SILENT (a psychological thriller, combining mystery, crime and suspense)

by D. M. Mitchell

  Dillon stroked his chin. ‘You’re astute, I’ll give you that, Rick. You always were. How’s Metropolitan treating you? Treating you as you deserve?’

  ‘Treating us both just fine,’ Mason returned.

  ‘You know,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, ‘Metropolitan Studios ain’t going anywhere. This Dragutin thing is just a flash in the pan. They’re always going to be a struggling, two-bit outfit. Conrad Jefferson will always be an asshole.’

  ‘Two-bit, huh? Takes one to know one, Dillon. It’s a fact that you hate the man for something he did or did not do when you were partners at Prima in the early days. But that hasn’t stopped you wanting to get your fat paws on Metropolitan, has it? That would rub Jefferson’s nose in it real good, wouldn’t it? And so what’s the next best thing? Poach his latest stars. That’s low, Dillon.’

  ‘There you go again, Rick! What a guy!’ He bent forward, his elbows on the table. ‘Let’s cut to the chase, huh? Prima could give you a better deal, give you both bigger and better opportunities than ever Metropolitan can. I’d make it worth your while to break contract with them; my boys will mop up any legal trouble that it stirs up. One day Prima will be the biggest outfit in Hollywood, and you’d be a sap for not being part of it. What do you say?’

  Mason mirrored Dillon’s posture, looked straight at him, his expression serious. ‘What do I think? I think you’re a heap of shit, Dillon. Think I’m going to forget how you treated me? How I was dragged from this very club and had the shit beaten out of me by your goons? Well I won’t, so you can take your deal and shove it up your big fat ass.’ He picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth. ‘Go fuck yourself, Dillon,’ he said, loud enough to be overheard at nearby tables.

  Dillon’s gaze was icy for a moment or two, and then he smiled broadly. ‘Fine, Rick, have it your way. You could have been big. Both of you.’

  He rose from the table, straightened his jacket and then strode away. After an awkward few seconds the inquisitive diners went back to their meals.

  Betsy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why did you say a thing like that to him?’

  ‘Because I could,’ he replied, putting his napkin onto his lap again.

  ‘You knew he’d be here, didn’t you? That’s why it had to be tonight. You were hoping he’d come across.’

  He glanced at her, gave a tiny smirk that twisted his lips. They looked so cruel, she thought.

  * * * *

  24

  A Horrible Day

  Another rite-of-passage, he felt, was moving into one of the mansions up on Whitley Heights. Designed by the architect A. S. Barnes, he could have afforded it with his inheritance alone, but money was flooding into his account in insane amounts. Things might be looking up, but he knew there were many new possibilities and he’d only just begun to scratch the surface. The problem, he thought, lay in his agent. Rick Mason called Victor Wallace over to the mansion with this in mind.

  ‘Swell joint!’ Wallace said, taking the cigar Mason handed him. ‘Got a pool, too?’

  ‘Got two,’ said Mason.

  He whistled. ‘When you consider where you were and where you are, eh, Rick?’ He lit the cigar from a black marble table lighter. ‘Shouldn’t smoke these by rights,’ he admitted, looking at the smouldering end of the cigar. ‘The doc says I gotta lay off them; says they’re no good for my health, but hey, it’s a raw deal when a fella can’t celebrate once in a while!’

  Wallace had done well through Mason’s success. He was looking good on it, too. Less haggard around the gills.

  ‘Thing is, that’s why I called you over, Victor.’

  He caught onto the no-nonsense tone immediately. ‘Business, eh? OK, what’s eating you, Rick? I’ve known you so long I can read you like a book. Betsy’s pregnancy giving you a hard time? Sure, it’s not always an easy time for the dames, but hell you’re gonna be a father pretty soon. Any day now. You figured who’s gonna be godparents yet? Me, I’ve never been a godparent, but if you’re looking…’

  ‘Victor, look, don’t take this wrong, but I’ve got to let you go. We have to part ways.’

  His mouth hung open for a moment. ‘You’re pulling my leg, right? I mean, I fought to get you fixed up with Metropolitan…’

  ‘I know that, Victor, and I’m grateful. But I’m moving into an even bigger arena now. Bigger than you can handle. It’s obvious.’

