Vein of Violence

by William Campbell Gault

  “One doesn’t forget a champion, Miss Rhodes,” I said. I sat on a flowered, softly cushioned davenport. “And you were a champion.”

  “Blarney,” she said. “You’ve got that, too, haven’t you?” She sat in a pull-up chair and looked at me anxiously. “You seem a little peaked. Are you?”

  I rubbed my forehead. “Yes. A headache. I got bumped on the head last night in that fracas over at Miss Milgrim’s old place.”

  She stared at me. “Are you working on that case, on the death of Mary Mae?”

  I nodded.

  “Terrible thing,” she said. “Terrible. And on the radio, a little while ago, I heard about Enrico Rivali. I guess nobody will mourn him.”

  “George Parkas will,” I said.

  She frowned. “Who’s he?”

  “An ex-wrestler. A bit player. A — friend of Enrico’s.”

  “Oh,” she said, and grimaced in disgust. “Oh, I see.”

  I rubbed my forehead.

  She said quietly, “And now you’ve come here to talk about Mary Mae.”

  “If you want to, Miss Rhodes. Only if you want to.”

  “I don’t know if I want to or not,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ll have to think a minute about that. And while I’m thinking, I can make you a cup of strong tea. Best thing in the world for a headache.” She rose and went out.

  I relaxed on the soft davenport in the pleasant room, thinking back to the good days when the industry was alive in Hollywood and the stars were stars, not people. Before the government had moved into everybody’s pockets, there was money made out here, made and spent on the grand scale.

  When Dawn Rhodes came back with my tea, I thanked her and asked, “The stars were different in the old days, weren’t they?”

  “They had less talent,” she admitted, “but I don’t think they were very different. The entertainment profession has always been a degraded and dissolute field, you know. They were never much, but I think they were more fun in the old days.”

  “Mary Mae, now,” I said. “She was about as untalented as any of them, wasn’t she?”

  Dawn Rhodes sighed and nodded. “I’ve seen snips on half-hour TV Westerns with three times Mary Mae’s talent.” She pointed at the cup in my hand. “Drink.”

  I drank. “Good,” I said. “I don’t know why I don’t drink more tea.”

  “It’s wonderful stuff,” she said. “What do you want to know about Mary Mae?”

  “Something that might help me find out who killed her.”

  “Rivali killed her, didn’t he? Wasn’t he in her will?”

  “All right. Then who killed Rivali?”

  “Didn’t he kill himself? Knowing the police were closing in on him, wouldn’t Rivali kill himself? It’s logical, if you knew the man.”

  “It’s logical, but I don’t think he did. You knew something about Mary Mae, didn’t you? I read in one of your columns of many Julys ago a hint that you knew something about Mary Mae Milgrim.”

  “You’re a clever man, Mr. Callahan,” she said. “I had no idea guards could be so discerning.”

  “Then you do know something?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t know anything then. I only suspected it. And I’ve always been sorry I wrote that bit. Because Mary Mae, before Rivali soured her, was a pretty damned sweet kid.”

  “Imitation Southern belle and all,” Dawn Rhodes went on, after a pause, “Mary Mae had good instincts and firm loyalties. How often do you find that out here?”

  “I don’t know. Rarely, I imagine.”

  “Almost never. Why should I demean her memory now?”

  “To help find a killer.”

  “The killer’s dead,” she said. “We agree on that, don’t we?”

  “No. In order to be sure, we have to know why. And when we know why, perhaps we’ll learn that the killer isn’t dead. Mary Mae never married, did she?”

  “Never. She was loyal, as I’ve said. She only had room for one love in one life.”

  I said nothing, waiting. I sipped my tea and the headache lessened.

  She said, “What are you waiting for, the word?”

  I nodded.

  Her bright blue eyes moved past me, staring at the wall, staring at yesterday. “Maybe I don’t know anything. A girl tries so hard to find something controversial to write about, she can sometimes find something where there’s actually nothing.”

  “Not Dawn Rhodes,” I said.

