Vein of Violence

by Gault, William Campbell

  “Hey, girls!” I called. “Down here.” I pointed to the empty stools to the right of me.

  Both of them turned their heads my way but on neither face was there any sign of recognition. I was getting the freeze.

  I looked back at the pictures in the paper and then folded the paper and put it into my jacket pocket.

  The beef stew was only fair, despite the new cook. The coffee was fresh and flavorful. I had two cups of that while I searched my mind for the vagrant lead that had almost come to life.

  Up the counter, my friend and my relative ignored me. Undoubtedly, they were discusssing how to make a moderne house out of the Milgrim mausoleum. They were reckoning without Homer and there would be a cruel awakening. They had their lumps coming.

  Homer was genial and extroverted but he was nobody’s mark. Lieutenant Remington was right; a man doesn’t get to be a millionaire by slapping people on the back.

  I glanced once more toward my love and my aunt without success. I wondered where Homer was, but if I asked them they would think I was trying to make up and I was too proud for that.

  I went out quietly and turned my footsteps toward Beverly Drive.

  A man named McAllister, she had said, though she had forgotten the name of the firm ….

  The name of the firm was McAllister, Noyes and Adams and the middle-aged lady in the waiting room wanted to know if I had an appointment.

  “No. You may tell Mr. McAllister that I’m working with Lieutenant Remington, and I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  She looked at me doubtfully for a moment before rising and disappearing down a corridor.

  In a few moments, she came back to tell me Mr. McAllister would see me.

  He was a portly, genial man with reddish gray hair and he rose to welcome me as I entered his office. He said, “Left the Rams for good, finally, have you?”

  I nodded and smiled.

  “Great,” he said. “You were great. Sit down, Mr. Callahan.”

  I sat down and he said, “I suppose you want to talk about Miss Milgrim’s will?”

  “If it’s not a breach of ethics, Mr. McAllister.”

  “Nothing of the kind,” he assured me. “Though I might have strained them a little by not notifying Miss Thorne by now. However, I’m old enough and dignified enough to strain an ethic if it might help to solve a murder.” He paused. “If it is murder.”

  “It looks less like it every hour,” I told him, “but it doesn’t seem likely it was anything else. Miss Thorne is the sole heir?”

  He nodded.

  “Did that seem — strange to you? I’m asking for a purely personal opinion, of course.”

  “The wishes of spinsters,” he said, “seemed strange to me only in the first few years of my practice. As for theatrical people — ” He shrugged resignedly.

  “Miss Thorne was not always the only heir, I presume?”

  He paused. “Originally, Miss Thorne was to divide the estate with Enrico Rivali. That was changed six months ago.”

  “And Everett was never named?”

  “Yes. He still is, and perhaps I shouldn’t have told you Miss Thorne is the only heir. Everett is to be left one dollar.”

  I smiled. “That was your suggestion?”

  “Mr. Noyes’s,” he said.

  “Was Everett in town when you were told to notify him about Miss Milgrim’s death?”

  “Yes. He had been in town for two weeks. I’m almost sure it is the first time he has been in this town in seven years.”

  “Odd, isn’t it, that he should come at this time?”

  Leonard McAllister stared thoughtfully at me but didn’t commit himself.

  “Perhaps,” I suggested, “he heard something. Mary Mae might have written him.”

  McAllister shrugged. “I’m not an investigator, Mr. Callahan, only a simple country lawyer.” He smiled. “I envy you. I envy your position, walking the tightrope between the law and the lawless.”

  “You could have been a criminal lawyer,” I said, “and walked the same rope.”

  He sighed. “That was my plan. But Mother wouldn’t hear of it. And now that she’s dead, it’s too late. Tell me, Mr. Callahan, are you doing exactly what you want to do?”

  “Pretty close to it, I guess. Though I got into it out of hunger. My father was killed by a hoodlum.”

  “I’ve followed your career,” he said. “I think, if you developed some finesse, you could be first-rate.” He stood up. “Well, I’ve given you all I know.”

