Vein of Violence

by Gault, William Campbell

  She stared at me angrily and said nothing.

  I, too, said nothing. But thought, Wait until my Aunt Sheila hears about this. There would be fireworks. Poor Homer….

  Joyce Thorne’s deadly level voice broke through my reverie. “I think I’ve answered enough questions for today. I — don’t like to be rude, but I have things to do.”

  She didn’t go to the door with me. Twice in an hour I had been sent away by women, first Jan and now Miss Thorne. I went out into the clear day feeling rejected.

  From a shrub he was pruning near the doorway, Raymond Yoshida looked up, saw me, and came over. “Could I speak with you alone?” he asked me.

  “Of course. Here?”

  He shook his head. “I have a room over the garage. Mr. Gallup wants me to stay on.”

  “Lead the way,” I said.

  SIX

  WHAT HE HAD called a room was in reality an apartment and a hell of a lot bigger and nicer than my Westwood rattrap. It, like the servants’ cottage, had a story-and-a-half raftered living room with a view of the city through a bank of windows on the longest wall.

  “You live well,” I said.

  “I’m a first-class gardener,” he told me, “and can double as a waiter. I should live well.”

  I didn’t live this well. Was I a second-class investigator? I asked him, “What did you want to tell me?”

  “About Enrico Rivali. About a conversation I overheard between him and Miss Milgrim.”

  “I’m all ears, Raymond.”

  “It was about three weeks ago,” Yoshida went on. “They were standing next to the fountain there, and I was mulching some flower beds on the other side of those junipers. They were — really hollering at each other. And then Rivali said, ‘You’d be nothing without me. Nothing! So, remember I made you and I can destroy you.’ And Miss Milgrim told him to go to hell.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Not quite. Rivali said something else, something I didn’t hear, and Miss Milgrim said, ‘Nobody would believe you, anyway. And I’d sue you, and what could you prove?’ And then they talked quieter for a while and then he left.”

  “Has Rivali been a frequent visitor here?”

  “Every day since I’ve been here,” Yoshida told me, “and I’ve been here three years. I guess it’s been going on forever.”

  “How does Rivali live? Has he an income?”

  Yoshida shrugged. “I don’t know for sure, but a wild guess would be that Miss Milgrim was his income. I couldn’t prove that. Maybe I only say it because I don’t like him.”

  There was a silence, and then I asked him, “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven. Why?”

  “You look younger. I thought you were just a kid.”

  He smiled. “Thank you. You look younger too. You look young enough to still be with the Rams.”

  I thanked him for the compliment and for the information and went back to my car. From the side yard of the cottage, Joyce Thorne watched me over the top of a magazine she pretended to be reading. She had sent me away because she had things to do, urgent things like reading a magazine.

  Behind me, the battlements and turrets of the Gallup castle were bathed in the clear noon sun. I drove out, over the drawbridge, and headed for the drugstore near my office.

  From behind the lunch counter, my fan looked at me compassionately. “Bad morning?”

  “Unproductive. Was I scowling?”

  “You were looking beat. We’ve got some first-class clam chowder. Not canned, either. We got a new cook.”

  “I’ll try it,” I said.

  He smiled and winked and went to get my order. My one stable friend, always loyal, always cordial…. We had established an almost perfect empathy and I still didn’t know his name.

  Next to me, a dowager spooned greedily into a banana split and read sadly about Mary Mae Milgrim. Her eyes were wet and there was some chocolate syrup on her chin.

  There would be tears for Mary Mae but probably not many from those close to her. And what would the mourners mourn, the death of Mary Mae or their own youth?

  A big man took the stool next to mine, a big man named Homer Gallup. He said, “I saw your car in the parking lot but you weren’t in the office, so I came here. Is the food any good?”

  “For the price, it’s all right. You look depressed, Homer.”

  “I’ve been thinking about Miss Milgrim,” he said. “It really didn’t hit home last night; I had too much booze in me. But it’s been a bad morning.”

  I said nothing. The police suspicion of him was something I was not ethically free to voice, even if he was my newest uncle.

