Rupert remembered the occasion well. Amy had been at Lake Tahoe with the Brandons at the time, so he had gone alone to the hospital to see Wilma. Without makeup, and wearing a regulation gown, she looked pale and haggard.
“Wilma?”
“Fancy meeting you here. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. If anyone can be comfortable in this stinking hole.”
“What in God’s name made you do it, Wilma?”
“Such a question.”
“I’m asking it.”
“O.K., I was bored. All those silly people chattering and laughing. I saw the pills in the medicine cabinet and took them. Have you ever had your stomach pumped out? It’s quite an experience.”
“I think you’d better go and see a psychiatrist.”
“I’ve been seeing one for the past two weeks. He’s very cute. He has the curliest eyelashes. I sit and look at his eyelashes for fifty minutes three times a week. It’s fascinating. I may get a crush on him. On the other hand I may get bored. There’s not a hell of a lot to eyelashes.”
“You’ve got to take this seriously.”
“I’m tired, pal. Get out, will you?”
In less than two months Wilma became bored with the psychiatrist’s eyelashes and quit seeing him.
Rupert returned to the letter.
... I could talk about Wilma for hours at a time — and often have — but I never seem to reach any clearer understanding of her. What a pity that all her drive and energy wasn’t channeled into constructive outlets. It would have been far better if she’d had to go out and support herself instead of living on alimony checks. We have not been able, by the way, to find out where Wilma’s husband, Robert Wyatt, is to tell him about Wilma’s death. He won’t be very interested anyway, except that it will save him money.
You’re probably wondering about the silver box. It was among Wilma’s things that were sent on to me from Mexico City. It must have been damaged in transit, but it is still a handsome piece of work. Earl and I assumed, from the monogram inside the lid, that she intended it as a gift for you. She always spoke of you with deep affection, and I know how patient you and Amy have been with what Earl called Wilma’s “shenanigans.” Please keep the box in memory of her.
Give our best regards to Amy and thank you again for the beautiful wreath. Yellow roses were always Wilma’s favorite. How thoughtful of you to remember.
Sincerely,
Yellow roses.
“I hope,” Wilma had said once, “that when I die someone will send me yellow roses. How about it, Rupert?”
“All right. If I’m still around.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Certainly.”
“Promises to dead people are easy to break. When I think of all the promises I made to my parents — if I’ve kept any of them it’s sheer accident. So forget the whole thing, will you?”
“I don’t think,” Amy had said primly, “that people ought to talk about their own funerals...”
He tossed the letter and its envelope into the fire. Then he picked up the silver box hesitantly, as if he didn’t want to touch it. It looked like a coffin. But not Wilma’s coffin. The initials on the lid were his own.
He went out to the garage, holding the box under his topcoat.
Half an hour later, as he approached the middle of Golden Gate Bridge, he threw the little silver coffin over the guard rail. It sank first into the fog, then into the sea.
12.
The runways of International Airport were steaming under the heat of a surprise sun, and planes that had been grounded overnight were taking off in all directions as fast as space could be cleared for them. Inside the glass walls the loudspeaker, like an invisible tyrant, gave out constant orders to its subjects: “Pan American, flight 509 for Hawaii, now boarding at Gate Seven... Mr. Paul Mitchell, report to United Air Lines, Mr. Paul Mitchell... Trans World Airlines flight 703 to Chicago and New York has been delayed half an hour... Do not attempt to board planes before your flight number has been announced... Gate Seven is now open for Pan American flight 509 to Hawaii... Mrs. James Swartz, repeat, Mrs. James Swartz, your ticket has not been validated for Dallas, Texas. Report immediately to the United Air Lines desk... Gate Ten is now open for flight 314 to Seattle...
Behind the Western Air Lines counter, a young pink-faced man in horn-rimmed spectacles was doing some paper work behind a nameplate that identified him as Charles E. Smith.
When Dodd approached, the young man said, without looking up, “Can I do anything for you?”
“I’d like a ticket to the moon.”
“What in... Oh, it’s you. Dodd. Somebody been murdered?”
“Yeah,” Dodd said pleasantly. “Your whole family, including cousin Mabel, has been wiped out by a mad bomber.”
“I confess.”
“Good boy.”
“So what else is new?”
“I’m in the market for some information, Smitty.”
“I’m listening.”
“On Sunday night, September the fourteenth, a man and wife supposedly landed here after a flight from Mexico City. What I want to know is, did they both get off the plane, did one of them, did either of them?”
“That sounds simple enough,” Smitty said. “But it isn’t.”
“You keep records, don’t you?”
“Sure, we keep records. We have the names of every person who’s boarded any of our planes for the last two years.”
Dodd looked impatient. “Well?”
“I said boarded. We’re not in business for our health. We collect the fares and get the passengers on board. Where they get off is not our concern.”
“You mean if I bought a ticket to New York and got off at Chicago instead, no one would notice the difference?”
“It wouldn’t be part of our records,” Smitty said. “But someone might notice the difference.”
“Such as?”
“A member of the crew. One of the stewardesses, for instance, might recall you particularly because you tried to get fresh or drank three martinis before dinner instead of one. Or the radio operator, the co-pilot, the pilot — they all take trips to the head and sometimes they stop and chat with the passengers.”
“Do you keep records of the crew on each flight?”
“The dispatch clerk does.”
“How about looking up September the fourteenth. Better check the thirteenth, too.”
Smith took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “What kind of business are you on, Dodd?”
“It’s never clean.”
“I know that, but what’s involved?”
“Love, hate, money, take your choice.”
“I’ll take money,” Smitty said blandly.
“Are you implying that you’d accept a bribe? This is a shock to me, son, a truly terrible sh—”
“Wait in the coffee shop. I get off duty in fifteen minutes.”
The coffee shop was crowded to the doors. It was easy enough to spot the people who were waiting for their planes. They ate with anxious haste, one eye on the clock, one ear on the loudspeaker. The women fussed with their hats and handbags, the men rechecked their tickets. They looked tense and irritable. Dodd wondered where all the happy travelers were that he saw in the vacation ads.