He paused to suck in a long drag from his smoke, then gave me the horsy, big-toothed grin. You really think these things give a guy cancer in the lungs?
Sure, almost like smog. But you were saying?
Yeah. I no more than finish telling Eddy the works, than he says I should take Vic out with me and kind of ambush his head. You know, cave it in, with a instrument I have for that purpose. I have Vic follow me in his car — he don’t know where were goin, its nothin to him. We drive out there on the road where you found him, and we park, and I walk back and cave in his head. He paused. Hows it goin?
Just about right, I said.
Then I get his wheels lined up, he went on, and get behind his heap in mine, and start shoving him along. I was lucky there. Believe it or not, I got us up to seventy, near seventy anyways, before he slid off and hit. I stopped and backed up to where he was, made sure it looked good, then headed back to Eddys. No moren get inside the door than blammo, there’s a barker goin off and — Well, hell, you was there. You know the rest of it.
The watch, Luddy? And ring? Didn’t you forget that?
Oh, hell, yes. Probly that’s the most important part. He looked up at me. Right?
I nodded. Right.
He made a sour face. Well, I seen them dandies on Vic every day for a coupla years or more. I kind of been wanting them dandies, and they was no more use to him. When I backed up to his heap, it struck me in a flash I could stone two birds with one — Well, I could get both things done right. If I took the ring and watch — I’m not so dumb as these fuzz thinks — I realized a robber would take the money, too. So I took the money, which is percisely what a robber would do.
He gave everybody his big grin.
When nobody grinned, or even smiled, in return, he said, Well, hell, fellows, don’t it make sense if you’re going to make it look like a robbery, you rob everything?
Sure, somebody said. Smart, Luddy. But this guy is supposed to have got it in a car crash. Whod rob him? Some passing pedestrian? A hitchhiker? Maybe pack rats?
Luddy considered that. Then he said cheerfully, Well, you cant expect robbers to think of everything. Not every gawdamn time.
Luddy, I said quietly.
He swung his head toward me. There was the funniest damned expression in his eyes. I said, When we had our talk a few hours back, I think we missed a couple corners.
I guess.
You and Burper did catch up with Kiffer in that phone booth, right? And took care of him?
He was quiet for a long time. Then, Yeah, I shoved Mac outa his heap. Gimme another of them pills, will you? I chewed all mine up already. I slid the cigarette pack across the table to him. He lit up and said, When you come by the station there on Cypress, I was in Macs car with him. In case you come up, you see.
So you could blast me.
You got it exact. Id clunked Mac in the squash earlier and he was out. I don’t think he was croaked then. We didn’t want him croaked — in case you didn’t show, you get it?
I get.
Anyhow, when you drove by I figured you was makin the meet just like Mac had told, and Burper would handle that end. So I give Mac another clunk on the conk. A pretty good one, kind of bent his knob in some. Then down the road, slow, lights out, waitin for the shot or two. Shot or two! Man, it was like Saint Valentines Day, and it come to me immediate something was gone wrong. So down the road I flew, managing somehow to lose Mac on the way.
Uh-huh. And later, after you got sprung and talked to Eddy at the penthouse, you naturally included the info that Mac had been chilled.
Yeah, that was what Eddy was most interested about. Right off he tells me I should take Vic out. So out I go. . . .
Makes sense now. Thanks for clearing it up, Luddy.
Sure. He gave me the big horsy grin for the last time. What the hell. All the ghees I been aces with is either croaked or doin five- or ten-speckers in college. Whats for me to lose?
There was a little more, but I left before it was over.
I went back to Sams office, and sat, and thought, and smoked, until he came in.
19
Samson sat down a little heavily, looked across the desk at me. You still here? Maybe you stayed around because you felt I might have a cell reserved for you. Would I be close to the mark. Shell?
Pretty close. But Shell it was.
In one night, he said matter-of-factly, you have shot and killed Francis McGee, shot and killed Eddy Lash, and committed mayhem upon the person of Clarence Ludlow. In addition to other items, such as breaking and entering, which I previously mentioned. And you probably molested three Playboy Club Bunnies —
Samson, you’re going too far!
