The Listening Walls

by Margaret Millar

  When he returned, Miss Burton had stopped crying but she still looked moist and disheveled.

  “You’d better straighten up a bit,” he said. “You know where the bathrooms are.”

  She blushed at the word, which seemed suddenly in­timate and full of meaning.

  “We don’t want the cab driver getting curious about your appearance,” he added. “You’ll be picked up, by the way, at the northwest corner of Cabrillo in ten min­utes. I thought it would be more discreet than having him come here. Incidentally, discreet is a good word for you to remember.”

  “I never ever had to be discreet before,” she said pain­fully. “I never ever had anything to hide before.”

  “Have you now?”

  “I—I don’t—know.”

  “If you don’t know, you’d better act on the assumption that you have.”

  “I feel so confused.”

  “Try not to let it show.”

  “How can I help it? How can I go to the office tomor­row morning like nothing has happened?”

  “You’ve got to,” he said. “You have no choice.”

  “I can quit. Maybe under the circumstances, it would be better if I quit.”

  “Do you realize what will happen if you do? Mr. Bran­don will immediately assume that I’m setting you up in a love nest, with my wife’s money.”

  She shrank inside the yellow coat as if it were a hiding shell, a protection from the terrible intimacy of such words as love nest.

  “I’m trying to help you, Miss Burton. But you have to help yourself too. And me. We’re in this together.”

  “No,” she whispered. “We’re not. We’re not in any­thing together. I haven’t done anything, said anything. I’m innocent. I’m innocent!”

  “I know you are.”

  “But I’ve got to prove it. How can I prove it?”

  “By keeping control of yourself. Don’t discuss me or my personal affairs with anyone. Don’t answer questions, don’t volunteer information.”

  “Those are all don’ts. What can I do?”

  “The best thing would be to hurry up and get out of here. Now go and wash your face and comb your hair.” The words were brusque but he spoke them in a kindly, almost paternal tone, and she reacted like an obedient child.

  In the bathroom off the kitchen she washed her face and dried it on the only towel hanging on the rack. She knew it must be Rupert’s towel and when she pressed it against her forehead and her hot cheeks she wanted to cry again, just stand there for a long time and cry.

  He was waiting for her in the kitchen, wearing his top­coat and a fedora. His skin looked gray under the fluo­rescent lights. “I’ll walk you to the corner.”

  “No. You must be tired. You should go to bed.”

  “I don’t want you walking along a city street alone at midnight.”

  “Is it midnight?”

  “Later than that.”

  Outside, the fog was dripping from the eaves like rain. They walked side by side, as far apart as they could get on the narrow sidewalk, self-consciously avoiding per­sonal contact. But the contact was there, invisibly bridg­ing the space between them. Miss Burton could feel it as she had felt it in the bathroom, pressing Rupert’s towel against her face. She was exquisitely aware of every movement he made, every breath he took, the stride of his long legs, the swing of his arms, the sighs that seemed to be words which mustn’t be said. What words, she thought, and do I want to hear them?

  She spoke to hide her thoughts. “It’s so—quiet.”

  “Yes.”

  “Funny, I feel so noisy inside.”

  “Noisy in what way?”

  “Gongs. Gongs are clanking.”

  He smiled slightly. “I’ve never heard gongs. Thunder, though. Lots of that.”

  “I guess everybody has their own personal noise in­side.”

  “I guess they do,” he said. “Your cab’s waiting.”

  “I see it.”

  “Here’s five dollars to cover your fare.”

  She felt that by accepting the money she was accepting more than her taxi fare, but she didn’t argue, didn’t even hesitate. He put the five-dollar bill in her outstretched hand. It was the only physical contact they’d had all evening.

  He returned to the house and, for the dozenth time that day, he reread the letter that had accompanied the silver box.

  Dear Rupert:

  I wish to thank you and Amy for the beautiful wreath, and you for the note of condolence. The fu­neral was very quiet, and though Wilma would have called it oversentimental, we found it satisfying. Per­haps, as Wilma always claimed, funerals are barbaric affairs, but they are a custom and a convention, and in times of stress we lean on custom and convention.

