The Listening Walls by Margaret Millar Page B

mean day.”
    â€œI bet children and dogs take to him right off the bat.”
    â€œMaybe you mean that as a joke, but it’s absolutely true. Mr. Kellogg’s crazy about animals. You know what he told me once? He told me he didn’t really like being an accountant, he wanted to open a pet store.”
    â€œWhy doesn’t he?”
    â€œHis wife comes from a ritzy family. They wouldn’t approve, I guess.”
    Old Mr. Jacobson, the retired lawyer, rhumbaed past, wriggling like a nervous snake, and gave Miss Burton a grin and a wink. His face was as moist and red as a sliced beet.
    â€œHe seems to be having a fine time,” the man said.
    â€œThat’s Mr. Jacobson. He knows all the dances per­fectly, only he can’t keep time.”
    â€œHe’s certainly caught the spirit of the thing anyway.”
    â€œI’ll say. One of these days he’s going to drop dead right on this very floor. It kind of spoils my evening thinking about it.”
    The music ended, and the instructor announced in a tired shriek that the next number would be a change of pace, the slicker waltz, and would the men kindly remem­ber that a good strong lead was necessary in this one, especially at the turns?
    Mr. Jacobson sped in Miss Burton’s direction. Miss Burton turned red and whispered an anguished “Oh dear.” But she didn’t have enough nerve, or presence of mind, to head for the powder room. So she stood her ground and uttered a short, quiet prayer: Don’t let this be the night.
    Mr. Jacobson was as merry as Old King Cole. “Come on, Miss B. Let’s have at it!”
    â€œOh, don’t you think you’d better rest a bit?”
    â€œNonsense. I have the whole week to rest. Thursday’s my night to shake a leg.”
    â€œYes. Well.”
    Miss Burton surrendered reluctantly to Mr. Jacobson’s bony arms and good strong lead. This might be, could very well be, Mr. Jacobson’s last dance. The least she could do was to make it as pleasant as possible for him by trying to follow him properly, and at the same time watch his face for any telltale signs of the end approach­ing. She wasn’t sure what the signs would be, and the strain of looking up at him gave her a crick in the neck.
    â€œYou’re not concentrating tonight, Miss B.”
    â€œOh yes, I am,” Miss Burton said grimly.
    â€œLoosen up a little. Relax. Enjoy yourself. This is sup­posed to be fun.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter, something on your mind?”
    â€œJust—the usual.”
    â€œGet it off. Tell someone. Tell me.”
    â€œOh, dear me, no,” Miss Burton said hastily. “Haven’t we been having lovely weather this fall? Of course, we can’t expect you—it to last.”
    Mr. Jacobson didn’t catch the error because the in­structor had raised his voice again. “This is ballroom dancing. This is not real life. In real life women don’t like to be pushed around. In ballroom dancing they ex­pect to be, they want to be, they have to be! So lead, gen­tlemen! You’re not zombies! Lead!”
    â€œYou have a real good lead,” Miss Burton said.
    â€œAnd you have a mighty fine follow,” Mr. Jacobson replied gallantly.
    â€œNo, I haven’t, not really. I do all the dances much better at home in my bare feet. I get shook up when peo­ple watch me.”
    â€œSuch as the man at the door?”
    â€œOh dear, is he watching me? My goodness.”
    â€œWatching people is his business, or part of it.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œHe’s a private detective named Dodd. I used to see him hanging around the Hall of Justice. He had a lot of nicknames in those days, the least objectionable of which was Fingers, because he had a finger in every pie.”
    â€œIt must be a case of mistaken identity,” Miss Burton said in a high, tight voice. “He told me he