Free The Listening Walls by Margaret Millar Page B

far as the police files or the newspapers; they’re kept within the family. A lady gets bored or disgusted or both, and off she goes on a bit of a wingding. When the wingding is over, she comes home. The neighbors think she’s been on a holiday, so nobody’s any the wiser. Except may­be her. Wingdings can be rough on a lady.”
    Dodd was an expert on wingdings, without owning any books on the subject.
    â€œMy sister,” Gill said, “is not the kind of woman who would be interested in wingdings.” He coughed over the unfamiliar word as if it had stuck in his throat like a fish­bone. When he had finished coughing he wiped his mouth and stared at Dodd, suddenly hating the bushy-haired lit­tle man with his metallic eyes and his tarnished, keyhole views of the back bedrooms of life.
    He rose without speaking, not trusting his voice, and reached for the letters on Dodd’s desk.
    â€œNo offense intended,” Dodd said, observing Gill’s trembling hands and the bulging veins in his temples with detachment. “And none given, I trust?”
    â€œGood day.”
    â€œGood day, Mr. Brandon.”
    That night at dinner Dodd’s wife asked, “How was business today?”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œBlond and beautiful?”
    â€œThat’s strictly in books, sweetheart.”
    â€œGlad to hear it.”
    â€œMr. Brandon is neither blond nor beautiful,” Dodd said, “but he’s interesting.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œHe has a problem. He thinks his sister was murdered by her husband.”
    â€œAnd what do you think?”
    â€œNobody’s paid me to think,” Dodd said. “Yet.”

8.
    On Sunday, the twenty-eighth of September, three days after Gill’s visit to Dodd, the Kellogg’s maid, Gerda Lundquist returned from her month’s vacation in Yellowstone National Park.
    She called Rupert from the bus depot in the hope that, since it was Sunday and he wouldn’t be working, he might offer to come and pick her up. No one answered the tele­phone so she grudgingly took a taxi. The vacation had been hard on her pocketbook, and on her nerves too, es­pecially toward the end when the snows began and people swarmed out of the park, leaving it to the bears and the chipmunks and the antelopes for the winter. Gerda was looking forward to a nice pay check and some warm, cozy evenings in front of the television set the Kelloggs had given her the previous Christmas. Television was so rest­ful she often went to sleep watching it, and Mrs. Kellogg would come to her door and rap softly and ask, “Gerda? Did you forget to turn off the television, Gerda?” Mrs. Kellogg never commanded, never gave a direct order. She asked politely, “Would you mind . . .” or “What do you think of . . .” as if she respected Gerda’s superior age and wider experience in life.
    She let herself into the house with her latchkey and went immediately out to the kitchen where she filled the teakettle with water to heat for some postum and a boiled egg. The kitchen was very clean, the dishes washed, the sink shining, signs that Mrs. Kellogg must be home from Mexico. Mr. Kellogg was more willing than able around the kitchen.
    As the kettle began to hum, so did Gerda, an old song from her childhood in Minnesota, the words of which had long since been forgotten. She did not hear Rupert come in, she was only aware of a sudden change in the room, and she turned and saw him standing in the doorway to the hall. His hair was disheveled, and his face and ears were pink with wind as if he’d been running in the park with Mack.
    He stared at her in silence for a few seconds. He seemed to be trying to figure out who she was and what she was doing in his house. Then he said, “Good evening, Gerda,” in a flat voice with no welcome in it.
    â€œGood evening, Mr. Kellogg.”
    â€œHow was the vacation?”
    â€œOh, it was