Vein of Violence

by William Campbell Gault

  “Except for Parkas,” the Lieutenant reminded him.

  Gnup sighed and said nothing.

  “All right,” Remington conceded. “We’ll start.” He told Milgrim, “Sit anywhere.”

  Milgrim went over to sit next to Rivali as Remington and Gnup came over to stand in front of Davenport.

  Gnup asked, “Did Enrico Rivali come to see you tonight?”

  Davenport nodded. “He phoned around six and came after eight. He told me, over the phone, that he was planning a picture. Well, in my palmier days, I didn’t deal with anyone as morally degraded and aesthetically barren as Enrico Rivali.” Davenport looked sad. “However, this is today, so I permitted him to come to my apartment.”

  Across the room, Rivali growled. Davenport glanced at him and back to Gnup.

  Remington asked, “And is that what you talked about, a prospective picture?”

  “Vaguely,” Davenport said. He glanced uncomfortably at me. “Mr. Rivali had a — a plan. He happened to know that a Mr. Homer Gallup was an ardent fan of mine, and he hoped, thereby, to use me to wheedle the required capital from Mr. Gallup. I — should have expected something of the sort. I told him to leave.”

  “And that’s all?”

  Davenport nodded. “That is every sordid detail.”

  Both Gnup and Remington moved along the line and now stood in front of Blanche and Herbie Thorne. Gnup said, “Everett Milgrim came to see you. Why?”

  Blanche Arden Thorne licked her lips nervously. “We’re not rightly sure, Sergeant. He kept talking about being cheated out of his inheritance, as though we had something to do about that. He said he’d make a settlement now with us, or create some kind of scandal later. I just couldn’t make head or tail out of what he was saying, Sergeant.” She looked up hopefully. “Did Mary Mae leave us some money, or something?”

  Gnup didn’t answer. Both he and Remington turned around and stared at Everett Milgrim. Remington said, “Well, Milgrim-?”

  “I have no idea why Mrs. Thorne is lying,” Everett said. “I simply went out there to see if they knew anything about the will. My sister’s attorneys have been extremely uncooperative. I have urgent business in Florida and need to leave town unless there is some important reason for my staying here.”

  “Don’t you call me a liar, you snake!” Blanche Thorne said. She half rose.

  Joyce put a hand on her arm and said something quietly to her.

  Remington said, “And now you, Miss Thorne. What did Rivali want with you?”

  “Blackmail,” Joyce Thorne said evenly. Her chin went up.

  Rivali rose, muttering in Italian. Remington turned and gestured him down. He turned back and said, “Go on.”

  Joyce Thorne took a deep breath. “He said he knew I would inherit some of Miss Milgrim’s money. He said there was a scandal in my background that would be revealed unless I financed a picture for him with some of that money.” She stopped and stared at the floor.

  Lieutenant Remington asked gently, “Are you Miss Milgrim’s heir?”

  Joyce looked up. “Not that I know of. Oh, perhaps she left me a few dollars, but certainly she wouldn’t leave me enough to finance a motion picture.”

  “And the scandal?” Remington persisted. “Would you rather reveal it privately?”

  “There isn’t any to reveal,” Joyce said firmly. “I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.”

  From the other side of the room, Rivali said, “Humph!”

  Little Herbie Thorne stood up and started over toward him. Gnup moved quickly to intercept him. Herbie sat down again.

  “And then he threatened me, calling me names,” Joyce went on levelly. “Well, I’ve been wary of prowlers, lately, so Mr. Yoshida wired a buzzer system from the cottage to his apartment over the garage. I summoned him that way and he came over. Then we heard this shout outside and we all went out — and there was Mr. Callahan, unconscious.”

  “As usual,” Gnup added, and chuckled.

  Remington glanced bleakly at him and questioningly at me.

  I said, “I couldn’t call any of them liars so far, Lieutenant.”

  “I can,” he said gruffly. He moved back a step and his gaze went from person to person. “All I’ve had is lies so far. I’m going to warn you people that we know a lot more about you than you’ve been willing to reveal. This isn’t working. If we have to stay here all night, we will. We’re going to start over and question each one of you individually and privately.”