  I shook his hand and thanked him and went out. I knew more now than I had when I’d entered his office, but it didn’t make the case any less muddy. It made the finger longer that was pointing at Rivali. The finger had always pointed at Rivali, though, and the police hadn’t locked him up. There had to be a reason for that.

  The little information I picked up in McAllister’s office was my quota for the afternoon. The next three hours were as fruitless and frustrating as any afternoon I had ever spent on a quest. At five o’clock I went home.

  There, I reclined on my threadbare studio couch in sullen futility. There wasn’t much reason for me to regret my inefficiency as an investigator; the professional police weren’t having any better success. But I felt guilty about taking Uncle Homer’s money and delivering nothing.

  I ran them all over in my mind, again and again, and constantly returned to Rivali. If there was an entry point into this maze, he seemed to be the percentage choice.

  I made a cheese omelet for dinner and drank three cups of coffee. There was a possibility I would be up late tonight, and I was tired already.

  At a little before seven o’clock, the old flivver was heading for the borderline district in Brentwood. The ancient Packard was parked in front, the Florida Mercury right behind it.

  I drove past, to the next corner, turned around and parked a half block from the house, facing in the same direction as the two cars in front of Rivali’s. I turned off the engine and waited.

  Enrico had warned me against Everett Milgrim; what was he doing now, making new alliances? About fifty feet ahead of me, a black sedan was parked, and I remembered that Gnup had told me they were going to put a man on Milgrim.

  This wasn’t a police car, however, and I wondered if Gnup had sent a man in his own car. For there was a man sitting behind the wheel and he, too, seemed to be waiting. Brentwood would not be within the Beverly Hills Department jurisdiction.

  In a few minutes, the light went on over Rivali’s front door and a man who resembled Everett Milgrim came down the walk and went over to the Merc.

  When the Merc pulled away, the car in front of me waited until the Merc was a block away. Then it followed, not showing any lights until the Merc had turned a corner.

  I stayed where I was. And stayed and stayed and stayed ….

  • • •

  At eight-thirty, a dark figure came down from the un-lighted doorway and got behind the wheel of the Packard. I gave him a full block’s start.

  It was an easy car to follow and I let him extend his lead once we were in the traffic of San Vicente Boulevard. I kept him in sight all the way to Hollywood.

  And there, in front of a weathered, four-unit stucco building, the Packard parked. In the glow from the street light, I watched Enrico Rivali head for the entrance of the building that housed the hungry but immortal John Davenport.

  This was a new development. What could these two have in common? The cinema. What else?

  I could see shadows moving in the light showing through a window toward the rear of the apartment building, and it seemed to me that would be about where Davenport’s apartment was located. It was a warm night, with a desert wind; perhaps the window was open.

  An occasional car passed on the street but otherwise there was no one in sight. I slid over and got out on the curb side and walked quietly along the building next door until I reached the lighted window. It was open about half a foot.

  Though its tone was low, Rivali’s voice was
recognizable, but not his words.

  Davenport’s voice was equally low, but it was a trained voice. He said, “You’re being absurd. I don’t need you, Rivali; I’ve been working rather steadily. I don’t need you or any doubtful money.”

  Rivali, then, and the only word I could distinguish was “fool.”

  And Davenport said quietly, “You’d better go. Right now.”

  No answer from Rivali. I hurried back to my car and was behind the wheel when he came out of the apartment building and climbed into his Packard.

  He didn’t head for Wilshire, but for Sunset Boulevard. I kept him in range. Through Hollywood, through the Strip, into Beverly Hills.

  When he turned off between the stone pillars, I was far enough behind to prevent overrunning him. His headlights flashed off the Lombardy poplars as I slowed and parked for a few seconds, the engine turning.

  When his headlights were no longer visible, I turned mine off and drove slowly up the driveway. As my eyes adjusted, it was easier to make out the outlines of the driveway and the bulk of the castle ahead. I parked a hundred yards from the drawbridge and walked up.

