“How long is it since you’ve seen your sister?”
“She left for Mexico City on the third of September, a Wednesday. I said good-bye to her the previous day.”
“Was she acting normally?”
“Of course.”
“In good spirits?”
“Excellent. Very excited at the prospect of the trip, like a kid who’s never been any place on her own before.”
“Was Mrs. Wyatt with her at the time?”
“Yes. They’d been doing some last-minute shopping and called me from the St. Francis to come and have lunch with them.”
“What kind of woman was Mrs. Wyatt?” Dodd asked.
“Eccentric. Oh, some people found her very amusing, and I think Amy was rather fascinated by her, in the sense that she never knew what Wilma would do next.” He added grimly, “She does now.”
“Yes, I guess she does. What day was it that Mrs. Wyatt killed herself?”
“A little over three weeks ago, on a Sunday night, the seventh of September. I was informed the following day when Miss Burton, Rupert’s secretary, called me at my office. Rupert went down to Mexico City that same day, the seventh.”
Dodd wrote the dates in a notebook, more because he wanted something to do than because he thought he’d ever be referring to them again. Still a firm believer in wingdings, he was convinced that Amy would pop up one of these days with an unlikely everything-suddenly-went-black story.
“I heard nothing from him,” Gill continued, “until a week later. I was out that night, but he left a message with my son that I was to come to the house to discuss something important. When I got there he told me Amy had left and gave me her farewell letter, the one I first brought to you. You may recall its contents.”
“Yes.”
“She wrote that she’d been drinking the night of Wilma’s death.”
“And?”
“Rupert added something to that. He told me she’d been in the company of an American barroom hanger-on named O’Donnell. I think he was lying. My sister is cultured, well-bred. No well-bred woman would walk into a bar and pick up...”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Brandon,” Dodd said. “Let’s get something clear. If I’m to find your sister it’s more important to me to know her faults than her virtues. She may be kind and gentle and sweet and so on. That doesn’t tell me a thing. But if I know she has a weakness for barflies named O’Donnell, then I start looking up all the barflies named O’Donnell in my files.”
“Your humor isn’t very funny.”
“It wasn’t intended to be. I was making a point.”
“You may consider it made,” Gill said coldly. “It doesn’t alter the facts, however. My sister has no weaknesses of the kind you mean. Besides, Rupert has been proved a liar.”
“You’re referring to Gerda Lundquist’s account of his pretended telephone conversation with your wife?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“Why do you think he falsified that call?”
“It’s obvious. He wanted to prevent Gerda from making any attempt to get a job at our house.”
“Why?”
“He was afraid she would give us damaging information about him.”
“By ‘us’ do you mean you and your wife?”
“I mean myself only. Mrs. Brandon is inclined to believe the best of everyone. She’s a very trusting soul.”
“So is Rupert,” Dodd said, “or he would never have attempted the phone trick, knowing there was an extension in the bedroom.”
“Trusting? Perhaps. Perhaps only stupid.”
“Amateur, anyway.”
“Amateur.” Gill nodded vigorous agreement. “That’s what he is. And that’s why he’ll be caught.”
Dodd folded his hands and closed his eyes, like a minister about to pray for some lost souls which he strongly suspected would remain lost. “Tell me, Mr. Brandon, has Gerda Lundquist given you any damaging information about your brother-in-law? For instance, did he have a bad temper? Did he quarrel frequently with his wife? Was he a lush or a chaser?”
“No, not to my knowledge.”
“What’s the worst Gerda had to say about him?”
“He was — moody.”
“And that’s all?”
“She also said that last spring he was frequently late coming home. He claimed he was working overtime.”
“At what period in the spring?”
“March, I believe she said.”
“March,” Dodd pointed out, “is income-tax time, and your brother-in-law is an accountant. He was lucky to get home at all.”
Gill flushed. “Just whose side are you on, anyway?”
“I never take sides until both teams are out in the field and I know what game they’re going to play.”
“This is no game, Mr. Dodd. My sister is missing. Find her.”
“I’m trying,” Dodd said. “Did you bring the pictures?”
“Yes.”
The pictures were in a manila envelope: two formal photographs and about a dozen large colored snapshots. In most of the snapshots Amy was smiling, but both the photographs showed her grave and self-conscious, as if she hadn’t wanted to be in front of a camera at all, knowing in advance the results wouldn’t satisfy anyone. Repressed, Dodd thought. Anxious to please. Too anxious.
One of the snapshots showed her sitting on a lawn with a small black dog on a leash beside her. Against the green grass the red and black plaid of the dog’s leash and collar stood out distinctly.
“That’s Mack?” Dodd said.
“Yes. He’s a pedigreed Scottish terrier. I gave him to Amy for her birthday five years ago. She’s devoted to him, too much so, in fact. He’s only a dog, after all, not a child, but she takes him everywhere she goes, downtown shopping and so on. She even wanted to take him with her to Mexico City but she was afraid of a possible quarantine at the border.”
“She kept him on leash?”
“Always. And always on this particular leash. You may not notice anything special about it, unless you’re an expert on tartans, but this tartan is not very commonly seen. It represents the Maclachlan clan. Mack was registered with the American Kennel Club under his official name, Maclachlan’s Merryheart, and Amy got the fanciful idea of having a collar, leash and sweater made up for him in the proper tartan. The set cost a hundred dollars, almost as much as the dog itself.”
Gill paused to light a cigarette. The pictures of Amy, spread over Dodd’s desk, smiled up at him mockingly: All this fuss over me and my little dog. We’re in New York, Gilly. We’re doing all the shows. Mack’s wearing the new hand-tooled leather leash I bought him in Mexico City...
“Wherever Amy is,” Gill said, “she didn’t take Mack with her. His leash is still hanging in the kitchen.”
“Rupert had an explanation for that. He told Gerda...”
“I know what he told Gerda, but it isn’t true.”
“I agree that it doesn’t seem likely,” Dodd said cautiously. “It’s possible, though.”
“If you knew Amy you wouldn’t think so. She’s childishly proud of Mack’s tartan.”
“Then where is the dog?”
“I’d give a great deal to know the answer to that.”
You may have to, Dodd thought. Finding people was tough enough. Finding a Scottie that looked like a thousand other Scotties seemed impossible. There wasn’t even any guarantee that the dog was still alive. He said, “Why should Kellogg have told you in the first place that Amy took the dog with her?”
“To convince me that Amy came home and went away again of her own accord.”
“Is there any evidence that she did come home?”