A Room to Die In

Chapter 5

In San Rafael, Ann pulled into a service station, phoned the sheriff’s office, and asked for Inspector Tarr.

Tarr’s easy voice issued from the receiver, and into Ann’s mind came an image of his solid body lounging at his desk. “This is Ann Nelson. You asked me to call you.”

“Oh, yes.” Tarr’s voice took on a different note. “Where are you now?”

Ann told him.

“Wait,” said Tarr. “I’ll be right there. And if you’re not too proud, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

Ann returned to her car, of half a mind to drive off. Tarr’s assurance was almost as infuriating as Martin Jones’s boorishness. But she waited. Tarr, after all, was investigating her father’s death.

Tarr took his time. Five minutes became ten, then fifteen. Ann’s mood darkened. Then the detective appeared in the police car, parked, and jumped to the ground in great haste. “Sorry, Miss Nelson, but I got hung up on the telephone. Some tiresome old idiot. There’s an ice-cream parlor just around the corner. Faster to walk than drive.”

Ann got out of her car, ignoring Tarr’s proffered hand.

At the ice-cream parlor she refused his suggestion of a fudge sundae, primly accepting a cup of coffee. To her surprise, he brought out his notebook. “I haven’t been able to locate your mother. Harvey Gluck says that to the best of his knowledge she’s still in the San Francisco area. States that he hasn’t communicated with her for several months. He’s indefinite as to the exact date. I’m wondering if you can give me any leads.”

Ann shook her head. “I wouldn’t have the slightest idea.”

“Does she have any relatives? Sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles?”

“She has a married brother in New Jersey and some cousins in North Carolina, but I don’t know their addresses.”

“What are their names?”

Ann told him, and Tarr made note of them.

“What about friends? Any old cronies, school chums?”

Ann considered. “I don’t believe she had any special friends, although I don’t know for sure. Harvey Gluck would know better than I.”

“He gave me some names, but they weren’t any help. One of these people said that she’d been talking about Honolulu.”

“That should be easy enough to check,” said Ann. “She hated airplanes. Try the Matson line.”

Tarr made a note. “Anything else?”

Ann said, “She was a hypochondriac. Belonged to the Disease-of-the-Month Club, as my father expressed it. She took her astrology pretty seriously, too.”

“That doesn’t help much.” Tarr tucked the notebook back in his pocket. “How did your lunch with the Cyprianos come off?”

“Very nicely. I think it was at Mr. Cypriano’s instigation. He wants that chess set — it belonged to him at one time, he says. He’s got practically a chess museum in his house.”

“Are you going to let him have it?”

“I suppose so. It means nothing to me. Incidentally, Martin Jones wants me to clear out my father’s belongings.”

“He’ll have to wait. I’m not finished there yet. When did you see him?”

“Today. I drove out past the house.”

Tarr frowned. “If I were you...” He paused.

“Well?”

“I don’t want to alarm you, but remember that a crime has been committed. A blackmailer usually isn’t vicious or violent, but there are exceptions.”

The warning startled her. Roland Nelson’s death, though puzzling, had seemed remote. The thought that she might personally be in danger was shocking. Ann said in a subdued voice, “I guess I’ve led too sheltered a life. Do you mean that I shouldn’t ever go anywhere alone?”

“If you’d like round-the-clock police protection, I could arrange it.” At Ann’s look, Tarr said with a grin, “I’ve got a two-week vacation coming up. I can’t think of any way I’d rather spend it.”

Ann finished her coffee. “For a minute I thought you were serious.”

“I am,” said Tarr, still grinning. He was an idiot.

“I’m going home,” snapped Ann. “Martin Jones is a misogynist, and I’m a misanthropist.”

“You two would make a good pair!”

Ann rose, marched to the counter, put down fifteen cents, and departed.

On her way back to San Francisco, Ann wondered why Tarr’s gibe had got under her skin. It was so really inane. She wasn’t a misanthropist; she merely disliked males who leaped at every female they met. (An accusation that certainly could not be leveled against Martin Jones!)

Shortly after she got home her telephone rang. Ann told herself that it would surely be Tarr to apologize for his rudeness, but the voice was a stranger’s.

