As I walked down the hallway a green-uniformed nurse smiled at me, her low-heeled shoes squeaking on the highly polished floor. I stopped at the door of room number 16 and knocked. A low, rumbling voice — which didn’t sound as if it came from the throat of a sick man — bellowed, Come in.
I went inside, closed the door behind me.
It was a spacious room, off-white draperies open before a wide window that looked out on green lawn and massed banks of flowers. In the room were cut flowers in three vases, new-looking furniture, a TV set.
Gideon Cheim sat erect in the wide hospital bed, pillows propped behind him, wearing a short-sleeved blue pajama top, and with the covers drawn up to his waist.
Mr. Scott? he said.
Id phoned the hospital before getting here, so he’d been expecting me. That’s right. You wanted to see me?
Yes. I understand you are looking for Wilfred Jellicoe. I am vitally interested in his whereabouts. And welfare. Tell me what you’ve learned.
Just like that. I knew the type.
Even stuck in a hospital bed, climbing back from the six-foot pit, he gave the impression of bulk, solidity, strength. The flesh of his arms was a little stringy, and his face seemed to sag just a bit, but for a man of sixty-three only a week past tricky heart surgery, he appeared to be in very good shape. He was a large man, big-boned, with a great head dominated by a fleshy, wide nose and thick lips. His eyes were almost black, the skin puckered around them; there were deep creases above the bridge of his nose, and he didn’t have much hair left. He’d been a rip-snorter in his day, however, and he apparently wasn’t through snorting yet.
Well?
He barked the word. Abrupt, loud and impatient. The tone of command, I guessed. How did you know I was looking for Mr. Jellicoe? I asked.
He scowled. His black-and-gray eyebrows were thick and bushy and grew together in the middle, slanting down like wings to mingle on the bridge of his nose. They looked like one long double-arched brow, or a small hairy bird in flight.
Scowling ferociously at me, he bellowed, That does not concern you. What concerns you is the fact that I do know, and am quite concerned to learn what you have discovered. Don’t worry, I shall pay you well. Very well, indeed..
No, you wont.
What?
You wont pay me anything, Mr. Cheim. I already have a client —
You’re an impertinent sonofabitch.
As I was saying, I already have a client, and any report I make I’ll make to that client.
Goddammit, he roared. I insist that you tell me if you know where Wilfred Jellicoe is!
I take it, then, that you don’t have any idea where he is yourself?
Will you quit answering my questions with damnfool questions? Goddammit, you . . . He went on for a few seconds, making some highly uncomplimentary remarks about me.
When he finished, I said gently, Mr. Cheim, I do not ordinarily hit weak old men lying on their deathbeds, but you will have a better chance of living to an even riper state of cantankerous senility if you will kindly quit swearing at me.
He opened his wide mouth and got ready to squeeze another bellow out of it, then shut his mouth with a click. He pushed his lips together and forward, pulled that one long shaggy brow down over his eyes.
While he was still quiet I said, Actually, the main reason I came out here was to ask you some questions. To repeat the first one, I do have a client who hired me to look for Jellicoe, but how did you know it?
There seemed to be a struggle going on inside Gideon Cheim. Finally he said, in a voice still loud but not bellowing, I did not even know you had a client. However, there are in this city individuals who eagerly convey to me information about anything in which they believe I might be interested. They know Mr. Jellicoe has for years been my most trusted and valued associate. So far, five separate individuals have conveyed to me the intelligence that Shell Scott has been in contact with his sources, with the police, with hospitals — including this hospital — and that he is looking for Mr. Jellicoe. And when they conveyed this intelligence, you may accept it as indisputable that they were not so goddamned impertinent —
OK. I am indeed looking for Jellicoe. I don’t know where he is. Not yet. Obviously you don’t know, either. I paused. Is that the only reason you asked me to come out here on a matter of unbelievable urgency?
