my mind. But like I said, a guys got to look out for Number One, don’t he?

  I guess a guy does. But the story I tell Sam has to hang together, Kiffer. I mean, its got to make sense — even if its as sketchy as what you’ve told me.

  Well, it makes sense, don’t it?

  I’ll give you an example. This guy you claim sold the story of this night and morning of crime to the blackmail victim — that part doesnt fit, doesnt hold up.

  How come?

  As soon as the victim used the info to — to get unsquoze, the guy whod been doing the squeezing would know positively thered been a leak. And he’d know the leak had to come from one of a handful of his men. The guy who sold out would know that would happen, too, even if he had only half a brain. Therefore, knowing in advance he would inevitably be exposed — and hit in the head for selling out — he wouldn’t have sold out. The logic there doesnt hold up.

  Say that again. A little slower.

  I said it again, phrasing it a bit differently, and Kiffers face brightened.

  Sure, I get it. He had noodles enough to know he’d be found out eventual, and get hit in the head? That’s the way its got logic? Well, hell, that’s me way it was. He knew, you damn well bet he knew. So he took off.

  Come again?

  Look, the guy knew he had to skip. He had the hots for a burleycue stripper, which is what he wanted the money for in the first place. Soon as he gets the loot, he grabs his babe and they lam together. To where? Nobody knows from nothing. Neither hide nor hair of them since.

  I smiled, nodding. Well, now it makes sense. That helps — and it helps that I can at least give the fuzz Eddy Lashs name, right? I mean, he’s one of those — those letters, and therell be evidence sufficient to assure his arrest and trial?

  That’s it exact.

  Youd better be sure, Kiffer. All this is nothing — its zero — unless there’s proof. Admissible evidence, real proof.

  There is.

  What kind of proof?

  He shook his head. That you don’t get.

  Where is this alleged proof?

  That you don’t get, neither.

  When and if the law wants a look at . . . whatever it is, can you put your hands on it? That I’m certain theyll want to know. And no monkey business about it.

  Well . . . I cant actually put my hands on it. But with what I can tell the fuzz they ought to be able to get it. Hell, I can tell them so much they might not even need it.

  Youd probably have to testify against your co — against the other guys, in court.

  That I’ll buy. Now will you get to hell on it? I got a feeling my times about up. I got a feeling. . . .

  I’m on my way to the Police Building right now. In ten minutes I’ll be talking to Sam. I got to my feet, walked to the door. There I turned and said, I could sound more convincing, especially to Samson — who, I can predict, isn’t going to be overcome with happiness when I tell him this goofy story — if I had more fact, a little more detail. Anything else you want to tell me?

  He shook his head, the overhead light glinting on his glasses. No chance, Scott. No chance. He paused. I got a feeling I told you too much already.

  As a matter of fact, he had.

  12

  Headquarters of the LAPDs Central Homicide Division is on the third floor of the Police Building, a block east of the City Hall in downtown LA. When I walked into room 314, the Homicide squad room, a couple of detectives were sitting at a wooden table going over some kind of report.

  The door of Samsons adjacent office was open and as I went in he looked up and nodded slightly.

  Id dropped in only two days ago, but Sam probably would have reacted with approximately the same wild enthusiasm if Id just returned from a year on one of the outer planets. Wed been friends for many years, and I knew well that beneath the rough and forbidding exterior of Phil Samson, terror of Central Homicide — terror understandably, since he was big, broad, burly and tough, with a jaw as solid and heavy as several pounds of cast iron, and could growl like the MGM lion when merely asking the time of day — beat a heart as calloused and cold as a toasted marshmallow.

  Hi, Sam, I said as I walked in, turned a wooden chair around and straddled it. Why don’t you bring your long-suffering wife down here and give her a cot in the hall? Only way the poor girls ever going to get to see you.

  Sam leaned back in his swivel chair, a look of utter boredom on his pink clean-shaven — somehow always clean-shaven — face, and rubbed the knuckles of one thick-fingered hand against the fringe of gray above his tem
ple.

  She cant sleep in drafts, he said. Id have to move her every time you come in here and start gassing.

  Ah, I said, the Captains in a jolly mood again. The Captain has been drinking on the job again. The Cap —

  When you phoned, you did say you had something important to tell me, didn’t you?

  I nodded, sketched in the days activities, from Gladys Jellicoe until now — now being 9:20 p.m. — then covered the high points of my recently concluded meeting with Mac Kiffer. The thing is, he wants to make a deal. And I think, even though he tried to be cute with me, it could turn out to be a good deal for our side.

  Sam scowled. Kiffers a mean one. Id hate to see a hood like him walk away clean. Whats he got to trade?

  Hell cop out, go into court and puke on his erstwhile pals. Hell name names, dates and such, filling in the story he told me, which did not include such specifics.

  So tell me the story.

  You may not be overwhelmed with it as evidence, Sam. We wound up using letters instead of peoples names. Actually, its the only way the thing came out even half clear.

  Letters?

  Yeah, like A, B, C — you know, A for Joe Smith, B for Bill Brown, like that.

  He sighed, wearily. All right, lets have it.

  Heres the way it came from Kiffer. Don’t let it throw you until I add a few bits — Kiffer told me more than he thought. Here goes: A kills B. C witnesses the homicide. A prevails upon D to help him. D and four of his friends — hoods, well say, and well call them F, G, H and I — dispose of Bs body that night, and the next morning kill C. In the meantime this same D has been blackmailing another citizen, E. One of the four hoods knows about this blackmail squeeze, and the identity of E. He approaches E, makes a deal, sells him the whole story of the double killing, complete with names and dates and such, and Es possession of this info — which naturally can put the heat on a number of people — enables him to force D to back off and end his extortion. With the loot from this sellout, our man, either F or G, skips town in the company of a burlesque dancer for whom he has the unscratchable itch.