  There was a light showing over the entrance to Miss Thorne’s cottage. I stayed in the shadows as Enrico came into that light; I didn’t move again until the door opened and he went inside.

  Then, keeping to the shadows, I went around toward the window that had been undraped last night. Somewhere, a window was open, because I could hear Rivali’s voice again and this time I made out a few words.

  “Inheritance” was one and “prissy little schemer” were three more. And then he said, “Damn your black soul!” and I thought it might be the right time to come around to the front door in case Miss Thorne needed help.

  I started that way and heard footsteps coming across the cobblestones of the court. I paused in the shadow of a worn and yellow palm tree, waiting for the footsteps to become more personalized. They were certainly in a hurry.

  In a moment, he came into the light over the door and I saw that it was Raymond Yoshida. He pressed the bell button, waited only a few seconds, and then opened the door and went in.

  I paused, wondering whether to go back toward the end window or head for the front door. Was Yoshida an ally or an enemy of Joyce’s? Had he come to help her — or Rivali?

  I started toward the window — and from behind, someone prodded what might have been the barrel of a pistol into my spine and said, “Don’t move!”

  I’d heard the voice before, but couldn’t place it. I said humbly, “I’m not moving. Is that a gun you’re holding?”

  “Shut up!” the hoarse voice said, and I recognized it. It was Rivali’s roommate, the belligerent George Parkas.

  “Easy now, George,” I soothed him. “If your head hadn’t hit that mantel, I wouldn’t have hurt you. Think, George; let reason prevail.”

  “Shut up,” he said again, “and don’t move. Just keep your big Irish yap shut!”

  I was silent wondering what his purpose was in holding me out here.

  And then, with the gun still pressed against my spine, his left forearm came up to press against my Adam’s apple, and he began to pull me backward.

  I growled in protest but he pressed the gun in more savagely and my breath became labored and my heart began to pound. I didn’t have too much time; I was already dizzy. I had to make some move before the blackout.

  I twisted my head sideways, releasing for a second the pressure on my Adam’s apple. And I bellowed for help at the top of my burning lungs.

  The noise must have startled him, for he loosened his grip on my neck. I lurched backward, into the gun, trying to find his chin with the back of my head.

  He was wise to that one; his head was well back, out of danger. An old army trick came to me, and I reached my right hand down toward where his legs joined, knowing the reaction to that. His head would automatically come forward as he arched his crotch away.

  As his head came forward, my head went back once more, smashing into his advancing face.

  It was his turn to bellow as I twisted free and dived headlong for the protection of some juniper. I could hear him scrambling after me as the needles of the bushes scratched my hands and rasped against my clothes.

  From the direction of the front door Rivali called, “George — ! Are you out there, George?”

  “He’s here,” I called. “He’s–”

  A major error in defensive strategy. For George was indeed there, but until I had opened my big Irish yap, George had not been sure of where I was.

  He found me. And the gun, or whatever it was he held, found me at the same time, right above the ear.

  The stars went away and consciousness departed.

  ELEVEN

  GNUP CAME INTO the big room where I was waiting and said, “What in hell are you, a hypochondriac? It’s only a little bump.”

  I had been applying ice to the little bump about the size of a cantaloupe; I had maybe been moaning a little. I glared at him and didn’t answer.

  “Cripes,” he said. “A big man like you!”

  “Talk about something you understand,” I told him. “What have you been doing?”

  “I’m rounding the whole stinking kit and caboodle up,” he said. “We’ll get them all face to face and see who’s the biggest liar.”

  “What constitutes the kit and caboodle?” I asked quietly.

  “All the people Rivali saw tonight and that couple Milgrim went to see, the Thornes.”

  “Was that your man following Milgrim?” I asked.

  He nodded. “And you followed Rivali. Milgrim started from there, too. Well, I’d have to be a hell of a lot dumber than I am if I couldn’t see that Rivali is the core of this mess and it’s a cinch he hasn’t been leveling with us.”

  A uniformed man came in then, and Rivali was with him. He glared at me, at Sergeant Gnup, and then went over to sit sullenly in one of a row of chairs along the wall.