He squeezed his eyes shut, lifted his arms, closed the big hands into fists and swatted the covers. After a while he opened one eye, then the other, and said, Does it annoy you that I would be pleased to know where my old friend and associate is? Or that, should you discover his whereabouts, I would be overjoyed if you would be generous enough to tell me? Or even give me a hint? Does it astonish you that I actually prefer this course to getting out of bed and looking for him myself, staggering through the streets clutching my macerated heart in one hand and my aching butt in the other?
Relax, I said. Youll tear out your stitches. My obligation to my client is merely to locate Jellicoe, if I can. You want the same thing. I paused. If youll answer a few questions, it might even help me find him.
He took a deep breath, let it out. Well?
When was the last time you saw him?
Only a few hours before I entered the hospital.
Sunday, August twenty-seventh, I said. He pushed his lips out a little, staring at me, but didn’t say anything. I asked, Have you heard from him since then?
I spoke to him by phone last Friday morning.
Mind telling me what that was about?
He hesitated. Yes, I do mind. It does not concern you.
OK, Mr. Cheim. You asked that I drop everything and come to see you. I have come. I have seen you. Good-bye.
Ah . . . he said, one moment. There is . . . one other thing.
I kept my expression noncommittal. Yes?
He hesitated again. Then, as if he’d come to a decision, he went on, I am primarily interested in the welfare of Mr. Jellicoe. There is another matter, minor by comparison, but of importance to me. For the last two years I have been putting into manuscript form the story of my life. My autobiography, which I call I! I think you will agree with me that the life story of Gideon Cheim would be a document of great value.
He waited expectantly for me to comment. I didn’t.
But he was right. Cheim was as much a part of the movie industrys history as any other man alive. Moreover, he undoubtedly knew some tales about Hollywoods stars and superstars, its leaders and phonies, and even frauds and hushed-up scandals that few other men, if any, knew. He had been, after all, in one of the seats of real power for more than three decades. His autobiography would unquestionably be a historically valuable document, and perhaps even readable. It would also be an automatic best seller.
Cheim stopped waiting expectantly. When I entered the hospital, I knew I was facing an operation which might prove fatal. I therefore entrusted the completed manuscript to Mr. Jellicoe, with instructions that, in the event of my death, he deliver it to a publisher with whom I have already made appropriate arrangements for the books posthumous publication. He placed a hand over his heart. When I am gone, the book will at least stand as a monument to my life.
He paused once more, expectantly. Once more, presumably, he was disappointed in me.
Cheim finally took his hand off his heart. If I survived the necessary surgery, Mr. Jellicoe was to return the manuscript to me. Four days after my operation I had recovered sufficiently to speak with him by phone, and told him to bring the manuscript to me on the following day.
So that’s the call you mentioned making Friday morning, I said. You also told me you hadnt seen Jellicoe since the twenty-seventh. So your old friend and associate didn’t show up the next day — that is, Saturday, day before yesterday.
He did not. And there is no other, only my own copy. Mr. Jellicoe appreciates its value, and I am certain would have returned the manuscript to me had it been possible for him to do so. I am therefore deeply concerned. About him
— and the manuscript.
You’ve several times mentioned the manuscripts value. You don’t suppose Jellicoe figured he had his hands on a good thing, and deliberately failed to return it. . . .
That didn’t bother Cheim a bit. He even smiled a little, much as a rabid wolf might on preparing to bite. No, Mr. Scott. I assume you do not know Mr. Jellicoe. I do. He is not an individual capable of such an act. Fear would destroy him. Cheim paused. To be blunt, he knows very well what I would do to him should he in any way incur my displeasure. He is — I have made him — cognizant of my power, and the lengths to which I will go to ensure that justice is visited upon anyone who would attempt to injure me.
OK, I said, well agree you’re a rough one and Jellicoe knows it. Lets also agree that not only you but half the population realized there was a good chance youd kick the bucket right here in the Weston-Macey — and, in fact, very nearly did. Jellicoe wouldn’t worry about your visiting horrible justice upon him if you were dead.
You are overlooking the fact, Mr. Scott, that he knows I am not dead. I personally spoke to him by phone on Friday when I instructed him to return the manuscript to me.
