Vein of Violence

by Gault, William Campbell

  Raymond Yoshida looked up as I came into the clearing where he was cutting a strip of dichondrae. Joyce was right about him. His smile was superior and enigmatic.

  “Good morning, Mr. Callahan,” he said politely. He slowed the engine to a quieter tone. “Sleep well?”

  I stared at him. He smiled at me.

  “I never got to bed,” I told him. “On the important cases, I often work right through, seventy-two, often ninety-six hours. I’m very strong and don’t need sleep.”

  I smiled at him. He stared at me.

  “You had a visitor yesterday,” I said quietly. “A Mr. Everett Milgrim.”

  “Yes.” Toneless voice, blank stare.

  “Be careful of him,” I warned. “If you want the word on him, they have it at Beverly Hills Police Headquarters. He’d be the wrong man for you to do any business with.”

  “Business?” he asked dully. “I’m not going into any business.”

  “I hope not,” I said. “We wouldn’t want my uncle to lose a first-class gardener, would we?”

  He expelled his breath. “I don’t understand you, Mr. Callahan.”

  “Mr. Milgrim stayed a long time. What did you talk about?”

  “About his sister. He wanted to know if she had been happy. He maybe thinks she committed suicide. And then he wanted to know if she had been seeing much of Mr. Rivali and how they were getting along.”

  “And you told him about the fight you overheard between her and Rivali?”

  He shook his head emphatically. “No. Never. I said Mr. Rivali was here often and I didn’t know how they got along.”

  “And then-?”

  “And then he asked about Miss Thorne and how they got along.”

  “And you told him — ?”

  “I told him I didn’t know.”

  “He had no authority, Raymond, to ask you any questions.”

  “Maybe not. He didn’t ask them like a — a policeman. And he’s Miss Milgrim’s brother, isn’t he? I couldn’t be rude, could I?”

  “No. But next time he asks any questions, you explain that Lieutenant Remington, down at Headquarters, doesn’t want you to discuss Miss Milgrim with anyone.”

  A thoughtful pause, and then, “Lieutenant Remington can’t keep me from talking about anything I want to. Doing, he can stop. But not talking.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “I wasn’t giving you an order; I was giving you an excuse for avoiding Everett Milgrim. I thought I was doing you a favor.”

  He said nothing, staring at me.

  And then he looked past me and I turned to see what he was looking at, and it was my Jan, heading our way, her face stormy.

  I nodded a goodbye to Yoshida and went over to meet Jan. I didn’t want her to start complaining where anyone could hear us.

  “Well — !” she said for a starter. “And where were you last night?”

  “Why?” I asked. “We didn’t have a date, did we?”

  “I called you at one o’clock and you weren’t home. And where did you have breakfast?”

  “At one o’clock,” I said, “I was on my way back from Bakersfield. Breakfast I ate at Marge and Joe’s Delightful Diner on Olympic Boulevard. What in the hell difference does it make where I had breakfast?”

  “You liar,” she said. “You lying, rotten tomcat.”

  “Easy, now,” I said. “Where were you last night, so drunk that you’d call me at one o’clock?”

  “Never mind where I was. Don’t you think I can see the dew all over your car, there in the court? Brock Callahan, don’t you ever talk to me again!” She went past me, toward Yoshida.

  She wasn’t sure, not completely. Or why would she be going over to question Yoshida? I gave her my proud back and went toward the house.

  Homer and my aunt were in the ballroom, studying the high windows.

  “We could take that wall out and put in sliding glass,” my aunt was explaining. “Turn this into the living room and the living room into a playroom and — ” She turned, saw me, and sniffed.

  “Good morning, Brock, old buddy,” Homer said. “Been up early, measuring the moat, I see.”

  “Right,” I said. “Some moat!”

  “Some story,” my Aunt Sheila said scornfully. “Men. Miserable, stinking men — ”

  “Take it easy,” Homer soothed her. And to me, as warning. “We called you, about one o’clock last night, Brock. Where were you?”

  “Coming back from Bakersfield,” I said.

