A Room to Die In (10 page)

Jehane turned
back to the chess game. Alexander was reaching out; he made a move in his
ponderous way, which somehow conveyed remorseless inevitability. He seemed calm
and confident. Roland brooded. . . . A crisis was imminent: this Jehane could
see, and it seemed to augur badly for Roland. Jehane turned away again. Her
emotions could not be defined, or perhaps they constituted a single emotion
that had never before existed.

She walked down
the deck and went into her bedroom.

The game
proceeded. Alexander with almost contemptuous disdain postponed castling in
order to maintain his momentum—a strategy that yielded fruit when he forced an
exchange of bishops, leaving Roland’s king-side defenses in precarious balance.
Then Roland suddenly thrust forth his queen.

“Check,” he
said.

Alexander
studied the situation. The threat was not particularly alarming. In fact, it
seemed pointless. He advanced a pawn, blocking the critical diagonal and
attacking the queen. But Roland, rather than retreat his queen, moved out his
knight. If Alexander took the queen, Roland would fork king and queen.
Alexander chewed his lower lip and prudently moved his queen. Roland checked
with his knight, and on the next move won a pawn that Alexander’s retreat had
left unguarded. The crisis eased. Roland was a pawn up, but the advantage was
balanced by Alexander’s king’s rook, which had seized an open file.

Jehane, in her
room, tried to read. The words blurred. Her ears strained for sounds from the
living room. She went back out on the deck. From what she could see of the
board, the game seemed even. Looking down at the two men, she felt a great pity
for both. Each in his own way was a helpless child, as helpless as one of the
pieces on the chessboard, which now breathed such a defiant imitation of life.

She wandered
down into the living room just in time to see Roland move a pawn forward and
lean back in his chair, tension gone.

Alexander stared
down at the board. He reached, his hand heavy. When he moved, Roland almost
casually nudged his queen forward. Alexander’s jaw dropped; he glanced at
Roland in utter disbelief. He took the queen with a pawn, and Roland moved a
knight. “Check.” The black king fled. Another knight’s move. “Check.” The black
king stood at bay, isolated from its queen by the pawn that had captured the
white queen. The black king backed into the rook’s square, and again the white
knight loped forward.

“Checkmate.”

Alexander’s face
was a pale mask of fury. He seized the black king and hurled it across the
room. Then he jumped to his feet and turned on Jehane. “Pack your clothes,” he
snarled. “I’ve lost the game.”

Jehane, standing
in the shadow, shook her head. She spoke in a slow, calm voice. The words
seemed to hang in mid-air. “I’m not yours to give. If either of you had asked
me, this silliness would never have been played out.”

Nothing more was
said. Jehane’s husband sat stunned; her lover seemed exhausted. Cypriano slowly
packed the chessmen into their compartments. He picked up the black king,
brushed it with his sleeve and stowed it away with the others. Then he shut the
case and handed it to Roland.

Roland took the
case, expressionless. He went to the door, where he turned. He then tore the
mortgage into eight pieces and laid the scraps gently on a table. And departed.

Alexander
Cypriano from that moment had played no more chess. “And,” said Jehane, “never
again did I set eyes on Roland.”

“That,” said
Jehane, “is the story of what happened to the mortgage. I’m sorry it took so
long, but I could hardly explain it any other way. . . . If you will examine
the black king, you’ll notice that the crown is bent.”

“I noticed,” said
Ann.

Jehane made a
gesture toward their glasses. “Sherry?”

Ann and Tarr
both accepted.

“Roland was a
strange man,” said Jehane. “I’m sure I did what was right. Neither of us would
have gained—though Roland might still be alive, which I suppose could be
considered a gain. Things happened as they had to happen. Now that he’s dead, I
notice the gap he leaves, but I feel no grief. Certainly not as much as Pearl
would have felt.”

“Out of sheer
curiosity, Mrs. Cypriano,” asked Tarr in a peculiarly respectful voice, “what
are your plans?”

Jehane smiled. “Perhaps
you’ll think me perverse, but I have an urge to go to Ireland. I don’t know
what I’ll find there, but I think I’ll be going soon.”

“With your
husband?” asked Ann.

“No.”

Ann rose. “Thank
you for being so honest.”

“I had no
choice. You would have thought us thieves otherwise.”

In San Rafael,
Tarr lured Ann into a coffee shop. He ordered two hamburgers and a milkshake,
explaining that he had not yet had lunch. Ann ordered coffee, in spite of Tarr’s
insistence that she eat. “Have a sandwich, or a sundae, or pie. Shoot the
works. It’s on me.”

“No, thanks. I’m
not hungry.”

“You’re dieting?”

“Not at the
moment.”

“I’m relieved.
It would be a terrible mistake. Every one of your pounds is important. There’s
not one wasted.”

“I suppose you
intend that as a compliment,” said Ann. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.
I’m not the heavy-handed lout I seem.”

“You don’t seem
heavy-handed,” said Ann. “Just light-headed.”

