A Room to Die In

Chapter 7

“That,” said Jehane, “is the story of what happened to the mortgage. I’m sorry it took so long, but I could hardly explain it any other way... If you will examine the black king, you’ll notice that the crown is bent.”

“I noticed,” said Ann.

Jehane made a gesture toward their glasses. “Sherry?”

Ann and Tarr both accepted.

“Roland was a strange man,” said Jehane. “I’m sure I did what was right. Neither of us would have gained — though Roland might still be alive, which I suppose could be considered a gain. Things happened as they had to happen. Now that he’s dead, I notice the gap he leaves, but I feel no grief. Certainly not as much as Pearl would have felt.”

“Out of sheer curiosity, Mrs. Cypriano,” asked Tarr in a peculiarly respectful voice, “what are your plans?”

Jehane smiled. “Perhaps you’ll think me perverse, but I have an urge to go to Ireland. I don’t know what I’ll find there, but I think I’ll be going soon.”

“With your husband?” asked Ann.

“No.”

Ann rose. “Thank you for being so honest.”

“I had no choice. You would have thought us thieves otherwise.”

In San Rafael, Tarr lured Ann into a coffee shop. He ordered two hamburgers and a milkshake, explaining that he had not yet had lunch. Ann ordered coffee, in spite of Tarr’s insistence that she eat. “Have a sandwich, or a sundae, or pie. Shoot the works. It’s on me.”

“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“You’re dieting?”

“Not at the moment.”

“I’m relieved. It would be a terrible mistake. Every one of your pounds is important. There’s not one wasted.”

“I suppose you intend that as a compliment,” said Ann. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m not the heavy-handed lout I seem.”

“You don’t seem heavy-handed,” said Ann. “Just lightheaded.”

Tarr grinned and ate his hamburgers. Presently he said, “Now you know what happened to the mortgage.”

Ann shuddered. “If I were Jehane I’d have hated him.”

“And Alexander wants his chess set back — which is rubbing it in.”

“He’s willing to pay for it, or so he says.”

“Everyone is so fair,” said Tarr cynically. “But somewhere among the group is a blackmailer.”

“Why ‘among the group’? It seems to me it might have been practically anyone.”

“The blackmailer took great pains to conceal his identity — which argues that he, or she, is someone your father knew well. I’d certainly like to talk to your mother.”

“You probably can in a day or so.”

Tarr looked up. “How come?”

“Her letter said as much.”

“Oh, the letter.” Tarr seemed to lose interest. He leaned back in the booth. “You’re a wealthy gal now. A poor slob of a cop doesn’t stand much of a change.”

Ann laughed. “Which slob did you have in mind?”

“I was referring to Inspector Tom Tarr. I have scruples, but luckily they don’t stand in the way of living off my wife.”

“My father tried it,” said Ann. “He didn’t seem to like it.”

“I’m of a different temperament. More independent.”

“More independent?”

“Certainly. Your father couldn’t figure out how to adapt.”

“You’re confusing ‘independence’ and ‘hypocrisy.’”

“There may be a difference,” conceded Tarr. “Still, it all seems simple enough to me. Pearl served roast duck with oranges, admittedly a vile concoction, when he wanted bread and cheese. Why not tell her so in a nice way, instead of suffering so dramatically? He’d have had his bread and cheese; his wife would be happy. It seems to me your father was being unnecessarily difficult.”

“He was a hard man to live with, no doubt about it.”

“Now me, I’m not. If I wanted bread and cheese, everybody within twenty miles would know it, including my wife.”

“That’s not so good, either, unless you’re married to somebody like Pearl.”

A short, paunchy man came into the coffee shop. “My lord,” muttered Tarr, “here’s Cooley.”

Cooley wore heavy black-rimmed eyeglasses; black hair rose in a tuft from a narrow forehead. “Hey, there, Tom!” he called cheerfully. “Out feeding the missus on the taxpayer’s money, I see. That’s the spirit! Show no mercy.”

Tarr said to Ann, “This is Ben Cooley, photographer with the city police. Until they canned him.”

“I never thought they’d do it,” said Cooley without embarrassment. “Nichevo. I took the wrong kind of pictures of the wrong kind of people.”

“Cooley put enterprise ahead of discretion,” Tarr told Ann.

“In my business enterprise is what counts,” said the photographer. “Now what would you do? I ask you, Mrs. Tarr. Here’s the situation. Picture a naked man running down the street, with a dog chasing him. You’ve got your camera ready. Would you take the picture or wouldn’t you?”

