The Listening Walls (18 page)

“Coincidences like that happen here all the time. In L.A. you can go downtown every day for a month and never meet a soul you've ever seen before. But here, the downtown's so small I invariably meet someone I know when I go shopping or out to lunch. It's sort of like a vil­lage in that respect.”

“The natives would get restless if they heard you say that.”

“It's true, though. It's one of the things I love about the city.”

“All right,” Dodd said. “So it was a small coincidence. I wasn't tailing the girl, she just appeared.”

“Mr. Dodd, you're going to help me? You're really go­ing to help me?”

“Not you. The kids.” He wanted to, but didn't, tell her why. When he was a junior in high school, his father had been arrested on a drunk charge. It wasn't much, but it made the newspapers. He'd left school and never gone back. “Your job now, Mrs. Brandon, is to be discreet. If the police question you, answer them. But don't volunteer any information.”

“What if they find Rupert and he tells them the truth, that I was the one who saw him at Lassister's with the girl?”

“Rupert,” Dodd said, “will have a lot of other talking to do before he gets around to that.”

17.

When Miss Burton
turned the corner it seemed to her that someone on the street was staging a huge outdoor pageant with all the neighbors serving as members of the cast and crew. It was impossible to tell what kind of pag­eant it could be, the characters and costumes were so varied and numerous: small boys on bicycles; women in housedresses, bathrobes, pajamas; men carrying cam­eras, babies, brief cases; groups of girls twittering and chirping like birds, and grim-lipped old ladies watching in silence from the back of the stage, as if the scene they were witnessing was old, remembered stuff to them.

Both sides of the street were lined with cars, some with engines still running and the headlights on and people peering out from the open windows. Miss Burton stopped and leaned against a lamppost, feeling suddenly dizzy and breathless.
What are they trying to see?
she thought.
What do they expect to see? What are they waiting for?

The wind clawed her hair and pinched her lips blue and tore at her yellow coat, but she was unaware of any physical suffering. People pressed past her, shouting to each other above the wind. A large white dog paused to stare at her as if she was usurping his own private lamp­post.

A woman wearing a battered muskrat coat over striped pajamas called the dog away. “He won't hurt you, he's gentle as a lamb.”

“I'm not—afraid,” Miss Burton said.

“You looked like you were.”

“No.”

“You can't see much from here, but if you go any closer you might get involved. Believe me, it doesn't pay to get involved.”

“What happened?”

“Murder is what happened. In the Kelloggs' house. I've always known there was something funny about those people. Oh, they seemed nice enough, on the surface. . . . Where are you going? Hey, wait a minute, you dropped your scarf!”

But Miss Burton was already on her way, running through the crowd, weaving in and out like a little quarterback pursued by giants.

Dodd was parking his car around the corner when he spotted her, recognizing her first by her yellow coat. She didn't see him, she would have passed by without know­ing he was there if he hadn't called out to her: “Miss Bur­ton!”

She turned to look at him, briefly and blindly, then she resumed her running. He started after her, without any plan or intention, like a dog chasing a moving object simply because it was moving. He hadn't gone fifty yards when he began to puff and a sharp pain stabbed his side. He would never have caught up with her if she hadn't stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk and fallen to her knees.

He helped her up. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“It's a funny time to be practicing up for the four-min­ute mile.”

“Go away. Just go away.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Nothing.
Nothing.
Please leave me alone. Please.”

“A lot of people are suddenly saying please to me,” Dodd said dryly. “I guess it takes trouble to make people talk polite.”

“I'm not in trouble.”

“Any friend of Kellogg's is in trouble. Have you heard from him?”

“No.”

“He didn't call to say good-bye?”

“No.”

“And you wouldn't tell me if he had, would you?”

“No.”

“You can get away with saying no to me, but the police aren't going to like it. They're probably at your apart­ment right now, waiting for you. And from now on that's the way it will be. You'll be watched, followed, every place you go. If they can get to your mail before you do, they will. Your apartment will be bugged and your phone tapped.”

“I have no information.”

“You're loaded with information, Miss Burton. And they'll get it all. They'll take you apart like a watch, your insides will be laid out on a table. No watch ever works the same once it's been taken apart like that, unless it's done by an expert. The police aren't expert, they can be pretty damned clumsy.”

As if to emphasize his point, a police car with its siren open turned the corner on two wheels. A few drivers pulled over to the curb, the rest proceeded as if they'd heard and seen nothing.

“Why,” she said painfully, “why are you being so cruel?”

“Maybe, someday, you'll realize it's kindness, not cru­elty, to warn you what to expect when the police start asking questions.”

“I can't give out information I don't have.”

“And you won't give out what you do have?”

“I told you . . .”

“Miss Burton, what are you doing in this neighbor­hood?”

At first she shook her head as if she didn't intend to answer. Then she said, slowly and carefully, “Mr. Kel­logg left the office at noon. He wasn't feeling well. I de­cided to drop by his house and see if there was anything I could do to help.”

“That's what you intend to tell the police?”

“Yes.”

“They'll think you're a most solicitous and devoted secretary.”

“I am.”

“In fact, they might think you're more than a secre­tary.”

“I can't help the dirt in other people's minds. Includ­ing yours.”

“My mind doesn't have any dirt in it, where you're con­cerned.”

“No?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I believe you're exactly what you claim to be, a devoted secretary, with very little tal­ent or taste for lying. Miss Burton, why were you run­ning away when I stopped you?”

“I heard that there'd been a—a murder.”

“Who told you?”

