The Listening Walls (15 page)

“You're soaking wet,” he said. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, walking. Looking at things.”

“If you hurry, you can catch the 4:37 train home.”

“Aren't you coming too?”

“Later. I have to see Dodd.”

“Why?”

“It's time we had a showdown with Rupert.”

“But why now, today?”

“The dog's been found.”

She looked at him stupidly. “Dog? What . . .”

“Amy's dog,” he said.

15.

“The Sidalia Kennels,”
Dodd said. “It's a combination small-animal hospital and boarding kennel on Skyline Boulevard just outside the city limits. He brought the dog in Sunday night, the fourteenth of September. The vet himself wasn't there but a college kid, a Cal Aggie student who helps out during the summer, was on duty at the time. The dog had a spot of eczema on his back and Kellogg's instructions were to keep him there until fur­ther notice. He paid a month's board in advance. The dog was wearing a plaid harness but no leash. He's in good shape, according to the vet; the eczema's gone and he's ready to leave whenever Kellogg wants to pick him up. . . . Did you call Kellogg's office, by the way?”

Gill nodded. “Miss Burton said he left at noon to go home.”

“We'll catch him there then. You understand, don't you, that there's nothing much we can do except ask him questions and hope for answers. It's not illegal to park a dog at a kennel. And it's not illegal to use a power of at­torney, even fifteen thousand dollars' worth.”

“What would he want with all that money?”

“Let's go and find out. We'll take my car if you don't mind.”

With the slackening of the rain, a wind had risen, and the little Volkswagen wavered with the gusts as if it were going to roll like tumbleweed across the road. But there was no place for it to roll. All the way out Fulton Street the five o'clock traffic moved bumper to bumper. Gill sat with his fists clenched against his thighs, and every time Dodd applied the brakes, Gill's foot stamped on the floor­board.

“It's a little car,” Dodd said after a time. “It only needs one driver.”

“Sorry.”

“There's no need to get all tensed up about this, Bran­don. When we confront him with what we know of the truth, he may break down and tell us the rest of it. Then again, he may have a nice pat explanation for everything.”

“Including the money?”

“The money part's easy. He needed it to send to Amy—her expenses in New York are running higher than she expected.”

“She isn't in New York.”

“So if I were Kellogg, I'd say, prove it.”

“I will, even if I have to wring the truth out of him with my bare hands.”

Dodd was silent a moment, apparently engrossed in guiding the car through the traffic which had thinned out somewhat west of Presidio Boulevard. “Come on now, Brandon. You're not really figuring on that bare-hand bit.”

“I am.”

“Why are you carrying a gun, then?”

“I—don't know. I bought it this afternoon. I've never owned a gun before. It suddenly occurred to me that I ought to have one, that I needed one.”

“And now you feel better?”

“No.”

“Nor do I,” Dodd said grimly. “Get rid of it.”

“That won't be necessary.”

“I think it will. You're not the type who should be mess­ing around with loaded guns.”

“I guess I knew that,” Gill said. “It's not loaded. I didn't buy any cartridges.”

Dodd made a little sound that seemed to indicate amusement or relief or some of both. “I can't figure you, Brandon.”

“If I wanted to be figured, as you put it, I would have gone to a psychiatrist, not a detective. Turn right at the next corner. The house is in the middle of the third block.”

“You'd better leave the gun in the car.”

“Why? It's not loaded.”

“Kellogg might get the idea that it is, and counter with one of his own that
is
loaded. That would leave us out on a pretty thin limb.”

“Have it your way.” Gill handed over the gun and Dodd locked it inside the glove compartment.

“There's one more thing, Brandon. Let me do the talking. At first, anyway. You can horn in later if you like, but right at the beginning let's not get this thing slob­bered up with emotions.”

Gill got out of the car, stiffly. “I don't like your choice of language.”

Dodd's reply was lost in the wind. He pulled up the collar of his coat and followed Gill up the walk to the porch.

It was a middle-income neighborhood where great at­tention was paid to outward appearances. Lawns no bigger than an elephant's ear were groomed to perfection, hedges barely had time to grow before they were clipped. The roses and camellias were fed almost as well and regularly as the occupants of the houses, and were probably given more care and inspection for signs of dis­ease. It was a street of conformity; where identical houses were painted at the same time every spring, a place of rules where gardens, parenthood and the future were planned with equal care, and even if everything went wrong the master plan remained in effect—keep up ap­pearances, clip the hedges, mow the lawn, so that no one will suspect that there's a third mortgage and that Mother's headaches are caused by martinis, not migraine.

Dodd asked, “Who picked the house?”

“Amy did.” Gill pressed the door chime. “That is to say, she took my advice. The property was part of an es­tate sale which I found out about before it was announced on the open market.”

“She could have afforded something more elaborate, though?”

“She could, yes. But not Rupert. Amy has always in­sisted on living within Rupert's income.”

“Why?”

Gill looked annoyed, and Dodd wasn't sure whether it was the question that bothered him or the fact that no one was responding to the door chime.

“My sister,” Gill said, “believes in the good old-fash­ioned type of marriage where the husband provides the financial support. It is not a case of stingi—of thriftiness.”

The quick switch of words interested Dodd.
So he really thinks she's stingy. That probably means he's tried to borrow money from her and she refused. I wonder how hard up he actually is and to what degree his desperate need for Amy is more financial than brotherly.

Inside the house a telephone began to ring. It rang eight times, ten times, then stopped for a few seconds and began again, as if the caller suspected that the first dial­ing had been incorrect.

“He's not here,” Dodd said. “There's no use wasting our time.”

