A Room to Die In (3 page)

“I’ve just
finished telling you he wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry,”
said Tarr with patently spurious humility. “I’m sometimes a trifle dense. You
know dumb cops.”

Ann said with
dignity, “I think he liked and respected Pearl, but apparently she got on his
nerves. I wouldn’t be surprised—”

“If what?”

“If there might
not be another woman involved.”

Tarr lounged
back in his chair. “What makes you say that?”

“Something Pearl
told me over the telephone.”

“You don’t know
the identity of this other woman?”

“I wouldn’t have
the faintest idea. Even if there was another woman.”

Tarr looked
thoughtful. “According to his landlord, he’s been living like a hermit. Going
nowhere, seeing no one. Was that the way he usually lived?”

“He had no usual
way of life. I think he just decided to live in the country. Since he had no
friends, the result would be the life of a recluse.”

Tarr reached
into a drawer, brought out a wallet, and tossed it on the desk. “This is the
extent of what he had in his pockets. I haven’t gone through his papers yet.”

Ann looked
through the wallet. There were four ten-dollar bills, three fives and several
ones. One compartment contained a driver’s license, a pink automobile-ownership
certificate for a 1954 Plymouth,
a
receipt issued by Apex Van and Storage acknowledging responsibility
for “Rugs and household effects as itemized,” with an appended schedule.

A second
compartment contained several business cards:
Martin Jones, General Contractor,
with a San
Rafael address and telephone number;
Hope, Braziel and
Taylor, Stockbrokers; The California and Pacific Bank, Mr. Frank Visig,
Investment Management Department,
both of San
Francisco; and to Ann’s astonishment three snapshots of herself, at about the
ages of four, ten, and sixteen. On the back of the latest, her current address
and telephone number had been scribbled in pencil.

“You were pretty
little girl,” remarked Tarr, watching her.

“I can’t imagine
where he got these pictures,” Ann exclaimed. “Unless my grandmother sent them
to him. Dear old Granny, such an innocent thing.” She looked through the other
compartments. “Is that all?”

“That’s all.
Your father apparently belonged to no lodges, clubs, or organizations.”

“Small chance of
that.”

“Didn’t he have
any close friends?”

“None I know of.”

“What about
enemies?”

“I wouldn’t
think so. But I really don’t know.”

Tarr laid the
pencil carefully on his desk. “There’s an indication that Mr. Nelson was being
blackmailed.”

“What!”

He clasped his
hands, surveying Ann with the blandest of expressions. “I’ll explain the
circumstances. Your father’s landlord, Mr. Jones, found the body. Jones came to
collect the rent, which was past due . . . Otherwise your father might have
lain there dead God knows how long. Jones rang the bell and, receiving no
answer, looked through a window. He saw your father, obviously dead. He
telephoned the sheriff’s office, and I came out with another officer.

“The room, a
study of sorts, was locked from the inside. The window looked the easiest way
in. I broke a pane, cranked open the casement, and crawled through. Mr. Nelson
was certainly dead, and I radioed for the coroner.

“While waiting,
I made certain observations. As I mentioned, the room was a study. Mr. Nelson
had apparently been shot by a thirty-eight revolver which lay on the floor; the
laboratory has confirmed this. The door leading from the study into the living
room was locked and bolted from the inside. There is no access to the study
other than door and window, and both were locked. It has to have been suicide.”
Tarr glanced at Ann as if to gauge her reaction. But Ann said nothing, and he
continued. “There’s a fireplace in the study. Among the ashes I found a
crumpled sheet of paper—I can’t show it to you just now; it’s at the
laboratory. But”—he consulted a notebook “—the message reads like this: ‘I’ve
been too easy on you. I want more money. From now on fifteen hundred dollars
each and every month.’ ” Tarr replaced the notebook in his pocket. “It was made
up of letters cut from newspaper headlines and pasted to a sheet of cheap
paper. There were some fingerprints on the paper, all your father’s. The
implication is clearly blackmail.” He leaned forward. “Do you know of anything
in your father’s background for which he might have been blackmailed?”

