Vein of Violence

by Gault, William Campbell

  “Miss Milgrim saved her money, didn’t she? She must have saved all of it?”

  “She did better than that. She invested in real estate. We used to laugh at her, to tease her about it. We thought she’d gone insane when she paid seven hundred dollars for some acreage way out on Sunset Boulevard.” Mrs. Thorne shook her head. “She sold it nine years ago for half a million.”

  “She must have been really loaded,” I said, and looked at the flowers.

  The white-haired Herbie brought my beer and I thanked him. I continued to look at the flowers as I repeated, “She must have been really loaded. And yet, your daughter told me last week that Miss Milgrim had to sell that house because she needed the money desperately.”

  Mrs. Thorne smiled. Her husband looked grave.

  “You know about it?” I guessed.

  She nodded. “Mary Mae told me about it. About this absurdly rich Texan who wouldn’t submit an offer lower than her asking price, this sentimental millionaire who refused to haggle with Mary Mae Milgrim.” She sighed. “When a man asks to be taken — ”

  Her husband said mildly, “Try to remember, Blanche, that our visitor hasn’t told us his name or the reason for his visit.”

  Blanche looked blankly at her husband and wonderingly at me. I was speechless for a moment.

  Herbie filled the gap. “I happen to know who you are. Played football with the Rams, didn’t you? You’re a private eye, right?”

  “Right as rain,” I agreed. “Brock Callahan’s the name. Do you want your beer back?”

  “Just want to know why you’re here.” Herbie said.

  “To talk. To find out what I can about the lives, loves and enemies of Mary Mae Milgrim. One of her fans is paying me for this.”

  “A fan — ?” Mrs. Thorne asked.

  “My uncle,” I said. “Homer Gallup, the man who bought her house.”

  “Your uncle — ?” Mrs. Thorne swallowed visibly. “Me and my big mouth.” She looked at me beseechingly. “You’re not going to tell him what I said, are you? I mean, what good would it do anybody?”

  I said, “Not a word. I have a hunch Homer knows he was hornswoggled. Homer simply isn’t a man who likes to quibble or haggle. He lives to enjoy life and keeps it that simple.”

  Mrs. Thorne looked questioningly at her husband and he, almost imperceptibly, nodded his head. He sat down next to her and she looked at me.

  She took a breath and said, “We’ve been talking about what happened, Herbie and I. Mary Mae had a sharp tongue, you might have heard, and an artist’s temperament. She was bound to have enemies.” She paused, and again looked at her husband.

  Again, the almost imperceptible nod.

  She looked back at me. “But there’s one man who has been a real — well I guess you’d call him a — a Svengali.” She sighed. “He’s certainly had an unholy influence on Mary Mae. Neither Herbie nor I could ever understand it. He’s a mean and scheming man.”

  “Enrico Rivali,” I guessed.

  She nodded emphatically. “That’s the man. You talked to him?”

  “I’ve just come from his house. Are you thinking of him as the murderer?”

  Mrs. Thorne didn’t answer. Herbie said, “If we had to make a choice, he’d be our first.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  There was a silence. Mrs. Thorne looked at her husband, as though waiting for him to word it.

  Finally he said lamely, “Well, it’s hard to say. When you come right down to it, neither of us knows much about what a murderer is like, but — ” He broke off, confused and irritated.

  I smiled at Mrs. (Blanche Arden) Thorne. “But Enrico looks and acts like an old Biograph villain, is that it?”

  She frowned, “It’s not that — dumb, exactly. You know he’s — not normal, don’t you?”

  I knew, but asked, “How?”

  “He never married,” she said primly.

  “Neither did Mary Mae,” I pointed out.

  Herbie said evenly and clearly, “What Blanche means is that Rivali is a homo.”

  “And you think they murder more than other men?” I asked.

  “I just mean he’s not normal,” Herbie said stubbornly. “And he’s got a miserable temper and he’s always playing the angles and he has no loyalty to anybody or anything. He’s a bastard!”