  “Dawn Rhodes,” she told me, “is an old lady sitting in the sun in Santa Monica, watching the sea gulls. I’ve stopped making trouble.”

  “I hope not,” I said. “When a human stops making trouble, it means he has stopped being involved. And when you’re not involved in life, you’re dead.”

  “No,” she said. “False and shallow, that kind of thinking. And you know it. That’s the motto of the phony liberals, that trouble kick. Who is Albert Schweitzer making trouble for? Is he dead?”

  I sipped my tea. Great stuff, warming and strengthening.

  “No,” she said. “Let’s talk about the Rams.”

  “No,” I said. “All right. You didn’t know anything. And you didn’t suspect anything. But if you were Mary Mae, or a star in the same spot, where would you have gone, that July long ago?”

  A long silence, a long, long silence. The tea was finished and my headache almost gone. In this quiet room, we could hear the waves washing on the shore and we could see the whitecaps from Palos Verdes to Point Dume.

  Finally she said, “It’s near Camarillo. It’s called the Village Sanitarium.” She sighed. “They still go there, I hear.”

  FOURTEEN

  AT THE BEVERLY Hills Hotel, I found a parking space some distance from the portico. I could have driven right to the portico and an attendant would have parked the car, but they do it in such a sneering way, because of the age of my flivver.

  I went up to the suite occupied by the Gallups without announcing myself from the desk.

  My Aunt Sheila opened the door and said, “Well — !”

  “Get off the morality binge, you unblushing bride,” I told her gruffly. “Homer here?”

  She moved back a half step and stared at me doubtfully.

  “You make me sick,” I said. “Is Homer here?”

  “Brock!” she said. “What’s got into you? Is that any way to talk to your aunt?”

  “I’ll respect your age when you act it,” I told her. I walked in, and met Homer as he approached the door.

  “You drunk?” he asked me.

  “No. Rivali’s dead.”

  He nodded. “I heard. Good riddance.”

  “I’ve got a lead,” I said. “I want to talk to you about it. “

  “Sure, sure,” he said. “Come in. I thought the police had tabbed Rivali for Mary Mae’s death.”

  “So. And who killed Rivali then?”

  He shrugged. “Does anyone care? Outside of the police?”

  “I care.”

  He stared at me. “Sit down, Brock. Sheila, call room service and tell them to send up some of that Einlicher I stored down there.”

  “Like hell,” my Aunt Sheila said. “Not for him. Did you hear the way he talked to me?”

  “I heard,” Homer said, “and it was about time. You and Miss Bonnet have appointed yourself a two-member morality commission and I don’t think either one of you is qualified.”

  Sheila stared at him and he stared right back at Sheila. In about twenty seconds, she stopped staring and lifted the phone.

  Homer turned to face me. “Now calm down. You came in here like that no-account Lieutenant Remington, throwing your weight around.”

  “I’ve had a bad day,” I said. “My lunch was two hours late and now it’s three hours past my usual dinnertime.”

  “Not ours,” he said. “Sheila, tell them to add another dinner like the ones we ordered. There’ll be three of us.” He looked at me. “Filet. Okay?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I apologize for being rude t
o your inoffensive wife.”

  He smiled. Aunt Sheila said, “Slowly now. Don’t crowd your luck.”

  I ignored her. I leaned back and told Homer about my day right through my visit with Dawn Rhodes.

  “Dawn Rhodes,” he said, and shook his head. “I never liked her much. Always stirring up trouble. A regular Drew Pearson.”

  “You’d love her if you met her,” I said. “So now we come to the Village Sanitarium. If I hope to learn what I want to up there, it might cost money.”

  Our beer came and Aunt Sheila brought it over. Homer sipped his and asked, “What did you hope to learn up there?”

  “The picture. Which would lead me to Rivali’s killer. “

  Homer said, “I wouldn’t pay five cents to find out who killed Rivali. Did you plan to bribe somebody up at this quacks’ roost?”

  “If that’s the only way I can do it and if even that is possible.”

  “Aren’t you sure Rivali killed Mary Mae?”