“Miss Nelson?”

“Yes?”

“Glad to find you home. My name is Edgar Maudley — I’m the late Pearl Maudley Nelson’s cousin. I wonder if you’d allow me to call on you. It’s a matter of some importance.”

“Now?”

“Now preferably, but of course if it’s not convenient—”

“Now is as good a time as any, Mr. Maudley.”

“Wonderful. I’ll be there very shortly. From your address I gather that you live in the Sunset district?”

“Yes. Ten blocks from the beach.”

“It shouldn’t take me more than half an hour.”

Twenty-six minutes later Edgar Maudley arrived. He was a large, pale, luxurious man smelling of lilac hair tonic. His hair was silver gray, precisely brushed; he had a regimental mustache, and altogether he looked urbane and distinguished.

Ann took his Tyrolean hat and burberry and indicated a chair. Edgar Maudley settled himself decorously.

“I was on the point of making a pot of tea,” said Ann. “If you’d care to join me?”

“Oh, excellent,” said Edgar Maudley. “This is so very kind of you.”

“It’ll be a minute or two. The water’s only just starting to boil.”

Edgar Maudley cleared his throat. “You no doubt are wondering why I’m calling on you.”

“I suppose you’re curious, or resentful. After all, I’m inheriting money which was originally Pearl’s, and that makes me something of an interloper.”

“Not at all. You are who you are — an obviously intelligent young lady. The circumstances that occasion our meeting certainly are not your responsibility.”

“Excuse me,” said Ann. “I’ll make the tea.” She went into the kitchenette and busied herself with teapot, teacups, tray, and gingersnaps.

Edgar Maudley continued to speak in his cautious voice. “First of all, let me offer condolences on the loss of your father. I do so with complete sincerity. Although I am given to understand that you and your father were not close.”

Ann set the tray on the counter and returned to the living room. “Who gave you to understand this?”

Maudley touched his mustache. “I hardly remember... Village gossip, most probably. Your father, you must be aware, was something of a rara avis. He kept to himself — lived alone, saw no one.”

“Antisocial, but not disreputable. Did you know him yourself?”

Maudley nodded briskly. “I met him several times. I won’t conceal from you that I tried to dissuade Pearl from the marriage. She was my only cousin; and, like Pearl, I have neither sister nor brother. She took the place of a sister, and I was very, very fond of her. I considered your father much too... undisciplined — shall we say? — for a woman who was actually inexperienced and naïve.”

Ann wordlessly poured tea. Edgar Maudley took a lump of sugar and a slice of lemon, but refused the gingersnaps. He sipped, then sat back in his chair. “Perhaps I should tell you something about the Maudleys, Miss Nelson. My grandfather arrived in San Francisco in 1880 and began to publish The Oriental Magazine — now a rare and valuable collector’s item. He had two sons, my father and Pearl’s father. In 1911 the brothers organized The Pandora Press, specializing in the printing of limited editions. I may say that they prospered — both became quite wealthy. When Grandfather died they sold The Oriental, which merged with another magazine and lost its identity. My father died in 1940, Pearl’s father five years later. Neither I nor Pearl cared to continue The Pandora Press, and we sold it.

“This is beside the point. What is to the point is that, when her father died, Pearl naturally came into possession of a large number of heirlooms: books, pictures, ivories, vases, objets d’art. Many quite valuable.”

Ann said, “I was admiring my father’s books yesterday.”

Edgar Maudley winced. “Legally, of course, they were his — just as, now, legally they’re yours.”

Ann nodded in profound understanding. “And you want me to turn these objects over to you, Mr. Maudley. Is that it?”

Maudley said in a vibrant voice, “Many of these articles have a deep, a very deep, sentimental value to me. Certain of the books are unique — not of vast monetary value, but I’d loathe seeing them pass into the hands of unappreciative strangers, or end up in a secondhand bookshop.”

“That’s quite natural.”

“When your father came into the estate, I paid him a visit and made more or less the same representations to him that I am making to you. He was by no means so sympathetic.”

“Do you drive a Mercedes?”

“Yes. How did you find out, may I ask?”

Ann smiled. “Village gossip, most probably.”

