A Room to Die In (4 page)

“I think you’re
right. Some of the names I half recognize.”

“You’re a chess
player, too?”

Ann shook her
head. “But because of my father I’ve always been interested. Once when I was,
oh, eight or nine, he took me to a tournament in Long Beach. I was very much
impressed.” She looked over Tarr’s arm into the drawer. “There’s the card I
sent him last Christmas.”

Tarr examined it.
“ ‘Merry Christmas, Ann.’ Not what I’d call effusive.”

“I never felt
effusive.”

“But he kept the
card. He also carried your photographs. Out of sentiment?”

“I wouldn’t
know.”

“Still, you
stand to inherit from him, unless a will providing otherwise turns up.”

“Whatever’s left
after blackmail and taxes.”

Tarr considered
the bankbook once again. “There should be at least thirty thousand cash. A
comfortable sum. There’s another twenty thousand represented by that
withdrawal. I’d like to know where it went. If your mother got it, she’d
naturally claim it was a gift. Unless threats or duress could be proved, that’s
the last you’d see of it.”

“She can keep
it, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I’ll certainly
want to talk to your mother.”

He opened the
bottom drawer. There was nothing in it but a ream of typing paper. On the left
side of the desk was a single drawer that proved to be locked. Tarr brought the
keys from his pocket and unlocked it. He withdrew a bulging nine-by-twelve-inch
manila envelope and opened it. “Stock certificates issued to Roland Nelson.” He
sheafed through them. “Kaiser Aluminum, a hundred shares. Lockheed, two hundred
shares. Pacific Gas and Electric, fifty shares. No, here’s more—two hundred and
fifty. U.S. Rubber, five hundred. Sinclair Oil, Southern California Edison,
International Harvester, DiGiorgio Farms, Lykes Steamship, Koppers, National
Cash Register, Fruehauf Trailer . . . there must be a hundred thousand dollars
here. Good heavens, woman— you’re wealthy!”

Ann tried to
keep her voice even. “Unless there’s a will.”

Tarr reached
into the drawer and brought out a long white envelope, from which he withdrew
two sheets of typing paper. “Speaking of wills . . .” He read to himself with
what seemed maddening deliberation. Ann forced herself to sit quietly, though
her heart was pounding and she felt hot, stupid and greedy.

“Speaking of
wills,” said Tarr once again, “here it is. Holographic.” He handed the will to
Ann. Her eyes raced across the handwritten sentences:

Inisfail, California

March 11, 1963

LAST
WILL AND TESTAMENT

I,
Roland Nelson, being of sound mind, good health, and in a noteworthy state of
sobriety, declare this to be my last will and testament. I bequeath all the
property of which I die possessed to my daughter, Ann Nelson, and I nominate
her to be executrix of this will, subject only to the following exceptions and
provisions:

1.
She must pay all my legitimate debts;

2.
I bequeath my corpse to any medical or educational institution which will
accept said corpse. If such institution is not conveniently to be found, I
direct my executrix to dispose of said corpse by the least costly method
consistent with the laws of California, without the intercession of
participation of priest, dervish, witch doctor, seer, shaman, professional
mourner, monk, fakir, exorcist, musician,
incense
-swinger, or other religious
practitioner, or cleric of any sect, cult, or superstition whatsoever;

3.
She must by all lawful and practical means retain in her personal and immediate
possession for a period of at least twenty years from the date of my death that
article of medieval Persian craftsmanship presented to me by Pearl Maudley
Nelson on or about February 2, 1962;

4.
She must pay to Mrs. Harvey J. Gluck of North Hollywood, California, the sum of
ten cents per annum, at the demand of the said Mrs. Harvey J. Gluck, for the
duration of the life of the said Mrs. Harvey J. Gluck;

5.
To each of all and any other claimants upon my estate, I bequeath the sum of
one cent.

In witness whereof,
on this eleventh day of March, 1963 I subscribe my signature:

ROLAND
NELSON

This instrument,
having been signed and declared by Roland Nelson to be his last will and
testament, in our presence, on this eleventh day of March, 1963, in the
presence of Roland Nelson and each other, we subscribe our names as witnesses.

RAYMOND
SANTELL,
465 Linden Way, Inisfail, California

MARTIN
JONES,
2632 13th Street, San Rafael,
California

Ann replaced the
will on the desk. Tarr said, “That makes it official. You’re rich.” Ann said,
in a voice she tried to keep calm, “I’m surprised he went to all this trouble.”

“It indicates,”
said Tarr, in what Ann thought a rather sententious tone, “that he had death on
his mind.”

Ann dissented. “It
indicates that for the first time in his life he had property to worry about.
If you
’ll
notice
the date—”

“I noticed.
March eleventh. Immediately after he took possession of the estate.” He sheafed
once more through the stock certificates. “What’ll you do with all your money?”

“Well, I’ve got
obligations. There’s ten cents a year to my mother—”

“If she asks for
it.”

Ann smiled. “He
had fun writing the will.”

“What about this
article of medieval Persian manufacture?”

Before Ann could
answer, the doorbell rang. Tarr jumped up and crossed the living room at a
lope. Ann followed more slowly. Tarr opened the door. There stood a tall,
slender woman, dramatically beautiful. She wore a dark umber skirt and a black
pull-over sweater. She had pale-bronze skin, jet-black hair, clear hazel eyes.
She wore no make-up; gold rings in her ears were her only jewelry. Her age was
unguessable.

In
a
car, barely pulled off
the road, a plumpish man watched attentively. His face was shrewd, shaped like
an owl’s; he had a choppy beak of
a
nose and a fine ruff of gray hair.

