A Room to Die In (5 page)

“In that case,
skip the rent. I want to put the place on the market.”

Tarr asked in an
easy voice, “You’re not going to rent any more?”

“No, sir. It’s
been nothing but a headache. Nelson got the place for peanuts because he said
he’d put in a garden.” Jones chuckled. “He planted those rosebushes and that
was it.” He said it without resentment, as if this sort of conduct were only to
be expected from Roland Nelson. Ann’s irritation swelled.

The man looked
around the yard. “I’ve got a lot to do around here.” He moved off across the
lawn to the rose-bushes, examined the leaves, then without
a
backward glance returned
to his pickup and drove away.

Ann glared after
him. “There goes my candidate for most unlovable man of the year.”

Tarr grinned. “You
rubbed him the wrong way.”

“I rubbed
him
the wrong way!”

“He’s no
diplomat, I’ll say that.” He took Ann’s arm and steered her back into the
living room. Ann pulled her arm free, stalked to the big bookcase, and
pretended an interest in the titles. It presently became genuine.

“These must have
been Pearl’s books. I can’t imagine my father’s investing in books like these.
They’re all special editions.”

Tarr pulled one
out.
“Phaedra’s Dream
, by
Richard Maskeyne. Who’s he?”

“I’ve forgotten,
if I ever knew.” Ann took the book. “Published in nineteen thirty-two. . . .
Look at these illustrations. Even in nineteen thirty-two it must have cost ten
or fifteen dollars. Now it would cost double that.”

Tarr squinted
along the shelves. “Not a paperback in the lot.” He took the book back from
Ann. “Eight inches wide, ten high, an inch and a half thick—a hundred twenty
cubic inches. For convenience, let’s say it’s worth twelve dollars. That’s ten
cents a cubic inch. This bookcase now. It’s just about six feet tall, eight
feet wide, something less than a foot deep.”

He calculated on
the back of an envelope. “Call it thirty-six cubic feet. Subtract six cubic
feet of air—thirty cubic feet . . .” He looked up with an expression of shock. “That’s
more than five thousand dollars stacked into just this one case! And there’s a
case just like it in the study!”

Ann said
fatuously. “There’s probably more than six cubic feet of air. And many of these
books aren’t that expensive.”

“So knock off a
couple of thousand bucks. It’s still a lot of money.”

But Ann shook
her head. “If Roland could have sold them for half of that, they’d be gone.” She
couldn’t believe her good fortune.

They went into
the study again. Tarr seated himself behind the desk and picked up the
bankbook. “Twenty thousand dollars paid out in a lump, then a thousand a month .
. . Did your father have any other income?”

Ann shrugged. “Sometimes
he’d sell a so-called sculpture or non-objective painting. He had a knack for
things like that. He tried writing, but I don’t believe he ever got anything
published. He’d work at odd jobs if he had to. By his own standards he managed
to live pretty well. Meaning he had leisure to do what he wanted.”

Tarr studied the
bankbook. “This twenty thousand dollars. It’s just possible he gave it to your
mother.”

“Mother and the
blackmailer may be the same character,” said Ann dryly. “I’m sure you’ve
considered the possibility. If you haven’t, you’d better.”

“What could she
know that would induce your father to pay her off?”

“I can’t
imagine.”

“We’ll certainly
want to ask your mother some questions.” Tarr gathered the papers together,
rose. “That’s all for today. Next comes the hard part—leg work.”

“To find the
blackmailer?”

“Yes.”

“I still find
your suicide theory incredible.”

“Well, unless
you can demonstrate otherwise . . .”

Ann made a slow
survey of the study. “I’d love to.”

“If only to make
me look a chump,” Tarr laughed. “Be my guest.”

“Ann went to the
study bookcase. On the lower shelf, along with two or three large books lying
flat, lay a large leather case. She pulled it out and, taking it to the desk,
unfastened the snaps and raised the lid.

“What is it?”
demanded Tarr.

