The Listening Walls (16 page)

“You'd better come inside for a minute,” Dodd said.

“I don't like this, I don't like it at all. Is he—is he here?”

“He's here.”

“How's he taking it, your breaking in like this?”

“He hasn't made any complaints.”

“Oh. Well. In that case.” Gill stepped inside, moving his body rigidly as if he expected an attack. “I can't see. Turn on the lights.”

“Later. Where have you been all day, Brandon?”

“At my office. Why?”

“You didn't pay a call on your brother-in-law earlier in the afternoon?”

“Of course not.”

“When you left the office to go out and buy that gun, was there anyone with you?”

“No.”

“How long were you away?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Arranging for me to come here with you like this would make a good cover-up in the event that you were here earlier, by yourself.”

“I don't know what the hell you're getting at. Why can't we turn on a light? Where's Rupert? What's going on?”

“Nothing's going on,” Dodd said. “It's all over. Ru­pert's lying in the kitchen, dead.”

“Dead? He—he killed himself?”

“Possibly but not probably. Someone tried to clean up the mess afterwards.”

“Mess? How . . .?”

“A knife.”

“Oh, God. Oh, my God. What am I going to do now?”

“You're going to come right back to the kitchen with me and phone the police.”

“I won't. I can't. My family, my reputation. We've got to get out of here. Quick. Now. Before anyone comes. My God, fingerprints. Have I touched anything? The doorknob. I'll wipe off the doorknob. . . .”

“Don't panic, Brandon.” Dodd put his hand firmly on Gill's arm. “Take it easy.”

“Let me go! I've got to get out of . . .”

“This is the wrong time to throw a fit, believe me. Now exercise some control, will you? I don't like this any bet­ter than you do. I could lose my license on this little gam­bit.”

“It was your idea, it was all your idea.”

“O.K., blame me if you like. Just don't flip your lid.”

“What about Amy? Poor Amy, God help her.”

“Amy isn't here. We are. If God's going to help anyone, I want priority. Now come on. We have work to do.”

“I—I can't. I've never seen a—dead man before. I'm afraid I might be sick.”

“Keep your head up and breathe through your mouth,” Dodd said. “And kindly remember, as you view the re­mains, that you hated his guts anyway.”

“You're a callous, insensitive brute.”

“Sure. But right now you're stuck with me, so let's talk friendly.”

As he spoke he gave Gill a little push and Gill started down the hall, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. When he reached the doorway of the kitchen he paused and let out a sound of surprise. The handkerchief flut­tered to the floor, unnoticed.

“That's not,” he said in a whisper, “that's not Rupert.”

“Are you sure?”

“Rupert's bigger and his hair's much darker.”

“Who is he, then?”

“I don't know. I can't see his face from here.”

“Go over and take a look at it, then. Be careful not to touch him.”

Gill walked cautiously around the pool of blood and leaned over the dead man. “I've never seen him before.”

“Think hard, think of Rupert's friends, Amy's friends . . .”

“I don't know all of their friends, but I'm pretty sure this man wouldn't be one of them.”

“What makes you say that?”

“That haircut, those clothes. He looks like a hoodlum or one of those beat boys that hang out around Grant Avenue.”

“There's quite a difference between a hood and a bohemian.”

“I'm simply saying that I don't believe Amy or Rupert would consort with a man like this.”

“Then what's he doing in their kitchen?”

Gill's face was gray and shiny like wet putty. “For God's sake, how should I know? It's all crazy, preposterous.”

“Well, you'd better call the police.”

“Why me? Why can't you do it?”

“Because I won't be here when they arrive.”

“You can't walk out and leave me holding the baby.”

“I can. I have to.”

“If you go, I go. I warn you, you're not getting out of here without me.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” Dodd said. “Take it easy and listen a minute, will you? We know now that Kellogg had a damn good reason to skip town. But his car's still in the garage. I want to find out how he left and if anyone was with him. I still think my hunch about the dog may be right, so I'm going to drive out to the kennel and check. If I stay here and wait for the police I'll lose several hours.”