  He said it for me. “I’ve been with Lieutenant Remington for over an hour. You know, I think that bastard is suspicious of me? He was even talking about oil, as though I hadn’t bought that place for a home.”

  “Oil?” I asked, in bewildered pseudo-innocence.

  “Oil,” he repeated wearily. “Ye gods, I’ve got half my wells out of production now to keep down my income. What in hell would I do with more oil?”

  I chuckled.

  “What’s funny?” he asked irritatedly.

  “A man with too much money,” I explained. “No man can have too much money, can he?”

  “Not while those socialists are running the country, no. They’ll see to that.”

  My fan brought my clam chowder and Homer ordered a bowl of it. And asked me, “Why didn’t he bring me a cup of coffee? In Texas, they bring you a cup of coffee and then take your order.”

  “A lot of people in Beverly Hills drink tea,” I explained. “It’s a strange town.”

  “Don’t I know it?” he said. “I’ve had reason to look up a couple credit ratings.” He sighed. “But your Aunt Sheila would never settle for Texas, would she?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe, if you bought a place close enough to Neiman-Marcus — ”

  He laughed. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Damn it, I’m glad I found you. Brock, you’re my all-time favorite nephew, I don’t mind telling you.”

  And then my fan, who has big ears, set a cup of coffee in front of Homer and said, “I waited for a fresh pot, sir.”

  Homer smiled and sighed. “This day is getting better every minute. You play golf, Brock?”

  “Not today,” I said. “Not until we find out who killed Miss Milgrim, Homer.”

  He nodded and sipped his coffee. He asked quietly, “Any progress?”

  “Very little,” I said. Though he was my client, I didn’t think I was free to tell him about Joyce Thorne, heiress. I asked, “Is it true you’re letting Miss Thorne stay there indefinitely?”

  He nodded.

  “Rent free?”

  He nodded again and stared at me. “Why not? Do I need the rent?”

  “No. But in the interests of domestic peace, don’t you think it would be wise to tell Aunt Sheila that Miss Thorne is paying rent?”

  “I’ve already lied to Sheila about that,” he admitted.

  His chowder came and he began to eat.

  I said, “Raymond Yoshida told me he’s staying on too.’’

  “That’s right. Your aunt’s idea. She thinks he’s a first-class gardener.” He looked at me. “You been over to the house this morning?”

  “To talk with Yoshida. He told me — this Rivali was threatening Miss Milgrim. Do you remember Rivali from the party, Enrico Rivali?”

  “Hell, yes. He bent my ear for almost an hour, trying to get me to finance a picture for Mary Mae. Somehow, I don’t like him. He looks — sly.”

  “Yoshida doesn’t like him either. Did Rivali give you a card or anything? Do you know where he lives?”

  Homer reached into a jacket pocket and took out a small notebook. He leafed through it until he found what he wanted, tore out the page and handed it to me.

  Under Rivali’s name was an address and phone number. The address was in Brentwood.

  Homer said, “You check him out good, Brock. He’s a sharp one; he’s
got all the makings of a con man.” Homer glowered. “Threatening Miss Milgrim, was he? Hmmmmph!”

  “Homer,” I said gently, “Miss Milgrim might not have been quite the sweet and gullible dove she portrayed in her pictures. It’s possible the money you’re spending to find her murderer will only degrade the picture of her you have in your mind.”

  “You find him,” he said brusquely.

  “I mean to try. Also, there is still a possibility she committed suicide. I’m going to check with her doctor and find out about her health.”

  He nodded. He called my fan over and ordered another bowl of clam chowder. He wiped his mouth and said, “Maybe she wasn’t any angel but she was a damned fine actress and I don’t think the cops in this town could find a load of manure in a phone booth.”

  I didn’t argue with him any further. What was a lousy hundred dollars a day to him?

  After he’d left, I phoned Lieutenant Remington and asked if Miss Milgrim’s doctor had been questioned regarding her health.

  “Because of the suicide angle? Hell, yes. And I’d say there wasn’t one chance in a million that it was suicide. What have you been doing this morning?”