Ann laughed
scornfully. “I don’t think my father
could
be blackmailed.”

“Why do you say
that?”

“He had no
shame.”

“Well, if he’d
committed a crime—”

“I don’t think
so. Because . . . well, let me put it this way. My father was a very good chess
player. You can’t cheat at chess. Or rather, you can, but you don’t. Because if
you win, you haven’t really won; if you lose, you’ve lost double.”

“So?”

“My father
wouldn’t commit a crime for the same reasons he wouldn’t cheat at chess. He was
too proud.”

“Nice if
everyone thought like that,” mused Tarr. “Except that I’d be out of a job. I
wonder if the crime rate among chess players is below average . . . Well, back
to your father. You can’t conceive a basis on which he could be blackmailed?”

“No.”

Tarr flung
himself back almost impatiently. “Your father seems to have been . . . well,
extraordinary. Even peculiar.”

Ann felt a
prickle of something like anger. Now that Roland Nelson was dead, she felt a
need to defend him, or at least to explain the workings of that splendid,
reckless, sardonic personality. “It all depends on what you mean by ‘extraordinary’
and ‘peculiar.’ He was certainly independent. He never adapted to anyone. You
had to adapt to him or go your own way.”

Tarr moved in
his chair, as if the idea were a personal challenge. He brought out his
notebook. “Your mother’s name is what?”

“Mrs. Harvey
Gluck.”

“Where does she
live?”

“In North
Hollywood. Do you want the address?”

“Please.”

Ann looked in
her address book. “Eight twenty-eight Pemberton Avenue. I’m not sure she’s
still there. In fact, I know she’s not. I wrote her a card which was returned
by the post office.”

Tarr made a
note. Ann noticed that he wore no ring on his left hand. “How long have your
mother and father been divorced?”

“Years and
years. When I was two they took off in different directions and left me in
Santa Monica with my grandmother. I saw very little of either of them after
that.”

“Did your father
contribute to your support?”

“When he felt in
the mood. Not very often.”

“Hmm. Now let’s
see. He married Pearl Maudley . . . when?”

Ann studied him
a moment. “If you’re so sure he committed suicide, why are you asking these
questions?”

Tarr grinned as
if Ann had made a joke. To her surprise, he tossed the pencil in the air with
one hand, caught it with the other. Detectives were supposed to be grim and
incisive. Tarr said, “There’s still the matter of blackmail.”

“He and Pearl
were married a year and a half ago. She was a widow with a good deal of
money—which may or may not have persuaded him.”

“Were you at the
wedding?”

“No.”

“But you did
meet the new Mrs. Nelson?”

“About a month
after they were married she invited me to dinner. They had a beautiful
apartment in Sausalito. After meeting Pearl, I felt that my father was very
lucky.”

“But they
separated. When she died—since there was no divorce and she had no close
relatives—he came into her estate. Is that correct?”

“So far as I
know. I wasn’t even aware Pearl was dead till my mother told me.” “And how did
she find out?”

“I have no idea.
It’s something I wondered about myself.”

Tarr leaned
back, his eyes quite blank. “And now you’ll inherit.”

Ann laughed
humorlessly. “If you’re suggesting that I killed my father for his money . . .”

“Did you?”

“Would you
believe me if I said I did?”

“I’d like to
know how you arranged it.”

“Just for the
record,” said Ann with a curling lip, “I did not shoot Roland.”

Tarr asked
carelessly, “You weren’t blackmailing him?”

“I neither
murdered nor blackmailed my father.”

“What about your
mother?”

“What about her?”

“Do you think
she might have been blackmailing him?”

“No. I really
don’t.”

Tarr frowned,
put the pencil definitely aside. “You saw her when?”

“The early part
of March—the first or the second.”

“Which would be
shortly after your father came into the estate. Did she tell you of her
intentions?”

“She wanted
money from him. I told her she was wasting her time, but she paid no attention.”

