The Listening Walls (6 page)

“That doesn't sound like the Amy I know.”

“Perhaps there's another one. She was not only drink­ing, she was drinking in the company of an American barfly named O'Donnell.”

“I don't believe it.”

“That's your privilege.”

 

. . . All this may seem nonsensical to you, Gilly. But I can be practical, too. I have given Rupert the necessary authority to handle my financial affairs, so you needn't worry on that score. And please, Gilly, whatever you do, don't blame Rupert for my going away. He's been a wonderful husband to me. Be
kind
to him, cheer him up, he's going to miss me. You will, too, I know, but you have Helene and the chil­dren. (Give them my love and tell them I've gone east to recuperate or some such thing. Don't tell them I've gone off my rocker which is probably what you're thinking. I haven't gone off, I'm just getting on.)

 

Best love, and don't worry about me!

Amy.

 

Gill returned the letter to its envelope, slowly and methodically, as if it were a bill he was thinking twice about paying. “Has she been doing much talking along these lines the past week?”

“Quite a bit.”

“Then she had planned on leaving even before she came home?”

“She came home to pick up Mack.”

“You should have warned me ahead of time, sent me a wire or something. I might have prevented this.”

“How?”

“By telling her not to go.”

“That's the pattern she's trying to break out of,” Ru­pert said, “being told what to do.”

“Have you any idea where she went?”

“No. I'm not even sure she had a definite place in mind.”

“Well, how did she leave?”

“She called a cab, but I persuaded her to cancel it and let me drive her to the station.”

“What time?”

“About eight.”

“Is there any possibility she was coming down to Atherton to see me?”

“None,” Rupert said. “She wrote you the letter, for one thing. For another, she had Mack with her. There are no baggage cars on the commuters' trains to accommo­date animals.”

“There are on the Lark. It leaves for Los Angeles around nine o'clock. By God, that's it, that's where she is, Los Angeles.”

“There are trains
leaving
as well as arriving at Los Angeles.”

“Even so, she shouldn't be too difficult to trace, a young woman traveling by train with a bad-tempered Scottie.”

“Mack's not bad-temp—Oh, for heaven's sake, get it through your head, Gill. Amy doesn't
want
to be traced.”

“She's a woman. Half the time women don't know what they want. They have to be told, guided. I've always thought you should have kept a firmer hand on the reins.”

“Funny, I thought you were holding them.”

Gill colored. “What do you mean by a remark like that?”

“Just what I said. The reins were never in my hands. Nor have I ever considered my wife in the same category as a horse.”

“Horses and women have a lot in common. Put them in an open field and they run to hell and gone.”

“Where did you learn so much about women, Gill?”

“I don't want to quarrel with you,” Gill said firmly. “The situation is too serious. What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing. What do you suggest I do?”

“Call the police. Tell them to locate her and bring her back.”

“On what grounds? Amy's of age, considerably overage, in fact.”

“We'll be able to think of some reason.”

“Oh, for . . . All right. Suppose we do and suppose they find her. What then?”

“They'll bring her home and we'll have an opportunity to talk some sense into her head.”

“By ‘we' I presume you mean ‘you'?”

“Well, I've always been able to handle her, make her see reason.”

“Perhaps she
is
seeing reason,” Rupert said. “Her own. Not yours.”

Gill struck the arm of the davenport with his fist. Par­ticles of dust scurried up and away in alarm. “You're being pretty damn cool and collected for a man whose wife has disappeared.”

“ ‘Disappeared' isn't quite the word.”

“It is to me.”

A sudden draft rippled the moted shafts of sunlight, and a woman's voice called out from the back door, “Mack. Here, Mack. Come on, boy. Time for your run.”

At the first word Gill had risen expectantly, but as the woman continued to call the dog he sat down again heav­ily as if he'd been pushed in the chest by Rupert's fist. Ru­pert had not moved.

“Here, Mack. Come on, now. If you're on that bed again I'm going to tell on you! Mack? Boy?”

Miss Burton appeared in the doorway, her cheeks pink with cold, her hair bleached to the color and texture of straw. “Why, Mr. Kellogg. My goodness. Why I had no idea you were home. Barging in like this, what must you think of me?”

“It's all right, Miss Burton,” Rupert said. “I should have given you advance notice. You know Mr. Brandon, of course?”

“Why yes. Good morning, Mr. Brandon.”

Gill rose and nodded briefly. He'd seen Miss Burton at least a dozen times but he would never have recognized her meeting her casually on the street. She seemed to assume different faces and personalities with each new hair color. Only her voice remained the same, brisk bru­nette, no matter how blond her inanities.

Miss Burton fondled Rupert with her eyes. “This is such a nice surprise finding you home. I just came by to give Mack his breakfast and take him for a run, and lo and behold, here you are instead. My goodness. How is Mrs. Kellogg?”

“She's fine, thank you,” Rupert said.

“Where's Mack? Now that I'm here I might as well . . .”

“You run along to the office, Miss Burton. I'll—take care of Mack.”

“All rightie, whatever you say.”

“I'll be down this afternoon sometime.”

“Good. Things are getting a mite behind. Borowitz has a new girlfriend and can't concentrate. She's ab­solutely nothing to look at, just young.”

“Yes. Well. You'd better run along now, Miss Burton.”

“I'll do that. Good-bye, Mr. Brandon. It was real nice seeing you again. And you'll be along later then, Mr. Kellogg?”

“Yes.”

“My, I'm glad you're back. Borowitz is making a real fool of himself.”

After she'd gone Gill said heavily, “What are you going to do about Amy?”

“Wait.”

“Just sit on your rear and wait?”

“That's right.”

“You're a fool.”

“That's your opinion.”

“You're damned right it is,” Gill said and stamped furiously out of the room and down the hall to the front door.

