Vein of Violence

by Gault, William Campbell

  Jan blanched. Aunt Sheila kept her face carefully blank. Darrow glanced between Homer and Miss Milgrim and there were dollar signs in his eyes.

  Miss Milgrim said, “Thank you, Mr. Gallup. I doubt if you’ll find many houses as soundly constructed in this town.”

  There was some scorn in her voice. This was the town that had forgotten Mary Mae Milgrim.

  The ringmaster, Darrow, looked around at all of us and came up with the cliché I was waiting for. He said earnestly, “They just don’t build them like this any more.”

  Next to me, Jan whispered, “Thank God!”

  Miss Milgrim said, “I’m sure you’ll want to talk with your clients in private. I’ll expect to hear from you, Mr. Darrow.”

  That was our dismissal. Homer once again told Miss Milgrim what a wonderful house she had and the five of us went out to Darrow’s car.

  There, Homer asked, “How much?”

  “It’s listed at a hundred and forty thousand,” Darrow said. “The land alone should be worth that.”

  Homer looked at his bride, “Well, Sheila-?”

  Aunt Sheila hesitated, looking at Jan. Jan made no comment. Aunt Sheila said softly, “You love the place, don’t you, Homer?”

  He nodded, and his face was a little boy’s. “I guess it’s kind of old-fashioned, huh? But Jan could fix that up, couldn’t she?”

  Jan looked at the cobblestones in the courtyard and didn’t answer. Aunt Sheila said, “If anyone could, Jan could. Homer, it’s your money and I’m happy any place where you’re happy.”

  Darrow was busily leafing through his book, getting the details on the house. He said, “A hundred and forty thousand is the asking price, Mr. Gallup. I’m sure it’s open to an offer.”

  Homer shook his head. “If Miss Milgrim wants a hundred and forty thousand, that’s what she’ll get. We don’t chisel Miss Mary Mae Milgrim, not on any deal where I’m involved.”

  Darrow shrugged and continued to look through the listing. Then he said, “There’s a rather strange condition to any sale, I see. “He frowned. “Perhaps Miss Milgrim would be willing to waive it.”

  “What is it?” Aunt Sheila asked hopefully.

  “There’s a servants’ cottage over at the north end of the property,” Darrow explained, “of three bedrooms and a bath and a half. Miss Milgrim wants to retain the right to live in it, rent free, for the rest of her life.”

  Sheila frowned, waiting a reaction from Homer. Jan looked hopeful.

  But Homer took a deep breath and studied his future home with the look of a lad viewing his first Christmas tree. “Wonderful,” he said rapturously. “All this — and Mary Mae Milgrim too!”

  TWO

  DARROW HAD ALL the forms with him; he suggested he take Homer’s offer, accompanied by check, right back into the house.

  Jan looked at him levelly and said, “What’s the hurry, Wallace? It’s been on the market a long time.”

  Wallace said nothing for seconds, thinking his realtor’s thoughts. It was through Jan that Wallace had met Homer Gallup; how close the association was he didn’t know at the moment.

  They stared at each other–and Homer said, “That’s right, Mr. Darrow, there’s no hurry.” He looked at this bride. “You’re not crazy for the house are you?”

  A veteran of three marriages, a woman who had given her life to pleasing men, my aunt smiled and said, “If you are, Homer, I am.” She glanced at the diamond-circled wrist watch he had given her on their wedding day. “But it’s late, and I’m getting hungry. The house will still be here tomorrow.”

  Homer turned around to survey it hungrily once more. Darrow said, “I’ll run back in, then, and tell Miss Milgrim we’re leaving.”

  In my naïve way, I thought we had already left. I was glad I had never gone into real estate; it’s a very complicated business.

  He went back to the house, and we climbed into his car. Jan sat next to me and stared moodily out the window. My girl is in business and any business can occasionally make you squirm guiltily. Unfortunately, my girl also sells taste and when her need for a buck conflicts with that, she’s in serious ethical trouble.

  From the front seat, Aunt Sheila turned around to ask, “Why so quiet, baby?”

  Jan looked at the back of Homer’s neck and took a breath. Finally, she said quietly, “I’ve been a schtunk, a real schtunk.”