  Blanche said softly. “Couldn’t Herbie and I be questioned together, Lieutenant? Herbie gets nervous, away from me. “

  “Perhaps,” Remington said acidly, “he’ll get nervous enough to tell us the truth. All right, we’ll start with — ” he looked around the room — ”we’ll start with you, Rivali. Go with Sergeant Gnup.”

  Then Remington looked at me. “You can’t check any of them, Brock?”

  I said, “From what I overheard Mr. Davenport telling Rivali, his explanation seemed logical.”

  “Okay,” Remington said. “He’ll need a ride home, anyway. You can take him now. Unless you want to stay for this circus — ?”

  “No, thanks. My head is killing me. I’ll bet it’s a concussion. I’ll take Davenport home and check back in the morning.” I stood up. “You can hold Rivali for a while, can’t you? He’s the key, I’m sure.”

  “We can try,” he said. “He’s sent for an attorney. He’s sharing one with Milgrim. I’d like to be there when those two try to outfumble each other for the lawyer’s bill.”

  We went out, the immortal John and I. “What a despicable and avaricious creature that Rivali is,” he murmured. “I’m amazed that he hasn’t prospered out here.”

  “Maybe his timing is bad,” I suggested. My head throbbed in time with my footsteps; my vision was blurry.

  “You’re stumbling,” Davenport said. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’ve a blinding headache. I got bopped tonight. By George Parkas. The fresh air will help.”

  We went out and over to my flivver.

  We were under way when he said, “By Parkas? What happened?”

  “Oh, a private feud.”

  A silence of two blocks, and then: “Why were you listening to my talk with Rivali? Is there a microphone in my apartment?”

  “No microphone. I was following Enrico, not you. I listened outside your open window.”

  “But aren’t you working on Mary Mae’s murder? What connection could my visit with Rivali have with Mary Mae’s murder?”

  “I have no idea. It seems clear that Rivali is mixed up in it somewhere, so I padded along behind him, checking everybody he had reason to visit with.”

  A longer silence, now, a four-block silence. And then John Davenport asked, “And why did you lie to clear me with Lieutenant Remington?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “If you were listening,” Davenport explained, “you know we never mentioned Homer Gallup’s name. I told the Lieutenant we had.”

  I said nothing, hoping he’d go on.

  “Are you trying to protect her too?” he asked.

  “Why not?” I said.

  He sighed. “Yes. Of course. Why not? A girl with a CPA’s mind and an agent’s heart, but beautiful, isn’t she? Why not?”

  “If you think that about her,” I asked, “why are you trying to protect her?”

  “Because I love them,” he said. “Young and old, ugly and beautiful, short or tall, fat or slim, I love them all so long as they’re female.”

  “We’re brothers,” I said. “Blood brothers. How could Rivali hope to get money out of her?”

  “He thinks she’s going to inherit. Some time ago, he and Joyce were co-heirs, evidently, but then Rivali and Mary Mae had this falling out, he claims, and he’s sure he was cut out of her will.”

  “When did he become sure of that?”

  “Who knows? Who can ever know, with that man?”

  “If it’s true,” I said, “one wi
ll get you twenty he didn’t know it before Mary Mae died.”

  John Davenport expelled his breath and said nothing.

  “And now,” I said, “that you’ve admitted the meeting wasn’t for the purpose of hooking Homer Gallup, why did Rivali come to you?”

  “He wants me for the picture,” Davenport said wearily. “Despite what I think of him, Rivali has always been in my fan club. And so has Miss Thorne.”

  “And the scandal he threatened her with? Were you to use it on her?”

  “I was. And he told me what it was, and you can ask from now until doomsday, and I won’t tell you.”

  “It could be connected with murder,” I pointed out. “You’re a citizen first, Mr. Davenport.”

  “My friends call me Jack,” he said.

  “Okay, Jack-level.”

  “Never,” he said. “If you were listening, didn’t you hear it?”

