“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.”
“Amy, come home,” he repeated. “Gill’s idea, I suppose?”
“Well, yes. But I agree with it. It might do some good. Amy isn’t the type who’d want people to worry about her unnecessarily.”
“Perhaps she is. How do we know? She’s never had much of a chance to prove what type she is.”
“You could try advertising anyway. It can’t do any harm. There wouldn’t even be any publicity if you made the ad vague enough and didn’t mention last names. We certainly don’t want publicity.”
“You mean Gill doesn’t.”
“I mean none of us does,” she said sharply. “This whole business — it would look very queer in the newspapers.”
“It won’t take long to reach the papers if Gill goes around sounding off that Amy is dead and I’m about to establish a love nest with Miss Burton.”
“So far he’s sounded off only to me.”
“And to the private detective, Dodd.”
“I don’t think he told Dodd much, just enough to make it plausible that he wanted the handwriting in Amy’s letter compared to other samples of her writing.” She got up and leaned across the desk. “I’m on your side, Rupert, you know that.”
“Thanks.”
“But you have to make some concessions to Gill for your own protection. If he thought you were really trying to find Amy and get her back, it would help put him straight. So try.”
“Advertise, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“All right, that’s easy enough.”
“The library should have the names of all the leading newspapers in the country.” She hesitated. “It might be quite expensive. Naturally, Gill and I will pay for...”
“Naturally?”
“Well, it was our idea. It’s only fair that...”
“I think,” Rupert said, “that I can afford to advertise for my own wife.”
Amy, come home. He could already see the letters in print, but he knew Amy never would.
7.
Elmer Dodd was a brash, bushy-haired little man, who’d been, at various times and with varying success, a carpenter in New Jersey, seaman on a Panamanian freighter, military policeman in Korea, bodyguard to a Chinese exporter in Singapore, and Bible salesman in Los Angeles. When, at forty, he met a woman who persuaded him to settle down, he found himself experienced in many things and expert in none, so he decided to become a private detective. He moved his bride to San Francisco. Here he hung around the Hall of Justice to get the feel of things, attended trials, where he took notes, and haunted the morgues of the Chronicle and the Examiner, where he read up on famous criminal cases of the past.
All this might eventually have helped, but it was sheer coincidence that set him up in business. He was having a snack one day in a spaghetti joint in North Beach when the proprietor shot his wife and mother-in-law and the mother-in-law’s boyfriend. Dodd was the sole surviving witness.
During the years that followed, Dodd’s name became familiar to every newspaper reader in the Bay area. It popped up in divorce cases, felony trials, gossip columns and, more regularly, in the personal section of the want ads where he offered his services as an expert in various fields, including handwriting analysis. He owned a couple of books on the subject, which, in his own opinion, made him as much of an expert as anyone else since handwriting analysis was not an exact science. He knew enough, at any rate, for run-of-the-mill cases like this Amy business.
Amy sounded like a bit of a nut (Dodd also owned a book on abnormal psychology), but nut or not, she had certainly written all four of the letters Gill Brandon had brought in for comparison. Dodd had known this immediately, even before Brandon had left his office. But it would have been impractical to admit it. Experts took time, they checked and rechecked, and were suitably reimbursed for their trouble. Dodd took a week, during which he checked and rechecked Gill Brandon’s financial standing and decided on a fee. It was just enough to make Brandon squawk in protest, but not so much as to cause him to refuse payment.
Dodd was satisfied.
So, in spite of the fee, was Gill. “I don’t mind telling you, Dodd, that this is a great load off my mind. Naturally, I was almost positive she wrote the letter. There was only a small element of doubt.”
What a liar, Dodd thought. “Which is now dispelled, of course?”
“Of course. As a matter of fact, we heard from her again yesterday. By ‘we’ I mean she wrote to her husband and he forwarded her letter to me.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, I — he realizes I’m very concerned about my sister. He wanted me to know she is all right.”
“And is she?”
“Certainly. She’s in New York. I should have guessed she might go there — we have relatives in Queens and Westchester.”
“Did you bring the letter with you?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to see it. There’ll be no extra charge, of course,” Dodd added, after a quick study of Gill’s expression. “I’m just curious.”
Gill passed the letter across the desk, reluctantly, as if he were afraid that Dodd might suddenly alter his opinion and claim all the letters were forgeries.
Dodd knew at first sight that the handwriting was identical with that in the other letters, but he went through a few motions for Gill’s benefit. Using a magnifying glass and a ruler, he measured and compared spaces between lines and words, margins, paragraph indentations. It was, however, the text of the letter that interested him: it seemed so much sharper and more positive than any of the others. The handwriting was the same, certainly. But was the woman?
Dear Rupert:
Whatever made you do such an absurd thing? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the ad in the Herald Tribune. Gill will be furious if he finds out. You know how livid he gets at the mere mention of publicity.
Of course I’ll come home. But not right away. As you can see by the postmark, I’m in New York. It’s a good place to be when you want to figure things out by yourself. Everyone lets you alone. For the time being, this is just what I need.
Don’t worry about me. I miss you, but in a way I’m quite happy and I know this is what you would want for me.
Please take that advertisement out of the paper. (Or is it papers? I hope to heaven not!) Also, please phone Gill and Helene and tell them everything’s fine. I’ll write to them eventually. This business of writing is very difficult for me — it seems to bring before me so clearly and sharply some of the very things I’m trying to forget — not forget, but get away from. The old Amy was a baby and a bore, but the new one isn’t quite sure of herself yet!
Mack is fine. There are quite a few dogs in New York, mostly poodles, but we meet the odd Scottie now and then, so Mack is not lonesome.
Before I forget, the Christmas card list is in the top left drawer of the desk in the den. Order the cards early and have both our names printed on them, naturally.