Ann read the
tarnished silver plaque fixed to the red plush interior.

Presented to

PAUL MORPHY

of the United States of America

in appreciation of his magnificent achievements

and to commemorate his notable triumphs

in competition against the most eminent chess masters

of Europe and the world

at the

GRAND MASTERS TOURNAMENT

Geneva Switzerland

August 23, 1858

by the patrons.

Ann lifted out a
chessboard. The base was of carved rosewood, two inches thick; the playing
surface was an inlay of black opal and mother-of-pearl. At the bottom of the
case, fitted into appropriate niches, were the chess-men. Half the pieces were
of carved ebony, on gold bases; the other half were of white jade, on silver
bases. The black king carried a ruby in his scepter, the white king a diamond.

“That looks like
a mighty valuable toy,” muttered Tarr. “How long has he had it?”

“I’ve never seen
it before. Perhaps it was Pearl’s, too.” Ann suddenly shut the case. “I think I’ll
take it home.”

“Better let me
take charge of it,” said Tarr. “Technically the estate is still unsettled.”
Tarr’s informality evidently ended where regulations began.

“For all I know,”
he went on,
“you’ve
been blackmailing your father.”

“Which is why he
left me all his property,” Ann said tartly.

“You could have
worked it anonymously.”

“Go ahead and
prove it,” said Ann; and she marched out to the police car.

They drove back
to San Rafael in silence. Ann considered how best to carry out her father’s
instructions about the disposal of his body; Tarr presumably was sifting the
discoveries of the day for hidden conclusions.

Tarr parked in
front of the courthouse, in the section reserved for official cars. He switched
off the ignition, but made no move to get out. Instead he swung around to face
Ann. “There’s something I want to say to you.”

“What?”

“I’d like to
take you to dinner. No ulterior motives. Just a social evening.”

Ann was not
altogether surprised. Tarr wore no wedding ring; apparently he was not married.
Should she?

But just then a
blond woman in a red coat alighted from a long tomato-pink hardtop parked two
or three spaces away. Tarr saw her and sank low in his seat. The blond woman
marched up. She wore heavy eye make-up and her hair was twisted high in the
most extreme of styles; Ann thought she looked inexpressibly vulgar. The blonde
stooped to look in at Tarr.

“Well, Luther?”

Tarr looked
thoughtfully through the windshield, rubbing his nose. He turned to Ann. “Excuse
me a minute—” he began in an embarrassed way.

“Excuse
me,”
said the blond woman, acidly sarcastic. “I’m
sorry
if I’ve interrupted something. I thought
you might like to know I’ve been waiting over an hour.”

“A case came up.
I just couldn’t get away . . .”

The woman gave
Ann a sugary smile. “Of course. I understand perfectly. I waited to tell you
how terrible it is how they overwork you. And also—”

“Look.”

“—and also, go
to hell.” The woman straightened up. “There. That’s that.” She sauntered to her
pink car, backed out into the street, and sped away.

“Unfortunate,”
mumbled Tarr. “I forgot about her. She’s just an acquaintance. Met her in a
dark bar.”

“Why ‘Luther’?”
inquired Ann in a silky voice.

“My middle name.
I’m Thomas L. Tarr. Born in Tacoma of respectable parents, destined for the
ministry, where I still may end up. A hundred seventy-five pounds of sheer
decency. I wear white socks, don’t smoke or curse, and I put out crumbs for the
birds. Now, about us . . .”

Ann let herself
out of the car. “I think not, Inspector Tarr. Thank you, anyway.”

Tarr heaved a
morose sigh. “Oh, well. You’re going home?”

“Yes.”

“If you hear
from your mother, Miss Nelson, please let me know.”

“I’ll do that.”

Ann’s apartment,
so often her haven of peace, seemed drab when she got home. The sun, hanging
low, shone under a reef of cloud, producing a strange watery light, the color
of weak tea. Ann felt cross and restless.