  “Oh,” Homer said. “You decided to go see Thompson, after all, then?”

  My Homer! My discerning, compassionate, quick-thinking, wonderfully fraudulent uncle….

  “Yup,” I said. “And you were right about him. He just hasn’t the kind of make-up murder requires.”

  “No kidding,” Aunt Sheila said. “How is he on lying?”

  I looked bewildered, Homer shrugged and asked mildly. “What did you plan to do with that wall, again, Sheila?”

  “Open it up,” she said. “Put in a whole bank of sliding glass.”

  “That would cost money,” Homer said thoughtfully. “And I’m sure you wouldn’t expect a miserable, stinking man to go digging down into his wallet just — ”

  “Stop!” she said fiercely. “Have you any kind of damned, stupid, Texas idea that you can buy me, Homer Gallup?”

  He said in dignified shock, “Buy you — ? You love me; I don’t have to buy you, darling. You’d love me if I didn’t have a dime.”

  She looked at him suspiciously, and then at me. She said, “You two found each other, didn’t you?” And to me: “Where’s Jan?”

  “Last I saw of her she was outside, talking to the gardener.”

  Sheila went out and Homer looked at me. “You damned fool,” he said.

  I said nothing.

  “Your car sitting there, in the shade, full of last night’s dew. I thought Jan was going to force her way into that cottage.”

  “She must learn not to judge by appearances,” I said. “Everett Milgrim came to see Yoshida yesterday. They talked for a long time. Miss Thorne’s parents have only one suspect, Enrico Rivali. Outside of that, I haven’t learned much, Homer.”

  “Well,” he said, “you’re having fun, anyway. You can’t work all the time.”

  “I’ll quit now,” I said, “if you think you’re not getting your money’s worth.”

  He frowned. “Sensitive? Did I say something wrong?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I feel guilty. I’m a bum.”

  “You sure as hell are,” he agreed. “You’d better get out of here before Jan comes back. And you’d better include in your report to me a few paragraphs about that trip to Bakersfield. I’ll leave it around where your aunt can find it. Now, beat it; I hear ‘em coming.”

  I got out before they came in. I went home and put on a clean shirt and pair of socks and went back to the office.

  There was a check in the mail. And my answering service informed me that Enrico Rivali had phoned but left no message except that he would phone again. I went to work on the report for yesterday and this morning, putting in the counterfeit Bakersfield trip.

  Then I phoned Enrico Rivali, but there was no answer. I phoned the offices of Darrow, Weldon and Lutz and Mr. Wallace Darrow was available. I asked him if he would be there for a while.

  He was going out for breakfast, he said. If I wanted to see him, he could drop in at my office.

  While I waited, I phoned Remington and told him about Milgrim’s visit yesterday.

  “I’ve just finished reading your report on that,” he said. “Where is he staying?”

  “I don’t know. I can find out. But he didn’t come from Florida after Miss Milgrim died. Because he’s here with his car. I mean, of course, he didn’t start for here after she died.”

  “I see. He’s got quite a record in this town. We can pick him up on suspicion of practically anything.”

  “You going to crowd him a little, Lieutenant?”


  “We don’t normally harass citizens in this town,” he informed me stiffly. “But Mr. Milgrim isn’t exactly a normal citizen.”

  “Right,” I soothed him. “Raymond Yoshida, that gardener of Miss Milgrim’s, might have Everett’s address. They had a long talk together yesterday, in Raymond’s apartment over the garage there.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “We’ll look into that.”

  He had actually thanked me. I hung up, glowing.

  I was nostalgically fingering my bitten ear when Wallace Darrow walked into the office.

  “Well,” he asked in his breezy way, “what’s on your mind, Brock?”

  “Murder,” I said. “Sit down, Mr. Darrow.”

  “My friends call me Wallace,” he said.

  “That’s logical,” I admitted. “Mr. Darrow, I’ve been looking back on the sale of that Milgrim house to Mr. Gallup and certain aspects of the deal shock me a little.”

  He looked at me coolly. “Be careful, now. I have an umblemished reputation and I resent any slurs.”