“If I could hold the camera steady, I’d certainly take it.”

“So did I. Turns out the man was visiting the home of a friend, and the friend arrives unexpectedly. So the man jumps out the window. I won’t mention any names — that’s not my style — but it turns out he’s one of the big shots in the Police Department. I should have recognized him, but without clothes he didn’t look the same. One thing led to another, and I was allowed to resign.”

“Dirty shame,” said Tarr.

“I’m through with this damned city. As soon as the Civil Service exams for the county go up, I’ll try for special investigator, or maybe photo-lab technician. Who knows, Tarr? Maybe I’ll ease you out. You’ve been on the gravy train long enough.” He winked at Ann. “Except that I’d get in dutch with your wife.”

Tarr rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “This is Miss Nelson.”

“Oh. Excuse me. You sure look like Mrs. Tarr. Same build. Even the face—”

“Here now!” expostulated Tarr. “There isn’t any Mrs. Tarr! Hasn’t been for four years!”

“Oh, come on, Tom. I saw you two at the department picnic last month. In fact, I’ve got pictures to prove it. One where she was standing on the beer keg on one leg, and another during the Charleston contest. Unless maybe it was Miss Nelson?” Cooley looked questioningly at Ann, who had risen.

“It must have been Mrs. Tarr,” said Ann. “I don’t have a very good sense of balance. Goodbye, Mr. Cooley. Goodbye, Inspector Tarr.”

“Wait!” said Tarr.

“Don’t go on my account,” said Cooley.

But Ann went, clicking along on staccato heels.

“Cooley,” said Tarr, “I ought to beat you up.”

“Nice-looking number,” said Cooley. “What is she, friend or criminal?”

“She might be either... or both.”

“You always come up with the cute ones,” said Cooley.

“Just a natural talent, I guess.” Tarr heaved to his feet. “I’ve got to get back to headquarters.”

Ann arrived home in late afternoon. The apartment seemed unnaturally quiet. She made a pot of tea and sat down in the big chair by the window, wondering what to do with herself for the evening. Dinner downtown? A movie?

She snatched the telephone and dialed Hilda Baily, who taught fourth grade at Mar Vista. There was no answer; Hilda was probably celebrating the end of the term. While she was considering whom next to call, the phone rang. Ann lifted the receiver and heard a careful baritone voice. “Miss Nelson? Edgar Maudley here. Please don’t think me a nuisance, but I’ve been wondering if you’ve come to any decision.”

“No. Wait, let me think. Tomorrow is Saturday. Maybe I’ll go over tomorrow and check through things.”

“About what time will you be going?” inquired Maudley.

“I’m not sure. Probably in the morning.”

“I’d be glad to help you. It’s quite possible—”

“No,” said Ann. “I want to look things over by myself.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Edgar Maudley said with dignity, “Certainly.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow evening, or Sunday, and we can make whatever arrangements need to be made.”

“Very well, Miss Nelson.”

Ann replaced the receiver. Perhaps she should have accepted Maudley’s offer of assistance. There would be a great many books to move. Well, she’d manage. Inspector Tarr still had her father’s keys; she should have taken possession of them. But Martin Jones could let her into the house. She ascertained Jones’s number from Information, and called him. He grumbled but agreed to be on hand to open the house. So much for that.

The evening still remained a void.

Ann phoned two more of her friends, suggesting dinner downtown. Each was committed.

She showered, changed into a black cocktail dress, drove downtown, and dined alone at Jack’s. The evening was still young; the Fairmont Hotel was nearby; the cocktail lounge was a dim sanctuary. Ann relaxed. Inisfail seemed far away; the circumstances of Roland Nelson’s death were remote, and she was able to consider them with detachment.

The entire course of her life had been changed. She had not yet reckoned the total of her new riches, but it surely would exceed a hundred thousand dollars, even after taxes. With twenty-two thousand dollars still unaccounted for — the loot of the blackmailer. Or such was Tarr’s contention. He also continued to espouse the suicide theory. One was as bizarre as the other, but Ann was forced to admit the lack of any convincing refutation. Her father had been found dead in a foolproof locked room; suicide was the only rational explanation. The note rescued from the fireplace, the withdrawal of twenty-two thousand dollars from the bank, as clearly indicated blackmail. Against facts and logic Ann could only oppose her conviction that Roland would never have paid blackmail or killed himself.