Sure. Friday morning he knew you were alive and still full of the old beans. But not on the previous Tuesday or Wednesday, probably not even on Thursday.
He got a queer expression on his face.
How early Friday morning did you phone him, Mr. Cheim?
Why, it was . . . He seemed still abstracted, his thoughts elsewhere. Quite early. About seven in the morning.
Uh-huh. I knew Jellicoe had been with Sylvia Ardent until the small hours of Friday morning. How did he sound? Wide awake and alert? Or perhaps a little dopey?
He sounded a bit fuzzy. I awakened him with my call.
Perhaps half-awake he failed to understand your instructions, went back to sleep and —
Cheim was shaking his big head. No, he understood. I made it quite clear. You may take my word on that.
This is very interesting, Mr. Cheim, I said. But why tell me all this?
I intend to employ you to find that manuscript and return it to me. Since you are already looking for Mr. Jellicoe —
Maybe you. don’t get it. I’ve got a client, and a job to do for that client. I take them on one at a time.
He snorted. All right. You are employed to find Mr. Jellicoe. Do it, if you can, for your client. But for me, endeavor to find and return the manuscript. It need not interfere with your primary objective; it is a parallel objective. And if you are successful in returning the manuscript to me I will pay you any reasonable fee.
Like what?
Name your price, Mr. Scott.
How about ten thousand dollars?
I expected a bellow. I didn’t get it. Cheim sat quietly staring at me. Then he said, All right.
I leaned on the foot of his bed. I’m sorry, Mr. Cheim, I wasn’t serious. I guess I was merely curious to know how anxious you are to get that manuscript back.
Well, I got an idea then of just how implacable, how inflexible and even dangerous this old boy could be if he wanted to. I knew he’d swung plenty of weight around in the past, and had landed it on numerous people, much to their discomfort; but I had not before seen anger burning in his eyes the way it burned now. It was as though previously banked fires swelled in their blackness. You couldn’t really see any red, but it was as though flames did flicker in there. And the mouth changed a little. A slight twist, a bit more. firmness, and it became very hard, and cruel.
Am I to understand you will not aid me in any way?
I shrugged. No, not exactly. I’ll keep an eye open for the manuscript — now that I know about it. But I’m not going to let that interfere with my job until I know where Jellicoe is, or what happened to him.
He didn’t say anything, but he nodded slightly.
I said, Maybe youd better tell me what to look for. Is it just a stack of paper? Typed, handwritten?
A sensible question. It is written in my own hand, but you will not look for a manuscript as such. I placed the papers in a steel case and locked the case. He held his hands apart to indicate its size — a foot or so long, eight or ten inches wide, and maybe six inches deep. I then melted sealing wax over the lock and in the wax made an impression of this ring. He held up his right hand, showing me the large signet ring on one of his fingers.
I smiled. You really trust old Jellicoe, don’t you? And the rest of the world. Just like a prince of old, with sealing wax and the royal crest. . . .
I stopped. Sealing wax? Was it green?
Yes. I then wrapped the case in heavy brown paper and also sealed it with gree —
Cheim was suddenly silent. And he just as suddenly began getting a stricken look. How did you know it was green wax?
I said, All sealing wax could do for you would be to let you know if somebody did get into the case. But it wouldn’t prevent any reasonably determined individual from opening it.
Had the case been unsealed and unlocked, Wilfred might, out of consuming curiosity, have opened it for a — a peek. But he would not dare —
He would. He did. Clearly Wilfred has been undergoing a startling metamorphosis, even rapid rejuvenation —
What? Whats that? What? He sounded a bit panicky.
Jellicoe hasn’t been in his suite in the Cavendish House since early Friday morning — which is to say, since shortly after you phoned him. The place has been thoroughly tossed — searched. While rummaging around, I found in a dresser drawer a small hunk of . . . well, I thought it was a piece of pebble, or semiprecious stone. It was surely, however, a wee bit of that sealing wax of yours. So it would appear that your old buddy did indeed dig off the wax, force open the case and —
Gideon Cheims mouth was opening and closing. His lids drooped. He got a very peculiar color, sort of a pale greenish-beige. He flopped back onto the pillows. His tongue slid between his lips like a piece of cooked liver. Breath sighed around his tongue and past his lips, flapping them gently.
