Over Her Dear Body (18 page)

He gestured, and I walked over alongside him, my curiosity growing. “Lovely, aren't they?” he said. “This shelf contains many of my most valuable volumes. Some which are irreplaceable.” His hand stopped on one book bound in a material I couldn't recall seeing before. Not on a book, anyway.

He pulled it out. “For example, this is one of the group found near Weimar by the Allies at the close of World War Two. I understand it was previously owned by Gerhard Sommer, master of the punishment cell block—”

I blurted out, “That's not the Buchenwald—”

“Yes. It's bound in human skin, Mr. Scott. Skin stripped carefully from the bodies of men—and women—murdered there at Buchenwald. The wife of the camp commandant, Ilse Koch herself, probably covered this book—or had the work done.” He stroked the cover idly with his fingers. “I'm surprised that you guessed what it was before I could tell you.”

“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.”