A Room to Die In

Chapter 9

Ann arrived in San Rafael shortly before three, ravenously hungry; she stopped at a drive-in for a sandwich. No question but that she should report the events of the day to Inspector Tarr. Tarr, in his vanity, would of course assume that infatuation had induced her to call him. The notion irritated her. Let him assume anything he liked.

At a service station she freshened up, then telephoned the sheriff’s office. Tarr got on the phone and said yes, he would like to see her. Could she stop by the office? Or would she prefer to meet him elsewhere?

The office was perfectly satisfactory, Ann said in a tone she hoped would put the Don Juan of the force in his place.

But when she arrived at the sheriff’s office, Tarr seemed anything but abashed. He took her into his cubbyhole and seated her with gallantry. “I’ve been in communication with the Los Angeles County authorities. No sign anywhere of your mother. Harvey Gluck says he knows nothing. He hasn’t seen her for two months and professes great concern.”

“What about Beverly Hills?”

Tarr looked puzzled. “Beverly Hills?”

“That’s where the letter was mailed from.”

“Oh, the letter.” Tarr pursed his attractive lips. “It might have been mailed by almost anyone. A friend, a mailing service, even the postmaster. The postmark doesn’t mean much.”

“Do you think something happened to her?”

He ran his fingers through his blond hair. “Anything might have happened. We can’t rule out illness or accident. Hospitals report negative, there’s no police information, but she’ll turn up. Don’t worry about that.”

“It seems she’s been working in cahoots with Edgar Maudley.”

“How’s that again?”

Ann told him what Maudley had said. “She sold poor Edgar on the idea that she could prove Roland’s marriage to Pearl invalid — in which case Edgar would have inherited as next of kin.”

“Could she do it?”

“I don’t see how. Though, when I saw her,” said Ann, “she seemed pretty sure of herself.”

Tarr was unimpressed. “Unless she had irrefutable proof that Roland Nelson had made a bigamous marriage, she couldn’t pressure him.”

“How could he have married Pearl bigamously?” asked Ann. “He wasn’t married to my mother.”

“Unless he’d married still another woman, whom he hadn’t divorced — I mean, between your mother and Pearl.”

“I don’t know of any such woman. Of course, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t exist.”

“Still, suppose this hypothetical in-between woman was also putting pressure on him,” suggested Tarr, “so that he had to pay off two women instead of one. This would explain the bank withdrawals. Twenty thousand to one of them, a thousand a month to the other.”

Ann shook her head skeptically. “Not that I have any better explanation... Oh, I’ve run into another mystery.”

“What mystery?”

Ann drew on a sheet of paper:

“This line represents the wall separating the living room from the study. The top and bottom marks are where the feet of the living-room bookcase rested before the case was moved — about nine inches apart. Between is the dent of an extra foot, in the position I’ve indicated, about five and a half inches from the front leg.”

Tarr examined the drawing intently. “What about the other bookcase, the one in the study? Did that show a similar set of dents?”

“No. I looked.”

“It’s certainly a queer one...” Tarr kept staring at Ann’s little diagram. He seemed far away. Then he shook his head violently. “I’ll have to think about this. Oh, before I forget, Miss Nelson. I’ll release that fancy chess set to you, also your father’s wallet.” He scribbed on a form. “Sign here.”

Ann signed, and Tarr brought the chess set and wallet from a cabinet. She opened the case and took out the black king with its dented crown. “Poor Alexander Cypriano.”

Tarr chuckled. “Losing that game probably hurt him more than the prospect of losing his wife. Speaking of wives, that fool Ben Cooley, the photographer — don’t pay any attention to what he said. There is no Mrs. Tom Tarr. There was one in the dim past, and I mean dim. The way Cooley talks you’d think I’m running around with five women at a time.”

“I don’t know why you think it concerns me.” She rose. “I’ll have to be going.”

Tarr said with engaging boyishness, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “Oh, what about having dinner with me next week?”

“I don’t think that would be wise, Inspector.”

“Come on, now...”

But Ann took the chess set and wallet, and departed.

Back in her car she scowled down at the chess set; she supposed she ought to return it to Alexander Cypriano. It meant another trip to Inisfail. She sighed, started her car, drove west on Lagunitas Road, and presently turned into the driveway of the house on Melbourne Drive.

Ann walked up the stone steps to the front door and rang the bell. The door opened slowly; Jehane, pale and serious, looked out from the gloomy interior.

Ann held out the leather case. “I brought the chess set back to your husband.”

Jehane stepped back quickly, as if the box were infected. “Come in, please,” she said in a pale voice. “I’ll call Alexander.”

Ann reluctantly went up with her to the second level. Jehane disappeared down the hall, and Ann heard her rapping at a door, then the mutter of conversation.

Jehane returned. Her face was expressionless. “He’ll be out in a moment.” After a pause she said, “I’m afraid Alexander feels that I never should have told you and Inspector Tarr what happened to the mortgage.” She broke off as Cypriano appeared in the hallway. He wore a red satin dressing robe with black lapels, and black leather slippers. His hands were in his robe pockets. He glowered at Ann from under threatening eyebrows.

Ann said, “I’ve brought you the chess set.”

“I see.” His voice was supercilious. “And what price have you set on it?”

“Nothing. I’m giving it back to you.”

Cypriano’s eyes went yellow. He seized the case, ran out on the deck, swung his arm. Far out over the rocks flew the leather case, sailing, spinning, disappearing into the gulch.