The Listening Walls (7 page)

“Amy, come home,” he repeated. “Gill's idea, I sup­pose?”

“Well, yes. But I agree with it. It might do some good. Amy isn't the type who'd want people to worry about her unnecessarily.”

“Perhaps she is. How do we know? She's never had much of a chance to prove what type she is.”

“You could try advertising anyway. It can't do any harm. There wouldn't even be any publicity if you made the ad vague enough and didn't mention last names. We certainly don't want publicity.”

“You mean Gill doesn't.”

“I mean
none
of us does,” she said sharply. “This whole business—it would look very queer in the newspapers.”

“It won't take long to reach the papers if Gill goes around sounding off that Amy is dead and I'm about to establish a love nest with Miss Burton.”

“So far he's sounded off only to me.”

“And to the private detective, Dodd.”

“I don't think he told Dodd much, just enough to make it plausible that he wanted the handwriting in Amy's let­ter compared to other samples of her writing.” She got up and leaned across the desk. “I'm on your side, Rupert, you know that.”

“Thanks.”

“But you have to make some concessions to Gill for your own protection. If he thought you were really
trying
to find Amy and get her back, it would help put him straight. So try.”

“Adverti
se, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“All right, that's easy enough.”

“The library should have the names of all the leading newspapers in the country.” She hesitated. “It might be quite expensive. Naturally, Gill and I will pay for . . .”

“Naturally?”

“Well, it was our idea. It's only fair that . . .”

“I think,” Rupert said, “that I can afford to advertise for my own wife.”

Amy, come home.
He could already see the letters in print, but he knew Amy never would.

7.

Elmer Dodd was
a brash, bushy-haired little man, who'd been, at various times and with varying success, a carpen­ter in New Jersey, seaman on a Panamanian freighter, military policeman in Korea, bodyguard to a Chinese ex­porter in Singapore, and Bible salesman in Los Angeles. When, at forty, he met a woman who persuaded him to settle down, he found himself experienced in many things and expert in none, so he decided to become a private de­tective. He moved his bride to San Francisco. Here he hung around the Hall of Justice to get the feel of things, attended trials, where he took notes, and haunted the morgues of the
Chronicle
and the
Examiner,
where he read up on famous criminal cases of the past.

All this might eventually have helped, but it was sheer coincidence that set him up in business. He was having a snack one day in a spaghetti joint in North Beach when the proprietor shot his wife and mother-in-law and the mother-in-law's boyfriend. Dodd was the sole surviving witness.

During the years that followed, Dodd's name became familiar to every newspaper reader in the Bay area. It popped up in divorce cases, felony trials, gossip columns and, more regularly, in the personal section of the want ads where he offered his services as an expert in various fields, including handwriting analysis. He owned a cou­ple of books on the subject, which, in his own opinion, made him as much of an expert as anyone else since hand­writing analysis was not an exact science. He knew enough, at any rate, for run-of-the-mill cases like this Amy business.

Amy sounded like a bit of a nut (Dodd also owned a book on abnormal psychology), but nut or not, she had certainly written all four of the letters Gill Brandon had brought in for comparison. Dodd had known this imme­diately, even before Brandon had left his office. But it would have been impractical to admit it. Experts took time, they checked and rechecked, and were suitably re­imbursed for their trouble. Dodd took a week, during which he checked and rechecked Gill Brandon's financial standing and decided on a fee. It was just enough to make Brandon squawk in protest, but not so much as to cause him to refuse payment.

Dodd was satisfied.

So, in spite of the fee, was Gill. “I don't mind telling you, Dodd, that this is a great load off my mind. Naturally, I was almost positive she wrote the letter. There was only a small element of doubt.”

What a liar,
Dodd thought. “Which is now dispelled, of course?”

“Of course. As a matter of fact, we heard from her again yesterday. By ‘we' I mean she wrote to her husband and he forwarded her letter to me.”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, I—he realizes I'm very concerned about my sister. He wanted me to know she is all right.”

“And is she?”

“Certainly. She's in New York. I should have guessed she might go there—we have relatives in Queens and Westchester.”

“Did you bring the letter with you?”

“Yes.”

“I'd like to see it. There'll be no extra charge, of course,” Dodd added, after a quick study of Gill's expres­sion. “I'm just curious.”

Gill passed the letter across the desk, reluctantly, as if he were afraid that Dodd might suddenly alter his opin­ion and claim all the letters were forgeries.