“But what will I tell them?”

“The truth. Why we came here together, how I got into the house, the exact truth. They'll probably send out either Ravick or Lipske of the Homicide squad. They're both friends of mine. They're not going to like my not sticking around, but tell them I'll contact them later and give them any information I have.”

“Will I have to talk about—Amy?”

“You'll have to talk about everything. This is a murder case now.”

Gill picked up his handkerchief from the floor and pressed it against his forehead. “I'd better call my law­yer.”

“Yes, I think you'd better.”

16.

Along the ocean
front waves angered by the wind were flinging themselves against the shore. Spray rose twenty feet in the air and swept across the highway like rain, leaving the surface sleek and treacherous. Dodd kept the speedometer at thirty, but the thundering of the sea and the great gusts of wind that shook and rattled the car gave him a sensation of speed and danger. The road, which he'd traveled a hundred times, seemed unfamiliar in the noisy darkness; it took turns he couldn't remember, past places he'd never seen. Just south of the zoo, the road curved inland to meet Skyline Boulevard.

The Sidalia Kennel was built on a bare, brown knoll about half a mile beyond the city limits. It looked new and clean, a brightly lit, two-story Colonial structure with an expanse of galvanized iron fencing on each side, and a small neon sign at the entrance to the driveway:
pet hospital
. A second sign below elaborated on the first
: treatment and boarding. small animals only
.

As Dodd got out of the car an Airedale began pacing up and down its runway in restless curiosity. A jet shrieked across the sky and the Airedale raised his head to howl a complaint.

“It's no use, old boy,” Dodd said. “That's progress.”

The howling had roused the other dogs. Before Dodd even reached the front door every runway had come alive with noise and movement: wagging tails, bared teeth, sounds of welcome and sounds of warning.

As Dodd reached out to press the buzzer the door opened to reveal a short, stout, white-haired man who looked a little like a beardless Santa Claus. He wore a smile and a white coat, both of them fresh and tidy.

“I'm Dr. Sidalia. Come in, come in. Where's the pa­tient? Not an automobile accident, I hope? Those I dread. So sad, so unnecessary.” He shouted over Dodd's shoulder. “All of you fellows out there, be quiet, do you hear me? They're good chaps,” he explained to Dodd, “just a bit excitable. Now what can I do for you?”

“My name's Dodd. I'm a private detective.”

“Now that's interesting, isn't it? Wait till I summon my wife. She's a great mystery fan. She's always wanted to meet a real private detective.”

“I'd rather you di—”

“Oh, it's no trouble at all. We have our living quarters on the second floor. It's noisy but more convenient. You wouldn't believe the number of night emergencies I must cope with, more than any obstetrician, I'm sure. When we lived in the city I no sooner arrived home for dinner than out I would have to rush again to treat some little chap in trouble.”

“The chap I came here about,” Dodd said dryly, “is a Scottie.”

“A fine breed. Loyal, courageous, indepen—”

“His name's Mack. He belongs to Rupert Kellogg. I talked to one of your employees about the dog earlier in the day. He said Mack was ready to be taken home.”

“He
was
taken home,” the doctor said with a pleased smile. “Oh, it was a joyful reunion, for both man and beast. Scotties are true Scots. They don't spend freely, they don't squander their affections on just anyone, no indeed. Fine chaps, Scotties.”

“Kellogg picked the dog up himself?”

“Of course.”

“When?”

“I should say between three and four o'clock. I was treating a Yorkie at the time. The poor lass has distem­per, I don't think she will live. Still, we keep trying, and hoping, and, if you want the truth, praying a bit too. My wife takes care of that end of it. She's a godly woman.”

“Was Kellogg alone?”

“He came in here alone. His wife waited for him out in the car.”

“His wife's supposed to be in New York.”