  I shook my head. “And even if I was, I’d still want to find out who killed Rivali.”

  “Why? You wouldn’t make a nickel on it. Aren’t you in business to make money?”

  “Not completely. I hate killers.”

  “Not all of them,” he said soothingly. “Not the public benefactor who bumped off Enrico Rivali.”

  “If I don’t hate the killer, I still hate the act,” I said. “You don’t want to spend any more money, eh, Homer?”

  “I don’t want to be responsible,” he said, “for bringing the killer of Enrico Rivali to the unjust law. Hell, man, he might get thirty days.” He winked. “That’s a joke, son.”

  “Not to me,” I said. “Death never is, to me.”

  From the background, where she had been unusually quiet, Aunt Sheila said, “Brock’s right, Homer.”

  He winked at me and didn’t answer.

  “After all,” Aunt Sheila said, “to use your line, Homer Gallup, it’s only money!”

  “That was before we were married,” he said. “I was trying to impress you.” He shook his head. “I don’t like it, Brock. Not bribery and not messing into the death of that Rivali.”

  Aunt Sheila started to say something and stopped. I didn’t even start to say anything. There hadn’t been any noticeable change in the tone of Homer’s voice but he had made it clear that his decision was firm. The executive touch ….

  We weren’t strained at dinner but there was an absence of the jovial hilarity our other meetings had engendered. We were polite and friendly and I was embarrassed.

  I had come to Homer with a suggestion that he invest more in this investigation than my day wages. If he wanted to, he could read that as an attempt of his wife’s nephew to milk some extra money out of him.

  At ten-thirty, I said, “I have to go. Thanks for the fine meal.”

  Homer asked, “How about some golf tomorrow? I’m getting sick of sitting around.”

  “I have to go up to Camarillo,” I said. “How about the day after tomorrow?”

  “Camarillo?” He stared at me. “On your own time? Why?”

  “A man is dead. Why not?”

  “Oh, Jesus!” he said. “What kind of man?”

  “Homer,” I said patiently, “I can’t explain it to you if you don’t think as I do. And if you did, I wouldn’t have to explain it.”

  “All right!” he said impatiently. “How much, how much?”

  “Not a penny, Homer. It’s just a whim of mine. Good night.”

  He looked doubtfully at Aunt Sheila but she made no comment. He said,” Good night. Be careful, won’t you?”

  I nodded and went out and down the short flight of steps to the lobby and out to the portico. There, an attendant asked, “May I get your car, sir?”

  “Get your own goddamned car,” I told him. “I’m a poor man.”

  I walked down below the sky-high palms to my tired flivver. The engine started with a clatter and I drove down the winding drive, past the portico and the attendant, down to Sunset and the ten-thirty traffic, mostly Cads.

  Resentment led nowhere; I tried to think of something pleasant. I thought of Jan and was more depressed. I thought of Joyce Thorne. I thought of the Sunday afternoon I had nailed Frankie Albert for a thirty-seven-yard loss when he’d gone back to pass.

  At home, my little nest smelled musty. I opened all the windows and made myself a pot of coffee. I sat up for two hours, plotting my tomorrow.

  In the morning, Aunt Sheila phoned. “Homer’s embarrassed,” she told me.

  “There’s no reason to be,” I said, “and I don’t want his money. You’ve been talking to him, haven’t you?”

  “I swear to you I have not. He’s embarrassed all by himself. He thinks he has let down his finest California friend.”

  “You tell him we’re still friends,” I said. “I think he’s an ace.”

  “I think he’s a deuce this morning,” she said. “Now, you be careful, Rockhead Callahan.”

  I promised her I would. I asked her to forward my regards to Jan. Then I made my own breakfast and headed for the Valley, via Sepulveda.

  The Valley was hot this spring morning. The freeway turned into Ventura Boulevard and then turned into a freeway again, and we were skimming along between the green hills.

  Only in the spring is it really green in this end of the state, but it was beautiful this morning. The smog was behind and we were back in California. Los Angeles is not California, not in any way. Los Angeles is a fungus that will some day destroy California.