The woman seemed
surprised at the sight of Tarr. She peered over his shoulder at Ann and spoke
in a soft voice. “Is something wrong? We were driving past and noticed the
police car. We naturally wondered . . .” Her voice dwindled.

Tarr looked from
the man in the car back to the woman. “You’re friends of Mr. Nelson’s?”

“We live nearby,
although we haven’t heard from him for months. But seeing the police car . . .”
Again her voice trailed off. She half turned, irresolutely, toward the watching
man in the car.

“Mr. Nelson is
dead,” said Tarr.

“He’s
dead
?”

“I’m afraid so.
May I have your name, please?”

She looked back
once more at the man in the car.

“Mr. and Mrs.
Cypriano.”

“First names?”
Tarr brought out his notebook.

“Alexander and
Jehane.”

“How do you
spell that last?”

The woman
spelled her name, then turned and called to the man. “Roland is dead.”

The man gave no
visible sign that he had heard.

Tarr asked, “How
long have you known Mr. Nelson?”

“Years. Since .
. . well, it’s been at least five years.”

Ann spoke. “Your
husband is a chess master, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said
Jehane Cypriano quickly, as if Ann had offered her unexpected support. “He’s
been California champion twice.”

From the car
Alexander Cypriano suddenly called, “How did he die?”

“Gunshot,” said
Tarr.

“Who shot him?”
Cypriano might have been asking who won a chess game.

“Nothing is
definite yet,” Tarr called out.

“He probably
deserved it.”

His wife said, “Don’t
pay any attention to my husband. He likes to shock people.”

Ann asked
casually, “Do you know why Mr. Nelson chose this place to live? It seems such a
big house for one person.”

Jehane examined
Ann with careful attention. “I really couldn’t say. I haven’t spoken to him
since shortly after his wife died. He was living in a different house then.”
She pointed up Neville Road to a gray cottage just visible in a copse of oaks,
horse chestnuts, and eucalyptus.

Tarr reflected a
moment. “There’s some indication that Mr. Nelson committed suicide,” he said. “Have
you any idea why he might have done such a thing?”

Jehane Cypriano’s
face became stony. “I find it very hard to believe.”

Tarr once more
opened his notebook. “May I have your address? I’ll probably want to talk to
you further.”

“Thirty-two
Melbourne Drive. The other side of Inisfail, up Blue Hill Road.”

Another car
turned up into the parking area, a green pickup, with
Martin Jones, Building Contractor,
painted on
its side. Jehane Cypriano, at the sight of the pickup, returned to the car. Her
husband immediately started the engine, and they drove away.

“That was fast,”
Tarr remarked. He put away his notebook.

Martin Jones got
down from the pickup—a compact, sunburned man with a square face in which
things rippled and twitched as if of their own accord. If Jones’s temperament
were as bellicose as his appearance, thought Ann, it was not surprising that he
had clashed with her father. The man favored her with a single glance, which
nevertheless seemed to encompass instantly every detail of her face, figure,
and clothing.

Tarr said, “This
is Miss Nelson, Mr. Nelson
’s
daughter. Martin Jones.”

Martin Jones
acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod that dismissed her. He gave his
entire attention to Tarr. “Find anything?”

“Nothing much.
There’s one or two points I’d like to clear up. Nelson was in this house how
long?”

“Since February
or thereabouts. Before that he rented the old family place up the road. I had a
chance to sell it; this house was empty, so I moved him in here.”

“I see. Another
thing. You witnessed his will?”

“I did.”

“You didn’t mention
it when we spoke yesterday.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Who is Raymond
Santell, the other witness?”

“The mailman.”

“What were the
circumstances?”

“I came out one
day to find him talking to a man; in fact, they were having a hell of an
argument. I didn’t pay any attention, started to load the stuff I had come for.
Pretty soon Nelson went into the house, leaving the other man outside. About
five minutes later he came back out with a sheet of paper. He called me over
and asked if I’d witness a will. I said I would. Then Nelson asked the other
man if he’d also witness the will. The man said, ‘What’s in it?’ Nelson grinned
and let him read it. The man got even madder than before. He just turned around
and stomped to his car and drove off. Just about this time Santell came past on
his mail route. Nelson asked him if he’d be a witness, and Santell agreed. So
Nelson signed, and Santell and I signed, and that’s all there was to it.”

“This other
man—did you hear his name?”

“No. He was
about fifty, I’d say—big soft guy in fancy clothes, with a trick mustache.
Drove a black Mercedes sedan.”

“You didn’t hear
what they were quarreling about?”

Jones gave his
head a shake. “I couldn’t have cared less.”

“Anything else
out of the ordinary ever happen that you recall?”

The building contractor
considered. He said in a grudging voice, “Nothing particular. In fact, nothing.
He was a queer customer, a loner—wouldn’t have anything to do with anybody. He
played chess by mail—an egghead.”

Ann decided that
she disliked Martin Jones with great intensity. A boor, a cultural barbarian,
and probably proud to be both.

Jones looked
over Tarr’s shoulder into the house. “When do you think you’ll be through
around here, Inspector?”

Ann said
distinctly. “To what date is the rent paid, please?”

Martin Jones
seemed surprised to hear her speak; he examined her once again before replying.
“If he’s dead, his tenancy is over. In any case, he hasn’t paid the rent.”

“He paid in
advance?”

“Usually.”

“So he actually
owes you a month’s rent?”

“That’s right.”

“It runs to the
first of the month?”

“To the fourth.”

“I’ll
see
that you
’re
paid. In fact, I’ll
write you a check right now—and you can come back on the fourth of June.”