Her visitor forced himself to smile. “In any event, you now understand the motive behind my visit.”

“Not really. Just what is it you expect me to do?”

Maudley raised his eyebrows. “I thought I had made myself clear, Miss Nelson. By a set of unusual circumstances, you are now in possession of a number of Maudley heirlooms.”

“Including some sort of medieval Persian artwork?”

“Including a set of medieval Persian miniatures in a carved ivory box inlaid with cinnabar, jade, lapis lazuli and turquoise.”

“You want me to give you this item?”

“I would willingly offer you money. But I find it hard to put a price on sentimental attachment.”

“My father, I understand, refused this request.”

“He was not sympathetic at all.”

Ann pictured Edgar Maudley expostulating with her father, and smiled. Edgar Maudley sipped his tea. Ann said, “I’d like to be fair about this. I can’t give you any definite answer now, Mr. Maudley; I’m not yet in a legal position to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Anyway, while I don’t want to be mercenary, these are apparently articles of considerable value. There doesn’t seem to be any reason why I should make a gift to you of what will be legally my property.”

Maudley grew slightly excited. “But, Miss Nelson, the value of certain of these objects — the Persian miniatures, for instance — is incalculable. The miniatures have been in the family since 1729, when Sir Robert Maudley was in Persia.”

“Unfortunately, it is precisely the miniatures which I can’t let out of my possession.”

He seemed puzzled. “How so?”

“Weren’t you at my father’s house when he wrote his will? I understand that he asked you to witness it.”

“Oh, that. I refused to read the will. I knew it contained abuse or disparagement, and I did not care to be insulted. To be quite frank, I never thought that your father, as a sensible man, would go through with a document composed in such haste and high feeling.”

“He was angry, then?”

“I would say so. My requests appeared to irritate him.”

“I can’t tell you anything more until I’ve looked through the estate. Certain of the books I’m sure you can have — those dealing with metaphysics and Oriental religion, for example, which don’t interest me in the least.”

Maudley worked his lips in and out, as if he wanted to say more but was not sure of the wisdom of saying it.

“Let me pour you another cup of tea,” said Ann. She felt a little sorry for him.

“Thank you.” He spoke with the stiffish dignity of a man unfairly put upon.

“You knew my father well?” Ann asked.

“No. We had little in common.”

“You must be acquainted with the Cyprianos.”

“Oh, yes. Pearl thought very highly of Mrs. Cypriano. Girlhood chums, and all that. She sold the Cyprianos her lovely home for far less than its market value. I assume they’ve kept up the payments.” His tone was half-questioning.

“‘Payments’?”

“Yes. They paid eight thousand dollars down, I believe, and Pearl held a mortgage on the balance, about thirty thousand dollars. The mortgage would naturally be part of your father’s estate.”

“I haven’t come across it,” said Ann. “Thank you for mentioning it.”

Edgar Maudley set his cup down and rose. “Well, I must be on my way. I’m sure we can work something out, Miss Nelson. If I were a rich man — which, alas! I am not — I could offer you what these articles are worth to me, although, as I mentioned, sentiment and value are incommensurable.”

“Exactly. So if any of these articles should change hands between us, we’ll have them appraised by an impartial authority. Will that be satisfactory?”

Maudley took his hat and coat. With a bitter smile he said, “I did think you might feel the slightest bit uncomfortable, coming into possession of an estate which, strictly speaking, was your father’s by sheer chance.”

“Not at all,” said Ann. “It’s the nicest thing that ever happened to me. And since my father had to die in any event, I’m glad I was able to profit by it.”

Maudley seemed horrified. “I must say... Well, it might be wise not to count your chickadees before they’re hatched.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Maudley?” Ann asked very distinctly.

The man seemed sorry he had spoken. “Nothing, nothing at all,” he said hurriedly. “Thank you for the tea, Miss Nelson. Here is my card, in case you should change your mind.” He departed. Ann looked down at the card with a curling lip and tossed it aside.

She took the teacups to the sink thoughtfully. Edgar Maudley’s visit had solved one mystery — the identity of the man who had quarreled with her father — but it posed another: Where was the mortgage to the Cypriano house? It had not been in the desk, where her father had kept his other important papers.