She mixed
herself a highball and, dropping onto the couch, stared out the window. She
almost wished that she had accepted Tarr’s invitation. Though, considering the
circumstances . . . Inspector Thomas Tarr—Ann curled her lip, half in
amusement, half in disdain—a blond, affable, woman-chasing lout. Though the
affability might be only an act to lull wrongdoers. And suspects. There was no
use deceiving herself. Until the whole truth about her father’s death was
known, she was a suspect—of blackmail, at least.

She ruminated
upon the events of the day. Tarr had refused to consider any other possibility
than suicide. Ann conceded that his case looked unshakable. It would be gratifying
to prove him wrong, or at least to demonstrate that suicide was not the only
possibility. She reviewed in her mind the various locked-room situations of
which she had read. None of the devices, illusions, or gimmicks seemed
applicable. The door and the window could not be manipulated from the outside.
Walls, floor, and ceiling were unquestionably sound. No one could possibly have
been hidden within the room, to make his exit after Tarr arrived. The
fireplace? Ann tried to imagine a long mechanical arm lowered ingeniously down
the chimney, thrust across the room, finally to fire a bullet into Roland
Nelson’s brain. Fantasy . . . Here was a startling idea: suppose Inspector
Tarr, Sergeant Ryan, and Martin Jones had banded together to kill Roland
Nelson! As Sherlock Homes had pointed out, when the possibilities had been
eliminated, what remained, no matter how improbable, must be truth. Still—Ann
told herself regretfully—suicide looked like the answer. Accident? Of course
that was always possible.

Ann put aside
her conjectures. They were fruitless as well as tiring. Let Tarr worry about
it; he was paid to do so. Except that Tarr was too amiable to worry—in notable
contrast to the boorish Martin Jones. Ann wondered if Jones was married. If so,
God help his wife! . . .

That made her
think of her own marriage to the hypersensitive Larry. A mollycoddle. Though,
to be sure, her mother had brought out the worst in him. A more virile
man—Martin Jones, for instance—would very quickly have set things straight with
Elaine.

The thought of
Elaine prompted Ann to reach for the telephone. She dialed Operator and put in
a call to Mrs. Harvey Gluck, at 828 Pemberton Avenue, North Hollywood. A
peevish voice answered the ring: Mrs. Harvey Gluck was no longer residing
there. She had taken off several months before, leaving no forwarding address.
Ann shifted the call to Mr. Harvey Gluck, in Glendale. The connection was made,
the phone rang. No answer.

Ann replaced the
receiver and went back to staring out the window. The sun had dropped from
sight; the underside of the clouds burned with gold, deepening to persimmon as
she watched. The room dimmed. Ann rose, switched on the lights, and mixed
another highball.

She thought of
dinner, but the idea of cooking . . . Now, as a wealthy woman, she could call a
cab and dine at any restaurant in the city. If she chose. She did not choose;
it seemed a sordid thing to do, so soon after her father’s death—the source of
her good fortune.

She had never
really been fond of her father, aware always of his subsurface streak of
cruelty. “Cruelty” was not the word. “Callousness” was better—though it still
failed to describe Roland Nelson and his devil-take-the-hindmost attitude. He
had asked no quarter from life, and he gave none: a mocking, cynical man,
austere, flamboyant, disliked by some women, irresistible to others . . .

Jehane Cypriano.
Ann’s subconscious tossed up the name. She sipped her highball reflectively.
Roland Nelson would be attracted. But what of the woman’s husband? He looked
like a tyrant. What of Jehane herself?

The telephone
rang. Telepathy might well have been at work, because, lifting the receiver,
Ann was sure that she would hear the voice of Jehane Cypriano.

“Hello?”

“Ann Nelson?”
She had been right! “This is Jehane Cypriano. I haven’t disturbed you?”

“Not at all. I
was actually thinking of you.”

“I couldn’t
speak to you today. It was such a shock to hear of your father’s death.”

