The Listening Walls

by Margaret Millar

  “She hasn’t left you, Rupert. Not really. I—I read the letter.” She flushed slightly and twisted one of the rings on her plump fingers. “Gill asked me to read it.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted my opinion about whether it made sense—female sense, as he called it—and about whether I thought the handwriting was, well, authentic.”

  “And was it?”

  “Of course. I told Gill the handwriting was unmistak­ably Amy’s. Only . . .”

  She paused, working at the ring again as if it had shrunk in size and was hurting her. It was the diamond Gill had given her twenty years ago. Amy had still been in the nest then, baby bird Amy, featherless, formless, her mouth constantly open not because of hunger, bird-style, but because of a bad case of adenoids. The adenoids had been removed, feathers grew, wings developed; but there’d been no place to fly until Rupert came along. Helene remembered Amy’s wedding day more clearly, and more happily, than her own. Bye bye, blackbird.

  “Only what?” Rupert said.

  “He didn’t trust my judgment. Yesterday he took the letter to a handwriting expert, a private detective named Dodd.”

  Rupert leaned forward, mute with shock. From Borowitz’s office next door came the spasmodic coughing of the adding machine. Business as usual, Rupert thought, Borowitz feeding figures into the machine and coming up with answers. And a few blocks away, in another office, Gill was coming up with answers too, only there was something the matter with his machine, a loose screw. “What,” he said finally, “does he think has happened to Amy?”

  “He’s not thinking, he’s feeling, don’t you see that? None of his ideas makes sense. That’s why I came here, to warn you. Also because I’m worried, I’m worried sick. It’s not good for Gill’s health to have these ideas.”

  “It’s not good for mine either, obviously. Tell me some of these ideas of his.”

  “You won’t get mad again?”

  “I can’t afford to. The situation’s too serious.”

  “All right then. He said last night he’s not sure Amy ever came home at all.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “Still in Mexico.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Doing nothing. He thinks—no, I don’t mean thinks, I mean feels. He feels she’s dead.”

  Rupert didn’t even look surprised. The surprises were over, he knew now Gill was capable of anything. “A psychiatrist would have a ball with that one. Has he man­aged to feel how she died?”

  “No.”

  “Or when?”

  “During the week that you were down there.”

  “So I went to Mexico City,” Rupert said, sounding very detached, “and killed my wife. Did I have any particular reason?”

  “Money. And Miss Burton.”

  “I wanted to inherit Amy’s money and marry Miss Bur­ton, is that it?”

  “Yes.” She had managed to work the ring off her fin­ger. She sat now with it in her lap, not looking at it, only partly conscious that it was there. “Oh, he doesn’t really believe all this, Rupert. He’s hurt because Amy didn’t confide in him, and angry at you for letting her go away.”

  “There’s more to it than that. You oversimplify. Why do you suppose Gill feels that Amy is dead?”

  It was a question she’d been avoiding in her own mind for several days, and it disturbed her to hear it spoken aloud. “I don’t know.”

  “Because he wants her dead.”

  “That’s not true. He loves her. He loves her best.”

  “He also hates her best. She is—or he believes she is—the source of his emotional troubles. If Amy’s dead, his problems are over. He’s free. Oh, sure, he’ll suffer at the conscious level, he’ll feel grief and pity and all that, but down at rock bottom he’s free.” He paused. “Only he isn’t. She’s not dead.”

  “I never thought for a minute that she was.” But Helene looked relieved to hear it, guiltily relieved. It was as if she, too, scraping along rock bottom, grubbing for satisfactions, had come across a dead Amy, a drowned, bedraggled baby bird with its mouth still open. “Listen, Rupert. You seem to understand that Gill isn’t—himself. You’ll be tolerant, won’t you?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “How far he goes.”

  “I’m sure the worst is over. When something upsetting like this comes along Gill thrashes around for a while but he eventually sees reason.” She had convinced herself, if not Rupert. She picked up the ring from her lap and put it back on her finger, only partly aware that she’d taken it off in the first place. “I must go now. I’m late for a dental appointment. You’ll let us know right away if you hear from Amy?”

  “Certainly. I’ll even bring the letter over so Gill can have the handwriting analyzed.”

  “Don’t be bitter.”

  “I’m not. I’m quite serious about it. What have I got to lose?”

  “You’re being an awfully good sport over all this,” Helene said warmly. “I think Amy’s made a terrible mistake, walking out on you.”

  “She didn’t walk. I drove her. And if she made a mis­take, that’s her business. For her to do anything on her own is a good thing, even if it’s wrong. Perhaps eventually Gill will understand that.”

  “He will, give him time.”

  “She’s never done anything on her own before. The trip to Mexico City was intended to be a declaration of independence. But it was merely a change in dependence: Wilma planned every inch of the way.”

  Helene mentally crossed herself at the mention of Wilma, whom she hadn’t really liked very well but who at least had never appeared in her dreams as a dead bird. “Listen, Rupert. You may think this is silly, but have you thought about advertising for Amy in some of the big newspapers throughout the country? I mean, let her know we’re worried and want to know where she is. You see ads like that all the time: Bill, contact Mary; Charley, write to Mother; Amy, come home. Things like that.”

  “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.”

  “Advertise, 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 . . .”
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  “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.