  I hope that Amy has recovered from the shock by this time. It was unfortunate that she had to be a witness, or that anyone had to be. But Wilma may have planned it that way—she could never do anything in private, there always had to be an audience, whether it was an applauding one or a hissing one. Her other attempt at suicide, after her first divorce, was under­taken in the bathroom of a friend’s house while a large party was going on. None of us there felt we could have prevented what happened, so Amy must not feel that she could have prevented it. . . .

  Rupert remembered the occasion well. Amy had been at Lake Tahoe with the Brandons at the time, so he had gone alone to the hospital to see Wilma. Without make­up, and wearing a regulation gown, she looked pale and haggard.

  “Wilma?”

  “Fancy meeting you here. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. If anyone can be comfortable in this stink­ing hole.”

  “What in God’s name made you do it, Wilma?”

  “Such a question.”

  “I’m asking it.”

  “O.K., I was bored. All those silly people chattering and laughing. I saw the pills in the medicine cabinet and took them. Have you ever had your stomach pumped out? It’s quite an experience.”

  “I think you’d better go and see a psychiatrist.”

  “I’ve been seeing one for the past two weeks. He’s very cute. He has the curliest eyelashes. I sit and look at his eyelashes for fifty minutes three times a week. It’s fascinating. I may get a crush on him. On the other hand I may get bored. There’s not a hell of a lot to eyelashes.”

  “You’ve got to take this seriously.”

  “I’m tired, pal. Get out, will you?”

  In less than two months Wilma became bored with the psychiatrist’s eyelashes and quit seeing him.

  Rupert returned to the letter.

  ... I could talk about Wilma for hours at a time—and often have—but I never seem to reach any clearer understanding of her. What a pity that all her drive and energy wasn’t channeled into constructive out­lets. It would have been far better if she’d had to go out and support herself instead of living on alimony checks. We have not been able, by the way, to find out where Wilma’s husband, Robert Wyatt, is to tell him about Wilma’s death. He won’t be very inter­ested anyway, except that it will save him money.

  You’re probably wondering about the silver box. It was among Wilma’s things that were sent on to me from Mexico City. It must have been damaged in transit, but it is still a handsome piece of work. Earl and I assumed, from the monogram inside the lid, that she intended it as a gift for you. She always spoke of you with deep affection, and I know how patient you and Amy have been with what Earl called Wil­ma’s “shenanigans.” Please keep the box in memory of her.

  Give our best regards to Amy and thank you again for the beautiful wreath. Yellow roses were always Wilma’s favorite. How thoughtful of you to remem­ber.

  Sincerely,

  Ruth Sullivan.

  Yellow roses.

  “I hop
e,” Wilma had said once, “that when I die some­one will send me yellow roses. How about it, Rupert?”

  “All right. If I’m still around.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Promises to dead people are easy to break. When I think of all the promises I made to my parents—if I’ve kept any of them it’s sheer accident. So forget the whole thing, will you?”

  “I don’t think,” Amy had said primly, “that people ought to talk about their own funerals. . . .”

  He tossed the letter and its envelope into the fire. Then he picked up the silver box hesitantly, as if he didn’t want to touch it. It looked like a coffin. But not Wilma’s coffin. The initials on the lid were his own.

  He went out to the garage, holding the box under his topcoat.

  Half an hour later, as he approached the middle of Golden Gate Bridge, he threw the little silver coffin over the guard rail. It sank first into the fog, then into the sea.

  12.