He sighed. Well, somehow it all checks out. You blunder around, but still . . . Shell, what possessed you to break into Lashs penthouse when you couldn’t possibly have known —
But, Sam, I did know. I went over it from every angle I could think of and there wasn’t a flaw in it, not one area where logic departed. Even last night when we went through that ABC routine we were able to identify everybody from Macs A-through-I except A and E, so when it became clear that Gideon Cheim was E and A had to be Warren Barr, which filled in the last two —
Wait a minute. Now we know that — at least, we know Barr was our Mr. A. Sam was speaking with more emphasis than usual, Because now — just like Jellicoe had — weve studied that confession of Henny Augrests which names Warren Barr.
Sam, don’t get excited.
We even know that’s what Jellicoe threatened Barr with — unless the cowboy forked over fifty thousand he’d spill the story about Barrs beating Roger David to death. But you couldn’t have known then, before youd seen Hennys confession. You simply say, clairvoyantly, that A is Barr and E is —
Not clairvoyantly, Sam, Just plain old common —
All right, you tell me what made you so sure the guy we called E was, and is, Gideon Cheim.
Start with Cheims frantic concern about his autobiography. Consider the growing evidence that blackmail material was in it, and later that there was other material, besides that in the manuscript, of potential damage to a lot of people. Too, I happened to know Cheim was not only capable of blackmail but had committed it himself in a peculiarly sly manner — which maybe gave Jellicoe his Big Idea in the first place.
There’s not enough —
Let me finish, Sam. We knew from Kiffers alphabet story that Eddy Lash — D — had been blackmailing somebody until Hennys handwritten confession took the heat off him. We know Vic Pine took that confession, along with the manuscript and everything else, from Jellicoe and was quizzed by the law near Indian Ranch at eleven-twenty-two p.m. Less than forty minutes later a man phoned and put the blackmail squeeze on . . . Gideon Cheim. The call wasn’t from Jellicoe — he was dead. Who, then? Clearly whoever Vic took the dope to. And who would Vic take it to? Who did Vic take it to?
OK, OK, he took it to Lash.
And as soon as Lash got Hennys confession — Cheims insurance against Lashs blackmail during these past four years — Eddy simply picked up where he’d left off four years ago.
That may satisfy you, Shell. Maybe even me. But its not enough for a court of law.
Hell, I wasn’t going into a court, I was going into Lashs penthouse. Look, Sam, the hell with the rest of it. We know Mr. E is the guy Ogre sold the confession to; we know Vic took it from Jellicoe but Jellicoe originally got it from Cheim, it was Cheims property; so E was Cheim. Will that do?
Sam sighed. I guess itll have to.
I lit another cigarette. The only thing I don’t know is what Lash used for blackmailing Cheim in the beginning, what it was he used on him until four years ago.
I can give you that, Sam said casually.
I stared at him. You sly old skunk, I said. You mean you’ve known all along what Lash had on Cheim but let me sit here and try to convince you — I cut it off. OK, give.
Weve known about the crime for nine years, Sam said. Just didn’
t know who committed it.
Oh, merely that tiny detail, hey?
He grinned. Truth is, Luddy gave us the capper on it after you left the I room.
And then Samson gave it to me.
Following which, he turned to another subject. You already know weve been talking to Warren Barr. He’s given us the story about Jellicoe’s blackmail try — Barr was supposed to have fifty thousand ready by Monday night. Hardly seems enough money considering the risk, does it?
Well, Jellicoe was an amateur, after all.
Most of them are. Anyhow, Barr has also given us the story about the guy he killed — actually, it was more like manslaughter. But before I fill you in on that, how come you were so sure — before you read Hennys paper — that Barr was our Mr. A?
Lets say it was not quite a cosmic certainty, but at least a strong and reasonably valid assumption, OK? When Jellicoe came into possession of the Cheim manuscript and allied material he immediately — well, almost immediately — paid a call upon Barr. The result of that Friday-afternoon chat was that Barr got so shook he nearly fell off his horse, as it was given to me. That same night Jellicoe checked into Indian Ranch under an assumed name. That same night or maybe over the weekend his rooms in the Cavendish were tossed. Add Barrs record, his pro — and amateur — fighting days, and nights. Add Barrs friendship with Vic Pine, that it was Barr who learned from Sylvia Ardent she might have seen Jellicoe at Indian Ranch, so almost certainly Vic had to get that info from Barr. Add the fact that Barr had knocked Wilfred on his can, in public.