Tarr grinned and
ate his hamburgers. Presently he said, “Now you know what happened to the
mortgage.”

Ann shuddered. “If
I were Jehane I’d have
hated
him.”

“And Alexander
wants his chess set back—which is rubbing it in.”

“He’s willing to
pay for it, or so he says.”

“Everyone is so
fair,” said Tarr cynically. “But somewhere among the group is a blackmailer.”

“Why ‘among the
group’? It seems to me it might have been practically anyone.”

“The blackmailer
took great pains to conceal his identity—which argues that he, or she, is someone
your father knew well. I’d certainly like to talk to your mother.”

“You probably
can in a day or so.”

Tarr looked up. “How
come?”

“Her letter said
as much.”

“Oh, the letter.”
Tarr seemed to lose interest. He leaned back in the booth. “You’re a wealthy
gal now. A poor slob of a cop doesn’t stand much of a chance.”

Ann laughed. “Which
slob did you have in mind?”

“I was referring
to Inspector Tom Tarr. I have scruples, but luckily they don’t stand in the way
of living off my wife.”

“My father tried
it,” said Ann. “He didn’t seem to like it.”

“I’m of a
different temperament. More independent.”

“More
independent?”

“Certainly. Your
father couldn’t figure out how to adapt.”

“You’re
confusing ‘independence’ and ‘hypocrisy.’ ”

“There may be a
difference,” conceded Tarr. “Still, it all seems simple enough to me. Pearl
served roast duck with oranges, admittedly a vile concoction, when he wanted
bread and cheese. Why not tell her so in a nice way, instead of suffering so
dramatically? He’d have had his bread and cheese; his wife would be happy. It
seems to me your father was being unnecessarily difficult.”

“He was a hard
man to live with, no doubt about it.”

“Now me, I’m
not. If I wanted bread and cheese, everybody within twenty miles would know it,
including: my wife.”

“That’s not so
good, either, unless you’re married to somebody like Pearl.”

A short, paunchy
man came into the coffee shop. “My lord,” muttered Tarr, “here’s Cooley.”

Cooley wore
heavy black-rimmed eyeglasses; black hair rose in a tuft from a narrow forehead.
“Hey, there, Tom!” he called cheerfully. “Out feeding the missus on the
taxpayer’s money, I see. That’s the spirit! Show no mercy.”

Tarr said to
Ann, “This is Ben Cooley, photographer with the city police. Until they canned
him.”

“I never thought
they’d do it,” said Cooley without embarrassment.
“Nichevo.
I took the wrong kind of pictures of
the wrong kind of people.”

“Cooley put
enterprise ahead of discretion,” Tarr told Ann.

“In my business,
enterprise is what counts,” said the photographer. “Now what would you do? I
ask you, Mrs. Tarr. Here’s the situation. Picture a naked man running down the
street, with a dog chasing him. You’ve got your camera ready. Would you take
the picture or wouldn’t you?”

“If I could hold
the camera steady, I’d certainly take it.”

“So
did I. Turns out the man was visiting the home of a friend, and the
friend arrives unexpectedly. So the man jumps out the window. I won’t mention
any names—that’s not my style—but it turns out he’s one of the big shots in the
Police Department. I should have recognized him, but without clothes he didn’t
look the same. One thing led to another, and I was allowed to resign.”

“Dirty shame,” said
Tarr.

“I’m through
with this damned city. As soon as the Civil Service exams for the county go up,
I’ll try for special investigator, or maybe photo-lab technician. Who knows,
Tarr? Maybe I’ll ease you out. You’ve been on the gravy train long enough.” He
winked at Ann. “Except that I’d get in dutch with your wife.”

Tarr rolled his
eyes toward the ceiling. “This is Miss Nelson.”

“Oh. Excuse me.
You sure look like Mrs. Tarr. Same build. Even the face—”

“Here now!”
expostulated Tarr. “There isn’t any Mrs. Tarr! Hasn’t been for four years!”

“Oh, come
on,
Tom. I saw you two at the department picnic
last month. In fact, I’ve got pictures to prove it. One where she was standing
on the beer keg on one leg, and another during the Charleston contest. Unless
maybe it was Miss Nelson?” Cooley looked questioningly at Ann, who had risen.

“It must have
been Mrs. Tarr,” said Ann. “I don’t have a very good sense of balance. Goodbye,
Mr. Cooley. Goodbye, Inspector Tarr.”

“Wait!” said
Tarr.

“Don’t go on my
account,” said Cooley.

But Ann went,
clicking along on staccato heels.

“Cooley,” said
Tarr, “I ought to beat you up.”

“Nice-looking
number,” said Cooley. “What is she, friend or criminal?”

“She might be
either . . . or both.”

“You always come
up with cute ones,” said Cooley.

“Just a natural
talent, I guess.” Tarr heaved to his feet. “I’ve got to get back to
headquarters.”

Ann arrived home
in late afternoon. The apartment seemed unnaturally quiet. She made a pot of
tea and sat down in the big chair by the window, wondering what to do with
herself for the evening. Dinner downtown? A movie?