“Wait just a few more minutes. He might be in the shower.”

“Or in Santa Cruz.”

“Why Santa Cruz?”

“No reason.” Dodd shrugged. “I just picked the name out of a hat as a place to go when you don't want to stay where you are.”

“You must have had a reason for picking that name rather than any other.”

“It may not be valid.”

“Let's hear it anyway.”

It was getting dark. The lights in the houses on both sides of the street began coming on almost simultaneously. For a few moments, before drapes were drawn and blinds shut, the street had a festive air, a look of Christmas.

“It's just a hunch,” Dodd said. “Suppose Kellogg decided to skip town, what would be the first thing he'd do?”

“Get some cash together.” “He already did that this morning. What do you think his next move might be?”

“I don't know.”

“I don't know either; I'm just guessing. But judging from what I've heard about some of his characteristics, I have a notion he'd pick up his dog. The Sidalia Kennel is on Skyline Boulevard, and Skyline Boulevard leads to Santa Cruz. If he left the office at noon, as Miss Burton claims, he could easily be in Santa Cruz by this time. From there he'd probably head for L.A.”

“Santa Cruz isn't on the direct route to L.A.”

“He may be trying to avoid direct routes.”

“We can't assume that he's left town,” Gill said. “Why should he? He doesn't know we've found out about the dog and the cash.”

“Someone may have tipped him off.”

“That's impossible. No one else knows about it.”

“No one?”

“Just my secretary. And my wife, Helene. You can rule them out, of course.”

“Of course,” Dodd said, but the ironic tone nullified the words. “Where is your wife now?”

“On her way home, on the train.” Gill consulted his watch. “No, she'd be home by this time if she caught the 4:37. Why? Helene has nothing to do with this.”

“I didn't say she had.”

Inside the house the telephone began to ring again. Dodd turned toward the veranda steps. “Wait here a min­ute. I want to take a look around.”

“I'll come with you.”

“You'd better stay here. In case Kellogg or anyone else shows up you can sound a warning to me.”

“Warning? What are you going to do?”

“On the police books—and I hope it doesn't get that far—it's called breaking and entering.”

“You can't do that. It's illegal. I won't be a party to it. I've got too much to lose. My reputation . . .”

Dodd had already disappeared around the corner of the veranda where a steep driveway led into a double garage that was attached to the rear of the house. The over­head aluminum door was unlocked and rattling in the wind. Dodd pulled it open. Rupert's car, a two-year-old Buick, was parked inside, with the key in the ignition.

Dodd stood for a moment, with his hand on the hood of the car. The engine was cold. He took out his flash­light and aimed its beam at the door that led into the house. The lock was, as he'd hoped and expected, a flimsy one. The attached-garage setup often proved a boon to burglars: people who were careful about protecting their front door frequently put an inefficient lock on a door that opened into a garage. In a matter of minutes he had pried the lock loose with his pocketknife and the door was swinging inward.

He turned off the flashlight and stood in the near-dark­ness, listening for some sound that would indicate the house was occupied. But the wind was too noisy, and on top of the wind the telephone resumed its shrill demands for attention.

Dodd followed its sound across the room and picked up the receiver, hoping that the idea he had was wrong. “Hello?”

“Rupert? Is that you?”

It wasn't wrong. “Yes. I just got home. . . . Helene?”

“I've been trying to reach you for an hour. Listen. Gill went to meet that detective. He's planning some kind of showdown with you because the dog's been found.”

“Where?”

“I don't know where. All I know is you've been lying to me about the dog. Haven't you? . . . Well,
haven't
you?”

“Yes.”

“And that girl in Lassiter's at noon, the one you said you'd never seen before, you knew her, didn't you? You'd arranged to meet her there, hadn't you?”

“Listen . . .”

“I won't listen any more. You've lied about everything. You've put me in an awful spot. I trusted you, I tried to help you. What if Gill finds out? He's crazy on the subject of Amy. He may do something terrible. I'm scared. I'm scared to death.”

“Gill won't find out,” Dodd said. “Take it easy.”

“Everything's such a mess. I don't know what to do.”

“Do nothing. I've got to go now, Helene. There's some­one at the door.”

“Gill?”

“Yes, I'm pretty sure it's Gill.”

“Be careful of him,” she said in a hurried whisper. “He's changed. I can't tell any more what he's thinking, what he's going to do.”

“I'll be careful. You be discreet. Good-bye, Helene.”

She began to cry. He hung up softly, wondering if she was the kind of woman who cried easily or if she was as scared of her husband as she claimed to be.

Dodd's eyes had become adjusted to the gloom. He could see the outlines of the furniture in the kitchen, the chrome-trimmed breakfast set, the yellow work counters, the matching stove and refrigerator. His gaze lingered on the refrigerator. The top part was intact, but at the bottom its outlines broke off suddenly as if the whole base of it had been blown out by dynamite.
No, that's crazy,
he thought.
There's no hole in the refrigerator, it's a shadow. Something has been put in front of it.

His fingers moved carefully along the wall to the light switch and clicked it on. A man was lying face down on the floor in a widening pool of blood that reached almost to Dodd's feet. Beyond the man's outstretched left hand, which bore a gold wedding band, was a kitchen knife with a dark-stained, ten-inch blade. Someone had tried, without success, to clean up the mess. Two or three bloody bath towels were lying in the sink along with an over­turned box of detergent.

Dodd thought first and irrationally of the little dog waiting at the kennel to be picked up by his master. It would be a long wait, a long, long wait.

He turned and fumbled his way down the dark hall to the front door. When he opened the door he saw Gill take a couple of steps backward as if he intended to run away.