  “He could be all these things,” I agreed. “But for murder, he’d need a motive. Can either of you come up with that?”

  Blanche shook her head. Herbie said peevishly, “But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have a motive. A man as secretive as he’s been since we’ve known him, he could have a dozen motives, and who’d know it?”

  I nodded in silent agreement. And asked, “Do you know a man named George Parkas?”

  They both nodded. Blanche said, “He used to play heavies. He was one of those — those freaks from Muscle Beach. I think he still hangs around there.”

  “Didn’t he used to wrestle?” Herbie asked.

  “He did. He’s a friend of Rivali’s, I guess. He was at his house, this morning anyway, and I had a feeling he lived there.”

  Herbie raised his eyebrows. “Birds of a feather — ”

  Mrs. Thorne made a face but said nothing.

  I asked, “Your list of suspects begins and ends with Enrico, is that it?”

  “He’s the only one we could think of,” Blanche admitted. “He’s about all we have thought of, since it happened.”

  “But you’ll do some more thinking, won’t you?” I asked her. “There could easily be something in the background of Miss Milgrim that only her close friends know about. And it might help.”

  I thought the silence this time lasted a little longer than usual. And then Blanche Arden Thorne said, “Maybe we’ll remember something. I’m sure we’ll be thinking about nothing else for a while.”

  I thanked them for the beer and admired their flowers once more and went back to the hot flivver. I opened all the windows and got it under way quickly, to catch a breeze. It was turning into a hot afternoon.

  Hot and fruitless; where next, semi-pro? That old sense of frustration came to me, that tiresome pattern of repetitive questioning in a circle of deceit. Around and around, getting this reaction, recording that lie, trying by stealth or arrogance to trigger a revealing straw in an erratic wind.

  But where next now? Back to the office to think and sulk.

  In the mail, there was a report from Lieutenant Remington and two bills. My answering service informed me there had been no calls in my absence. I opened the report.

  It was a résumé of the information they had elicited from all the people at the party who had contributed anything in the form of a lead. There was very little here I didn’t already know.

  However, the last person to have been seen with Mary Mae inside the house had been Enrico Rivali. Half a dozen of the guests had testified to that.

  He was the hub and the nub of it; that much seemed clear to me. He was the supreme schemer in a world of illusion. And a very hard nut to crack. As a suspect for murder, though, he looked weak. Where was the motive? What little I had learned indicated Mary Mae had been his sustenance; her death could be his suicide.

  I opened a window and set a fan in front of it. I drank three glasses of water and went back to the report from Remington. Then I wheeled out my typewriter to start my own report for my files and for him.

  I was about halfway through when somebody opened the door to my office.

  The man who stood there was about six feet tall, fairly slim, and a little too well tailored. He had the easy poise and the candid gaze of the first-class confidence man.

  “Mr. Brock Callahan?” he asked me quietly.

  “At your service, sir.” I stood up and indicated the chair on the other side of my desk.

  “My name,” he said, “is Everett Milgrim.” He came over to sit down without offering me his hand.

  “Oh-?” I said. “From-Florida?”

  “Yes.” He paused. “Currently
, that is. You — have heard of me?”

  “I heard Miss Milgrim had a brother in Florida. Are you he?”

  “I’m Miss Milgrim’s brother, yes. I’m not really from Florida. Recently, I’ve had reason to dabble in real estate down there, but I’ve always considered California my true home.”

  I nodded, smiled and said nothing.

  “You,” he said, “are representing a client named Homer Gallup in the investigation of my sister’s death, I understand.”

  I nodded, leaned back and yawned.

  His face stiffened slightly. “Am I boring you, Mr. Callahan?”

  “No, Mr. Milgrim,” I said blandly. “Carry on.”

  There was a pause. “I simply wondered what success you’ve had in your investigation so far.”

  “I’ve learned a few things, but nothing I could reveal to an outsider, Mr. Milgrim. I’m sure Lieutenant Remington, over at Beverly Hills Headquarters, would be co-operative, though. Perhaps you had better see him.”