  In the rear-view mirror, I could see Homer’s smile. He didn’t turn around.

  Jan said, “Homer, I do have a real estate broker’s license. And I was going to split the commission with Wallace Darrow.”

  Homer, that gallant, turned around and smiled at my love. “Why not? Why should Darrow get it all?”

  “I refuse to take it now,” she went on grimly. “I’ll take my split from Wally and refund it to you.”

  He chuckled. “You won’t do anything of the kind. Now, you sit back and think of a good place to have dinner and forget all about that piddling little commission. “He winked at me. “You’ve got a real little live wire there, Brock.”

  “And with a conscience,” I said. “Every day, she surprises me.”

  She surprised me again. I’d expected a dig in the ribs for that remark. But she only snuggled closer and continued to stare gloomily out at the door through which Darrow had disappeared.

  My sweet Aunt Sheila said, “Outside of Brock (Rockhead) Callahan, who is completely honest? And what has it got him?”

  “Inner peace,” I told her loftily. “What in the hell is that five percenter doing in there, trying to make time with Miss Thorne?”

  The door opened then, and Darrow appeared. Over his shoulder, I could see the serene face of Joyce Thorne, Miss Milgrim’s secretary. They seemed to be having a lot to say to each other.

  Shenanigans …?

  Homer said, “That Miss Thorne is a pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

  “And how,” I said.

  The girls didn’t comment.

  Then Wallace finished whatever hanky-panky he had been arranging and came down our way. He slid in behind the wheel and sighed. Before he started the engine, he took another admiring look at the house and said sadly, “They just don’t build them like that any more.”

  “Maybe there’s no market for them any more.” I said, and watched his face in the mirror.

  Nothing showed on the face. He swung the car around and went heading out over the drawbridge and back toward the world of today.

  The car was heavy with silence. The alliance of the girls and Wallace against the Gallup-Callahan axis had been disturbed. We were all individuals again, with our individual peeves and urges. Wallace could undoubtedly sense this and his two and a half per cent of a hundred and forty thousand dollars was riding the edge of calamity.

  He must have realized that too much silence could solidify alien attitudes, so he broke it as we turned onto Sunset: “If you’re looking for an older home, Mr. Gallup, the thing you have to remember is that mostly they’re in run-down neighborhoods. Luckily, here in Beverly Hills, we realtors have managed to resist the invasion of that kind of blight. Living there, in that ancestral masterpiece, your investment would be vigilantly protected.”

  Not a nickel had changed hands, but he already had Homer living in the joint. I stared out the car window at the singing traffic streaming around the long curves and kept my peace.

  So did Homer, though he nodded.

  “California,” Wallace went on, “like the great sovereign state of Texas, is an expanding, and exploding economy. Secluded havens like the Milgrim mansion get rarer and rarer. In all my thousands of listings, I doubt if I have more than half a dozen places like that.”

  This time Homer didn’t nod.

  Don’t crowd him, Wallace, I thought. Don’t fence him in. There is a time to talk and a time to shut up. Don’t overplay your strong hand. Be wary, Wallace.

  Wallace Darrow, of Darrow, Weldon and Lutz could have been psychic, for he suddenly shut up. We drove in heavenly silence for block
s.

  Back at Cini’s, where he had picked us up, he dropped us off. He glanced at Jan and said to Homer, “Shall I phone you in the morning, then, sir? Or wait to hear from you?”

  Homer said, “I’m not sure where I’ll be. I’d better phone you.”

  A pause, while Darrow studied him thoughtfully. Then Homer climbed heavily from the car and we all got out. A general air of depression seemed to hang over us.

  Darrow forced a smile and said, “In the morning, then.” His big car glided mournfully away.

  Aunt Sheila looked at Cini’s and said, “We’re not going to eat here again, are we?”

  “It’s not food I need,” Homer said glumly. “It’s liquor and sweet music, to drown out the memory of Wallace Darrow’s voice.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Brock, am I sensitive, or did that walking mouth get to you, too?”

  “Almost,” I said. “Getting adjusted to a California realtor, Homer, is almost as bad as getting adjusted to a first marriage. I wish I was a drinking man, so I could join you.”

