The Listening Walls (20 page)

He grabbed her by the wrists. “Shut up.”

“No! Leave me alone!”

A light went on in one of the cabins and the silhouette of a man's head appeared at the open window. The head was cocked, listening.

Rupert said, “Someone's watching.”

“I don't care!”

“You will.”

“No!”

She struggled in his grasp. He could barely hold her; in her fury she was as strong as a man.

“If you don't behave,” he said quietly, “I'll have to kill you. The water's deep enough. I'll hold your head under. You can scream all you like, then. It will just help things along.”

He knew she was afraid of the water, she hated the very sight of the sea, and even the sound of water run­ning in the shower made her nervous.

She had gone limp in his arms, as if she had already drowned of fright.

“You're going to kill me anyway,” she said in a ragged whisper.

“Don't be absurd.”

“I can see it in your eyes.”

“Stop this nonsense.”

“I can feel it in your touch. You're going to kill me, aren't you?”

Yes, I am.
The words were in his mouth ready to be spoken.
Yes, I'm going to kill you. But not with my bare hands, and not now. The day after tomorrow, perhaps, or the day after that. There are things to be settled be­fore you die.

The beam of a flashlight flickered among the trees and a man's voice called out, “Hello out there! Hey! Ahoy!”

Rupert tightened his grip on her wrist. “You're to say nothing. I'll do the talking, understand?”

“Yes.”

“And don't get any ideas about asking for help.
I'm
your help, I hope you have sense enough to realize that.”

The man from the coffee shop appeared, his white apron luffing in the wind. The beam of his flashlight caught Rupert in the face like a slap.

“Say, what's going on here?”

“Sorry for the disturbance,” Rupert said. “My dog jumped out of the car, and my wife and I were trying to catch him.”

“Oh, is that all?” He seemed vaguely disappointed. “For a minute there I thought someone was being murdered.”

Rupert laughed. It sounded genuine. “I imagine mur­ders take place more quietly and quickly.” He didn't have to imagine; O'Donnell had died almost instantly, and without a word or cry of pain. “Sorry to inconven­ience you.”

“Oh, that's all right. We don't get much excitement around here. I like a bit of it now and then. Keeps a per­son young.”

“I never thought of it in that way.” Rupert picked up the dog with one hand, keeping the other on his compan­ion's wrist. There was less resistance from her than from the dog, who hated to be carried. “Well, I guess we'll be on our way. Come along, my dear. I think we've caused enough commotion for one night.”

The man led the way back to the parking lot, shining his flashlight on the ground. “The wind's shifting.”

“I hadn't noticed,” Rupert said.

“Not many people do. But with me, it's my business to check the wind. From the way it feels now, the fog'll be rolling in pretty soon. Fog, that's our problem in these parts. When the fog comes in I might as well shut up shop and go to bed. You heading for L.A.?”

“Yes.”

“If I was you, I'd cut inland as soon as I could. You can't fight fog. The best you can do is run away from it.”

“Thanks for the advice. I'll bear it in mind.” Rupert thought,
there are lots of things beside fog that you can't fight, that you have to run away from.
“Good night. Per­haps we'll be seeing you again.”

“I'll be here. Got all my money tied up in the place, can't afford to go away.” He laughed sourly, as if he'd played a bad joke on himself. “Well, good night, folks.”

When he had gone, Rupert said, “Get in the car.”

“I don't want . . .”

“And hurry up. You've already delayed us half an hour with your histrionics. Do you realize how far news can travel in half an hour?”

“The police will be looking for you, not me.”

“Whichever one of us they're looking for, if they find us they'll find us both together. Understand that? Together. Till death do us part.”

19.

Señor Escamillo yanked
open the door of the broom closet and found Consuela with one ear pressed against her listening wall.

“Aha!” he cried, pointing a fat little forefinger at her. “So, Consuela Gonzales is up to her old tricks again.”

“No, señor. I swear on my mother's body. . .”

“You could swear on your father's horns and I do not believe you. If I were not so desperate for experienced help I would never have begged you to come back.” He thought briefly of the real reason he'd asked her to come back; perhaps he'd been a fool to lend his services to such a wild, American scheme. He consulted his big, gold pocket watch, which didn't keep good time but served as a useful prop to hold his staff in line. “It is now seven o'clock. Why are you not placing fresh towels in the rooms and turning down the beds?”

“I have already attended to most of the rooms.”

“And why not all of them, pray? Are the towels so heavy, such a burden, that you must stop to rest every five minutes?”

“No, señor.”

“I wait for the explanation,” Escamillo said, with cold dignity.