  The runways of International Airport were steaming under the heat of a surprise sun, and planes that had been grounded overnight were taking off in all directions as fast as space could be cleared for them. Inside the glass walls the loudspeaker, like an invisible tyrant, gave out constant orders to its subjects: “Pan American, flight 509 for Hawaii, now boarding at Gate Seven . . . Mr. Paul Mitchell, report to United Air Lines, Mr. Paul Mitchell. . . . Trans World Airlines flight 703 to Chi­cago and New York has been delayed half an hour. . . . Do not attempt to board planes before your flight num­ber has been announced . . . . Gate Seven is now open for Pan American flight 509 to Hawaii. . . . Mrs. James Swartz, repeat, Mrs. James Swartz, your ticket has not been validated for Dallas, Texas. Report immediately to the United Air Lines desk. . . . Gate Ten is now open for flight 314 to Seattle. . . .

  Behind the Western Air Lines counter, a young pink-faced man in horn-rimmed spectacles was doing some paper work behind a nameplate that identified him as Charles E. Smith.

  When Dodd approached, the young man said, without looking up, “Can I do anything for you?”

  “I’d like a ticket to the moon.”

  “What in . . . Oh, it’s you. Dodd. Somebody been murdered?”

  “Yeah,” Dodd said pleasantly. “Your whole family, including cousin Mabel, has been wiped out by a mad bomber.”

  “I confess.”

  “Good boy.”

  “So what else is new?”

  “I’m in the market for some information, Smitty.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “On Sunday night, September the fourteenth, a man and wife supposedly landed here after a flight from Mex­ico City. What I want to know is, did they both get off the plane, did one of them, did either of them?”

  “That sounds simple enough,” Smitty said. “But it isn’t.”

  “You keep records, don’t you?”

  “Sure, we keep records. We have the names of every person who’s boarded any of our planes for the last two years.”

  Dodd looked impatient. “Well?”

  “I said boarded. We’re not in business for our health. We collect the fares and get the passengers on board. Where they get off is not our concern.”

  “You mean if I bought a ticket to New York and got off at Chicago instead, no one would notice the differ­ence?”

  “It wouldn’t be part of our records,” Smitty said. “But someone might notice the difference.”

  “Such as?”

  “A member of the crew. One of the stewardesses, for instance, might recall you particularly because you tried to get fresh or drank three martinis before dinner in­stead of one. Or the radio operator, the co-pilot, the pi­lot—they all take trips to the head and sometimes they stop and chat with the passengers.”

  “Do you keep records of the crew on each flight?”

  “The dispatch clerk does.”

  “How about looking up September the fourteenth. Better check the thirteenth, too.”

  Smith took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “What kind of business are you on, Dodd?”

  “It’s never clean.”

  “I know that, but what’s involved?”

  “Love, hate, money, take your choice.”

  “I’ll take money,” Smitty said blandly.

  “Are you implying that you’d accept a bribe? This is a shock to me, son, a truly terrible sh—”

  “Wait in the coffee shop. I get off duty in fifteen min­utes.”

  The coffee shop was crowded to the doors. It was easy enough to spot the people who were waiting for their planes. They ate with anxious haste, one eye on the clock, one ear on the loudspeaker. The women fussed with their hats and handbags, the men rechecked their tickets. They looked tense and irritable. Dodd wondered where all the happy travelers were that he saw in the vacation ads.

  He jostled for a place at the counter and ordered coffee and a Danish pastry. While he ate he eavesdropped on the conversation of the two middle-aged women beside him who were embarking on a trip to Dallas.

  “I’ve got this feeling I forgot something. I just know . . .”

  “The gas. Did you remember to turn off the gas?”

  “I’m sure I did. I think I did. Oh, dear!”

  “You brought the dramamine, I hope.”

  “Here it is. Not that it will do any good. I feel sick al­ready.”

  “Imagine the nerve of them making me weigh my purse along with my luggage just because it’s a little over­size.”

  “Even if I didn’t turn off the gas the house wouldn’t blow up, would it?”

  “Take the dramamine. It will quiet your nerves.”

  When they left, Dodd silently wished them bon voyage and put his topcoat over one of the vacant stools to save it for Smitty.

  He was on his second cup of coffee when Smitty came in. “Done?”