  ‘Well it sure ain’t obvious to me,’ Wallace said, tossing away the cigar. ‘And you’re forgetting we’ve got a contract.’

  ‘I can buy you out of that, Victor. We can end this amicably…’

  ‘Bullshit!’ he burst, standing up and hitching up his pants. ‘I thought we were friends, Rick. We go back a while now. It ought to count for something.’

  ‘Like you said yourself, it’s business.’

  ‘You think you can buy anything with that goddamn money of yours? Well you can’t buy me. I’ll fight you every step of the way.’

  ‘You can’t afford it, Victor. Sit down, let’s talk this through.’

  ‘To hell with you, Rick. To hell with you. Betsy was right; you’ve changed. You ain’t the guy I used to know. What happened to you, Rick, to poison you so quick?’

  Suddenly Mason was flooded with guilt at seeing Wallace’s distraught, betrayed face. He wanted to back down, take everything back, but he’d climbed so far up this particular tree there was no way he’d ever be able to climb back down. Wallace slapped his hat on, and without saying another word he left the house, slamming the door behind him. A servant came rushing into the room, his dark skin shiny with moisture.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ he asked. ‘I thought something was wrong.’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong!’ he fired, actually feeling something was completely wrong but powerless to do anything about it. He remembered the conversation with Betsy in the diner, the first time he met her, about the black waiter, and he looked up at his servant. He was perpetuating it. He was still the white master and this man was still his black servant.

  ‘Are you happy?’ he asked the servant.

  ‘Happy, sir?’

  ‘Damn you!’ he shouted. ‘Are you happy?’

  The man looked uncomfortable with the question. ‘Yes, sir, I’m very happy,’ he said without feeling.

  ‘Go away!’ Mason snapped. ‘Get the hell out of here and leave me alone!’

  He slumped down onto the sofa, his head in his hands. What is becoming of me, he asked? What is becoming of me?

  Three days later he picked up a call to say that Victor Wallace was dead. Heart attack. Stress, said the doctor. Told him to ease up and he didn’t take any notice.

  Mason was profoundly upset, sent along the biggest wreath he could lay his hands on when it came to the day of the funeral. Made sure Wallace’s wife had plenty of money to live on and told her Victor was more than an agent; he was a close friend. By all accounts, Wallace hadn’t told her about his meeting with Mason. She remained ignorant of it and that caused him more pain than he thought he could feasibly bear.

  ‘There’s always a price to pay,’ Betsy told him cryptically as they walked away from the graveside. A few photographers took the opportunity to snap pictures. Dressed completely in black, he didn’t look too much different to Dragutin, he thought bleakly.

  They’d been back at the house a couple of hours when Betsy took a call from Davey.

  ‘We’ve got to go to him right away,’ she urged Mason.

  ‘Why? What’s the matter?’ he replied dully. ‘I’m not in the mood. I’ve just been to a funeral, you might have noticed.’

  ‘Davey’s in trouble,’ she said, grabbing her coat. ‘Are you going to drive me or not? I can’t drive in this condition and I’m not asking the chauffeur. This is a private matter.’ She groaned. ‘Hurry, for God’s sake!’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  She didn’t answer and he followed dumbly, his mind numb. She slammed the car door shut. ‘Put your foot down!’ she said. ‘I’ve got to get to him f
ast.’

  ‘Where are we going, Betsy? Hell, I’ve no idea where the man is hanging out.’

  ‘He’s got a small place in Owensmouth, San Fernando Valley. I’ll direct you – just drive!’

  She fretted the entire way. Mason was surprised when they entered undeveloped scrubland. The area had been bought by the Los Angeles Suburban Homes Co around seventeen years ago. Houses were being thrown up, the area changing rapidly, but they’d travelled to the edge of the developments and taken a detour down a dirt track into the middle of nowhere. It ended at a run-down wooden shack.

  ‘He’s been living here all this time? In this dump?’

  ‘Pull over! Pull over!’ she said, throwing open the car’s door before the vehicle had stopped.