  “You’re a drinking man tonight,” Homer said, squeezing my shoulder. “Please? For me?”

  Well, for Homer …. For Aunt Sheila’s finest recent husband …. And Jan would be making money off him ….

  “I’m with you,” I said.

  We started at Romanoff’s and wound up at the Palladium and that is quite a gap, as any local will tell you. We ate and danced and drank. And because I rarely touch the hard stuff, it got to me, making the last few hours of our evening a semi-blank!

  I wakened in the morning with no memory of how I got home. My back ached and my legs were weak and my mouth tasted like a full ash tray, though I hadn’t done any smoking. The bad legs and back could be attributed to my dancing, another of my rare vices.

  Over my black, black coffee, I tried to recall the highlights of my festive evening, but they were dim. I remember dancing with Jan and Aunt Sheila at the Palladium; I remember a beatnik coffeehouse and a first-rate guitarist.

  My phone rang. The pleasant voice identified its owner as Joyce Thorne, Miss Milgrim’s secretary. Miss Milgrim, according to Miss Thorne, had been trying to reach Mr. Darrow and having no luck.

  “It’s probably too early for him to be at the office,” I told her. “I don’t know the man, but Miss Bonnet might have his home number.”

  There was a long pause. And then Miss Thorne said, “I — haven’t been completely truthful, Mr. Callahan. To be frank with you, Miss Milgrim was wondering about Mr. Gallup’s interest in the house, and she hasn’t his number — and — well, she didn’t want to phone Mr. Darrow.”

  “And you called me,” I finished for her. “How did you remember my name?”

  “Everyone is familiar with your name, Mr. Callahan, a famous athlete like you.”

  Pure hogwash, of course, but phrased so sweetly and spoken so melodiously that my heart went out to the dear, loyal girl.

  I asked gently, “Is it very important to Miss Milgrim to sell that house?”

  Another long pause. Then: “It isn’t something I’d admit to Mr. Darrow or want you to repeat to him, but it is. She needs the money desperately.”

  “And you were afraid Mr. Darrow might guess that and suggest a lower offer to Mr. Gallup?”

  “Well — yes — something like that.” A sniff. “Oh, I’m so embarrased — This sounds so — dumb.”

  “It’s not dumb at all,” I assured her. “It’s sweet and loyal. Just between us, Mr. Darrow did suggest a lower offer and Mr. Gallup would have none of it. He said he would never chisel on the sublime Mary Mae Milgrim. And he does like the house — that much I can tell you. I’m sure you’ll hear from him.”

  She thanked me fervently and hung up.

  It was possible that Miss Milgrim had asked her to call me. But thinking back to her conversation in the doorway with Darrow yesterday, it was also possible that Darrow had asked her to call. Darrow could guess by now that sentiment was a bigger element than greed in the make-up of Homer Gallup. And this oblique approach could be a clincher.

  I decided not to tell Homer that she had called.

  My morning was occupied with an investigation, a discreet check for a wealthy client whose daughter was enamored of an engaging but apparently poor young man. The investigation carried over into the afternoon and revealed the young man as a fortune hunter and embryonic con man.

  I made my report in person and sat down to a mid-afternoon lunch at the drugstore, weary in body and sad in spirit. My frequent role as the murderer of Cupid always depresses me.

  My fan behind the counter said, “Brock, old buddy, what’ll it be?”

  “Hemlock,” I said. “Unless you can suggest something better.”

  He looked at me compassionately. “Blue? Wish you were back with the Rams?”

  I shook my head. “I’m too old and too slow and too cowardly. I just wish I lived in a better world.”

  He nodded in empathic agreement. And then said softly, “The spare ribs are pretty good for drugstore spare ribs. Country style.”

  Food helps. It’s always a help with me. The ribs were good and so were the browned potatoes and my fan made a fresh carafe of coffee while I was eating.

  I was on my second cup of that when someone took the stool next to mine. I turned to gaze at my love.

  “Hello,” she said dully. And to my fan, “Coffee, please. And are there any fresh sweet rolls?”

  “Bear claws,” he said. “I’ll warm one.”

  Jan sighed.

  I said, “You look despondent. What happened?”

