The Listening Walls by Margaret Millar

wanted his sister found. He shivered slightly. It was three o’clock on a sunny after­noon. It felt like midnight in the dead of winter.
    He got up and shut the window, and almost imme­diately opened it again. He didn’t like the sensation of being in a closed room with Gill Brandon. “Tell me, have you talked to your brother-in-law since the morning he gave you the letter?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou haven’t communicated any of your suspicions to him?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt might clear the air if you did.”
    â€œI’m not giving him any advantage by tipping my hand.”
    â€œAre you sure you have a hand?”
    â€œI’m sure. Nobody lies the way he’s lied unless he has something to hide.”
    â€œAll right,” Dodd said. “Let’s leave Rupert out of this for a minute. Where, to your knowledge, was your sister last seen?”
    â€œAt the hospital where she was taken after Wilma’s death sent her into shock. The American-British-Corday, I believe it’s called.”
    â€œAnd what was the name of the hotel she and her friend were staying at?”
    â€œIt was their intention to stay at the Windsor. Whether they did or not, I’m not sure. Mrs. Wyatt was very changeable, and if some little thing didn’t suit her she would have gone someplace else. Wherever they stayed, you can bet that it was Mrs. Wyatt’s decision. My sister has never learned to stick up for her rights.”
    Dodd wrote: Windsor Hotel? Sept. 3. A.B.C. Hospital, Sept. 7. Then he gathered up the pictures of Amy, put them back in the manila folder and marked it A. Kellogg . “I’m going to send a couple of these down to a friend of mine in Mexico City.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHe might be willing, for a fee, to do some investigat­ing. That’s where the trouble seems to have started. Let’s get an objective report, since you’re reluctant to believe anything your brother-in-law says.”
    â€œWho is this friend?”
    â€œA retired cop from L.A. called Fowler. He’s good. And expensive.”
    â€œHow expensive?”
    â€œI can’t give you an exact figure.”
    Gill took an unmarked envelope out of his pocket and put it on Dodd’s desk. “There’s five hundred in cash. Is that sufficient for the time being?”
    â€œThat depends.”
    â€œOn what?”
    â€œOn how much bribe money my friend’s going to need.”
    â€œBribe money? Whom does he have to bribe?”
    â€œIn Mexico,” Dodd said dryly, “practically everyone.”

10.
    Thursday was Pat Burton’s dancing night at the Kent Academy. She didn’t bother going home after work. She took her dancing equipment to the office with her—a pair of transparent plastic shoes with three-inch heels and a bottle of strongly scented cologne because the Academy always had a rancid smell like an unventilated school gymnasium. The cologne was, therefore, an asset if not a necessity; the Cinderella shoes were not. They impeded Miss Burton’s progress. After eleven months of lessons (Learn to Dance the First Night) she was still having considerable trouble with the mamba, and her tango in­cluded numerous extracurricular totters which were the despair of the instructor. “Miss Burton, save your wig­gles for the cha-cha-cha. Keep your balance.” “I can do it perfectly well at home in my bare feet.” “Since when do we teach the tango so people can do it at home in their bare feet?”
    It didn’t matter very much anyway because no one in­vited Miss Burton out mambaing or tangoing. Her infrequent dates preferred less sophisticated or less stren­uous entertainment. She continued going to the weekly class, however. It represented to her, as well as to the majority of the others, a social rather than an instructive evening.
    The class was already in progress when Miss Burton arrived.