A Room to Die In

Chapter 3

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 schoolteachers,” 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 rose-bushes. 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 fourth of last year — just after he and Pearl separated.” She ran through the forms, one after the other. “The last is dated April sixth. 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 irriate — 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; Tarr 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.”

“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:

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.

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 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.”

“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 rosebushes, 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.

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 chessmen. 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 blond 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.”