  “Done,” Smitty said. “Saturday, September thirteen. Pilot Robert Forbes, lives in San Carlos but now in flight. Co-pilot James Billings, Sausalito, now off duty. Radio operator Joe Mazzino, Daly City, now on sick leave. Three stewardesses. Two of them, Ann Mackay and Maria Fernandez, are now in flight. The third, Betty deWitt, turned out to be married and was fired last week. Her husband’s Bert Reiner, a jet pilot attached to Moffett Field and they live in Mountain View down the peninsula. Mrs. Reiner’s your girl, if you can get to her.”

  “How come?”

  “She was the only one of the crew on both flights, the thirteenth and fourteenth, taking the place of another girl who was ill. The trouble is, Betty might not want to cooperate. She was sore as hell when they found out she was married and gave her the sack.”

  “I’ll try my luck anyway. Thanks, Smitty. You’re a model of efficiency.”

  “Don’t applaud,” Smitty said. “Just pay.”

  Dodd gave him ten dollars.

  “Jesus, you’re a cheapskate, Dodd.”

  “It took you fifteen minutes to get the information. That’s forty bucks an hour. Where else could you make forty bucks an hour? See you later, Smitty.”

  He took the Bayshore Freeway back to town. When he reached his office his secretary, Lorraine, was on the phone and he knew from the sour expression on her face that she didn’t like the assignment he’d given her.

  “I see. . . . Yes, Mr. Kellogg must have given me the name of the wrong kennels. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  She hung up, crossed out another number on the scratch pad, and immediately began dialing again.

  Dodd reached over and broke the connection. “Aren’t we speaking to each other this morning?”

  “I have to save my voice for all these lies I’m telling.”

  “Any luck so far?”

  “No. And I can feel an attack of laryngitis coming on.”
<
br />   “Until it arrives, keep phoning.” Dodd knew better than to sympathize with Lorraine’s ailments, which were numerous and varied enough to fill a medical textbook. “Any mail?”

  “The letter came you were waiting for from Mr. Fow­ler in Mexico City. Special delivery. I left it on your desk.”

  Lorraine took a cough drop, parked it expertly inside her left cheek and began dialing again. “I am calling about Mr. Kellogg’s Scottie . . .”

  Dodd opened his letter. It was typewritten in the un­even hunt-and-peck style Fowler had used when he was a sergeant on the Los Angeles police force, and bore no date, return address or salutation.

  Good to hear your voice again, you old sinner. But what’s all the hurry and excitement about anyway? Everything at this end seems on the up and up.

  Mrs. Kellogg was released from the A.B.C. Hospital on September twelve. I talked to the interne working on the ward she’d been in. He was reluctant, twenty-five bucks worth reluctant, but he admitted that the authorities weren’t anxious to have Mrs. Kellogg leave so soon and gave their permission only when Kellogg offered to hire a nurse to accompany his wife on the trip home. According to the interne, there was considerable disagreement among the doctors about the severity of Mrs. Kellogg’s concussion. Con­cussions can’t be measured exactly even by an electro-encephalogram test, which Mrs. Kellogg refused to submit to when she learned it involved needles in­serted in the scalp. Personally, I can’t see where Mrs. Kellogg’s fear of needles fits into anything, but you wanted me to give you every single detail, so hang on. The interne’s diploma is still wet, so naturally he knew all about concussions. He read it to me out of a book: the severity of a concussion can be judged by the degree of retrograde and anterograde amnesia in­volved. Ain’t it the truth?

  On the day of Mrs. Kellogg’s release she and her hus­band returned to the Windsor Hotel. From there he put in a call to a Mr. Johnson at the American Em­bassy. Telephoning in this country is an art, not a science, and the switchboard operators have the tem­perament of opera stars. The wrong words, the wrong tone, and the telefonista gets her wires crossed. Ap­parently, Kellogg used the wrong tone. There was a lot of trouble about the call, which is how I happened to find out about it from the telefonista herself. I went over to the Embassy and talked to Johnson. It turned out that he was the man who’d broken the news of the affair to Kellogg and offered his services when Kellogg came down here.