  “If you have an unblemished reputation,” I told him candidly, “you’re in the wrong business. Or you’re broke. I don’t think you are. I happen to know about the Academy Award performance you and Miss Bonnet put on for the one-person audience composed of my beloved aunt.”

  He smiled. “Oh, that — It was Mr. Gallup’s idea and Mr. Gallup was my client.”

  “That makes it all right?”

  He shrugged.

  “And,” I went on, “my aunt has learned that house was in escrow a few months back at a purchase price of eighty-five thousand dollars.”

  He said evenly, “You were there when I suggested to Mr. Gallup that he offer a lower price. You heard his answer.”

  “True enough. Would you mind telling me why that other escrow fell through?”

  “I don’t have to, but I will. The buyer was firm on insisting on getting the mineral rights. Miss Milgrim was equally adamant about relinquishing them.” He spread his hands. “No deal.”

  “And who suggested that Miss Thorne phone me with the sob story about Miss Milgrim’s great poverty before Homer Gallup took the bait?”

  “I didn’t know Miss Thorne ever phoned you,” he said quietly.

  “In this deal, did Homer insist on the mineral rights?”

  He nodded, and added, “At my suggestion. At that price, I was trying to get him as much as I could.”

  I was quiet for a few seconds. And then I asked, “You’re a good friend of Miss Thorne’s, aren’t you?”

  He smiled. “I guess. Aren’t you?”

  “What did you mean by that?”

  His chin lifted. “You read it any damned way you want to. You’re not a police officer, Callahan, and I resent the insolent implications of your questioning.”

  “I’m working very closely with the police,” I told him. “At their suggestion.”

  “I’ll bet,” he said.

  “I reported to Lieutenant Remington just before you came in,” I went on. “I can phone him back if you’d like to confirm my position.”

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “I know all about you and how you work. I don’t mind adding that I had a date with Miss Thorne last night for dinner, a date she didn’t keep. I dropped over there and saw why.”

  “Why didn’t you knock, if you had a date?”

  “You were there when I phoned her. You heard her break the date.”

  She had lied …. This was the alleged two-bit producer. Why had she lied?

  Darrow said calmly, “I wasn’t completely honest with your aunt about the sale of the Milgrim place. Do you want me to be just as dishonest with Miss Bonnet? You kill me, you and your cheap talk about ethics.”

  I stared at him. “You do get around, don’t you?”

  He stood up. “I try not to atrophy.” He took a breath. “Or panic. Do you think your size frightens me?”

  I had to admire him. “You bastard,” I said. “I underestimated you. Maybe my size doesn’t frighten you, but your mind scares the hell out of me.”

  “Let’s keep it that way,” he said, and turned to go.

  As Enrico Rivali entered. They were both motionless for a moment, and I was sure there was animosity in both their glances. Then Wallace said, “Well, hello.”

  And Rivali said, “Hanky pank, eh? You two are planning, maybe, to get deeper into the pocket of Mr. Gallup?”

  “Nothing of the kind,” Wallace said airily. “Callahan called me in to get the low-down on you, Enrico. And I’ve just finished giving it to him.”

  He waved, and went past Rivali through the doorway. Rivali muttered something in what sounded like Italian and came over to sit in the chair Darrow had just vacated.

  He stared at me sullenly. “A real tricky son of a bitch, that Darrow.”

  I smiled, but only inwardly. The pot was describing the kettle. I asked, “Why are you here, Mr. Rivali? Have an attack of conscience?”

  “Maybe, maybe. You think I couldn’t?”

  I smiled outwardly. “Why not?”

  He gestured. “I was rude and George was — inexcusable. You came at a bad time with impertinent questions. But I apologize.”

  “And George?” I asked. “I hope I didn’t injure him seriously.”

  “No. He is — not as repentant as I am. He is less well adjusted. But a good friend of mine and I apologize for him.” He fidgeted in his chair. “What did that Wallace tell you about me?”

  “Nothing. He was teasing you when he left. Your name was never mentioned in our conversation.”

  He stared at me skeptically.

  “I swear it, Enrico. Did you come here only to apologize?”