  He shouted out a warning. ‘Careful – you’ll fall over and do some damage.’

  A muscular black mongrel dog barked viciously at them, lunged at Mason’s feet as he passed and was hauled back by a length of rusted chain. It coughed and resumed its barking. Betsy was at the door, trying the handle but it was locked.

  ‘Break it down, Rick!’ she cried. ‘Quickly!’

  The fear and urgency ablaze in her eyes told him not to argue. He put his shoulder against the door, but the hefty timber refused to budge. The frame eventually splintered on the third attempt and the door fell off its rusted hinges and landed on the wooden floor of the shack sending up a cloud of dust.

  In the gloom he saw a chair turned over on the floor, and above it a dark shape jerking and kicking. Davey was hung by his neck from rope fastened to a hook driven into wooden ceiling joists. His eyes were bulging from their sockets, his tongue forced out of his mouth like a fat slug, and his skin was turning blue.

  Betsy screamed. ‘Get him down, quick!’

  ‘Knife!’ he shouted, pointing to a blade on a table next to a loaf of bread. She handed it to him as he lifted the chair, stood it up and set Davey’s feet on it. He took his weight and slashed at the rope, hacking manically till Davey fell limply to the floor, taking Mason with him. Betsy tore the rope from around Davey’s throat, the man gasping and clutching the red, sore-looking band around his neck.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she sobbed. ‘Davey, what are you doing?’

  ‘I can’t take it any more, Betsy,’ he said hoarsely, his words hardly intelligible. ‘I’ve got to end it. I can’t live like this, knowing what happened. They’re coming to get me, Betsy!’

  ‘Who’s coming to get you?’ Mason asked. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  ‘They’re getting close, Betsy,’ he said, beginning to cry. ‘I don’t want to sit in that chair. Don’t let them take me…’

  She cradled his head, stroked his hair. ‘They won’t get you, Davey, I promise.’ Tears ran down her cheeks. ‘Help me get him over to the bed, Rick,’ she said.

  They Hauled him to an iron bedstead, its springs screeching as it took his weight.

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ he asked. He noticed a couple of empty hooch bottles. ‘He’s as drunk as a skunk,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t drink…’

  Eventually, Davey settled down, appeared to drift off to sleep. Betsy left him, took Mason’s arm and led him outside to the porch. ‘There’s something you need to know,’ she said, choking on her emotion.

  ‘No kidding. What’s going on, Betsy? Who is out to get him? And why would he want to try and kill himself?’

  There was a decrepit old bench on the porch. Betsy cradled her swollen midriff as she settled herself slowly down onto the aged seat. The Sun was looking to set soon.

  ‘It’s been a horrible day,’ she observed. ‘First Victor’s funeral, and now this…’

  ‘Is Davey in trouble?’

  Her eyes looked into his. ‘We’re both in trouble, Rick. We’re in big trouble.’

  * * * *

  25

  Justice

  ‘In the beginning there was just Davey, our pa and me. Never knew my ma; she either died tragically or ran off with another guy, depending on how pa was feeling. We were brought up in a Wisconsin shack not unlike this one. Worse than this one. Except it was home. Whenever I think of home I think of that shack. Mean and dirty, but it was the only home I ever had and better than some people lived in. At least we weren’t sleeping rough on the streets. Not yet.

  ‘My real name isn’t Betsy Bellamy, but I guess you already knew that,’ she said. ‘I was baptised Margaret Harvey, and Davey’s name is Peter. Peter Harvey. Anyhow, turned out pa was put away in jail for stealing a car and killing a man. Crazy, really, because he’d never driven a car before, lost control almost straight away and ran it into a guy. He didn’t mean to kill the man, but they put him away for murder, because he was a hothead and one time pa and this guy had some kind of big argument over a dog and pa had threatened to kill him. He was drunk and never meant a word but they were looking to make an example of someone and pa was unlucky enough to be that example. They gave him life. Well, they were looking to put me and Peter into some kind of home. I’d be about nine, Peter eleven, and we sure didn’t intend getting split up so we decided to get the hell out of there real quick before they tried. That was back in ’11. Pa, we learned, got a knife in the gut for being the hothead again; you can’t be a hothead inside.