“Really? Now that's odd, isn't it? I met Mrs. Kellogg a couple of years ago when I gave Mack a rabies shot. A pretty little woman, quiet but friendly.”

“And you say that the woman in the car was Mrs. Kellogg?”

“Now that you've cast some doubt on it, I can't be sure. I assumed it was Mrs. Kellogg because she was with Mr. Kellogg. Why, I even waved to her. . . . Wait a minute. Come to think of it, she didn't wave back. There's another thing I noticed too. . . . Mack didn't seem too anxious to get into the car. Usually, when I've had a dog here for a while, he's very eager to jump into the family car and go home.”

“I have good reason to believe that Kellogg wasn't driv­ing the family car and wasn't traveling with his own wife.”

“Dear me,” Dr. Sidalia said, looking uncomfortable. “He certainly doesn't give the impression of being that kind of man at all. He's very fond of animals.”

“So was Dr. Crippen.”

“The English murderer?”

Dodd nodded. “In fact, it was Crippen's attachment to a dog that led to his capture.”

“I didn't know that. I wonder what happened to the dog after Crippen was hanged?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, I hope a good home was found for him, poor chap. It can be quite a blow to a dog, losing his master.” Sidalia spoke as if the Crippen case was recent, the dog still alive, although he must have known that everyone connected with Crippen had long since died. “Why did you bring up the subject of Crippen in connection with Mr. Kellogg?”

“Kellogg's in the same kind of trouble.”

“You don't mean he—murdered somebody?”

“It looks that way.”

“Dear me. This is quite a shock. I must sit down.”

Sidalia lowered himself into a plastic-covered chair and began fanning his face with his hand.

“The police will be here to question you,” Dodd said. “Probably in an hour or two. They'll want to know about the woman and about the car.”

“I never notice cars. People and animals, yes. But cars, I pay no attention to them. All I can remember is that it was dirty. I notice dirt, I'm a very meticulous man.”

“Was the car new?”

“Neither new nor old. Average-looking.”

“Color?”

“Greenish.”

“Coupé Convertible? Sedan?”

“I can't recall.”

“You said that the dog didn't seem anxious to enter the car. That means you stood and watched. How did the dog get into the car?”

“Kellogg opened the door, naturally.”

“Which door?”

“The rear.”

“That would make the car a four-door sedan, wouldn't it?”

“Why yes,” Sidalia said, looking pleasantly surprised. “Yes, I believe it would.”

“How did the woman react to the dog? Did she make a fuss over him? Did she reach back and pet him?”

“No. I don't think she did anything.”

“Assuming that the woman was Mrs. Kellogg, would you call that normal behavior under the circumstances?”

“Dear me, no! When one of my little patients is re­leased, there's always a good deal of excitement on the part of the family. It's one of the joys of my life, to witness these reunions.”

“How was the woman dressed?”

“I only saw her head. She wore a bright red scarf tied under her chin.”

“What color was her hair?”

“I can't recall that any of it was showing. She was very tanned, I know that. I remember wondering how Mrs. Kellogg could have managed a tan like that with all the fog we've had this summer. Of course, we're fairly sure now that the woman wasn't Mrs. Kellogg, so perhaps she was not tanned at all but had a naturally dark skin. These days it's hard to tell the difference, the way women bake themselves like potatoes.”

Dodd thought,
a tanned or dark-skinned woman, a greenish sedan, a black dog; that's not much to go on.
“When Kellogg left, in what direction did he turn?”

“I have no idea. I went back inside as soon as he started the car. As I told you, I had a patient on the table at the time, the little Yorkie with distemper. A cruel disease, distemper, inflicted on the poor beasts usually by the carelessness of their masters. Would you care for a pam­phlet on the subject of distemper immunization?”

“I don't own a dog.”

“Cats also can become victims.”

“I don't own a cat, either.”

“Dear me, you must be a lonely man,” Sidalia said with sympathy.