  “No.” He paused. “Mary Mae’s brother is in town.”

  “I know it. He came to see me.”

  Enrico looked startled. “You — ? Why?”

  “I never really found out. It sounded crooked and I told him to beat it.”

  “Mary Mae hated him,” Rivali said musingly, “but who else did she have? He’s probably the heir, don’t you think?”

  I smiled and said nothing.

  “Well — ?” he said irritatedly.

  “Enrico,” I asked him, “did you come here to tell me something or to pump me?”

  The dark eyes flashed and the sallow face tightened. “To warn you, about this Milgrim. If he isn’t the heir, God help the heir.”

  “You think he’s that rough? Con men usually don’t play it heavy. They’re too smart for that.”

  “He’s more than talk, that man. He’s — evil.”

  “Have you talked with him?”

  A pause, and then Enrico nodded.

  “Did he — proposition you?”

  “He tried to question me about the will. He said if anybody would know about the will, I would. I was her closest friend. He said her lawyers wouldn’t tell him anything. Why are they so secretive?”

  I shrugged. “They don’t confide in me.”

  “But the police do,” he persisted.

  “Occasionally,” I admitted. “Was that all you had to tell me, that Everett Milgrim was evil?”

  He nodded.

  “You don’t want to tell me why you threatened Miss Milgrim?”

  “I didn’t. Whoever told you that lied.”

  “All right. Thanks for the information. And now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to work.”

  He muttered something in Italian, stood up and glared at me for a few seconds. Then he went out, still muttering.

  It amazed me that he had come to power while the Hungarians reigned. He was about as subtle as a burlesque comedian.

  TEN

  NOW, IF YOU don’t mind, I have to get back to work ….

  A cliché, used for dismissal. Back to work where? Enrico still looked like the hub of this wheel, but he was undoubtedly a man who had kept his tracks well covered. And murder needs a motive.

  He had called Milgrim evil, but evil means different things to different people. To some,
I had been evil last night. Others draw the line at murder but not at robbing widows. Murder stories pass the censor easily, but sex runs into trouble spasmodically. Is murder less evil than adultery? Only in America, this country of moral bewilderment.

  I left my car on the parking lot and, full of confused musings, walked over to Headquarters. I found Sergeant Gnup and a uniformed man talking in a small room near Remington’s office.

  Gnup looked at me hopefully, but I shook my head.

  “We’ve got a lead on the coniine — maybe,” he said. “I’m checking it out after lunch.”

  “A lead to whom?”

  “Nobody, yet,” he said. “A source, with possible Mafia tie-up.”

  I thought of Rivali, but said nothing.

  “The standard American hoodlum doesn’t go in much for poison,” Gnup went on, “but who in hell is standard in this mess?”

  “And who’s a hoodlum?” I added. “Did Lieutenant Remington tell you about Everett Milgrim being in town?”

  “Yup.” Gnup grinned. “We’ll keep ‘im off balance. We put Reuter on it.”

  Reuter, too, had once played professional football. With the Bears. I said, “Nothing you can hold him on, though?”

  Gnup shook his head. “He was too slippery for that. A real operator.” He gave the uniformed man some papers and the man went out. He looked at me and sighed. “Do you think we’re on this side of the law only because we’re dumb?”

  “It could be. We’re nowhere, aren’t we?”

  “Not if this lead to the poison pans out. We’re always nowhere just before the light.”

  It was time for lunch. And though I had had a full breakfast, I was ready to eat.

  At the drugstore, my fan was not in sight. He probably had a day off. A dark, stocky girl took my order stoically; I missed my fan.

  There was a copy of yesterday’s paper on the counter; I picked it up and leafed through the story I’d already read, glanced again at the pictures.

  For a fractional moment, a flash of awareness flared in me and then died. Something in the pictures had triggered my investigating prescience for that slice of a second — and then vanished without identifying itself. I thought, thought and thought while I stared at the pictures, but nothing came.

  Three stools closer to the front door, my beloved was now seating herself. Next to her, my Aunt Sheila was also taking a stool.