Consuela looked down at her feet, wide and flat in their straw
espadrilles. Clothes,
she thought,
it's clothes that make the difference. Here I am dressed like a peasant, so he treats me like a peasant. If I had on my high heels and my black dress and my necklaces, he would be po­lite and call me senorita, he wouldn't dare to say my fa­ther had horns.

“I wait, Consuela Gonzales.”

“I have attended to all the rooms except 404. I was pre­pared to do that one too, but when I stopped at the door I heard noises from inside.”

“Noises? How so?”

“People were arguing. I thought it would be wiser if I didn't disturb them, if I waited until they went out for the evening.”

“People were arguing in 404?”

“Yes. Americans. Two American ladies.”

“You swear it on your mother's body?”

“I do, señor.”

“Oh, what a liar you are, Consuela Gonzales.” Esca­millo put his hand over his heart to show how much the situation pained him. “Or else you have lost your judg­ment.”

“I heard them, I tell you.”

“You tell me, yes. Now
I
tell
you.
The suite 404 is empty. It has been empty for nearly a week.”

“That can't be. I heard, with my own ears. . .”

“Then you need new ears. Four hundred four is empty. I am the manager of this establishment. Who would know better than I which rooms are occupied and which are not?”

“Perhaps, while you were away from the desk for a few minutes, someone checked in, two American ladies.”

“Impossible.”

“I know what I hear.” Consuela's cheeks were the color of red wine as if the blood in her veins had fermented with fury.

“This is bad,” Escamillo said, “to hear things other people do not.”

“You haven't tried. If you would place your ear here, at the wall . . .”

“Very well. The ear is here. And now?”

“Listen.”

“I am listening.”

“They are moving around,” Consuela said. “One of them is wearing many bracelets, you can hear them clank­ing. There. Now they are talking. Do you hear voices?”

“Certainly I hear voices.” Escamillo stepped briskly out of the broom closet, brushing lint off the sleeves and lapels of his suit. “I hear your voice and my voice. From an empty room I hear nothing, praise Jesus.”

“The room is not empty, I tell you.”

“And I tell you once again, stop this nonsense, Con­suela Gonzales. I think you have not been saying your beads often enough lately and God is angry with you, making noises that you alone can hear.”

“I have done nothing to make Him angry with me.”

“We are all sinners.” But Escamillo's tone implied strongly that Consuela Gonzales was the worst of the lot and she was to expect only a minimum of mercy, if any. “You had better go down to the bar and ask Emilio for one of those new American pills that ease the mind.”

“There is nothing the matter with my mind.”

“Is there not? Well, I am too busy to argue.”

She leaned against the door of the broom closet and watched Escamillo disappear into the elevator. Globules of sweat and oil stood out on her forehead and upper lip. She brushed them off with a corner of her apron, think­ing,
he is trying to frighten me, embarrass me, make me out a fool. I will not be made out a fool. It is easy to prove the room is occupied. I have a key. I will unlock the door, very quietly, and open it, very suddenly, and there they will be, arguing, moving around. Two ladies. Americans.

Her ring of keys, suspended from a rope belt around her waist, struck her thigh and tinkled like coins as she moved toward 404. She hesitated at the door, hearing nothing now but the traffic from the
avenida
below and the quick rhythmical drumming of her own heart.

Only a month ago, two American ladies had occupied this very room. They too had argued. One of them wore many bracelets and a red silk suit, and painted her eye­lids gold. And the other . . .

But I must not think of those two. One is dead, the other is far away. I am alive and here.

From her key ring she chose the key labeled
apartamientos
and inserted it quietly into the lock. A quick turn of the key to the left and of the doorknob to the right and the door would open to reveal the occupants of the room and Escamillo would be proved the cowardly liar that he was.

The key would not turn. She tried one hand and then the other, and finally both together. She was a strong woman, used to heavy work, but the key wouldn't budge.

She rapped sharply on the door and called out, “This is the chambermaid. I must change the towels. Please let me in. I have lost my key. Please open the door? Please?”

She caught her lower lip with her teeth to stop its trembling.
The room is empty,
she thought.
Escamillo is right, God is punishing me. I hear voices no one else can hear, I talk to people who are not there, I listen at walls that say nothing.

She hesitated only long enough to cross herself. Then she turned and ran down the corridor to the service stair­way. In flight, she tried to pray. Her mouth moved but no words came out, and she knew it was because she had not said her beads for a long time; she could not even remember where she had put them.

Four flights down, and she was in the little room be­hind the bar where Emilio and his assistants came to sneak cigarettes and finish off the dregs of bottles and count the day's tips.

She had made so much noise crashing down the steps that Emilio himself hurried back to see what the fuss was about.

“Oh, it's you.” Emilio was bold and elegant in a new red bolero trimmed with silver buttons and orange braid. “I thought it was another earthquake. What do you want?”