  Another pause while he seemed to be weighing me. “Mr. Callahan, we are both men of the world. And I have reason to know my sister’s estate is enormous. “He looked around my office casually. “And you don’t appear to be the — wealthiest man in this wealthy man’s town.”

  “I guess I’m not,” I agreed. “Get to the meat, Everett.”

  He smiled. “That’s blunt enough. I’m the closest relative. I’m the only close relative. And I can use an ally.”

  “If it’s crooked,” I told him, “I’m not interested. If it’s business, you know I already have a client in this case.”

  “You can always quit a client,” he said, “if you find a better one, can’t you?”

  I shook my head. “Mr. Milgrim, weren’t you formerly in business in this town?”

  He nodded. “Some years back. I had a brokerage office. Dealt mostly in over-the-counter stocks.”

  I frowned. “If I remember right, the SEC issued a cease-and-desist. But I forget if they called your place a bucket shop or a boiler room.”

  For a transient moment, his poise was gone. But it had returned before he spoke. “I’ll say it again — you’re a blunt man.”

  “Thank you. Was that why you came here instead of going to Lieutenant Remington? Because Remington might remember you?”

  He didn’t answer. His eyes glazed over and his face was without expression.

  “Whom did you want me to frame?” I asked him quietly.

  “I thought I could help you,” he said sadly. “I thought I could help you professionally and financially. But you seem to have developed an aversion either to me or to the prospects of a handsome and perfectly legitimate profit. I guess I came to the wrong man, didn’t I?”

  “It’s possible. It’s also possible that you came at the wrong time. I heard that you had been out of touch with your sister for twenty years. And now, like a homing vulture, you travel across the country to share in the profits of the killing. I think you’d better go.”

  He stood up. “You’re more than blunt. You’re insulting. You’re also extremely stupid, aren’t you?”

  “I’m also big, “I added. “Start running, Milgrim. Go!”

  His glance swept my neat little pine-paneled office contemptuously, rested briefly on me, and then he turned and went out.

  I had handled it badly. Perhaps he knew something and I had alienated him without reason. He wasn’t lost, however. I had a feeling I’d be seeing him again.

  I finished the report and made out an envelope addressed to Lieutenant Remington. I put a carbon of the report in the envelope, sealed it, stamped it, and went down to my flivver. It was almost five o’clock.

  At the liquor store, half a block up the street, I picked up a fifth of the most expensive Scotch in the place.

  EIGHT

  IT WAS A four-unit, weathered stucco building on Kenmore in Hollywood. The apartment of the distinguished and immortal John Davenport, former idol of millions, was a no-bedroom unit in the rear.

  He stood in the doorway and looked at me doubtfully. “Is the liquor a gift or did you intend to buy my autograph with it?”

  “It’s a gift,” I said. “Though I’m digging into a personal history.”

  “I’m not a historian,” he said.

  I shrugged.

  He studied me and then looked down at the bottle in my hand. “Would you let me see the label, please?”

  I held it up. He nodded and said, “Come on in.”

  The furniture wasn’t much. A studio couch, an old wooden card table on which he obviously ate, two worn, upholstered easy chairs and a coffee table made from a piano bench. The walls were covered with photographs, a number of them stills from his pictures, the others autographed to him from the big names of yesterday.

  I stood next to a picture of Mary Mae Milgrim as he opened the Scotch. On it, she had scrawled, “To stubborn and gifted John Davenport.”

  “Neat,” he asked me, “or with water?”

  “I don’t drink the hard stuff,” I said. “I’ll take a beer if you’ve got it.”

  He made a face. “I don’t drink the soft stuff. I could make you some coffee.”

  “No, thanks. Do you know Mrs. Herbie Thorne?”

  He shook his head. He lifted a shot of Scotch to the light, admired it and downed it. Then he frowned. “Wait — do you mean Blanche Arden?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Wonderful woman,” he said.” Kind and sweet and generous. Is she still around?”