  There is a mental hospital at Camarillo and the rumor I had was that the physician who now headed the Village Sanitarium had formerly been on the staff of this hospital but had been forced to resign. By persons and for reasons unknown. To laymen.

  He hadn’t been the founder of the Village Sanitarium. That doubtful honor went to a man named Newton, a man without any acceptable medical degree, who had died at the age of sixty-three, only eighteen months ago, stabbed to death by a betrayed husband of twenty-six. At sixty-three, killed by a young and betrayed husband. … It wasn’t exactly admirable; why did I admire him?

  In the washed, clear air, the hills seemed greener now and the sky was an impossible blue. Why did I live in Los Angeles? Why did I continue to reside in that middle-brow, low-class saucer of smog, when all these green hills were within reach?

  Because I had to eat, that’s why. Because all my clients came from the tarnished or troubled people, and Los Angeles had a surplus of those.

  To the right of the road, enormous signs heralded the birth of a new country club. And also view lots and luxury homes that would encircle the golf course and which would entitle the buyer to membership. The luxury homes could be purchased for as little as three thousand dollars down. There was no explanation given as to why a man with only three thousand dollars should think he was entitled to a luxury home and a golf-club membership.

  Forge on, America, into the atomic age. Armed only with a putter….

  I forged on, the flivver chirping healthily, now that she could breathe. At a side road, a mile short of the Camarillo turnoff, I turned toward the hills.

  The Village Sanitarium was a full two miles from the Camarillo Hospital, an establishment occupying about five acres in a grove of eucalyptus and live oak on the sunny side of the slope.

  The main building was white stucco and varnished redwood; the outer buildings were cottages of redwood, smothered in scarlet bougainvillaea. The pool was imitation white marble, Olympic size.

  Here a drunk could be dried out, an alcoholic temporarily arrested, a narcotics addict weaned, and (if properly credited and financially certified) an heir could be aborted. Here, the mentally sick who should be in Camarillo could be made even sicker (and poorer) by the suave and inept staff.

  At least this is what I had been told.

  I parked the flivver between a Jaguar and a Bentley on the cool, tree-shaded parking lot and walked thoughtfully up to the entrance of the main building.


  The lobby was dim and colorfully furnished, doors leading off it bearing the names of the staff. A pleasant, white-haired lady sat behind a maple desk in here.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Have you come to visit someone?”

  “No, ma’am. I came to see Dr. Carlson. My name is Brock Callahan.” I showed her a photostat of my license.

  “A private detective?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Very private,” I assured her. “Dr. Carlson has nothing to fear from me. I come only for information.”

  She frowned and took a deep breath.

  I asked, “Did you serve under Mr. Newton too?”

  “I worked under Dr. Newton,” she admitted. “Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered. I didn’t know he was an M.D.”

  “I didn’t say he was an M.D.,” she replied. “Though Dr. Carlson is.”

  “Still is eh?” I shook my head in wonder. “What county is this you’re in?”

  She took another breath. “Mr. Callahan, your attitude makes me doubt that you’re here for any good purpose. Would you mind telling me what it is?”

  “Information,” I said. “On a former patient. A woman by the name of Mary Mae Milgrim.”

  The old girl seemed to wince and her eyes were sad for a moment. “Mary Mae,” she said quietly. “Mary Mae Milgrim. That’s horrible, what happened to Mary Mae Milgrim.”

  “It was,” I agreed. “Could I see Dr. Carlson now?”

  “Why? He wasn’t here when — ” She broke off abruptly and began to blush. “I mean, he’s never had any contact with Miss Milgrim.”

  “What you meant to say was that the doctor wasn’t here when Mary Mae was. Were you?”

  She lifted her chin and said firmly. “There are no records here of anyone named Mary Mae Milgrim ever having been a patient.”

  “There had better be,” I said.

  She stared at me anxiously.

  “A sweet girl like that,” I went on, “murdered so horribly, and here could be the information to convict her killer, and you sit there and tell me there are no records.”

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “In your mind, there’s a record,” I said. “Are you a human being or aren’t you?”