The Listening Walls

by Margaret Millar

  “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.

  “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 t
he 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 k
nown 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.”