I talked to Barr twice myself. Both times he had the same strange reaction, first shock and something close to real fright, soon followed by obvious relief and relaxation — the reason, of course, being that I hadnt yet hit on the real bit Jellicoe smacked him with, the murder bit. Though both times Barr, at first, must have thought that’s what I had.
Samson was frowning slightly. Since Barrs been so handy with his fists, beat David to death, the rest of it, why not figure it was Barr worked Jellicoe over? The jealous-lover angle, after he’d talked to the Ardent woman?
The guy who beat the life out of Jellicoe immediately afterward picked up Cheims case from the desk, and that had to be Vic. Not merely because the law talked to Vic five or ten minutes later, either. The clerk — and anybody else in the whole area, for that matter — would have recognized famous Warren Barr, idol of theatergoers and every horse in the land.
Sam nodded. Makes sense, yeah.
Incidentally, that sequence — Sylvia telling Barr of maybe seeing Jellicoe, then Barr telling Vic — helps explain why Vic gave Sylvia as his alibi. Not only was she living at the Ranch, and not only had he once dated her, but he would almost automatically have thought of Sylvia because, only a few hours earlier, Barr had been talking to Vic about her and the possibility that shed seen Jellicoe at the Ranch. I paused. The same reasoning, in reverse, supports the idea that Barr did tell Vic where he might find Jellicoe. Well, the hell with that. What was it Wilfred hit sweet Warren with? What did happen four years ago?
Not much new about any of it, Sam said. Barr was in — appropriately, I guess — a bar late that Sunday afternoon. Nobody else there except a married couple, only they werent married to each other. Roger David and Mrs. Anne Ericson — youll remember we checked them out last night. Barr bought them a drink. Maybe tried to move in on the gal, but Barr didn’t mention anything like that. According to him, the other guy started the fight. As I recall Barrs words, he said, The bum actually poked me, actually hit me — in the mouth. Man, my mouth. That’s one of the main things I act with.
I smiled. Sam was a pretty good mimic. Also, I was remembering that scene Id watched being shot. Barr with the busty tomato apparently making a meal of his lips.
Sam went on, Barr plain beat the man to death. Didn’t intend to, of course, he says. The gal skipped out. So did Barr — straight to Vic Pine and Eddy Lash. Eddy and his boys hauled off the dead guys body and that was it.
How about the bartender?
No worry about him. Ex-con, friendly with Lash. Place was the Four Aces on Ninth Street.
I knew the Four Aces. It was a hood hangout, what guys on their way to or from prison called a safe bar.
Fact is, Sam went on, it was from the bartender Lash found out who the girl was. Shed met this same guy there before; it was just a bar to them, a place to meet. She didn’t say anything to her husband about the fight because that would have meant telling him she was with this Roger David. Anyhow, Lashs men took care of her in the morning — I read you the report.
Yeah. This bartender, he still around?
Close. Just brought him in a little while ago.
You have not been dawdling. Well, it fits together, Sam. Barr beats this David to death and goes to Vic and Lash for help. Then four years later when Jellicoe puts the bite on Barr, history repeats itself: its Barr-to-Vic-to-Lash once more. And that’s when the fuse was lit, and the killing started.
I stubbed out my cigarette, thinking about Wilfred Jellicoe. Poor Jelly, I said. Once he’d started, I guess he went out for the big money. Might have made it, too, considering the dope he’d got his hands on, if he’d had a little more practice at being a hood instead of the nice, meek guy he basically was. I guess when you boil it down its the story of a long-suffering worm who turned too late and got stepped on. Or a would-be Hyde with too much Jekyll in him.