“I get along.”

“As a matter of interest, I have two little chaps in here right now who are looking for a good home, a beautiful pair of pedigreed cocker spaniels, brothers.”

“I'm afraid I . . .”

“You have a kind face, Mr. Dodd. I noticed, as soon as I opened the door, that you have a very kind face. I'll wager you have a way with animals.”

“I live in an apartment,” Dodd lied. “My landlord won't allow dogs.”

“He must be an unfeeling man. I'd move out of there immediately if I were you.”

“I'll think about it.”

“Mark my words, a man prejudiced against animals is a man not to be trusted.”

Dodd opened the door. “Thanks for the advice. And the information.”

“Must you go so soon? My wife will be very disap­pointed at missing the chance to meet a real private de­tective. I'll buzz her, it won't take a minute.”

“Some other time.”

“Duty calls, I presume. Well, I hope I've been of some assistance. Not that I would like to get Mr. Kellogg in any trouble, he's a fine, dog-loving man.”

“Whatever trouble he's in, he got there himself.”

“Such is the way of the world,” Sidalia said with more pity than censure. “Good-bye for now, then. And don't forget, when you move to a new place, there's no better company in the world than a pair of cocker spaniels.”

“I won't forget.”

Dodd realized as he got into his car that if he'd spent ten more minutes with Sidalia the back seat would now contain two cocker spaniels, and a lot of trouble.
And a lot of fun. I wonder what Doris would say if I…. No, that's crazy. One dog, maybe. But two, she'd think I'd lost my marbles. Still, not everybody is offered a pair of beau­tiful pedigreed cocker spaniels. By God, I bet they're cute. . . .

The doctor was standing on the lighted porch, waving good-bye. Dodd pressed down hard on the accelerator and the little car jumped across the driveway as if all of Sidalia's chaps were biting at its heels.

He took Portola Drive back to the city. He wasn't in any hurry. An hour ago he'd been overoptimistic about finding out what car Kellogg was driving, the make, the year, even the license plates; he had imagined himself following Kellogg, reaching him before the police did, breaking the case before they even knew there was a case.

“Dodd, boy dreamer,” he said aloud. “Me and my kind face.”

He was aware that the police would be waiting for him at Kellogg's house and taking a dim view of his absence, but a few more minutes wouldn't make much difference. The telephone call he intended to make had to be made in private, without Brandon or any policemen listening in.

He parked the car in front of the building where his office was located, and took the elevator up to the third floor. Lorraine, his secretary, had left a message for him in her typewriter, as she usually did when something im­portant came up during his absence: “Spec. Del. letter from Fowler on your desk.” To make sure he didn't miss the letter she had propped it between two ash trays, as if she mistrusted either his eyesight or his ability to find anything.

 

Dear Dodd:

Had just returned from posting my previous letter to you when Emilio called me from the Windsor bar to tell me that something
milagroso
had happened to him. I don't agree that it's miraculous, but it's inter­esting. Someone sent him two ten-dollar bills in an envelope postmarked San Francisco. He thought at first the money came from some lady tourist who'd taken a fancy to him. Then he remembered that O'Donnell had borrowed two hundred fifty pesos from him several months ago, roughly twenty bucks. I draw several conclusions from this:

 

1. O'Donnell is in S.F.
   
2. He has some means of support.
   
3. His conscience is bothering him, and he's scared. (In my experience “conscience money” usu­ally has little to do with the debt or theft involved. It's a pay-off for other things, triggered by fear.)
   
4. Whatever is on his mind, it's serious enough to make him send the money anonymously, but not so serious as to make him cover his tracks completely.
   

    
   

These are my conclusions. Draw your own. And happy hunting!

 

Fowler.

 

Happy hunting. Dodd repeated the words grimly, re­membering the dead man on the kitchen floor. There were many mistakes in Fowler's letter: all the tenses were wrong. The hunt was over.