On Sunday Ann notified Mrs. Darlington that various contingencies associated with her father’s death would prevent her coming to work until the middle of the week. The principal pointed out with just a trace of tartness that since school ended Friday, she might just as well not bother. Ann said that if she possibly could, she would return to work, although perhaps it did seem a trifle foolish under the circumstances.

On Monday she engaged an attorney to deal with her father’s will. She also learned that cadavers were no longer in short supply at medical schools. Only after diligent effort was she able to place the body of Roland Nelson with the Stanford Medical Center.

On Tuesday she signed various affidavits, obtained the signature of the Marin County Coroner, and arranged transportation of her father’s remains from San Rafael to Palo Alto.

On Wednesday Ann returned to work at Mar Vista, and on Wednesday evening Edgar Maudley telephoned. He was anxious to learn what she had decided regarding the matters they had discussed. Ann informed him that she had not been able to give the situation much thought.

When might he expect her to reach a decision? Probably not before Saturday, Ann replied. This was the earliest she would find it convenient to sort through her father’s effects.

Edgar Maudley said that he would make sure to be on hand, if only to assist her. Ann thanked him for offering to help, but said it might be better if she conducted the preliminary survey by herself.

Maudley made a noncommittal sound, something like “Hmm, hmm, hmm.” Then he said, “Incidentally — and I ask from sheerest curiosity; it’s no affair of mine — have you learned what disposition your father made of the Cypriano mortgage?”

“Not yet. I haven’t checked things over.”

“I see,” said Maudley. “Have you spoken to the Cyprianos?”

“Yes.”

“They didn’t mention the mortgage?”

“No.”

“Strange.”

“There’s probably some simple explanation,” said Ann. “We spoke of other things.” The thought came to her, was this the reason she had been invited to lunch? It seemed unlikely, since the mortgage had not been mentioned. No, it was about the chess set.

Maudley said, “I’ll give you some advice, young woman, and that is — be businesslike! Your father and the Cyprianos were friends of long standing, but don’t let this fact influence you. I hope you don’t regard me as meddlesome.”

“Of course not.” Edgar Maudley apparently did not like the Cyprianos. Ann wondered why. Because Jehane had introduced Pearl to Roland Nelson?

Maudley reiterated his intention of helping Ann on the coming Saturday. Ann discouraged him once more, and the conversation ended.

On Thursday morning, as she left for work, she found a letter from her mother in the mailbox. It was postmarked Tuesday, June 4, at Beverly Hills. She read it, went back to the apartment, telephoned the Marin County Sheriff’s Office, and asked for Inspector Tarr.

Tarr was not in, reported the clerk. Was there any message?

No, said Ann, it was important that she speak to Inspector Tarr personally. She had important information for him.

The clerk promptly gave her a number at which she might be able to reach Inspector Tarr.

Ann dialed, listened. Finally, a woman answered. “Hello?”

Ann spoke in the most formal of voices. “May I speak to Inspector Tarr, please?”

“Ann Nelson.”

“Ann Nelson.” The woman repeated the name, then grudgingly said, “I’ll see if I can wake him up.”

Several minutes passed. Ann, with not too much time to spare, was on the point of hanging up when Tarr’s drowsy voice sounded in her ear. “Tarr speaking.”

“This is Ann Nelson,” said Ann, very distinctly. “I’m sorry to disturb you—”

“Not at all,” said Tarr. “It’s my day off. I’m at my sister’s house.”

“Oh?” Ann tried to convey in a single word the extent of her utter indifference — and disbelief. “I’ve received a letter from my mother. I thought you ought to know about it as soon as possible.”

“A letter from your mother?” Tarr seemed puzzled and surprised. “Where was it mailed?”

“The envelope is postmarked June fourth, Beverly Hills.”

“Can you read it to me?”

Ann read aloud:

After a short silence Tarr asked, “Do you recognize the handwriting, Miss Nelson?”

“It’s definitely her handwriting.”

“Is the letter itself dated?”

“No. She just starts writing.”

“What does she mean: ‘delicate questions about the past’?”

“I don’t know.”