“Wouldn’t that
suggest that she had some sort of hold over him? In other words, blackmail?”

“It seems
utterly fantastic.”

“You have the
same reaction to the idea of suicide,” Tarr pointed out, “which is demonstrable
fact.”

“It hasn’t been
demonstrated to me yet.”

“Very well,”
said Tarr. He rose. “I’m going out to Inisfail now to check through your father’s
papers. You can come along if you like; in fact, I’d appreciate your help. I
believe I can also demonstrate the fact of suicide.”

“Very well,”
said Ann with dignity. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

Tarr conducted
Ann to an official car and gallantly assisted her into the front seat. He drove
out of town by the Lagunitas Road, which took a preliminary dip to the south,
then wound westward over the flanks of Mount Tamalpais, eventually meeting the
Pacific at Horseneck Beach.

“I spoke to your
father’s landlord last night,” said Tarr. “He hasn’t been too happy. Your
father apparently failed to do some work he had promised.”

Ann made no
comment. The fact was of no interest to her.

Tarr glanced at
her sidewise. “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a
schoolteacher.”

“You don’t look
like any of my old school teachers,” said Tarr. “I might still be in school.”

“You don’t look
like any of mine, either,” said Ann wearily.

After a moment
Tarr asked, “Since you’re Miss Nelson, you’re not married?”

“Not now.”

“I guess we all
have our problems,” said Tarr—a remark over which Ann puzzled for several
minutes.

San Rafael fell
behind. The road passed through a scrofulous district of housing developments,
then veered off across a rolling countryside of vineyards, copses of oak and
eucalyptus, and old clapboard farmhouses. The hills became steeper and wilder;
fir and pine appeared beside the road.

Ten miles out of
San Rafael the road swung across an ancient timber bridge and entered the village
of Inisfail. The main street housed the usual assortment of business
enterprises; there were three or four tree-shrouded back lanes lined with
spacious old dwellings. At the edge of town Tarr turned right, into Neville
Road, which after a turn or two led down the middle of a long, wooded valley.

Tarr pointed
ahead to a ranch-style house overpowered by four massive oaks. “That’s where
your father lived.”

Ann, suddenly
aware of an unpleasant sensation—expectancy? tension? oppression?—had nothing
to say.

Tarr turned into
the driveway and parked under the largest of the oaks. Ann got out slowly, the
unpleasantness becoming ever more acute. She shut out of her mind the
recollection of her father’s dead face and, forcing herself to relax, looked
around her. The house was neat and innocuously modern, quite devoid of
character; it might have been a transplant from one of the tracts near San
Rafael. The front wall was dark brown board-and-batten, the side walls bisque
stucco. There was a shake roof, a used-brick chimney. The garden consisted of a
straggling laurel hedge, a patch of lawn, and a line of new rosebushes. In the
garage stood a battered green car, evidently the 1954 Plymouth of the ownership
certificate.

If Tarr was
aware of Ann’s state of mind, he ignored it. Matter-of-factly he took several
keys from his pocket, sorted through the labels, selected one, unlocked the
front door, and stood aside for Ann to enter. She marched into the house,
prepared for . . . what? The odor of death?

The air was
fresh.

Cautiously Ann
relaxed. Her apprehensions were overfanciful. This was only a house, a sorry,
ordinary house lacking even the echo of her father’s personality. She looked
around the living room. It seemed a trifle stuffed. The furniture, like the
house itself, was impersonal and characterless, except for a large bookcase
crammed with obviously expensive books. At one end of the room, beside the
bookcase, a door led into another room, evidently the study where Roland Nelson
had died. This was on her right hand. To her left were the dining area and
kitchen; in the wall opposite, a sliding glass door opened onto the patio;
behind her, a hall led to bedrooms.

Ann said
tentatively, “It’s not the house I’d expect to find my father living in.”

“It’s a pretty
big place for one man,” Tarr agreed. “I guess he liked plenty of room.” He
walked into the study. Ann followed gingerly.