Dodd knew at first sight that the handwriting was iden­tical with that in the other letters, but he went through a few motions for Gill's benefit. Using a magnifying glass and a ruler, he measured and compared spaces between lines and words, margins, paragraph indentations. It was, however, the text of the letter that interested him: it seemed so much sharper and more positive than any of the others. The handwriting was the same, certainly. But was the woman?

 

Dear Rupert:

 

Whatever made you do such an absurd thing? I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw the ad in the
Herald Tribune.
Gill will be furious if he finds out. You know how livid he gets at the mere mention of publicity.

 

Of course I'll come home. But not right away. As you can see by the postmark, I'm in New York. It's a good place to be when you want to figure things out by yourself. Everyone lets you alone. For the time be­ing, this is just what I need.

 

Don't worry about me. I miss you, but in a way I'm quite happy and I know this is what you would want for me.

 

Please
take that advertisement out of the paper. (Or is it papers? I hope to heaven not!) Also, please phone Gill and Helene and tell them everything's fine. I'll write to them eventually. This business of writing is very difficult for me—it seems to bring be­fore me so clearly and sharply some of the very things I'm trying to forget—not forget, but get away from. The old Amy was a baby and a bore, but the new one isn't quite sure of herself yet!

 

Mack is fine. There are quite a few dogs in New York, mostly poodles, but we meet the odd Scottie now and then, so Mack is not lonesome.

 

Before I forget, the Christmas card list is in the top left drawer of the desk in the den. Order the cards early and have both our names printed on them, naturally.

 

Take care of yourself, dear. Love,

Amy.

 

“Christmas card list,” Dodd said without expression. “This is September.”

“I taught Amy—that is, we were both brought up to at­tend to such matters well in advance.”

“Isn't this overdoing it a bit?”

Gill knew it was, but he asked, “What do you mean?”

“It sounds to me as if she doesn't intend to be home for Christmas and is trying to tell you in a nice way.”

“I can't believe that.”

“Well, you don't have to,” Dodd said cheerfully. “May­be it's not true. Have you talked it over with your brother- in-law?”

“No.”

“I suggest you do. He's probably better acquainted with his wife than you are.”

“I doubt that. Besides, Rupert and I are not exactly on the best of terms.”

“Family friction, eh? Maybe that's the real reason Amy decided to leave town.”

“There was no family friction until she left. Some has developed since, of course.”

“Why ‘of course'?” When Gill didn't answer, Dodd went on, “Cases like this are a lot commoner than you might imagine, Mr. Brandon. Most of them don't get as far as the police files or the newspapers; they're kept within the family. A lady gets bored or disgusted or both, and off she goes on a bit of a wingding. When the wingding is over, she comes home. The neighbors think she's been on a holiday, so nobody's any the wiser. Except may­be her. Wingdings can be rough on a lady.”

Dodd was an expert on wingdings, without owning any books on the subject.

“My sister,” Gill said, “is not the kind of woman who would be interested in wingdings.” He coughed over the unfamiliar word as if it had stuck in his throat like a fish­bone. When he had finished coughing he wiped his mouth and stared at Dodd, suddenly hating the bushy-haired lit­tle man with his metallic eyes and his tarnished, keyhole views of the back bedrooms of life.

He rose without speaking, not trusting his voice, and reached for the letters on Dodd's desk.

“No offense intended,” Dodd said, observing Gill's trembling hands and the bulging veins in his temples with detachment. “And none given, I trust?”

“Good day.”

“Good day, Mr. Brandon.”

That night at dinner Dodd's wife asked, “How was business today?”

“Fine.”

“Blond and beautiful?”

“That's strictly in books, sweetheart.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Mr. Brandon is neither blond nor beautiful,” Dodd said, “but he's interesting.”

“How so?”

“He has a problem. He thinks his sister was murdered by her husband.”

“And what do you think?”

“Nobody's paid me to think,” Dodd said. “Yet.”

8.

On Sunday, the
twenty-eighth of September, three days after Gill's visit to Dodd, the Kellogg's maid, Gerda Lundquist returned from her month's vacation in Yellowstone National Park.

She called Rupert from the bus depot in the hope that, since it was Sunday and he wouldn't be working, he might offer to come and pick her up. No one answered the tele­phone so she grudgingly took a taxi. The vacation had been hard on her pocketbook, and on her nerves too, es­pecially toward the end when the snows began and people swarmed out of the park, leaving it to the bears and the chipmunks and the antelopes for the winter. Gerda was looking forward to a nice pay check and some warm, cozy evenings in front of the television set the Kelloggs had given her the previous Christmas. Television was so rest­ful she often went to sleep watching it, and Mrs. Kellogg would come to her door and rap softly and ask, “Gerda? Did you forget to turn off the television, Gerda?” Mrs. Kellogg never commanded, never gave a direct order. She asked politely, “Would you mind . . .” or “What do you think of . . .” as if she respected Gerda's superior age and wider experience in life.