“‘A person who chooses to remain nameless’ — now who could that be?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“What about that ‘Baby Ann’ bit? Is that her usual salutation?”

“It might be almost anything: ‘Snooks,’ ‘Toodles,’ ‘Brat.’ I’ve seen ‘You miserable little ingrate!’ on occasion. Anything, in fact, but ‘Dear Ann.’”

“This is certainly interesting. She doesn’t give her address?”

“No.”

“What about the envelope?”

“There’s no return address. She just printed ‘Ann Nelson, sixty-nine fifty Granada Avenue, San Francisco.’ That’s all.”

Tarr grunted. “Do you consider that typical?”

“With my mother nothing is typical.”

“I see... I definitely want to examine that letter. How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is the last day of school; I should be finished about noon. If it’s convenient I’ll drop by your office. There’s another matter about which I’d like your advice.”

“So long as it’s not about investing your money. I’m the lousiest businessman in the country.”

Ann did not deign to notice Tarr’s facetiousness. “It will probably be close to one by the time I arrive.”

“I’ll expect you at one.”

On Thursday evening the attorney called to notify her that the Marin County Probate Court had issued a decree naming her executrix of her father’s estate, and that he had also obtained an authorization for the transfer of the various stocks and securities to her name. There were papers to be signed, an inventory of possessions, assets, and obligations compiled and filed with the court. Ann made an appointment to meet him Monday.

On the following morning Ann took unusual pains with her clothes: this might well be the last day of her teaching career. Also, she’d be leaving directly for San Rafael. In spite of her disapproval of Tarr, his hypocrisy, and his lechery, she refused to appear at a disadvantage compared with his vulgar girl friends. Vulgar and blowsy. Perhaps he liked them vulgar and blowsy. So what? Tarr’s tastes were of no concern to her.

Ann dressed in a spanking dark-blue and white frock with white accessories, an outfit in which she knew she looked her best.

The morning passed quickly; the pupils trooped home at noon. There was still a certain amount of paper work, which Ann would take care of next week. She bade her fellow faculty members goodbye and drove across the bridge to San Rafael.

Tarr greeted her with formality. She saw by his glance that the pains she had taken with her clothes had not been wasted. He escorted her into the little office where he had taken her before, and without preamble said, “Let’s see the letter.”

Ann produced the envelope. Tarr scrutinized it closely. Then, extracting the letter, he pored over it for several minutes. Ann finally became restless. “Well?”

Tarr said in a colorless voice, “May I keep it?”

“If you like.”

He laid the letter with exaggerated care upon the corner of his desk, leaned back, and inspected Ann quizzically. “What do you make of the letter?”

“What do I make of it? It’s self-explanatory, isn’t it? Elaine wants in.”

“Her prospects, I gather, aren’t very good.”

Ann smiled faintly. “I’m required to pay her ten cents a year.”

Tarr nodded. “Don’t you find it odd that your mother asks for money, but doesn’t let you know where to find her?”

“No. According to the letter, she plans to see me in a few days. There’ll be a flaming quarrel; she’ll have hysterics; and she’ll run from the apartment screaming that I’ll never set eyes on her again.” She watched Tarr, daring him to show disapprobation. But Tarr only lurched erect in his seat, once more examined the letter, again put it to one side. “I’ll send this to the lab. There’s one or two points...” His voice trailed off. Then he said, “I’ve found out where your mother stayed during her visit last March: the Idyllwild Motel on Highway 101. She arrived about seven o’clock and checked out the next morning. The proprietor’s wife remembers her because your mother priced a house trailer they had for sale, talked about Florida and Honolulu, and burned three cigarette holes in a pillowcase. Another item of information, a rather peculiar one: your father’s nearest neighbors live about two hundred yards up the road.”

“The Savarinis.”

“Correct. Simple people, but far from stupid. About two weeks ago they heard three shots. I wish they could be sure of the date, but they can’t. The time was midnight; they remember that well enough. They had just turned off the TV and gone to bed.”

“Three shots?”

“Three shots, at intervals of about a minute, from the direction of Roland Nelson’s house. Mr. Savarini is positive that the sounds were shots, not backfires or firecrackers. He owns six guns and he insists that he knows what a shot sounds like. That’s about all there is to it. Three shots at midnight, about the time your father died.”

