Over Her Dear Body

by Richard S. Prather

  “I'm surprised you'd want to own such a thing.”

  He smiled. “When I want a thing I don't attempt to justify my desire, I satisfy it. At whatever cost. It took a great deal of money, influence, and effort to procure this.”

  I was beginning to understand why he'd called me back a minute ago. I suppose he wanted to overwhelm me with the fact that he could get, or do, almost anything he wanted. Whether it was books or people, it was all the same to him.

  He went on, “It seemed to me, Mr. Scott, that you were not sufficiently impressed by my words a few minutes ago. My—advice to you.”

  “Enough seeped through so I got the idea. You don't have to beat me over the head with it.”

  “On the contrary, I fear I do have to...” he winced slightly, “...beat you over the head with it. You don't yet fully understand the lengths to which I will go when my interests are involved. And your understanding might spare us both much unpleasantness.”

  “Good night, Mr. Silverman. You've made your point. You'll forgive me if I find your company wearing.”

  “Before you go, select something for me to read and enjoy along with my brandy, will you?”

  I frowned at him.

  “Please. I'm quite serious. Any volume will do, anything. Just choose something at random.”

  It seemed a strange request, but I went along with it. Lying on a projecting ledge beneath the shelf into which he had again inserted the Buchenwald obscenity, were a number of volumes lying flat, loose pages, scrolls, even rolls of what was probably papyrus. One item caught my eye more than anything else on that ledge. It was rectangular, long and narrow, covered with a richly embroidered cloth.

  I picked it up and handed it to him. “This one do?”

  He took it from me, smiling oddly. “An excellent choice. One might almost say inspired.” As he spoke he removed the embroidered cloth, exposing the book itself, or whatever it was. “This came to me from the south of India,” he continued. “It is a very ancient illuminated, palm-leaf manuscript, Mr. Scott, and I believe it to contain medical, or other secrets, from the s'lokas of the sacred Indian religious books. It is very old, and very valuable. Priceless, in fact. The boards which protect the leaves are alone beyond price. Look it over, if you'd like.”

  He'd hooked me, I am not a man who goes gaga upon touching a rare first edition of Lady Chumley's collected couplets, say, but I was interested. As I took the manuscript from him he was saying, “Oddly enough, perhaps my greatest interest is the art and literature of India. I have, myself, visited the overpowering caves at Ellora, Ajanta, and Elephanta.”

  I examined the manuscript with growing interest. The “boards” he'd mentioned were thin strips of wood enclosing the leaves held between them. The top strip, the “cover,” was beautifully painted, vibrant with color and wonderfully executed. Even to me, not a man who roams atwitter through museums on his day off, it was beautiful, magnificent, and I could easily believe it to be almost beyond price.

  It was obviously very old. The colors, among them still-vivid reds and yellows and blues, were chipped and streaked in places. The illuminated cover showed five seated human figures—robed men at either end in what looked like yoga positions, and in the center a youthful Indian woman in a posture of meditation, legs crossed and hands resting one on the other in her lap. At the sides of the central figure were two smaller figures. The background was mostly gold, with what looked like green leaves at the top of the strip.

  “Each page is also illuminated, Mr. Scott,” Silverman said. “There are seven leaves in this particular manuscript. The writing on them, by the way, is Sanskrit.”

  I gently lifted the cover, looked at the first sheet beneath it. It, too, was painted in the center, with smaller delicately drawn figures, and in the strip at either side of the painting, in even rows, were strange graceful black letters much like Chinese lettering I'd seen. They almost seemed to form pictures rather than words.

  “This is really written on leaves?” I asked him.

  “Yes, palm leaves. Other leaves are used for many similar manuscripts. The oldest of which I know is on birch bark and dates from the fifth century b.c. But these are leaves from the palm.” He paused. “Note the careful lettering. It was done with a stylus, and the indentations were then blackened with soot. Would you believe it, Mr. Scott, manuscripts of much less material and moral value than the one you hold are held sacred by many persons in India. They actually worship them and would die before letting them out of their possession.”