  “She married a cameraman. She’s living in Santa Monica.” I sat in one of the upholstered chairs.

  He sat on the piano bench-coffee table, the bottle beside him. “Blanche Arden — wonderful girl. A minimum of talent but a maximum of fun. Oh, there were a million of those and I loved every one of them.”

  “She’s Joyce Thorne’s mother,” I explained. “Joyce was Miss Milgrim’s secretary.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yes.” He poured another drink.

  “Why did Miss Milgrim call you stubborn?” I asked.

  He glanced at the picture and smiled. “Because I was. I was probably the only name she couldn’t inveigle into a supporting role.” He looked thoughtfully at the glass in his hand. “You know, Mary Mae was all right. If it hadn’t been for Rivali, I think Mary Mae could have turned out a first-class person.”

  “You don’t think she did?”

  He looked at me. “As an actress or a person?”

  “Either and both.”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “there wasn’t any need for her to become an actress; she was a star. As a person, I think Rivali’s influence was overwhelming. She wound up as fraudulent and greedy as her — her Svengali.”

  That was the second time today poor Enrico had been called that. I said, “Blanche Arden doesn’t think much of Rivali either. As a matter of fact, it’s hard to find anyone with a good word for the man.”

  “Ask him,” Davenport said dryly. “He’s got plenty of them.” He shook his head. “Blanche Arden. She lived in the shadow of Mary Mae. And that was the only way to remain a friend of Mary’s, to live in her shadow.” He smiled at me. “Perhaps I wouldn’t be living here if I had, huh?”

  “Who knows?” I said. “Most of us are what we have to be.” I looked around at all the pictures. “Do you regret being what you were?”

  “Not for a second.” He corked the bottle, stood up and went over to put it on the kitchen drainboard. He drank a glass of water in there and came back through the archway to sit on the bench again.

  “Rivali,” I said. “He’s been called a schemer and a crook, a Svengali and a no-talent bum. But can you see him as a murderer?”

  John Davenport said steadily. “I can see him as absolutely anything he has to be to protect his interest or advance his nefarious career.”

  “I heard a rumor that he and Mary Mae were once married. Anything to it?”

  “Nothing,” John Davenport said. “Rivali started the rumor, for reasons too compl
ex for my simple and honorable mind. That bastard maintained his own position by keeping everybody else off balance, but it’s a technique too complicated for the ordinary mentality. I could never understand it and I certainly couldn’t explain it. He never went to jail, I’ll admit, but in these last few years his position has been more desperate. And perhaps that called for more desperate measures.”

  “How about this George Parkas? I had a feeling he lives with Rivali.”

  Davenport smiled cynically. “He’s been faithful to George for a number of years, now. It wasn’t always thus.”

  “Fickle, was he?”

  Davenport nodded. “I suppose that facet of his personality could have landed him in jail. But if all the homos in this town were put behind bars, there wouldn’t be room for anything else.”

  “Wasn’t there ever a time when Enrico was interested in girls?”

  Davenport shrugged. “Perhaps, as a youth, in Italy…. Never, so long as I knew him.’’ He looked longingly toward the bottle on the drainboard in the kitchen.

  “Don’t let me stop you,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “No, not any more until I’ve eaten. You know, it was never a problem with me, until the last few months, since I’ve started to get some work again, in TV. Why should something I’ve enjoyed all my life now suddenly turn into a crutch?”

  “You’re not young,” I said. “And with a new career starting, you might feel insecure. And before this you had an agent to act as a buffer between you and reality.”

  “That he was,” Davenport admitted. “A buffer between me and all the idiots in this idiotic business. And a wall between me and steady meals. I guess the son of a bitch did serve a purpose, though, didn’t he?”

  “The maintenance of an ego,” I said, “is a difficult and thankless profession.”

  He looked at me doubtfully. “You think I’m an ego?”

  “Any successful artist has to be,” I argued. I indicated the pictures on the walls. “Some of those people were at the party, weren’t they?”