  “I heard almost nothing,” I said. “But thanks for the information.” I turned onto Kenmore. “How can you sleep tonight knowing you might be shielding a murderer?”

  His laugh was ironic. “Oh God — forty years in Hollywood and the man wants to know, how can I sleep tonight? Callahan, even amateurs like Judas slept.”

  I stopped in front of his apartment building. “All right. Good night and good luck.”

  He climbed out and held the door open for a moment. “Good luck to you. Try to think well of me, won’t you? I’ve always been an admirer of yours.”

  “Good night,” I said again. “Good night, citizen!”

  He closed the door and I gunned off, though that’s nothing spectacular in my old flivver. The tires didn’t squeal; only the engine complained.

  I turned into the bright lights and swirling carbon monoxide of Sunset Boulevard, the street of stars, the treadmill of tourists, the winding, grinding, noisy street that leads where all streets lead — to the grave.

  Through Hollywood, through the Strip, through Beverly Hills to Westwood, where I live. And there I slept without dreams.

  TWELVE

  IN THE MORNING, I looked at the pictures I had picked up from the lunch counter but they triggered nothing. I fried five eggs and made half a dozen slices of toast. That, with a quart of milk, was my breakfast.

  The Times had the story of last night’s roundup, but no mention of my having been hit on the head. I hadn’t seen any reporters around when I left; perhaps this story was a Remington press release. He was quoted as saying: “An interesting pattern of deceit and intrigue has been uncovered.” He didn’t say what it was and I had a hunch he had enjoyed very little interrogatory luck with Rivali.

  And I doubted if I would. Even if I had conned Rivali into thinking I would co-operate with him, he would have been too wary to confide in me. I was glad I had put him on the opposite side of the fence.

  Miss Thorne, now — I had not put her on the opposite side of the fence. Perhaps, this morning, she would confide in me. I took two aspirin and drove over there.

  Wallace Darrow’s sumptuous Cadillac was parked near the entrance to the cottage. I pulled in behind him and made a lot of noise slamming the door of my car before going up to ring her bell. Though there wasn’t any dew on Wallace’s car.

  Joyce Thorne looked tired this morning. “What now?” she asked. “More questions? I haven’t any answers.”

  I smiled at her. “I was going by and felt the urgent need for a cup of coffee. You make fine coffee.”

  “Come in,” she said. “Mr. Darrow is here. He’s just proposed to me.”

  Darrow was sitting in the living room. He must have overheard us, because he stared at her accusingly.

  “Good morning, Mr. Darrow,” I said. “Up early aren’t you?”

  “Not particularly.” He rose. “Okay, Joyce. Sorry I intruded.” He stood there like a dog waiting for a bone.

  “You’re forgiven,” she said coolly. “Good luck with your career.”

  He looked at her, at me, back at her, and then gave us a view of his back as he stalked out.

  Joyce looked at me and shrugged.

  “You can be nasty, can’t you?” I asked.

  “I imagine he can too,” she said. “The coffee is in the kitchen.”

  There, we sat at the kitchen table and I asked, “If you’re nervous here all alone, why don’t you have your folks come and stay with you for a while?”

  “They wouldn’t leave their flowers,” she said, “their precious damned flowers!” Her hand shook as she poured me a cup of coffee.

  “He’s the man,” I said, “you identified as a producer night before last. I mean Darrow is. Why did you lie?”

  “I didn’t. I had a half-date with Wallace and a half-date with this producer and the producer phoned while you were here. Now you can believe that or not; it’s a matter of total indifference to me.” She poured her own coffee. “Have you made your explanation to Miss Bonnet yet?”

  I said nothing. I could feel myself blush.

  “You, “she said.” You and your fine talk. The king-sized Lochinvar. You don’t fool me.”

  “I don’t fool anybody,” I admitted humbly. “I’m a bumbling amateur in a highly professional business.”

  She looked up from her coffee. “Migawd, you’re blushing!”

  I said nothing.

