A Room to Die In (12 page)

She wandered
back into the study. In that chair her father had died. She tried to imagine
the scene: Roland Nelson somberly gazing out the window, then raising the
revolver, holding it to his head, pulling the trigger. Unthinkable. But how
else? Ann’s brain raced, seeking an answer. The floor? Concrete. Ceiling?
Without mar or scar. Door? Window? Almost hermetically tight. Fireplace? A
marmoset might have gained entry—if the damper had been open, as it had not
been. Walls? Sound as the ceiling, everywhere that she could see, unmarred,
unbroken, unsullied. The single area not yet investigated was that section of
the paneled wall separating study from living room, between the back-to-back
bookcases. Ann returned to the living room and called to Martin Jones. “Would
you do something for me?”

“What?”

“Nothing
contrary to your principles, like reading. I’d like you to move this bookcase
away from the wall.”

Jones approached
warily. Ann snapped, “I won’t bite you. Just move the corner of the bookcase
out into the room.”

“Why?”

“Look, Mr.
Jones, either do it or don’t.”

Edgar Maudley
came into the living room. Two boxes of books remained, a large and a small. He
scowled, lifted the small box, gave a pitiful groan, and staggered out the
front door. “What’s wrong with him?” Ann asked. “He seems angry.”

Jones chuckled. “He’s
sore because I didn’t carry out that big box.” He put his shoulder to the
bookcase, eased it three or four feet out across the vinyl tile that covered
the floor.

“Thank you.” Ann
peered behind the bookcase.

Martin Jones
watched her curiously. “What’s the reason for all this?”

“I had a
fantastic idea that someone might have broken through the study wall, pushed
the bookcase aside, shot my father and got back out the same way.”

“A good trick,” said
Jones. “Especially since the bookcases loaded with books weigh a ton or so
apiece.”

Ann frowned. “I
just can’t
imagine
my father
shooting himself. He wouldn’t do it.”

“A
man
sometimes chooses his own time and place to die. Why be conventional and die of
cancer? Everybody has to die sooner or later.”

“Preferably
later,” said Ann. “I’m conventional.”

“I’ve noticed
that. ‘Read a nice book, Mr. Jones. Be cultured like me and Mr. Maudley.’ ” But
the mockery was good-natured, and Ann felt no obligation to retort.

“You can push
the bookcase back if you like. No, wait a minute.” She got down on her knees,
looked at the floor. “That’s strange.”

“What’s strange?”

“The dents in
the vinyl tile where the feet of the bookcase rested. It has only two legs, but
there are three dents.”

“ ‘Two legs’?
Six legs.”

“I mean the two
at this end. And there are three dents from the middle pair, too.” Ann crawled
to the other end of the case. “And three here as well.”

Edgar Maudley
came back into the room. He said in a peevish voice, “Mr. Jones, I’d be obliged
if you’d help me with the big box. I’ve got a weak back—”

“Sure. Just a
minute.”

Maudley came
over to where Ann was examining the floor. “What now?”

“These marks in
the tile,” said Ann. “Notice the three sets of feet on the bookcase. Each pair
is about nine inches apart. See where they’ve dented the vinyl? But notice that
between each two there’s the print of a third foot. How can that be?”

“The things
women bother their heads about,” said Maudley. “What are you charging me for
these books?”

“It comes to six
hundred and ten dollars.”

He winced. “For
my own books!”

“They’re not
your books,” said Ann acidly. “They’re my books. You don’t have to take them.”

Edgar produced
his checkbook and carefully wrote out a check. “There,” he whined. “Six hundred
and ten dollars. I don’t have any choice.”

“I won’t thank
you,” said Ann, “because the books are probably worth two or three times that.”

“Conceivably,” said
Maudley. “In any event, the deal is consummated, and I’ll say no more about it.”
Martin Jones seized the box that Edgar had found too heavy, hoisted it without
effort, and carried it outside.

Ann made a last
puzzled inspection of the impressions in the tile. There was undoubtedly some
pedestrian explanation, but what it was she couldn’t fathom.

She took stock.
The books were sorted; Martin Jones would take care of the bookcases; and she
decided to give him the desk in the study. Maybe she’d insist that he read
another book to earn it. It was fun to tease him, the surly brute.

Where was that “article
of medieval Persian craftsmanship” presented to Roland by Pearl, which Ann had
been enjoined to keep? She inspected a china closet in the dining area, which
contained a few inexpensive dishes. They could stay with the house. There was
no other storage area in the living room.

She went to
inspect the bedrooms.

The first
bedroom was starkly empty; the second contained little more than a bed and
dresser. In the wardrobe hung two or three men’s suits, a jacket or two. The
dresser held underwear, socks, handkerchiefs. The barest minimum of personal
belongings. Roland Nelson all over.

The Persian
miniatures were nowhere to be found. She went outside. Martin Jones was setting
out dichondra. “All through?”

“Almost. You’ve
been through the house, of course.”

Jones’s eyes
narrowed. “I cleaned up the kitchen, straightened up here and there.”

“Did you notice
a set of Persian miniatures? In
a
carved ivory box?”

“It’s in the
bedroom, on the dresser.”

“It’s not there
now.”

He frowned and
led the way to the bedroom. He pointed to the top of the bureau. “That’s where
the thing was. I saw it only this morning.”

Ann swung around
and marched outside. Edgar Maudley was preparing to leave. Ann said evenly, “I
don’t seem to find the miniatures, Mr. Maudley. Have you seen them?”

Maudley said in
a lofty voice, “If you’re referring to an item which since 1729 has been a
prized heirloom of my family—”

“And which is
going to be a prized heirloom of
my
family. Where is it?”