“I was
surprised, too, Mrs. Cypriano. Especially with the police convinced that he
killed himself.”

“It’s very
strange. Couldn’t it have been an accident?”

“Inspector Tarr
doesn’t seem to think so.”

“What do you
think?”

“I don’t know. I
suppose it must have been suicide. Although I still can’t believe it.”

“I can’t either.”
Jehane went on, rather hurriedly: “I wonder if you’d come to lunch tomorrow?
There’s so much to talk about, and Alexander is anxious to meet you.”

Ann could see no
good reason to refuse, although the invitation evidently was prompted by
something other than the charm of her personality. She said, “I’d be glad to
come.”

“Good. Twelve o’clock?
The address is thirty-two Melbourne Drive, off Blue Hill Road.” She gave
directions, which Ann noted on a scratch-pad, and the conversation ended.

Ann went into
the kitchen and fried bacon and scrambled eggs. She ate, tried to read; but
finding that her mind wandered, she took a hot shower and went to bed.

So many things
had happened in the last few days. Her father’s death, the sudden change in her
economic status. Thomas Tarr, his effortless charm, his floozy girl friend in
the red coat. Luther? Lothario was more apt, Ann told herself with a sniff.
Then there was the odious Martin Jones: like Tarr physically attractive, even
magnetic, with an air of repressed hostility in his every word and gesture . .
. She fell asleep.

At nine thirty
the next morning Inspector Tarr telephoned. His voice was unembarrassed,
official. “I can’t locate your mother, Miss Nelson. She’s no longer at the
address you gave me—hasn’t been there for months. Can you think of anyone who
would know her whereabouts?”

“Only her
husband. He lives in Glendale. He’s a dog trainer.”

“I’ll try him.”

“Incidentally,”
said Ann, “Mrs. Cypriano telephoned me last night”

“So?”

“She invited me
to lunch.”

“You’re going?”

“Certainly. Why
not?”

“No reason. But
call me afterwards, will you? I like to know what’s going on. I’ll be at the
office until three or four.”

Ann agreed in a
voice of dignified reserve.

She dressed with
more than usual care, in a white sleeveless frock and light gray coat, and at
eleven o’clock set forth. The day was sparkling and sunny with a cool breeze
carrying the salt scent of the Pacific across the city. Ann could not help but
feel an elevation of spirits.

She drove up
Lincoln Way to Nineteenth Avenue, and turned left into Park Presidio Boulevard,
which took her through Golden Gate Park, the Richmond district, the gloomy
forest of the Presidio, to the Golden Gate Bridge. Sailboats wandered the bay;
San Francisco’s skyline rose as crisp and white as sugar icing. To the left the
baby-blue ocean spread smooth and glistening, except for occasional cat’s-paws.
The hills of Marin County loomed ahead; the freeway swung through a tunnel and
slanted down past Sausalito to San Rafael, where Ann turned west out Lagunitas
Road, toward Inisfail.

Just before the
timber bridge, she came to Blue Hill Road, a narrow lane twisting up a hillside
heavy with fir trees. Melbourne Drive presently veered off to the left, a lane
even narrower than Blue Hill Road. At the mailbox marked
Cypriano,
Ann turned up a steep driveway and
came out on a graveled parking area below a tall house that was all dark wood
and glass.

She was early;
it was ten minutes to twelve.

Jehane Cypriano
appeared on the terrace, waving. She descended a flight of wide stone steps. The
woman wore black slacks and a short-sleeved beige sweater; her step was as
light as a young girl’s.

She seemed
genuinely glad to see Ann. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“I followed your
directions, and here I am.”

“Apparently I
got them right for once.” Jehane led Ann up to the terrace, which was being
extended or repaired. There was a fine view to the west over low hills and
forested valleys, with a gray glint of ocean far beyond. They entered the house
through a heavy oak door that opened into a vast high-ceilinged room built on
three levels. The lowest served as a lobby or foyer, the second as a living
room, the highest as a dining room. To the right, a half-octagonal rotunda
running from floor to ceiling overlooked the view. The walls were paneled in
dark wood, with details, accents, draperies, and rugs in unconventional colors:
black, scarlet, mauve, purple, black-green.