I handled him wrong,
Rupert thought.
He may do something crazy, like go to the police.

6.

On Friday of
the same week, when Rupert returned from lunch, he found Helene Brandon waiting for him in his office. She was wearing a sable-trimmed suit and matching hat, and she carried the commuters' essential, an enor­mous handbag. She had obviously been passing the time going through the handbag. Half its contents were on Rupert's desk: paperback books, a magazine, two pairs of spectacles, cigarettes, pills, a candy bar, a collapsible um­brella, plastic rain boots and a pair of low-heeled black shoes.

The feminine clutter reminded Rupert of Amy and he tried to avoid looking at it by keeping his eyes fixed on Helene's face. A pretty face, round and plump and with­out secrets.

She began thrusting everything back into her handbag. “Gill would have a cat fit if he knew I was here, so it goes without saying that I'm not, eh?”

Rupert smiled. “For a lady who isn't even here you're looking very pretty.”

“We Peninsulans have to dress to the teeth when we come to the city just to prove we haven't gone to seed in the suburbs.”

“That hardly seems likely in Atherton.”

“Oh, you think not? Listen, I haven't had on a pair of high heels for weeks. My feet are killing me.”

“Change your shoes.”

“No, I'd rather suffer. I'll enjoy the trip more in ret­rospect if I suffer now.”

“That's logic, I presume?”

“No. It's just true.” She snapped the handbag shut and said with no change of tone, “I know about Amy. Gill told me.”

“I'm glad he did. I wanted you to know.”

“You haven't heard from her?”

“I didn't expect to. She told me she wouldn't be writing for a time.”

“She could at least let you know where she is.”

“She could, yes,” Rupert said. “But she hasn't. And I'm not in a position where I can tell her what to do.”

“Maybe that's what she wanted.”

“What is?”

“To be where people can't tell her what to do. I wouldn't mind it myself for a few weeks.” Helene con­templated this idea with half-closed eyes. Then she dropped it, with a sigh, and said abruptly, “Listen. Gill's spoiling for trouble. I thought I'd better warn you.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I'm not sure. . . . You'd better close the door. If Miss Burton's ears perk up any further she'll take off in the first high wind.”

“I have no secrets from Miss Burton.”

“Well,
I
have,” Helene said dryly. “And you might be going to.”

Rupert closed the door. “What does that mean?”

“Gill has ideas.”

“About what?”

“You and Miss Burton.”

Rupert let out an explosive sound like an angry laugh. “Oh, for Christ's sake!”

“I think it's funny too, but I'm not laughing. Gill's dead serious. He's managed to convince himself that you don't want Amy back because you have—other interests.”

“What possible basis could he have for such a screwy idea?”

“Miss Burton has a key to your house.”

“Naturally. I gave it to her so she could feed Mack twice a day while I was away.”

“Gill said you usually put him in a kennel.”

“The last time we left him in a kennel he picked up mange.”

“You see? There's a logical explanation for everything but Gill just won't believe it. He's practically irrational on the subject of family. I don't know why, and I prefer not to think about it since there's nothing I can do about it.”

“I often think about it,” Rupert said.

“So do I, really. It's useless, though. We might just as well say ‘Gill is a nice guy but he's nuts on the subject of Amy,' and let it go at that.”

“Consider it gone.”

Helene took a deep breath to signify that that subject was closed and another about to be opened. “Then there's the lipstick.”

“What lipstick?”

“On the highball glass in the den. Gill says it was ex­actly the same shade as Miss Burton was wearing.”

“And thirty million other American women. It was a new color introduced last spring, something or other sher­bet.”

“Tangerine sherbet?”

“Right. I gave it to Amy for Easter in one of those fancy doodad cases. Now is that all?”

“Not quite.”

Rupert struck his palms together in helpless fury. “What else, for God's sake?”

“I wish you wouldn't keep swearing. It upsets me. And if
I
get upset heaven knows what will happen. I seem to be the only calm one in the whole caboodle. Now what was I going to say?”

“I'd be a fool to guess,” Rupert said grimly and sat down behind his desk to wait while Helene sorted through her mind, as she had sorted through her handbag, coming across all sorts of odds and ends she thought she'd lost.

“I should have taken notes, but I couldn't very well be­cause Gill thought he was talking to me in confidence. I mean, he had no idea I'd come here and tell you. He'd have a cat fit if it . . .”

“You said that.”

“Did I? Well, it only goes to show. Oh, I remember now. The cigarette butts in the den.”

“There were no cigarette butts in the den.”

“That's just it. None in the ash trays, none in the fire­place. Amy's a very heavy smoker—it's one of the few things she's ever defied Gill about. And since she was particularly nervous that night, Gill said you'd expect to find all the ash trays overflowing.”

“With fifty years of training, Gill might make a detec­tive.”

“Well, he
does
notice things,” Helene said defensively, “even if they turn out to be wrong.”

“Even if, yes. In this case he didn't notice far enough. Amy spent no more than five minutes in the den. He should have taken the trouble to examine the rest of the house. Tell him that next time he's to bring his micro­scope.”

“You're mad, aren't you?”

“You're damn right I'm mad. What's he trying to prove?”

“Nothing definite. He just thinks you're not telling the truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“Everything. I warned you, he's simply not rational.”

“That's a quaint way of putting it. The man's a maniac.”

“Only where Amy is concerned.”

“Isn't that enough?” Rupert pounded the desk with his fist in a half-conscious imitation of Gill. “Ever since Amy and I have been married he's been trying to break us up. He's been sitting around hoping I'd beat her or chase other women or turn into a lush or a drug addict, any­thing. Anything at all, just so Amy would leave me and climb back into the family nest like a goddamn baby bird. Well, he's half succeeded. She's left me, but she didn't head back for the nest.”

“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.”