The study was
not large, the longest dimension corresponding to the width of the living room.
To the left stood a brick fireplace. The single window, opposite the door,
consisted of a pair of aluminum casements, each with six panes, each equipped
with a detachable screen. One of the panes had been broken and the screen slit:
the means Tarr had employed to gain entry. The wall separating the study from
the living room was finished in mahogany paneling; the other three walls were
textured plasterboard. A large bookcase stood back to back with, Ann judged,
the bookcase in the living room, and was equally heavy with luxurious books.
The other furnishings were an inexpensive metal desk on which sat a portable
typewriter, two chairs, and a pair of card tables against the right hand wall
supporting four chessboards with games in various stages of development.

Ann asked, “Where
was my father when you found him?”

Tarr indicated
the chair behind the desk. “The gun was on the floor.”

Ann turned,
closed the door, opened it, closed it again. It fitted the frame on all sides
snugly. She said grudgingly, “I’ll have to admit there’s no conceivable way a
string or wire or metal strip could have been worked through a crack.”

Tarr looked at
her quizzically. “Why do you say that?”

“I’m not
convinced that Roland killed himself.”

Tarr closed the
door, shot a heavy bolt into place, and locked the bolt in place with an old-fashioned
harness snap. “This is how I discovered the door. I can swear to it, and so can
Sergeant Ryan, who was with me. Notice the bolt. It’s fixed to the wall, not
the door. Unusual, but more secure. This harness snap”—he demonstrated its
action—“pins down the bolt. It is impossible for the door to be bolted shut
except through the agency of someone standing
inside
this room. Then, for what it’s worth, the
door bolt was in the lock position—which in itself would very adequately secure
the door.”

“Then why the
extra bolt? Doesn’t it seem peculiar?”

“Yes. I suppose
you’d say so.”

“I thought
detectives worried about odd, unexplained details?”

Tarr grinned
ruefully. “I have worries enough with simple, ordinary details. The bolt is
peculiar, yes. So I asked Martin Jones about it—the landlord. He didn’t know it
had been installed. This is a new house; your father was its first tenant.
Jones was as annoyed as the devil.”

“Why would
Roland want a bolt on the door in the first place? It seems so strange.”

Tarr shrugged. “I’ve
seen a lot stranger things than that. By the way, notice that the hinges are
here on the study side, too, and that the pins are as tight as they could be.”

Ann went to the
fireplace, stooped, peered up the chimney.

“I checked that,
too,” said Tarr, watching her. “There’s a patent metal throat with a slit about
four inches wide when the damper is open. The damper was closed, as it is now,
with the handle firmly seated in a notch. Outside there’s a barbecue grill,
with about six inches of brick between.” He stamped on the floor. “Under the
rug here there’s vinyl tile, and then a concrete slab. The walls, the ceiling”—he
looked around—“they’re ordinary walls: plywood, plasterboard. A ghost could get
through without leaving a mark, nothing else. The window?” He motioned to Ann. “Look.
When I push down this handle, a hook clamps the sash to the frame. Not even air
can seep through the crack. In addition, the screen was securely screwed into
place from the inside, as it is now.”

“What about the
glass? Could a pane have been broken out and replaced?”

Tarr shook his
head. “Go outside and check for yourself. All the putty is uniform and several
years old.”

“Several years?
I thought you said this was a new house.”

“It’s
inconsequential. Jones might have had the window on hand. Or it might have been
a used window. Or the supplier might have had it in stock for that long. The
basic fact is that the putty is old and undisturbed. Until I broke the pane, of
course.” He turned, considered the chair behind the desk. “Do you know if your
father owned a pistol?”

“No, I don’t
know.”

“He was killed
by an S and W thirty-eight revolver—little snub-nose job. It was lying on the
floor under the fingers of his right hand. Don’t tell me he was left-handed.”

“No. He was
right-handed.”

“So it has to be
either accident or suicide. The case for accident is weak to the vanishing
point. It consists of the fact that there was no farewell note, and that you
consider your father temperamentally incapable of suicide. Still, not all suicides
leave notes, and every year thousands of people surprise their relatives by
bumping themselves off.”