Speaking of Hydes, half the underworld is getting shot up while you cavort with hoodlums and lollygag with the likes of Sylvia Ardent and Zena Tabur —
Samson, I said sternly. Surely you realize if I hadnt — ah — interrogated Sylvia Ardent I would never have uncovered many of the vital facts of the case, facts which aided me enormously in cracking it. Further, had I not become acquainted with Miss Tabur, I could not have been instantly aware that Vic Pines alibi was a fraud. In sum, had it not been for what you so fatuously refer to as lollygagging, I could not possibly have been so unerringly led to the solution of this involved dilemma. And if I hadnt been so led? Why, the mind reels and boggles —
Sams expression of pain was interrupted when his phone rang. He spoke into it briefly. Then he said, Intelligence and some of the other men have gone over that stuff of Cheims. Keeping part of it, the Augrest confession, things like that. And theyve duped some pages of that manuscript. But its still his property, and you can pick it up any time now.
Fine. I’ll enjoy explaining to Cheim whats been occurring this night. In a way I can understand the old fossils holding out on me, because its plain he was — and is — accessory to numerous felonies. But he had to know what his conning me might do to Jellicoe and others — not least of whom was me, especially since much of the time I was acting on baloney the old fraud gave me. Of course, he knew he couldn’t tell me the whole truth, because I would have clapped the coot away.
He may still get . . . clapped away. Sam had his cigar in his mouth, wooden kitchen match in hand. But were not too concerned about Mr. Cheim at the moment. You might tell him we will desire to talk with him in the near future.
Yeah. I’ll tell him. I’ll be glad to tell him.
Samson rubbed his eyes with one hand — match ready in the other — then said wearily, Shell, I’ll admit that much of what you’ve said tonight, much on which you based your ridiculous actions, possessed a certain vague logic. But what if youd based your conclusions on false premises? Ye gods! The thought is terrifying! He waggled his head. You do have moments approaching rationality, but you’re sure no Sherlock Holmes.
Praise be. Now, there’s a guy who was clairvoyant. He wasn’t logical, he was in touch with pixies.
What you really are, Shell, Sam said, lighting his match and placing its flame against the end of his cigar, is simply the luckiest goddamned man at large in the world.
Rising to my feet I said stiffly, Luck has nothing to do with it. And at large, which sounds like somebody whos escaped from somewhere, is hardly the most felicitous choice of words to describe my �
� Phew.
At the door I turned and said, Well, hell, so I had a little luck along the way. Does that make me a dummy? The acrid fumes were reaching me again, but I stood my ground and added, And everything worked out all right, didn’t it? Isn’t that the important thing?
Sam puffed away, complacently, on his poisonous cigar.
Home.
Home again.
My familiar, comfortable, much used, well-enjoyed, not luxurious but just-right-for-me three rooms and bath in the Spartan Apartment Hotel.
I had showered, shaved and even shampooed my hair, before even preparing to phone my second client of this case, Gideon Cheim. By the time I was ready it was sunrise. Or nearly sunrise. There were some sort of pale puky grays beginning to crud up the eastern horizon — I was in a mean mood. Even after the shower and such.
Id done all that merely in the hope of washing some of the stink of this case off of me. It had helped. But not enough. I still felt mean. Mainly, I guess, because of Gideon Cheim, and his cute little ways. More because of him, really, than Lash, Kiffer, Luddy and the rest. Maybe that — to forestall further annoyance and depression — was why I had so long delayed this particular call. And done all the other things.
Including, after making myself a double bourbon-and-water, slipping into my favorite robe, which has by some stuffy citizens — usually female citizens with such primary interests as growing cactus plants or spending hours with binoculars looking for very ordinary birds — been referred to as Ghahstly or Indecent.
True, its a little wild, and extraordinarily colorful. And embroidered in gold thread upon a red and every-other-color background is a lovely dragon with scarlet flames snorting brightly from its flaring nostrils. The nostrils, presumably, are flaring because he is in pursuit — hot pursuit, you might say — of numerous fleeing damsels, scantily clad, a couple of whom are even unclad and spinning about as though in great dismay.
Maybe some people don’t like it. But it is my robe, and the hell with them. It is my wild, nights-at-home-alone-in-the-apartment robe, when alone, that is, with something delicious whom I wish to impress with by bloodcurdling taste in objets dart. Sometimes a tomatos reaction saves hours, even days, of possible glandular malfunction, such as when one of them rises, whirls about and leaves, slamming the door behind her, fleeing back to the security of her cactus garden.
The Cheim Manuscript (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 21
