A Room to Die In

Chapter 11

A few minutes after Tarr left, Inspector Fitzpatrick returned and, taking Ann to the privacy of a bedroom, interrogated her at length. Rather to Ann’s surprise, he seemed primarily interested in Elaine and her previous romantic attachments, and in Ann’s own history. Ann repeated that Harvey Gluck’s visit was totally unexpected; she spoke of the circumstances of her father’s death. After about an hour and a half Fitzpatrick rose to leave. “What are your plans now? Are you going to stay on here?”

Ann shook her head decidedly. The mere thought filled her with revulsion.

“Where are you going, then?”

“For a week or two, to a hotel. After that... I don’t know.”

“Which hotel?”

“I haven’t thought. Downtown somewhere.”

“Take my advice,” said Fitzpatrick. “Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. And I mean anyone. With the exception of the police, of course.”

“I won’t.”

“Because,” Fitzpatrick went on matter-of-factly, “if someone has it in for you, there’s nothing to prevent him from giving it another try.”

The next morning Ann engaged a pair of neighborhood boys to unload the books from her car and carry them up to her apartment. Meanwhile she packed a suitcase and telephoned the St. Francis Hotel. Then she set off downtown.

After unpacking at the St. Francis, she telephoned the Marin County Sheriff’s Office. She was irritated to learn that Sunday was Inspector Tarr’s day off; somehow she had pictured him at his desk waiting anxiously for her call. She left a message and petulantly hung up. Tarr was probably off at another picnic, enjoying himself in the company of his newest paramour.

She lunched at the Blue Fox, wandered along Post Street window-shopping, then returned to the hotel. There was no message for her. Feeling neglected, she went to her room, changed into an afternoon frock, and returned to the lobby. She bought a magazine, leafed through it, watched passersby, went into the bar for a cocktail, and absently rebuffed the gambit of a handsome young man with white teeth and a suntan.

The afternoon passed, by and large pleasantly, or at least uneventfully. The night before seemed a nightmare; indeed, she was unable to think of it as having actually happened.

She dined, lingered over her coffee, visited the cocktail lounge for a liqueur, fended off a lingerie salesman from New York, and presently went up to bed.

The next day was Monday. Ann breakfasted in her room, wondering what to do with herself. As she was dressing her phone rang. Inspector Thomas Tarr asked, “How are you this morning?” His voice was cautious and subdued.

“Very well, thanks.”

“No incidents?”

“None.”

“You haven’t told anyone where you’re staying?”

“No one at all.”

“Good. Just sit tight for a while.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.” Tarr spoke with a harshness Ann had not heard before. “Sooner or later there’ll be a break.”

“Do you still think Roland committed suicide? After last night?”

“I haven’t any reason to think otherwise.”

“Then you must think it was the blackmailer who killed Harvey.”

“It seems to follow,” Tarr admitted. “Assuming, of course, that you were the intended victim.”

“But why? I’ve been racking my brain. Why should anyone want me out of the way?” The words brought a sudden return of the nightmare. Ann’s voice blurred; she looked fearfully about the room. “Who could do such a thing?”

“We’ll find out,” said Tarr in a soothing tone. “Eventually. In the meantime—”

“I know. Don’t walk along the edge of any cliffs.”

“With anybody. Inspector Fitzpatrick seems to think it was some thief who panicked, but I don’t.”

Ann laughed nervously. “It would be a shame to be slaughtered by chance.”

“Sit tight and you won’t be slaughtered at all. I’ll keep in touch with you.”

Ann hung up and sat still for a few minutes. She felt stifled and frustrated. What a detestable mess! She had no responsibilities; she should be off and away — anywhere but where she found herself now... She sat down by the phone and telephoned Mrs. Darlington.

“I won’t be back at Mar Vista next fall,” said Ann. “I thought I should let you know now.”

Mrs. Darlington’s voice softened. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness in notifying me now. We shall miss you, of course; but under the circumstances it’s undoubtedly the best and wisest course for all us.”

With a shock Ann realized that Mrs. Darlington had been casting about for some means, preferably polite, to achieve this very end. She wanted none of her staff involved in murders. “Naturally you can look to me for references,” said Mrs. Darlington. “I’m sure that with your competence you’ll have no trouble—”

“I’m not resigning because of the death of Mr. Gluck,” said Ann.

“Of course not, certainly not; but under the circumstances... well, the school has an image to live up to, and we can’t let it be tarnished. By the way, did your mother get in touch with you?”

“My mother?”

“Yes. I told Operator that I had no idea as to your current address. You’d better leave it with me in case—”

“Exactly what happened, Mrs. Darlington?”

“Last evening there was a person-to-person call for you — here, to my home, of all places. I gave Operator your address on Granada Avenue, but she said that you weren’t there, that your mother wanted to get in touch with you, and did I know where you could be found. Naturally I said I had no information.”

“You didn’t hear anyone’s voice but the operator’s?”

“No.”

Hanging up, Ann immediately telephoned the Marin County Sheriff’s Office. Inspector Tarr was out, but he would call back as soon as he returned.

She dressed and descended to the hotel lobby, her brain seething with conjectures. She had planned to spend the morning shopping, but perhaps she had better wait for Tarr’s call. Half an hour passed. She became restless and went out into Powell Street.

It was a typical San Francisco summer morning. The air was cool, fresh, lightly salt; the sunlight tingled. Over Union Square pigeons fluttered; a cable car clattered past on its way up Nob Hill. In this same bright world, thought Ann, lived the animal who had skulked in her bathroom, waiting to kill her!

She spent an hour or so window-shopping, then telephoned San Rafael, only to learn that Inspector Tarr had not yet returned. She lunched on a sandwich, returned to the hotel, and once again failed to reach Tarr. Twenty minutes later, hearing herself paged, she went to the telephone. It was Tarr.

“I understand you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”

“Yes.” (Ann wondered about his voice, which sounded very grim.) She described her conversation with Mrs. Darlington. Tarr uttered a soft cluck, as if the news corroborated some expectation of his own.

“You don’t sound surprised,” said Ann.

“Who do you think was calling you?” asked the detective.

“My mother, I suppose. Unless... Do you think...”

“I don’t think, I know. I found your mother.”

“You found her! Where?”

“In the trunk of her car.”

“Dead?”

“For about three months.”

Ann could not restrain a sudden flow of tears. As in the case of her father, she felt neither grief nor remorse, but there was a sundering of something, a loss... “How did she die?” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. They had had no relationship at all, and yet...

“Wire around her neck. Indications are that she was struck on the head first. I’m sorry I have to sound so brutal.”

“She was murdered, then. Where did you find her?”

“To the north of San Rafael a concern called the Guarantee Auto Wreckers has a field full of old cars waiting to be junked. Elaine’s car was driven onto the field and parked among the junkers. The tires were deflated, the windows rolled down. The mechanics, if they noticed the car at all, thought it had been acquired in the usual way. The proprietor wasn’t aware of its existence. It might have sat there a year. Except that this morning a customer came in wanting a part for a Buick. The owner couldn’t find the part in stock. A mechanic named Sam said, “What about that old Buick out back?” The proprietor investigated, and in due course we were notified.”

“Was there anything else? Money? Luggage?”

“Her suitcase and handbag. We’re still not absolutely sure, of course, that the woman we found is Elaine Gluck. We’ll need you to identify her.”

“I can’t!”

“Someone who knew her has to do it. Your father is dead, Mr. Gluck is dead.” His voice grew quite soft. “I’m sorry.”

“Must I?”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Nelson.”

Ann breathed deeply, once, twice. “I’ll be right over.”