“But
why?
Why should he do something so foolish? He
had everything to live for.”

“The fact that
he was living out here like a hermit might indicate . . . well, moodiness,
instability.”

Ann laughed
scornfully. “You never knew Roland, or you wouldn’t say that.”

“Well, I
mentioned the very strong indication of blackmail.”

“Perhaps so.
Still—”

“You’re not
convinced?”

“I’m absolutely
confused. I don’t know what to think.” She turned away, went to look at the
card tables. Beside each of the four chessboards lay a stack of postcards. Ann
glanced at the postmarks. “Amsterdam . . . New York . . . Albuquerque . . .
Leningrad. Correspondence chess.”

“He did that as a
usual thing?”

“As long as I
can remember.” Ann thought back along the avenue of her life, recalling the
infrequent occasions when it intersected with her father’s existence. “He was a
very talented chess player. Five years ago he placed second in the California
Masters Tournament. He might have done better if he had studied more.”

Tarr turned to
the desk, moved the portable typewriter to the side. “Let’s get to work.” He
pulled up a chair for Ann; then, seating himself, he tried the drawers on the
right side of the desk. They were unlocked, and he opened them one after the
other. “Not much here.” He returned to the top drawer, brought forth a sheaf of
check-sized green papers. “Rent receipts. Eighty-five dollars a month, paid on
the”—he looked through them—“well, toward the first of the month. There’s one
reason why he liked the house. Cheap rent.”

Ann examined the
receipts. They were standard printed forms, signed in a neat square hand
Martin Jones.
“The first is dated August forth
of last year—just after he and Pearl separated.” She ran through the forms, one
after the other. “The last is dated April fifth. There’s no receipt for May.”

“Your father
didn’t pay his rent. If he had, we probably wouldn’t have found him for another
month . . . Let’s see what else we’ve got. A bankbook. Account opened March
fourth. First deposit: sixty-eight thousand five hundred and twenty-five
dollars. Nice chunk of cash. Rather unusual form for an inheritance.”

“It might have
been a savings-and-loan account,” Ann suggested.

“March fourth.
That would be six months after his wife died. The court apparently appointed
someone else as administrator of the estate. Otherwise he would have had
control of the money sooner.”

“I wonder why he
didn’t pay his rent?” Ann mused. “With all that money . . .”

“That’s when
people get tight-fisted,” said Tarr dryly. “Look here now. On March fifth, a
withdrawal: twenty thousand dollars.”

Ann reflected. “That
would be about the time my mother visited me. Somehow she’d heard about his
coming into money.”

“Would Mr.
Nelson be disposed to give your mother twenty thousand dollars?”

“Not likely.”
Ann laughed. “He was an easy man to irritate—and she’s an irritating woman, to
say the least.”

“How long did
they stay together?”

“Off and on,
three or four years. It was never a very stable association.”

Tarr returned to
the bankbook. “Withdrawals on the first of April and the first of May, a
thousand dollars on each occasion—which confirms the existence of blackmail. I’ll
have to inquire at the bank to see how he took the money.” He wrote in his
notebook. “A blackmailer would naturally want cash.”

Ann snorted.
Tarr ignored her, studied the bankbook a moment longer, then laid it aside. “What
else do we have?” He sorted through the papers. “Nothing of consequence. Three
books of blank checks, no stubs. And no checkbook in current use. It wasn’t on
his person, either. Just a minute.” He jumped to his feet and left the room.
Three or four minutes later he returned, looking puzzled. “No checkbook in his
bedroom or clothes . . . Oh, well. It’ll show up. What’s that you’re looking
at?”

“An address
book.” She handed it to him; Tan-leafed through the pages. “Hmm. Here’s a local
address:
Alexander Cypriano. Thirty-two Melbourne Drive,
Inisfail.”

“I’ve heard that
name before,” said Ann. “Something to do with chess, I think.”

Tarr continued
to go through the book. “These all might be chess connections. There’s not
another local address.”