She let herself into the house with her latchkey and went immediately out to the kitchen where she filled the teakettle with water to heat for some postum and a boiled egg. The kitchen was very clean, the dishes washed, the sink shining, signs that Mrs. Kellogg must be home from Mexico. Mr. Kellogg was more willing than able around the kitchen.

As the kettle began to hum, so did Gerda, an old song from her childhood in Minnesota, the words of which had long since been forgotten. She did not hear Rupert come in, she was only aware of a sudden change in the room, and she turned and saw him standing in the doorway to the hall. His hair was disheveled, and his face and ears were pink with wind as if he'd been running in the park with Mack.

He stared at her in silence for a few seconds. He seemed to be trying to figure out who she was and what she was doing in his house. Then he said, “Good evening, Gerda,” in a flat voice with no welcome in it.

“Good evening, Mr. Kellogg.”

“How was the vacation?”

“Oh, it was grand. But I don't mind telling you it's good to be back home.”

“I'm glad to have you back.”

But he didn't sound glad or look glad, and Gerda won­dered what she had done to displease him.
How could I have done anything? I was in Yellowstone. Ach, it's just one of his moods. Not many people know about his moods.
“How's Mrs. Kellogg?” she said carefully. “And Mack?”

“Mrs. Kellogg is away on another holiday. She took Mack with her.”

“But . . .” The kettle began to whistle as if in warn­ing. Gerda compressed her lips and busied herself at the stove, trying not to look at the wooden peg beside the back door where Mack's red and black plaid leash was hanging. She could feel Mr. Kellogg's eyes pointing at her back like a double-barreled gun.

“But what, Gerda? Go on.”

“I wasn't about to say anything. Would you care for an egg, Mr. Kellogg?”

“No thanks. I've had supper.”

“Eating in restaurants for so long like I did makes you hungry for something real homey like a soft-boiled egg.”

The egg cracked in the boiling water. Gerda added a pinch of salt to the water so the egg white wouldn't all drool out of the shell. Her hand was shaking and some of the salt spilled on the stove, turning the blue flame of gas momentarily to orange.
That's Mack's leash hanging by the door. He's a well-behaved dog, the best, but no one would ever take him out without his leash because of the traffic. Especially not Mrs. Kellogg. She's nervous about cars. She's never even learned to drive.
She said aloud, “Have you been eating in restaurants or at home while Mrs. Kellogg is away?”

“Half and half.”

“I must say you've kept the kitchen real nice and neat.”

“Miss Burton dropped by this morning on her way home from church and helped clean up.”

“Oh,” Gerda said. Miss Burton, that creature with the dyed hair. On her way home from church, was she, and what were the churches coming to these days, pray tell?

She took the egg out of the saucepan and put it in an egg cup. Then she buttered a piece of bread and sat down at the table to eat. Mr. Kellogg was still standing in the doorway watching her with that funny expression in his eyes. It made her so nervous she could hardly swal­low.

“By the way,” Rupert said, “you'll be interested to know that Mack left in high style. My wife brought him a new leash from Mexico, one of those fancy, hand-tooled leather jobs.”

“Well, isn't that nice.”

“Mack thought so.”

“I bet he looked too cute for words.”

“Yes.” Rupert stepped back with a grimace as if he'd had a sudden twinge of pain. “When you've finished eat­ing, I'd like to have a talk with you, Gerda. I'll be in the den.”

The talk turned out to be quite simple. She was fired. No reflection cast on her abilities, of course. A matter of simple economics. Mrs. Kellogg would be away in the East indefinitely, and it just wasn't feasible to keep Gerda on. He made a lot of nice remarks about her efficiency and cooperation and so on, but it all amounted to one thing: she was fired. A month's wages in lieu of notice and the best of references, which Miss Burton would type up and have waiting for her at the office. Good-bye and good luck.

Gerda said, “You mean you want me to leave right away?”

“Yes.”

“Right now
tonight?”

“It might be simpler that way,” Rupert said, “since you haven't unpacked yet. I'll drive you wherever you want to go.”

“I got no place to go.”

“There are hotels. And the Y.W.C.A.”

Gerda thought of the warm, cozy evenings in front of her television set, now suddenly to be replaced by cold, deadly ones in the lobby of the Y.W.C.A. with a lot of other women as dull as herself. Resentment stabbed her eyes until they bled tears.