“As you can see,
I don’t have it on my person.”

“Very funny. Let’s
look in your car.”

“I don’t enjoy
the implication. And I don’t care to have you prowling through my car.”

“I think I’ll
prowl anyway. Those miniatures were in the bedroom; you went in there, then you
went out to the car carrying something under your coat. You swiped those
miniatures.”

“Think what you
like. The subject, so far as I am concerned, is closed.”

Ann walked to
his car. The doors were locked. Ann swung around. “Please unlock your car. If
you don’t have the miniatures I’ll apologize. If you do, I want them back.”

“My dear young
lady, I must insist that you drop the subject. In any event, I remind you that
by every moral right they’re my property—that they passed into the possession
of Roland Nelson only through the misguided generosity of my cousin Pearl.”

Ann turned to
Martin Jones. “I want you to witness this, Mr. Jones. I have reason to believe
he has the miniatures in his car . . .”

Jones eyed
Maudley with dislike. He stepped forward, held out his hand. “Let’s have the
key, Maudley.”

Maudley eyed him
nervously. “You’ll get no keys from me, sir. Stand aside.”

Martin Jones
gave his head a slow shake. “I could take them away from you. But it’s easier
to break a window.”

“You do that,
sir, and I’ll charge you with vandalism.”

“If the
miniatures are there,” declared Ann, “I’ll charge you with theft.”

White with fury,
Maudley reached in his pocket for the car keys, unlocked the door, opened the
glove compartment, and brought forth an ivory box, which he thrust at Ann. “Here
you are. I let you have them under protest. And I assure you your possession
will be only temporary.”

“Oh?”

“You have no
right to
any
of this.
Nor
the money. I’ve been a gentleman so far, but
no longer! The money, the books, the rugs, the miniatures belong to
me,
not
you,
and I intend to recover! The estate should never have gone to Roland Nelson in
the first place.”

“And why not,
pray?”

“Why not? I’ll tell you
why not!
Because the marriage of Roland
Nelson to Pearl Maudley was not valid.”

Ann was astonished.
“How so?”

“Because,” snapped
Maudley, “he never divorced your mother.”

Ann leaned back
on the fender of Maudley’s car. She controlled her voice. “Where did you hear
this?”

“Never mind
where I heard it.”

“At last,” said
Ann, “it becomes clear where my mother got her information.”

“You don’t deny
it, then?” Maudley asked in a triumphant blat.

“Deny what?”

“That Pearl
Maudley never was the legal spouse of Roland Nelson?”

“Certainly I
deny it.”

“How can you? He
never divorced your mother.”

Ann could no longer
control her laughter. “Why should he? He never married her.”

Maudley started
to speak, clamped his mouth shut. His face was red. Finally he stuttered, “This
is not the situation as I understand it.”

“Where did you
get your information? From my mother?”

“Yes, if you
must know!”

“Where is she?”

“Where is she?
How should I know? Los Angeles, I suppose.”

“How long has it
been since you’ve seen her?”

“Several months.
Why do you ask?”

“Inspector Tarr
has been trying to locate her.”

He chewed his
lip. “She made no mention of non-marriage to your father. In fact, she gave me
definitely to understand . . .” His voice trailed off.

“How much did
you pay her?” Ann asked gently.

He chose to
ignore her question. Instead, he said pompously, “You know, of course, that a
murderer can’t inherit from his victim.”

“What of it?”
Ann instantly perceived the drift of Maudley’s thoughts.

“There’s a line
of investigation which in my opinion the police have neglected.”

Ann pretended to
be puzzled. “Investigation of what?”

“The death of my
cousin Pearl. From Roland Nelson’s point of view, she could not have died more
conveniently.”

Ann’s voice
blared her contempt. “He didn’t see her the night she was killed. She died on
her way down the hill from the Cyprianos.”

“Oh? He lived
nearby. Suppose she had called on him, mentioned where she’d been? He had only
to knock her unconscious, drive back up the hill, run the car off the cliff,
and walk home—a matter of twenty minutes.”

“You,” said Ann,
“have a dirty mind!” She walked back toward the house. Edgar Maudley drove off
with a jerk, the trailer groaning and rumbling at his bumper.

At the door Ann
paused to take her first thorough look at the Persian miniatures. They were
contained in two intricately carved ivory trays, hinged to form the box. A
silver filigree emanating from the hinges divided the exterior into medallions,
inside which the filigree branched and elaborated into a thousand twining
tendrils, and these were garnished with leaves of turquoise, flowers of lapis
lazuli, cinnabar, and jet.

The miniatures
themselves were cemented to the interior of the trays. They depicted a garden
on a hillside overlooking a city: in the bright light of noon on the one side,
in the blue dimness of midnight on the other. In the daylight garden a warrior
prince walked with four advisers. A Nubian slave proffered sherbet; on parapets
stood stiff men-at-arms. In the night garden the prince reclined with a
languorous odalisque. She wore diaphanous trousers; black hair flowed over her
shoulders.

Ann unfolded a
slip of paper:
Garden of Turhan Bey: Behzad of
Herat. 1470-1520.
Ann closed the box and carried
it over to her car. A beautiful, authentic treasure; she could well understand
Edgar Maudley’s covetousness.

She went back
into the house. Martin Jones stood in the middle of the living room. Ann saw
that his mood had changed; he once again had become hostile. Because they were
alone? Was he afraid of her? Or of women in general? She picked up an armload
of books and took it out to her car. With surly grace Jones helped her. When
the books were loaded, Ann packed the four chessboards and the chessmen,
feeling a twinge as she broke up games that would never be finished. She must
remember to notify the four chess-playing correspondents of her father’s death.