  ‘We hit the road, travelling from place to place, town to town, wherever there was food and shelter to be found, but we always stuck together. Peter, he said he’d always look after his little sister, no matter what. He’d take whatever work he could and one time got himself a job in a repair yard, where he found he had a nose for fixing cars. Ironic really, I guess, as it was a car that got us into the mess in the first place. Me, I tried my hands at whatever I could get and generally we got by, avoiding the law, keeping out of trouble, moving on when things got uncomfortable or opportunities dried up. I found I could sing, act a little, and earned a crust with a travelling carnival for a time. Peter helped fix the engines for them. But Peter got on the wrong side of the carnival owner and at the next town he had him framed and arrested for petty theft. That’s where he got a record, spent a few months behind bars and that was the end of the carnival. The carnival’s where I got a taste for acting, found out I could hold an audience. Only good thing to come out of it.

  ‘When Peter got out we hit the road again, and washed up in Louisiana a few years later. I was sixteen, got a job at a hotel. Peter wanted to join up for the war, but they turned him down because of his age and because he had a record, so he answered an ad for a handyman and mechanic, to help around a guy’s house and drive and look after his two cars. The man turned out to be a writer by the name of John Saunders who’d bought himself a farm but knew nothing about farms, lived in a big house all by himself except for a maid who came in once in a while to keep the place clean. He’d made his money from a series of plays he’d written before the war but hadn’t had much success since. He was working on a new play that he thought would revive his fortunes. Peter was the happiest I’d seen him in a long while. He helped around the old farm any way he could, and kept Saunders’s cars on the road, every now and again driving the guy wherever he needed to get. Seemed back then we could start to think about getting a life for ourselves. We rented a quiet place a mile away from Saunders’s farm.

  ‘Then one day Peter plucked up the courage and showed Saunders a piece of writing he’d been working on and, surprised at his latent talent, sort of took him as his pupil. Over the next year Saunders taught him how to hone his craft, lending him books, reading what he’d written. They became close friends. Or so I thought.

  ‘Up till then I’d never met John Saunders. Never been to the house. Peter hadn’t mentioned me – it was our rule in the early days when we might have been taken back to Wisconsin as kids, never to mention each other, and the rule stuck. He told Saunders about me, about my acting in the carnival and how good I was and Saunders asked to see me in private one night. He seemed an OK kind of guy. Older than I imagined. He told me he was writing a new play, that it was alm
ost done and he was looking for someone to play the lead. He gave me pieces to read, said he was impressed. Asked me to come back the next day, a Sunday.

  ‘I went along, expecting to read some more. But he locked the door, grabbed me, threw me to the floor and…’

  Mason touched her arm. Her body was trembling, her face contorted by emotion as she stared down at the rotting wooden boards of the porch. ‘Betsy…’ he said. ‘What did he do?’

  She blinked rapidly, a jaw muscle twitching. ‘He raped me.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Mason breathed, his fingers tightening around her arm. She pulled her arm away.

  ‘He raped me. He was like a savage beast. Threatened to kill me. I thought he would. Afterwards, I went home, tried to scrub myself clean, but Peter took one look at me and knew something was wrong. I eventually told him. He flew into a rage and stormed out of the house. I ran after him, telling him to come back, that we’d call the police. But he wouldn’t listen and I couldn’t catch him.

  ‘When I finally got to Saunders’s house I heard a woman screaming, and Peter came running out. He ran up to me, grabbed me by the wrist. His hands were covered in blood. The maid was standing at the door screaming that there’d been a murder; that John Saunders had been shot with his own gun. I asked Peter what he’d done, but he didn’t answer, he dragged me away and we ran. We left everything behind and ran away from that place. We’ve been running ever since.’

  Mason had his head rested in both hands, his fingers massaging his skull. ‘Christ, Betsy, why didn’t you tell me any of this before?’

  ‘How could I? I love you, I wanted you, and if I’d told you any of this you’d have dumped me and who could blame you? I wish I’d never sat down on that trunk with you and got to talking. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.’

  ‘I love you, Betsy. You’re carrying my child. Shit, this is one hell of a mess.’