“A woman, a stranger. She said a murder had been committed in the Kellogg house.”

“That's all?”

“That's all. I didn't wait to hear any more. I didn't want to get involved so I left.”

“Without asking any questions?”

“Yes.”

“Weren't you even curious about who was murdered?”

She turned away, silent and obstinate.

“Miss Burton, your employer was living alone, or pre­sumably alone, in that house. Wouldn't it have been nat­ural for you to assume that he was the one who was killed? Wouldn't it also have been natural for you to stay long enough to find out?”

Her lips moved but she didn't speak. He wondered if she was praying. He hoped so; she was going to need all the help she could get.

“Miss Burton, did you have a good reason to believe that the victim was not Rupert Kellogg?”

“No!”

“I suggest that he called you to tell you he was leaving town because something had happened. Perhaps you didn't believe him and that's why you came out here to­night, to check up on him. Or perhaps he didn't tell you exactly what had happened and you wanted to find out for yourself. Which was it?”

She put her hands over her ears. “I don't have to listen to you! I don't have to talk to you! Go away! Go away or I'll scream!”

“You are screaming,” he said.

“I can scream louder.”

“I'll bet you can. But you don't want to see the police any sooner than you have to, so let's play it calm, eh? You can't drown out the truth by screaming.”

“What you think isn't necessarily the truth.”

“Then why all the reacting? Simmer down. Do some thinking. Your story doesn't hold up. The police won't believe it any more than I do.”

“I can't help . . .”

“You can help. Tell the truth. Do you know where Kel­logg is?”

“No.”

“You haven't seen him since he left the office at noon?”

“No.”

“Or been in touch with him?”

“No.”

“Miss Burton, a woman has disappeared and a man has been killed. Under those circumstances, withholding information is a very serious matter.”

“I have no information, for you or anyone else.”

“Well, I have some for you.” He paused, letting her wait, giving her time to wonder, to worry. “When Kel­logg left town he wasn't alone. He took his girl friend with him.”

She didn't move and no expression crossed her face, but a column of color rose up from her neck to her cheek-bones and the tips of her ears. “That's a very old and very cheap trick, Mr. Dodd.”

“For your sake, I wish it were a trick. But it happens to be a fact. They were seen together at noon, and again later when he picked up the dog at the kennel.”

“I don't believe it. If he had a—a woman with him it must have been his wife.”

“Not a chance. The girl was a pretty blonde, years younger than his wife.”

“Younger.” She mouthed the word as if it had an acrid taste but must be swallowed.

“Twenty-two, twenty-three.”

“What's her—name?”

“If I knew, I'd tell you.”

She was silent, huddling inside her yellow coat for pro­tection, not from the wind outside but from the storm inside. She said at last, “I guess you've told me enough for tonight.”

“I had to. I can't watch a woman like you jeopardize herself for a worthless man without trying to stop you.”

“How do you know what kind of woman I am?”

“I do know. I knew last night when I talked to you at the dancing academy.” It seemed, to Dodd, a very long time ago.

She glanced at him bitterly. “I suppose you followed me last night when I went home after class.”

“You didn't go home, Miss Burton.”

“So you were following me.”

“No.”

“Then how can you be sure where I went?”

“Kellogg told me.”

“That's a lie. He doesn't know you, he's never spoken to you in his life.”

“Let's say his actions spoke for him. This morning he used his power of attorney to take fifteen thousand dol­lars out of his wife's bank account. I deduced that some­one had warned him I was on his trail. You.”

He guessed from her shocked expression that it was the first time she'd heard about the money and the power of attorney. He pressed his advantage: “Did Kellogg for­get to mention the fifteen thousand to you? He has a convenient memory.”

“It was—the money was—is—none of my business.”

“Even if he used it to skip town with a blonde? I sup­pose he also forgot to mention the blonde.”

“You're a bad man,” she said in a whisper. “A hateful man.”

“If, by that, you mean you hate me, I'll have to accept it. If you mean I'm full of hate, I must correct you. I'm not full of hate. I wish you well, I'd like to help you.”

“Why?”

“Because I think you're a nice girl, who's doing some wrong things with the right intentions.”

“I've done nothing wrong.”

“Let's say ill-advised, then.” He jammed his fists into the pockets of his topcoat as if to prevent them from tak­ing a poke at someone. “You went to Kellogg's house last night to warn him. I know that, so don't bother deny­ing it. Now listen. This is important. You went to the front door and Kellogg let you in?”

“Yes.”

“There's a long hall with several rooms off it. Did you walk down that hall?”

“Yes.”

“Were the doors to those rooms open or closed?”

“Open.” “Where did you and Kellogg talk?”

“In the den, at the back of the house.”

“Did you go into any of the other rooms?”

“Just what are you getting at?” she said shrilly. “Are you implying that he and I . . .”

“Please answer.”

“I went to the bathroom. Make something of that. I went to the
bathroom,
and combed my
hair
and washed my
face
because I'd been
crying!
Now make something of it!”

He looked pained, as if the thought of her crying de­pressed him. “I'm not going to ask you why you were crying, Miss Burton. I don't even want to know. Just tell me one thing. Did you get the impression, while you were there, that someone else might be living in the house besides Kellogg?”

“I suppose you mean the blonde?”

“You suppose wrong. I mean Amy.”

“Amy.” One corner of her mouth jerked upward in a sudden little half-smile. “That's a funny idea, that's really funny.” She drew in her breath and held it like a swimmer about to go underwater. “No, Amy wasn't in the house, Mr. Dodd. Not alive, anyway, not listening, not able to listen.”