  She took a deep breath. “What’s going on? What is all the intrigue about? Why would Wallace Darrow propose to me? Tell me, Brock Callahan, am I going to inherit more than I thought?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. That was no lie; I didn’t actually know how much she thought she was going to inherit.

  “And you accuse me of lying,” she said bitterly.

  I said nothing.

  “And last night you were spying on me,” she went on. “Why?”

  “I didn’t spy on you. I was following Rivali. Did he admit anything to the police last night?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “We were all questioned separately.”

  “Do you want to tell me what this scandal is that he threatened you with?”

  She shook her head. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t want to tell you. What are you to me, Brock Callahan?”

  “I think I could be a friend,” I answered.

  “Could you? And are you loyal to your friends?”

  I nodded.

  “Isn’t Miss Bonnet a friend?” she asked.

  “Quit playing the village virgin,” I said. “It takes two to tango.”

  She glared at me and her eyes misted over.

  “If you’re in danger,” I said, “I want to be a friend. If you’re in trouble, it’s possible I can help. But we both know, don’t we, that you haven’t confided completely in me?”

  “I don’t know what you know and I don’t really care,” she said wearily. “Your leaden charm no longer overwhelms me. Why don’t you finish your coffee and go?”

  I stood up without finishing my coffee. I said, “Somewhere, you will have to find a friend. You’re obviously in the middle of a mess, Joyce.”

  “I have friends,” she said. “Friends I haven’t even used yet. You can find your way out, I’m sure.”

  I went out and closed the door quietly behind me. I was halfway down the walk to the court when I met Homer.

  “Well,” I said. “Forget your key again?”

  He shook his head and looked at me grimly. “I saw your car. What’s going on here, Brock?”

  “I was trying to question Miss Thorne. She was uncooperative. It will all be in your report.”

  “All — ?” he asked. “Brock, Jan’s upset. That sweet little girl is sick about the way you’re acting.”

  “That sweet little girl won’t even talk to me,” I said. “Nor will your unsweet little wife. Whose side are you on, Homer?”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “It’s the men versus the women, isn’t it? No matter what other battles are current, it’s always the boys against the girls, isn’t it? I sure as hell shouldn’t have to tell a Texan that.”<
br />
  “Cripes,” he said. He looked worriedly at the ground.

  “You amaze me,” I said. “A big boy like you — ”

  He sighed. “I guess I lost my balance for a second there. But that Jan, Brock — I mean, how many are there like her?”‘

  “Only one her age,” I answered. “Aunt Sheila’s older. Jeepers, Homer, how many do you want like those two?”

  He smiled and then he chuckled. And then he laughed. He clapped me on the back and said, “Carry on, buddy. I hope to hell you know what you’re doing.”

  “I don’t. I’m not bright, Homer, only persistent. Did Yoshida tell Jan I was parked there all night?”

  “No. Yoshida came through like a man. He said you had arrived only half an hour before us. But Jan doesn’t believe him.”

  “Isn’t that just like a woman? They ask, but don’t believe. Are they here now?”

  Homer shook his head. “They’re shopping for furniture. I only came over to look at my house before they begin to ruin it.”

  I left him there and went down to Headquarters. In the intensive grilling those people had gone through last night, surely Gnup and Remington must have learned something new.

  If they had, it would have to wait. Because Gnup was hurrying out as I came up toward the front of the building, and he said, “I’ve just got the word on that coniine. Solid, too; good enough to take into court.”

  “On who bought it, you mean?”

  He nodded impatiently. “Rivali. I’m going over to pick him up. Want to come along?”

  “I’ll follow,” I said, “In my car.”

  Another detective was already waiting in a Department car, the engine running. They were out of sight by the time I was underway, but I knew the route.

  If I had gone in his car and they were delayed, I would have been stuck with them. This is an area with very little public transportation.

  Rivali. … All along, the finger had pointed at him. In most murder cases, the obvious is true, but the standard cases do not usually come to the direct attention of the private investigators. Men in my despised profession usually deal only with the devious and the deviates, and there are rarely any obvious conclusions to be drawn from the shenanigans of these kinds of people.