  I handed it back to him. “Almost like Indian Dead Sea Scrolls, huh?”

  “Somewhat, yes. The parallel is apt.”

  For a moment there I had forgotten that I'd been stalking out of here when he'd called me back. So I said, “Well, that's all very interesting, but—”

  He had grasped the manuscript by its ends and was holding it in both hands before him in the air. As he raised his knee I suddenly knew just what he was going to do.

  I tried to stop him. "Don't—" I yelled, and reached for his arms. But I was too slow.

  With a sudden, easy movement, Silverman thrust the manuscript against his knee, cracking the boards, tearing the palm-leaf pages. The sound of the wooden strips breaking was like a shot in my ears. Bits of color, red and blue and gold, fell to the carpet and clung to his dark trousers as he put his foot on the floor again.

  I couldn't speak. I wanted to, but at that moment I was literally shocked into silence.

  Silverman grasped the torn palm-leaf pages and pulled them free, letting the cracked and splintered wooden covers fall. He turned toward me smiling pleasantly. “I don't really know how old this manuscript is—was. I do know that it was for centuries in an Indian monastery before it came into my possession.”

  As he spoke, he tore the fragile pages through again, placed them together and crumbled them, mingling the graceful soot-blackened Sanskrit letters, the vibrant colors of the paintings. He rubbed his hands together, opened them, letting the tiny fragments and powdered dust, all that was left, fall through his fingers to the floor.

  I stared at him. Finally I spoke. “That was an insane thing to do,” I said slowly. “It was—inhuman.”

  “Not at all. The word is human, Mr. Scott. I trust it won't be necessary for me to labor the point.”

  I turned and started to leave, then stopped, swung around to face Silverman. After a moment I said, “You made your point, friend. And more. I think maybe you overdid it.” I paused as his face got puzzled, then went on, “You're a little too anxious to scare me off, Silverman. Maybe I've been looking in the wrong places for the guy who had Belden killed. Maybe I should have been looking for you all along.”

  For a moment nothing seemed to happen to his expression, and yet it changed. The features didn't move or twitch, but it was as though tiny lines I hadn't noticed before appeared around his eyes and mouth.

  Our eyes met and held, then his lips thinned and he said softly, “You idiot. Get ... out.”

  I didn't say good night, just turned and left. Silverman didn't accompany me to the door. I let myself out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was nearly two-thirty in the afternoon when I got up, and I went into the front room and relaxed on the couch while Elaine puttered around in the kitchenette, humming. An hour later I'd forced down three or four spoonfuls of Cream of Wheat and had had coffee, and I was ready to go.

  Before leaving the Stuyvesant, I used the phone to call Central Homicide. When I identified myself to the sergeant who answered, he said, “Where you been? The Captain's been trying to get hold of you.”

  “I've been ... out of touch. What's with Sam?”

  “I'll get him. Hold on.”

  In another minute Samson said, “Shell?”

  “Yeah. What's up?”

  “Where in hell you been? I called your office and apartment and every place you usually hang out. Figured you'd finally got yourself killed.”

  “I was in a new place. Why the
panic?”

  “No panic. But—there's a couple things I thought you'd want to know. All of a sudden there's a lot of pressure from up top, and it seems to revolve around you. Some of it's rumor, but part of it's official. There's more interest than there normally should be in the Belden killing, and a lot of people don't like you today.”

  “A lot of people didn't like me yesterday.”

  “This is different. I even got a call from one of the police commissioners—he phoned me—and asked questions about you like it was a quiz program.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Mostly about messes you've got yourself into, character and reputation, like maybe you've used that Colt Special of yours too much. I had to tell him about the mug you shot yesterday.”

  “Did you also tell him the mug was engaged in shooting at me? And I merely broke the engagement?”

  “Of course I did. But there's a fire started under you, Shell.”