  “Where’s his buddy, that Parkas?” Gnup asked.

  The officer said, “No luck yet, Sergeant. We’re working on it.” He went out.

  Gnup looked at Rivali. “Where’s George?”

  Rivali shrugged.

  “He’s probably out with some girl,” I said.

  Rivali glared at me.

  Gnup said, “Once more, Rivali — where’s your buddy?”

  “No speaka da Eengleesh,” Rivali said.

  “You can always put him away on a morals charge,” I told Gnup. “If he sits awhile, maybe he’ll feel more like a citizen.”

  Rivali sneered at me. “Peeping Tom,” he said. “Slant-head.”

  The Thornes came in, Blanche and Herbie, and looked wonderingly at all of us. Then Blanche saw me and smiled. “Mr. Callahan, I’m glad to see you here.”

  “Sit down, folks,” I said. “Better sit over here.”

  They came over to sit on the chairs flanking me, across the room from Rivali.

  Blanche stared thoughtfully at him for a moment, nodded doubtfully, and looked at me. In a stage whisper, she asked, “They’ve caught him, have they? They’ve got the goods on him?”

  “Almost,” I said. “We’re waiting for some others.”

  “Joyce, too?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  She looked at the ice pack. “What happened to you?”

  “I slipped out there in the corridor. Everett came to see you tonight, did he?”

  She nodded, started to talk — and Gnup warned me, “I’ll do the questioning here, Callahan.”

  Lieutenant Remington came in. He was wearing a dinner jacket; he had obviously been called from a party. His voice was a little thick. “Where’s the rest of ‘em?”

  “On the way in, Lieutenant,” Gnup answered. “Though we can’t seem to locate Parkas.”

  “Oh?” Remington went over to stand in front of Rivali. “Where’s your boy friend, Enrico?”

  Rivali shrugged.

  Remington’s voice hardened. “I can get a complaint on you
, you know, any time. Be smart, Enrico.”

  Rivali blushed. And then said, “So help me, Lieutenant, I don’t know where he is. When I came out of Miss Thorne’s place, he wasn’t anywhere in sight.”

  “And what was he doing outside of Miss Thorne’s place?”

  “Waiting for me. I told him to wait in the car.”

  Yoshida came in with Joyce Thorne. Joyce saw her folks and came over quickly to sit next to her mother. Her mother took her hand and said something quietly.

  Yoshida looked at Rivali, at us, and then took a chair some distance from all of us.

  Joyce patted the chair next to her. “Over here, Raymond.”

  He smiled and shook his head.

  John Davenport came in, surveyed us all with cool dignity, and asked Remington, “Would you be kind enough, Sergeant, to explain the reason for this imposition?”

  “In due time, Mr. Davenport. However, the title is Lieutenant. Please be seated.”

  John Davenport looked at each of us doubtfully and chose me. I was kind of touched. He sat in the chair to my left and asked, “What’s it all about?”

  “In due time, Mr. Davenport,” Remington repeated ominously.

  Davenport sighed and leaned back in his chair. He stared mournfully at nothing.

  Blanche leaned forward to say, “Hello, John. It’s been a long time.”

  His face lightened. “Blanche Arden — ? It is, it is — How are you, dear?”

  “Happy. And you, John?”

  “I’m working,” he said. “Not much, but it’s getting better. I got rid of Adler.”

  “Good,” she said.

  Gnup whirled around. “Who’s Adler? What do you mean, you got rid of him?”

  “My former agent,” Davenport explained wearily. “I fired him, Lieutenant. Sidney Adler, the world’s worst agent.”

  “I’m not a lieutenant,” Gnup said.

  “Persevere,” Davenport advised him. “Study and work. It will come.”

  I smiled. Gnup looked at me and I stopped smiling. I asked, “Is this the kit and caboodle, now?”

  “Not quite,” Gnup said.

  Then the door opened once more and Milgrim came in.

  “Now,” Gnup said. And to the Lieutenant, “All here, sir.”