She snatched the
telephone and dialed Hilda Baily, who taught fourth grade at Mar Vista. There
was no answer; Hilda was probably celebrating the end of the term. While she
was considering whom next to call, the phone rang. Ann lifted the receiver and
heard a careful baritone voice. “Miss Nelson? Edgar Maudley here. Please don’t
think me a nuisance, but I’ve been wondering if you’ve come to any decision.”

“No. Wait, let
me think. Tomorrow is Saturday. Maybe I’ll go over tomorrow and check through
things.”

“About what time
will you be going?” inquired Maudley.

“I’m not sure.
Probably in the morning.”

“I’d be glad to
help you. It’s quite possible—”

“No”
said Ann. “I want to look things over by myself.”

There was a
moment of silence. Then Edgar Maudley said with dignity, “Certainly.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow
evening, or Sunday, and we can make whatever arrangements need to be made.”

“Very well, Miss
Nelson.”

Ann replaced the
receiver. Perhaps she should have accepted Maudley’s offer of assistance. There
would be a great many books to move. Well, she’d manage. Inspector Tarr still
had her father’s keys; she should have taken possession of them. But Martin
Jones could let her into the house. She ascertained Jones’s number from
Information, and called him. He grumbled but agreed to be on hand to open the house.
So much for that.

The evening
still remained a void.

Ann phoned two
more of her friends, suggesting dinner downtown. Each was committed.

She showered,
changed into a black cocktail dress, drove downtown, and dined alone at Jack’s.
The evening was still young; the Fairmont Hotel was nearby; the cocktail lounge
was a dim sanctuary. Ann relaxed. Inisfail seemed far away; the circumstances
of Roland Nelson’s death were remote, and she was able to consider them with
detachment.

The entire
course of her life had been changed. She had not yet reckoned the total of her
new riches, but it surely would exceed a hundred thousand dollars, even after
taxes. With twenty-two thousand dollars still unaccounted for—the loot of the
blackmailer. Or such was Tarr’s contention. He also continued to espouse the
suicide theory. One was as bizarre as the other, but Ann was forced to admit
the lack of any convincing refutation. Her father had been found dead in a
foolproof locked room; suicide was the only rational explanation. The note
rescued from the fireplace, the withdrawal of twenty-two thousand dollars from
the bank, as clearly indicated blackmail. Against facts and logic Ann could
only oppose her conviction that Roland would never have paid blackmail or
killed himself.

She took an
envelope from her purse, wrote on the back:
Questions.
Gnawing on her pen, she sought to recall the various occasions she
had been puzzled, surprised, mystified. Gradually she composed a list:

How
did Elaine learn that Roland had inherited money?

Why
was she so sure of collecting from him? Had she been really sure, or only
optimistic?

Why
had Roland put such secure locks on his study door?

While
Roland was short of money, he paid his rent regularly (evidenced by the rent
receipts). When he came into the estate he fell behind. Normal relaxation? Or
other reasons?

Where
had Elaine spent the time since March? Where was Elaine now?

Why
had Elaine written so indefinite a letter, without a return address, without
information of any sort other than that she wanted money?

If
Elaine had received $22,000 from Roland, why was she now complaining of
financial stringency?

The Elaine
questions suggested an answer as unthinkable as Roland’s blackmail and suicide.
Yet Ann was forced to admit that the three incredible ideas formed a plausible
unity.

Suppose Roland
had done violence to Elaine? Suppose someone knew of it and blackmailed Roland?
Suppose Roland, half crazy with guilt, worry, or fear, had then decided to kill
himself? In a burst of illumination, Ann realized that these were the premises
on which Inspector Tarr was working. It was an obvious point of view for
someone who did not know Roland Nelson. No wonder Tarr had been so skeptical of
the letter!

Nevertheless,
facts were facts. The letter
had
been written by Elaine, and postmarked only last Tuesday—evidence
of Elaine’s continuing existence. Why was she being so elusive? Was she afraid?
Of whom? Of the blackmailer? Of whoever had told her of Roland’s inheritance?
Of the law? Questions, questions, questions. So very few facts . . . Ann
ordered another drink from the cocktail waitress. Dance music floated in from
the ballroom like smoke.

She threw up her
hands. Suicide, accident, murder, blackmail . . . what difference did it make?

For five minutes
she sat in blissful relaxation. No more school. No more second grade. Travel .
. . Italy would be fun. Venice, Positano, Taormino: places she long had wanted
to visit. Paris, Copenhagen, Vienna. Or Ireland, which must be charming. Ann
toyed with the thought that she might run into Jehane Cypriano on some Dublin
street . . .

The thought of
Jehane reminded Ann of Alexander Cypriano and the Paul Morphy Presentation
chess set by which he set so much store. In turning the set over to Roland,
Cypriano symbolically, if not actually, had cut himself off from chess, the
well-spring of his existence. And in tearing up the mortgage, Roland in effect
had compensated Alexander for the long-term use of his wife. Not a nice
gesture, but then, Roland had not been a nice man.