“Odd.”

“I agree. Damned odd. Roland Nelson was killed by a single shot; we found a single empty cartridge. It’s possible that someone totally unconnected with the case may have fired the shots, but it’s certainly stretching coincidence... Well, it’ll all come out in the wash.” He stretched lazily. “You mentioned a problem.”

“I suppose it’s a problem. Pearl’s cousin called on me the other night, a man named Edgar Maudley. Incidentally, he’s the man who refused to witness my father’s will.” Tarr looked at her reproachfully. “I suppose I should have telephoned you.”

“For two days Sergeant Ryan has been out flagging down black Mercedes sedans, interviewing dealers, checking registrations—”

Ann said hurriedly, “He wanted some of Pearl’s belongings, which he described as heirlooms. He tried to get them from my father, but had no luck.” She described Edgar Maudley’s visit in detail.

“Edgar Maudley has a grievance,” mused Tarr. “If it hadn’t been for Pearl’s marriage to Roland, he probably would have inherited. Still, that’s not your problem... By the way, what is your problem?”

“It’s something Maudley mentioned. In addition to cash and securities, Pearl also seems to have held a first mortage on the Cyprianos’ house — presumably part of my father’s estate. Where is the mortgage? It wasn’t among his papers. Did Roland have a safe-deposit box? If so, why didn’t he keep his stock certificates there?”

Tarr shook his head. “He rented no safe-deposit box in any local bank. I’ve checked. In addition, I’ve accounted for all his keys, so it’s unlikely he had a box elsewhere. But in the matter of the mortgage, why not ask the Cyprianos?”

“I could, I suppose — but, oh, I don’t know — it would make me seem avaricious.”

Tarr pushed the telephone toward her. “Call right now. Maybe they paid the mortgage off. Better find out one way or another.”

Ann reluctantly dialed the Cyprianos’ number. Jehane answered. Ann said brightly, “I’ve been trying to find the mortgage my father held on your house, and it’s in none of the obvious places. Inspector Tarr suggested I call you.”

Jehane was silent for several seconds. Then she asked, “Where are you now?”

“In San Rafael.”

“Can you drop up to the house? Alexander is in San Francisco today with the car; otherwise I’d come into San Rafael.”

“I’ll be glad to stop by.”

“I’ll see you shortly, then.”

Ann hung up the telephone. “She wants to talk to me.”

Tarr rose to his feet. “I’ll come along for the ride.”

“I don’t think she expects you,” said Ann dubiously.

“I’m investigating a crime. It makes no difference whether she expects me or not.”

Ann shrugged. “By the way, what crime are you referring to?”

“Blackmail, naturally,” said Tarr. “Has there been another?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Don’t wish too hard,” said Tarr. “You might wish yourself out of a hundred thousand dollars.”

Ann started to ask his meaning, then, like a coward, decided not to.

They went out into the street. “Let’s go in my car,” said Ann. “It looks so brutal, arriving in that police car.”

Tarr laughed.

All the way out to Inisfail, Ann pondered the implications of Tarr’s remark, and arrived at 32 Melbourne Drive in a rather unsettled state of mind. It would be terrible to lose a hundred thousand dollars now that she’d become accustomed to the idea of inheriting leisure and independence...

She drove up the steep driveway to the parking area. As before, Jehane came out on the terrace; seeing Tarr, she swiftly became gracious.

Ann steeled herself for what could only be a difficult interview. At Jehane’s invitation she entered the house, with Tarr, apparently oblivious to atmospheres, coming behind.

Jehane took them up the stairs to the middle level and arranged chairs. She asked, rather uncertainly, if they’d like a glass of sherry.

Feeling a pang of sympathy, Ann said, “Yes, please.” Tarr echoed her. Jehane poured, then seated herself on a sofa, legs tucked beneath her.

There was an awkward pause. Ann could think of nothing to say.

“You asked about the mortgage,” began Jehane with a shaky laugh. “I’ve tried to work out some simple way of telling you, without going into all the complications. But it’s impossible. So I’ll tell you everything. The exact truth.”