  That was like Sam. The fire was scorching him, but he didn't mention that part of it. He went on, “Some pretty important people are getting the idea your license ought to be lifted. Next thing, there'll probably be a call from the Bureau. I can see you walking around with no license or gun.”

  “I can see it too. But not for long. You know who's behind this sudden interest?”

  “No, but I can guess. When you socked Goss in the middle of his face, I'll bet he didn't start laughing right away. And he must have plenty of pull.”

  “Could be, Sam. But eight to five, it's Silverman.”

  “Don't start that—”

  “I went out to see him last night—”

  “You what?”

  It was an ear-banging roar. There were a few muffled noises and Sam said with ominous calm, “I suppose you knocked him around a little and jumped up and down on him.”

  “I merely talked to him.”

  “You'd better get down here and fill me in.”

  “Yeah. Uh, all this interest in me. I won't suddenly find myself inside looking out, will I?”

  “There's no APB out on you yet. And that reminds me. We've got that woman identified. The one who ran from the scene of the Belden killing.”

  My hand tightened on the phone. Elaine was sitting on the couch near me, and she must have noticed my expression change. “What's the matter, Shell?” she said.

  I didn't answer her. Instead I said to Sam, “Yeah? What's the latest on the woman in white?”

  “She's a gal named Elaine Emerson. Half sister of the dead man.”

  “Where'd you get this, Sam?”

  “It seemed likely from the beginning of the investigation. She was with Belden the night he was killed; she was wearing a white dress, left with him. Now she's disappeared. But since then Rawlins and Simpson have been on the Belden thing. The way you talked, last night's action might have tied in. So they've been trying to run down Navarro. No trace of him, but they did have quite a talk with a dance partner of his. Woman named Bernice Wade. You know her, Shell?”

  He knew damned well I knew her. I said, “Yeah, uh, I know her.”

  “Thanks for telling me. Is it barely possible you might have something else to tell me?”

  That did it. He obviously knew by now all that Bunny could have told Rawlins and Simpson. Which was plenty. I said, “Yeah, Sam. Quite a lot. I'll be right down.”

  “Don't hang up yet. Listen, Shell, if you know where the Emerson woman is, you'd better tell me.” He paused. I didn't say anything and he went on, “I'm giving it to you straight, you lame-brained monster. You're on a hot spot, this time. All they need is for you to get half a step out of line, and you'll wind up picking tomatoes in Imperial Valley. If you're lucky.”

  “Relax, Sam, I—”

  He went on, almost savagely, “If you know where she is and hold out, if you make yourself an accessory, if you plainly ask for it—”

  “Yeah, Sam, simmer down. I'll be there in half an hour.”

  He sighed heavily. “Right. Watch yourself. Don't get any tickets on the way.”

  “I'll be the soul of caution.” I thought for a moment about what he'd told me and added, “But if worse comes to worst, Sam, I have always enjoyed picking tomatoes.”

  He swore marvelously and slammed the phone down so hard it hurt both my ears. I hung up and looked at Elaine. “They've tagged you. They know you took a powder from your brother's house after the shooting. Police figured it was probably you from the beginning. So probably the hoods have been looking for you all along, too—including last night.”

  Her face was sober. “I thought maybe it was something like that. What was all the rest of it?”

  “It's too long a story. But it's getting pretty tight.” I thought a minute. “You should be all right here for a while. If the police knew you were in the Stuyvesant, they'd be knocking on the door by now. But, believe me, they'll find you. Just don't make it easy for them. Don't even stick your nose out the door.”

  “I have to eat.”

  “Eat Cream of Wheat all day if you have to. But don't go outside this room. Look, they're onto you now. And this L.A. Police Department is one of the best in the country. I think it's number one of them all. When those guys get on you, they'll find you. I won't tell them where you are, but they'll find you here, eventually. All they want is the info you have about your brother's death; but once your whereabouts is widely known, those hoods will find out where you are, too.”

  “Do—you really think they'd kill me? I didn't even see them.”