She sat down on an empty beer case and held her head in her hands.

“How's Joe?” Emilio said.

The American was waiting in Escamillo's office, pac­ing up and down as if he couldn't find a door to escape through. He looked worried, as worried as Escamillo felt. Escamillo, from the beginning, had had grave doubts about the situation, but Mr. Dodd was very persuasive. He'd made the plan sound both reasonable and practi­cable.

Escamillo was afraid it was neither, although so far he hadn't indicated his misgivings. He said simply, “Every­thing is in readiness. They are arguing very well to­gether, very real.”

“And Consuela is listening?”

“Certainly. Listening, it is a long habit with her.”

“Did you have the lock changed?”

“Just as I was instructed, so everything has been per­formed. She can gain access to the room only when the ladies are ready to receive her. Also, the silver box—I gave it to Emilio as you told me to do. However, I do not understand about the silver box. Why was it necessary to purchase an exact duplicate? I begin to wonder.” Escamillo's face, normally as bland as a marshmallow, was contorted in anticipation of disaster. “I begin to have doubts.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Señor?”

“We all have doubts,” Dodd said flatly. “Let's just hope hers are bigger.”

“She is not a fool, you know. A cheat, a liar, a thief, all those, but not a fool.”

“She's superstitious and she's scared.”

“
She
is scared, ha! And who is not? I feel my liver turn­ing cold and white like snow.”

“There's nothing to be scared of. Your part in this is finished.”

“I must remind you that this is
my
hotel,
my
reputa­tion is at stake,
I
am responsible for. . .” The tele­phone on Escamillo's desk began to ring. He darted across the room and picked it up. His small pudgy hands were quivering. “Yes? That is good, very good.” He put the phone down and said to Dodd, “It has worked so far. She is with Emilio. He is very clever, you can trust him.”

“I have to.”

“Señor Kellogg will be here soon?”

“He's waiting in the lobby now.”

“Suppose there is violence? Violence distresses me.” Escamillo pressed his hand against his stomach. “You have not taken me entirely into your confidence, senor. A little voice keeps telling me that there is something questionable about all this, perhaps even something il­legal.”

A little voice kept telling Dodd the same thing but he couldn't afford to listen.

“How is Joe?” Emilio repeated.

“Joe?” She raised her head and stared at him blankly. For a moment the blankness was genuine—Joe was long ago and far away and dead. “Joe who?”

“You know Joe who.”

“Oh, him. I haven't seen him. He was no good. He ran off with another woman.”

“An American?”

“Why do you say that?”

“He sent me 250 pesos that he owed me. It was marked on the envelope, San Francisco.”

“Ah, so? Well, I hope she is very rich so he will be very happy.”

There'd been two rich ladies
, Consuela thought.
They were ready to be plucked like chickens, but all Joe got out of it was a second-hand car and a few clothes to be buried in, because he lost his nerve, he began feeling sorry for people. His mind had turned soft as his belly.

No, no, I must not think of that, of the blood . . .

“What happens with you?” Emilio said. “You look bad, like a ghost.”

“I have a—a headache.”

“Perhaps you would like a bottle of beer?”

“Yes. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Do not thank me so hard,” Emilio said dryly. “I ex­pect you to pay.”

“I will pay. I have money.”

She thought,
I have money I can't spend, clothes I can't wear; I have bottles of perfume, yet I must go around smelling like a goat. You would steal the smell off a goat,
Joe had said.

It seemed funny to her now. She began to laugh softly, cupping her mouth in her hands so that no one would hear her and want to know why she was laughing. It would be too hard to explain; she wasn't quite sure of the reason herself.

Emilio returned carrying a bottle of cheap beer. He gave her the beer, then held out his hand for the money. She put a peso in it, grudgingly, as if it were her last.

“This,” he said, “is not enough.”

“It is all I have.”

“I hear different. I hear you had a winning ticket last week.”

“No.”

“This is what I hear, that you took all your money and hid it away. If this is so. . .”

“And it is not.”

“But suppose it is. Then you are in luck, because I have a fine bargain for you.”

“I have seen too many of your fine bargains.”

“Not like this.” From one of the higher shelves behind the door Emilio took an object wrapped in a copy of
Grafico.
He removed the newspaper and held out, for her to see, a box of hammered silver. “A beauty, is it not?”

She pressed the cold bottle against her burning fore­head like a poultice.

“As you can see,” Emilio said, “it has a damage, a dent. That is why I am offering it at the absurd price of two hundred pesos. Go on, take it, feel its weight. It's gen­uine silver, as heavy as a mourner's heart, and what could be heavier than that, eh, Consuela?”

“Where,” she said, “where did you get it?”