  “Homer bought — that monstrosity.”

  “And you made two and a half per cent of a hundred and forty thousand dollars,” I said. I wrinkled my forehead. “That comes to a quick thirty-five-hundred-dollar commission for scheming little Jan Bonnet. And money is your god. So, I repeat, why are you despondent?”

  “Shut up,” she said. “You don’t have to say money is my god. Taste — that’s my god, good taste.”

  I smiled, saying nothing.

  “Just because you’re an economic idiot,” she went on, “you assume the reasonable business or professional person worships money. Do you think you’re the only professional man in the world with ethical standards?”

  “No’m. I’m one of the few I’ve met, though.”

  “Huh!” she said. “You — you — egocentric — slob!”

  I sipped my coffee.

  “You muscle,” she went on. “You outsized Puck.”

  “You’re projecting,” I soothed her. “You’re hating yourself and taking it out on me. What is really bugging you, little one?”

  Her coffee was in front of her now. She sipped it and sniffed.

  “This is old Brock the Rock,” I said quietly. “This is your last, best hope. Confide in me, tempestuous one.”

  “Damn you,” she said. “Smart aleck. My hope? My blind alley, that’s you. My nothing man leading me nowhere.”

  “Easy,” I said. “Don’t go too far. Even with me, there are limits, Jan Bonnet. Now, calm down or shut up.”

  She turned to glare at me and I looked away. My fan came over and put the warm bear claw, loaded with sliced almonds, in front of her.

  “Special for you, Miss Bonnet, with an extra pat of butter.”

  She looked at the bear claw and up at the counterman and her chin began to quiver.

  He smiled at her. “Brock’s right — this time. You were unreasonable.”

  “Men — ” she said.

  He winked at me and went to serve someone at the other end of the counter. Nothing from Jan and only a waiting, smiling patience from me.

  Until finally she said, “He wants me to decorate that place. Homer, I mean. He wants me to decorate it in keeping with the architecture. That was his phrase.”

  “You’ll make a mint on it,’ I said.

  “Right! And if money was my god, would I be unhappy about a job that big?”

  I shrugged. “If money wasn’t important
to you, you’d simply tell him you’re too busy right now.”

  She said evenly, “I never said money wasn’t important to me. I never heard any sane person say that. You’re always twisting things I say.”

  “Honey,” I said calmly, “why fight it? You’re going to take the job. If you need an opiate for your artistic conscience, think of the job as a challenge. Because it will certainly be that. It won’t be a triumph, but it sure as hell is a challenge, right?”

  She looked at me suspiciously.

  “One of us has to be sensible,” I said. “We’ll never get married on my income.”

  She sniffed again. “You and your ethics! But you’d live on a woman’s income, wouldn’t you?”

  I shook my head solemnly. “Not on any woman’s. I’d have to love her. That, beloved hothead, is ethics.”

  She sipped her coffee. “A challenge,” she said, mostly to herself.

  I had given her a rationalization and she was mulling it. My fan came over to pour her fresh coffee.

  “A challenge — ” she said, more softly this time, and there was a glint in her eyes.

  “Did Mary Mae get her gardener’s cottage, like she wanted?” I asked.

  Jan nodded. “And that so-called secretary of hers is moving right in with her. Wally thinks that Joyce Thorne is special. Do you think she’s so special?”

  I said diplomatically, “I didn’t get a good look at her. Did Darrow, Weldon and Lutz, by any chance, have an exclusive on that house?”

  Jan looked at me sharply. “Yes. Why? I was the one who suggested we look at it.”

  “That’s right. I forgot. What’s the mortgage?”

  Jan shook her head. “No mortgage. It’s probably the only unmortgaged place in Beverly Hills.”

  “Come on,” I said. “The word I got is that Miss Milgrim was in desperate need of money.”

  Jan stared at me. “Mary Mae Milgrim? Are you crazy? Ye gods, she owns two office buildings on the Strip, an apartment house in Westwood, and a whole damned business block in the Palisades. Penurious, yes, but in need of money — ? Like Rockfeller.”

  “I’ve been conned,” I said quietly. “That — witch.” I took a breath and told Jan about Joyce Thorne’s morning phone call.