  “They don't know that. And, yes, I think they'd kill you. What did they do to your brother?”

  Before leaving, I switched on the room TV and we caught the News of the Hour. Elaine Emerson was the big item in the local coverage. The telecast revealed everything Sam had mentioned about her, and more. The announcer stated that the missing Miss Emerson had been seen, on the previous night—the night following her brother's murder—in the company of Sheldon Scott, Los Angeles private detective.

  Elaine looked at me, her deep dark eyes troubled, but didn't say anything more as I left.

  Sam sat behind his desk in his office and chewed savagely on his unlighted cigar. We were alone, and I gave him the whole story of what I knew about Elaine Emerson, including everything she had told me and that she was my client—but I said nothing about whether or not I knew where she was now. Instead of saying I did or didn't know, I simply left that part out.

  When I finished he said, “Okay, where is she?”

  “What makes you think I'd know?”

  “Here go the word games again. Okay. We'll let it lay there for now.”

  It wasn't like Sam to drop it so easily. I had a hunch he didn't intend to drop it. But as long as there weren't any immediate fireworks, I changed the subject. “This pressure you mentioned, Sam, all the new heat on me. It should be clear by now that this isn't some ordinary hood trying to get me. This is organized, planned—desperate in a way. There're so many torpedoes trying to knock me off, guys after me in so many different ways, that somebody with a lot of pull and money has to be behind it.”

  He found one of his wooden matches and fiddled with it, shaking his head. “I got to admit they been keeping you busy.”

  “Yeah, and the guy calling the shots is either Robert Goss, or Robert Silverman. One—or both—of the two Bobs.”

  He rubbed his nose with a thick index finger. “Goss, maybe. But I wish you'd forget the goofy ideas about Silverman. You sound like you're looking for stuff that will point to him, instead of the facts—no matter where they point.”

  “Not exactly, Sam. Look, I told you I went to see him, but I didn't give you the whole story.”

  He got a pained look on his pink face and said, “You might as well tell me what all went on. At least you didn't sock him, like the other one.”

  “I managed not to. Well, I got out there about three a.m.—”

  “Three...” Samson was agitated. He actually lit his cigar and sent a couple puffs of
the fuming poison into the air around us. “Go on,” he said.

  I told him the whole story, in detail. Somehow, in the telling, it got weaker and weaker. As I went back over it, the events seemed innocuous, and certainly not incriminating. In fact, Silverman's words seemed logical, almost the normal things that a man in his position would say under the circumstances. And it was obvious that Samson felt I was clear off base, even thrown out at first on this one.

  He said, “That's why you think this guy is the head of the Mafia or something, huh?”

  “Knock it off, Sam. I think he's just what he seems to be—except that maybe he's also as crooked as a rattlesnake's spine, and trying to murder me. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he had Belden chilled.”

  “Oh, Belden too now. When did he shoot McKinley?”

  “Okay, skip it.” I started to get up.

  “Sit down,” he growled. “What makes you think he's such a Jack the Ripper?”

  “First of all, the fact that he was on the yacht with Belden and the others. And secondly, the way he acted when I saw him last night.”

  Sam's tone was patient. “All right, he was on the yacht. But it sounds like he explained that to you—and it makes sense. If it was just an innocent visit, the headlines and news stories wouldn't do him any good. Right?”

  “Right, if he's innocent. But the way he—”

  “Now let me finish. How about that talk last night? You just take it on yourself to go calling on Robert C. Silverman, who is merely one of the richest, most important, least menacing men in the whole state of California. And at three a.m.—in Bel Air, yet. You say he asks you inside, into his home, gives you a drink of that expensive stuff, talks nice to you, even shows you his library—”

  “Sam, for Pete's sake. He didn't show me his library so I'd dance joyously around the room. He was warning me.”

  “Some warning. So he tore a book. It's his book, isn't it?”

  “It wasn't a book, it was a palm-leaf manuscript, hand written by some old Hindu or—”