  “I talked with Miss Thorne and that gardener, Yoshida. Now, I’m on my way to talk with Enrico Rivali.”

  “Learn anything?”

  “Nothing startling. I had lunch with my client. Is he still on your list?”

  “Right. As a matter of fact, everyone who was at the party is still on my list. Even you. Carry on. “He hung up.

  That last crack had been pointless and arrogant. I went out, nettled, and climbed into the flivver.

  Brentwood is considered one of the better districts in the Los Angeles area, but it has its seamier side, near the Veterans’ Administration grounds. On the borderline between this near-slum and the finer homes was the address of Enrico Rivali.

  It was a small, thick-walled Spanish place with a heavy tile roof. The front yard was all succulents and gravel, and untrimmed growth of cacti, jade plant and flowering ice plant. Bougainvillaea shrouded the narrow, one-car garage and hung over the open doorway. There was an ancient Packard in the garage.

  The sound of the door chimes reverberated through the small house and then the darkly stained door opened and I was looking at the sallow, unfriendly face of Enrico Rivali.

  “You — ” he said. “What the hell do you want?”

  “A few words of private conversation. I’m working with the Beverly Hills Police Department on the death of Miss Milgrim.”

  “This isn’t Beverly Hills,” he said. “This is Los Angeles.” He started to close the door.

  “One second,” I said sharply.

  He paused, the door half-closed.

  “A little co-operation isn’t going to hurt you,” I said mildly. “I have friends in the Los Angeles Department too, but I didn’t think it would be necessary to bring them. Also, I am licensed by the state and my activities are not confined to Beverly Hills.”

  “Last time we talked, you threatened me,” he said gratingly.

  I shook my head. “Not quite. I asked you to lay off my uncle.”

  He frowned. “Uncle? I thought you called him a friend?”

  “He’s both,” I explained. “He’s married to my aunt.” I paused. “My only aunt.”

  Another moment of hesitation while his cunning mind digested that. Then he held the door wider and said grudgingly, “Okay. Come on in.”

  I came into a small entry hall and from there into the living room. The windows were narrow, with deep sills, and the furniture looked like castoffs from the Milgrim mansion. I sat on a dark velour davenport while he sat on an upholstered, wrought-iron bench near the tiny fireplace.

  He didn’t look at me. “Miss Thorne is still staying out there, I heard.’

  “That’s right. My uncle is a generous man. Mr. Rivali, if Miss Milgrim had any really malignant enemies, you’d know them, I’m sure.”

  “I’m sure I would too. But I don’t happen to be a gossip. “

  I said evenly, “I’m not asking for gossip. I’m asking for what might be leads in a murder case. I happen to know that you threatened Miss Milgrim and I should think you’d be anxious to relieve any suspicion of yourself.”

  His narrow face stiffened.

  “In the event,” I went on blithely, “that you are innocent of any involvement.”

  “The police,” he said, “have already questioned me.” He stood up. “You’d better go.”

  “Not yet,” I told him. “I’m a private operative, Mr. Rivali, and interested only in the information that might lead me to a killer. You can be perfectly frank with me. Discretion is part of what I sell.”

  “Get out!” he said, and his voice was harsh.

  I shook my head.

  There was the sound of a footstep to my right and I glanced that way. A big, ugly man stood in the archway to the entry hall, a man with a cauliflower ear and dimly familiar face.

  “Trouble, Ricky?” the big man asked quietly.

  I remembered him then, a former local wrestler who had played bit parts as a heavy in a host of B pictures.

  Enrico (Ricky) Rivali said, “No trouble, George. Mr. Callahan is leaving.”

  George Parkas, that was the man’s name. I smiled at him and looked back at Rivali. “I’m not leaving. You’re being stupid about this.”

  “You are leaving,” George Parkas said from the doorway.

  “Go away,” I told him. “You’re big but you’re old and you were never much. Go away before you are forced to make an ass of yourself.”

  Enrico was smiling now. “George isn’t old. George is only fifty. And strong as an ox.”