A decidedly
unorthodox house, Ann thought, like no other house she had ever seen.

She said as
much, and Jehane seemed pleased. “I designed it myself for friends. Then two
years ago we bought it from them.”

“I think that’s
wonderful.”

Jehane said, “When
I was a girl I decided to become an architect. Ridiculous, of course; there
simply aren’t women architects. But I went to architectural school, anyway.
This is what resulted.”

“It’s a
beautiful house,” said Ann. “It has a romantic, impractical feel to it. Like a
fairy castle. I don’t mean,” she hastened to say, “that it’s
really
impractical.”

“Oh, it probably
is,” said Jehane. “I’m both romantic
and
impractical. And who wants a house that’s dull? As a matter of
fact, I designed it for Rex and Pearl Orr. They were romantic and impractical,
too. When Rex died, Pearl wouldn’t live here. . . . But let me mix you a
daiquiri. I’ve just acquired an electric ice crusher, and I love to play with
it.”

Ann accompanied
her to the top level and into the kitchen.

“Alexander’s
still in bed,” said Jehane. “Sometimes he gets up before dawn; sometimes he
stays in bed till two. He’ll never get up at a normal hour.”

There was the
faint far sound of a toilet flushing. Jehane listened, her head at a birdlike
tilt. “Alexander is greeting the day. He’ll be with us shortly.”

Fresh lime
juice, Cointreau, rum went into a shaker with a cup of shaved ice; Jehane gave
the mixture a stir and served it in champagne goblets.

“Mmm,” said Ann.
“I suddenly see that I need an ice shaver.”

“It’s a
foolishly expensive gadget. But it’s fun.”

“Foolish things
are always the most fun,” said Ann.

“Yes, the things
in my life I regret the most are the wise things I’ve done.”

After a moment
Ann asked, “Is Pearl Orr the Pearl my father married?”

Jehane nodded. “Roland
met her here after Pearl sold us the house. I think she half regretted it—the
sale, I mean, not meeting Roland, because she was always visiting.”

“I don’t blame
her. If I ever build a house, you can be the architect.”

Jehane shook her
head with a wistful laugh. “I don’t think I’ll ever design another. You can run
into the most frightful headaches. There’s zoning, building inspectors,
headstrong contractors—heaven knows what-all.”

Ann had a sudden
flash. “Was Martin Jones the contractor?”

“Yes. How did
you know?”

“I didn’t. But
when he appeared yesterday, you left, and rather abruptly.”

Jehane nodded
slowly. “He built it.”

“He’s a surly
brute. Good-looking, though.”

Jehane made a
neutral gesture. “He goes on the defensive with attractive women.”

“He’s not
married, then.”

Jehane shook her
head. “There’s quite a story about Martin. He was engaged to an Inisfail girl—I
think they’d been sweethearts in high school. He built the house—where your
father lived—for himself and his bride. Last winter the girl flew to San Diego
to visit her sister, met a naval officer, and married him the next day. The
sister gave Martin the news over the telephone. So now he loathes all women.
The prettier they are, the more he hates them.”

“I should be
flattered,” said Ann. “He practically snarled at me. Although, in a way, I can
see his point.”

Jehane shrugged.
“Alexander can’t bear the sight of him.”

She raised her
head. Ann, listening, heard languid footsteps. “Here comes Alexander now,” said
Jehane.

Alexander
entered the room: a heavy-shouldered man with thin flanks, short legs, and a
magnificent head. His hair was thick, dove-gray; his eyes were large,
coal-black; his mouth and chin were small and almost dainty; his nose was a
small parrot’s beak. He wore dark-gray slacks and a shirt of maroon gabardine.

Not a man to
inspire instant liking, thought Ann.