“Now, Gerda,” Rupert said uneasily. “You mustn't cry. This isn't actually a personal matter.”

“It's personal to me!”

“I'm sorry. I wish—well, we all wish things could be different.”

“This is a terrible home-coming.”

“There have been worse,” Rupert said, remembering his own.

“What about the TV set?”

“That belongs to you. I'll have a man come to discon­nect it and deliver it to you when you get settled.”

“If I get settled.”

“I'm sure you'll have no difficulty finding another job, one you'll enjoy more. Things would be pretty dull for you around here without Mrs. Kellogg and Mack. I sug­gest you try an employment agency.”

Gerda sniffed. She didn't like employment agencies and the snippy way they asked questions and pretended that jobs were scarce just to make themselves look good when they got you one. “I think I'll call the Brandons.”

“Who?”

“The Brandons, Mrs. Kellogg's brother and his wife. They got that big place to keep up in Atherton and many's the time I've heard her complain how she couldn't get decent help.”

He didn't say anything. He just kept staring at her as if he thought she'd lost her mind.

Flushing, Gerda said, “Maybe you think I wouldn't fit into such a fancy place, me and my country ways, is that what you're thinking? Well, let me tell you I heard Mrs. Brandon with my own ears call me a jewel. That was no more than three months ago, and if I was a jewel three months ago I guess I'm a jewel right here and now.”

“Of course. Of course you are,” Rupert said, and he kept his voice very quiet because he felt like screaming. “I happen to know, however, that Mrs. Brandon has a complete staff at
the moment.”

“That's not saying she will have tomorrow or next week, things being like they are in this world.”

“You might not like living on the Peninsula.”

“The climate's nice. All this fog in the city is hard on my bronchial tubes. That's my weakest spot.”

“The Brandons have three children. They're very noisy.”

“A little noise won't hurt me none.” She turned to leave. “Well, I better go find some cartons so I can pack the rest of my stuff.”

“Gerda. Wait.”

She looked back, surprised at the urgency in his voice. “Yes sir?”

“I'll call Mrs. Brandon, if you like, and ask her if she has an opening and what salary she's prepared to pay and so on.”

“I don't want to put you to any trouble.”

“It's no trouble at all.”

“Well, that's real kind of you, Mr. Kellogg. I'm much obliged, I'm sure,”

“I might as well call now, while you're still here, and get the matter settled.” He gave her a dry little smile. “You may even enjoy working at the Brandons. Every­one to his taste.”

While she was in her room packing the rest of her things she could hear him talking on the main phone in the kitchen. His voice was very loud and distinct, and she wondered if Helene Brandon was possibly getting a little deaf.

“Helene? This is Rupert. . . . Fine. And you? . . . Glad to hear it . . . Oh, she's having a great time, see­ing every play in New York. Helene, the reason I called is Gerda. She returned from her vacation tonight, and I had to tell her that I couldn't afford to keep her on. She's first-rate at her job, as you know.... A jewel. Yes, she remembered that you called her that when you were talking to Amy some time ago.... I can't help it if Amy will be mad. It's a matter of simple economics. . . . I can eat most of my meals in restaurants and hire a cleaning woman once a week. To get back to the subject of Gerda . . .”

Gerda, the jewel, fought a brief brisk battle with Gerda, the woman. The woman emerged victorious and tiptoed down the hall to the extension telephone in the master bedroom. She had no need to lift the receiver to hear Rupert; his voice veritably boomed from the kitchen. Mrs. Brandon must certainly be getting deaf. Or perhaps she always had been and covered it up by lip reading.

Gerda's hand, slowed by guilt, reached for the tele­phone.
I really shouldn't. I'm a jewel . . .

“I thought it would be nice if we kept Gerda in the family, as it were. ... I realize you don't need anyone right now, Helene. . . . Frankly, I think you'd be miss­ing an excellent opportunity if you didn't snap her up. Her qualifications are most unusual, you know that for yourself. I think she'd be good with the children, too. . . . Of course, if you haven't a place for her, you haven't . . .”

Meticulous as a surgeon, Gerda lifted the receiver. The dial tone buzzed in her ear. For a second she thought that Mrs. Brandon had, in sudden pique or bore­dom, hung up. Then she heard Rupert's voice again from the kitchen: “Naturally she'll be disappointed. So am I. But we can't ask you to do the impossible, Helene. . . . Yes, I'll tell her to try you again in a few months. Good­bye, Helene.”