I got the distinct impression that the old boy was kicking the bucket.
6
I jumped to the side of the bed, but Cheim was already pulling his tongue back into his mouth and, while gasping, fumbling in the pocket of his pajama top. Water, he croaked, as he took a small vial from his pocket, thumbed off the cap and popped a little tablet into his mouth.
I spotted a pitcher, poured sloppily, handed him the brimming glass. He gulped at it, spilling water over his chin and down onto his pajamas. I looked for the buzzer, saw the cord dangling at the side of his bed and grabbed it.
No, he said, that wont be necessary. He didn’t sound so croaky this time. I’ll be all right in a moment. Do not ring. Just one moment. He drank some more water.
In a few seconds he handed me the glass. Thank you. I’m all right. It was the . . . shock. I cannot believe — it is beyond my comprehension that Wilfred would dare to — to disobey me. It is impossible.
Think about it, I said. You gave Jellicoe the manuscript when you entered Weston-Macey. You were operated on the next day. On Tuesday and Wednesday every paper in town reported that you were dying. The TV news had pictures of you, in dying color. On Thursday morning the world was still waving good-bye. It wasn’t until some time later that day that it was clear youd passed the crisis, were on the mend.
Are you making any kind of point at all, Mr. Scott?
Try this: Most people believe what they want to believe, and its at least possible that Jellicoe may, for years, have been hoping youd kick the bucket. OK. Last week he thought you were dying and, enamored of that thought, believed it. To him you werent dying, you were dead. So he opened the case, and to hell with the sealing wax — why worry? Who would know? Gideon Cheim was dead, kaput, deceased —
Will you stop harping on that?
Jellicoe began to blossom, to bloom — in more ways than you know. Anyhow, he opened the case, perused the pages, realized he could make himself a nice piece of change by selling Gideon Cheims au
thentic, handwritten manuscript —
Impossible!
— and did just that. He sold it.
Are you mad?
In fact, Id say he sold it for five thousand dollars. That seems pretty cheap, but he got five Gs somewhere —
I stopped. It was happening again. I sprang to the water pitcher, poured another glass. But this time Cheim didn’t need it. He gasped a little and made some highly unsanitary noises, but after about a minute was talking again. Still shaken, but not dying. He was a hard one to kill, all right.
Five thousand dollars? Why do you say that? How could you know about my five thousand dollars?
Your five thousand?
Of course, you idiot. I placed in the case not merely the manuscript but a check for that amount.
Why?
When I entrusted the case to Jellicoe, I told him there was included a check for him, which would be turned over to him by the publisher upon completion of his assignment. The money was to compensate him for his trouble — should, of course, it become necessary for Mr. Jellicoe to take any action at all.
So he did know there was a check for him in the case?
Yes. I did not, however, inform him of the amount.
Yeah, but the amount was five Gs. And five Gs is what Jellicoe got.
Perhaps he received that money in cash, for certain services, as a gift, anything —
He cashed a check for that amount at his bank.
Oh, a check, he said glumly. Was it my check?
I don’t know. The bank wouldn’t give me the information. But under the circumstances I naturally assume —
Ah, you assume.
I stepped to the phone next to Cheims bed and placed a call to the Continental Bank. I got Mr. Constance again, identified myself and told him I was in Mr. Gideon Cheims hospital room. I asked him to call the hospital and ask for Mr. Cheim, and — if the five-G check deposited by Wilfred Jellicoe had in fact been drawn upon Mr. Cheims account — to inform Mr. Cheim, if he would be so kind.
Then I hung up and waited. When the phone rang, Cheim picked it up. Yes? He scowled for a few seconds and then bellowed, Yes, of course I am Gideon Cheim, goddammit! Now tell me — He was listening intently.
The Cheim Manuscript (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 6