  “Send him away,” I said, and my hands trembled. “I have an adolescent reaction to physical threat and I don’t want to humiliate an old man. Send him away, Rivali.”

  George muttered something and took a step into the room, his arms in the bowed, hanging position of the advancing wrestler.

  I didn’t get up. I stared between him and Rivali and back and said, “Don’t start anything. You’re not that far into the clear, Rivali. Co-operation is still your safest course.”

  They smiled at each other and I knew why Rivali had never married. And the conversational persiflage about girls at the party had been fraudulent. These two had found each other.

  “I’ll open the door,” Rivali said to George, “and you can throw him out from this end of the hall. Do you think he’ll bounce?”

  George smiled in his nitwitted way and came slowly over to where I was still seated. He stood in front of me, leaning forward.

  “I’ll get the door,” Rivali said, and started to leave the room as George leaned forward and reached for me.

  My stout right leg came up, and I braced my back into the davenport as I let George have it. Not where it hurts the most; I had no intention of doing him permanent damage. My foot found purchase higher, flat against his ribbed belly.

  His long arms had almost reached my neck when I straightened my knee and put him into orbit. He went backward with the speed of light and crashed into the wrought-iron bench next to the fireplace; and then his head went into the imitation marble of the mantel with a “thunk” that made the windows rattle.

  He was unconscious before he reached the floor.

  And Rivali came at me like a cat, shrieking and spitting, his fingernails clawing toward my face.

  I knocked him halfway across the room with the back of my hand and stood up to meet his next charge.

  There was none. He was bending over George, sobbing and solicitous, when I went out.

  SEVEN

  ONE WAY OR another, I would get back to him. A man who resisted questioning as stubbornly as Enrico might not be directly involved with the murder but it seemed reasonable to guess he had something to hide. And that something might be a clue.

  If not a clue to murder, perhaps a clue to a reason for murder and so far we had no reason for this one. Motive, motive, motive…
. Outside of Miss Thorne, who had a motive? And unless she knew about the will, she had none, or at least none that was as obvious as money.

  Brentwood is not far from Santa Monica and I had an address there that would probably prove to be of only peripheral value, but the Lieutenant had made Miss Thorne my special assignment.

  It was in an area of smaller homes, off Pico, a small house on the rear of a lot occupied by a slightly larger house. I walked along the common walk next to the larger house and came out into a world of flowers.

  All the primaries were there, red, blue and yellow, and all the combinations of these — and it was only spring; the summer and fall flowers were not yet in bloom. At the side of the house, on a strip of lawn bordered by a low picket fence, an elderly couple were staining some outdoor redwood furniture. They looked up as I came along the steppingstones between the flower beds.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Thorne?” I asked.

  They nodded, and I looked at Mrs. Thorne. “I understand you were a good friend of Miss Milgrim’s?”

  She nodded. “Are you a reporter? Who told you that?”

  “I’m not a reporter,” I said. “Your daughter told me that.”

  “Oh,” she said, and smiled. “Herbie, get the man a chair.”

  Her husband went around toward the back of the house. Mrs. Thorne sighed, and said, “We were both horribly shocked, of course. Mary Mae and I started together, at Biograph.”

  I stared at her and it came to me. “You’re Blanche Arden,” I said.

  She smiled. “How sweet of you to remember. You’re too young to remember me.”

  “I’ll never forget you,” I said. “I saw you in Summer Thunder. You were — unforgettable.”

  Her husband had brought a deck chair from the back yard. He set it down, and his wife said, “He remembers me, Herbie. That earns him a beer, doesn’t it?” She looked at me. “You do drink, don’t you?”

  “Only beer,” I said, “thank you.” I sat in the deck chair and looked at the flowers. “Beautiful!”

  Herbie went into the house and the former Blanche Arden sat on a redwood bench they hadn’t started to stain. “Thank you. We love it here. We own the front house too, but we like it back here. We didn’t save much, but we saved enough.” She looked toward the house. “Herbie was a cameraman, and you know — he saved more than I did? He’s a careful, wonderful man. I’ve been very lucky.”