She took an envelope from her purse, wrote on the back: Questions. Gnawing on her pen, she sought to recall the various occasions she had been puzzled, surprised, mystified. Gradually she composed a list:

The Elaine questions suggested an answer as unthinkable as Roland’s blackmail and suicide. Yet Ann was forced to admit that the three incredible ideas formed a plausible unity.

Suppose Roland had done violence to Elaine? Suppose someone knew of it and blackmailed Roland? Suppose Roland, half crazy with guilt, worry or fear, had then decided to kill himself? In a burst of illumination, Ann realized that these were the premises on which Inspector Tarr was working. It was an obvious point of view for someone who did not know Roland Nelson. No wonder Tarr had been so skeptical of the letter!

Nevertheless, facts were facts. The letter had been written by Elaine, and postmarked only last Tuesday — evidence of Elaine’s continuing existence. Why was she being so elusive? Was she afraid! Of whom? Of the blackmailer? Of whoever had told her of Roland’s inheritance? Of the law?

Questions, questions, questions. So very few facts...

Ann ordered another drink from the cocktail waitress. Dance music floated in from the ballroom like smoke.

She threw up her hands. Suicide, accident, murder, blackmail... what difference did it make?

For five minutes she sat in blissful relaxation. No more school. No more second grade. Travel... Italy would be fun. Venice, Positano, Taormino: places she long had wanted to visit. Paris, Copenhagen, Vienna. Or Ireland, which must be charming. Ann toyed with the thought that she might run into Jehane Cypriano on some Dublin street...

The thought of Jehane reminded Ann of Alexander Cypriano and the Paul Morphy Presentation chess set by which he set so much store. In turning the set over to Roland, Cypriano symbolically, if not actually, had cut himself off from chess, the wellspring of his existence. And in tearing up the mortgage, Roland in effect had compensated Alexander for the long-term use of his wife. Not a nice gesture, but then, Roland had not been a nice man.

Ann was tapping her fingers to the music from the ballroom. She drank some more, feeling a little giddy. Another drink, and she would become reckless, perhaps flirt with one of the men at the bar. Wiser to go home and to bed... But she found herself in no hurry to leave. Here were color and shimmer and music, all to the tinkle of ice. The apartment was lonely.

Suddenly Ann recalled something Tarr had said about danger, danger to herself. Presumably he had not been talking idly. Ann considered the questions she had noted on the back of the envelope. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that she chanced upon a clue that would lead to the identity of the blackmailer. Then there might be danger indeed.

A frightening possibility existed that she was already in possession of the clue, and that the blackmailer knew it. The apartment seemed lonelier than ever... She didn’t have to go home. She could take a room for the night here at the Fairmont. But no, she told herself in a sudden reversal of mood, it was ridiculous; why should anyone want to injure her? She paid her check and left.

She drove out Geary Boulevard toward the Pacific. Fog drifted across the street lamps. Ann began to wish that she had given in to her fears and remained at the Fairmont.

She crossed Golden Gate Park, turned right into Judah Street, then left into Granada Avenue. She drove slowly past her apartment building. She saw nothing unusual. Making a U-turn at the corner, she returned, parked, locked her car, then gave way to nervousness and ran at full speed up to her apartment. Looking over her shoulder, she fumbled with the key, unlocked the door, snapped on the light, and slipped inside, with panting relief. The apartment was exactly as she had left it.

Nevertheless, she checked bedroom and bathroom, and tested the lock of the service door, angry at herself for her childishness.

She hurried into the bedroom and could hardly shed her clothes fast enough and dive into her bed.

She awoke to find sunlight streaming into the room. Her fears of the night before seemed absurd. How could she ever have got herself into such a state?

It was almost nine o’clock; she would have to hurry. She dressed in blue jeans, a yellow polo shirt, and sneakers; scrambled an egg, made toast and a cup of instant coffee; and, taking an orange to eat on the way, Ann ran down to her car.

She was in the best of moods. On this sparkling day the job ahead of her seemed not too formidable. Martin Jones? More bark than bite, no doubt highly sensitive underneath his glowering façade. She’d be especially nice to him. And she’d let Edgar Maudley have his darned old books... maybe.

She laughed.

Ann did not arrive at the house on Neville Road until twenty minutes past ten. Martin Jones was already there, raking the area he had cultivated the previous week. In his pickup lay flats of dichondra. He greeted her almost with civility. “I see you’ve come to work. What are you going to do with the stuff?”

“Sort everything into three piles. For myself, for the Salvation Army, and for Edgar Maudley.”

“Maudley?” Jones gave a contemptuous snort. “Why Maudley?”

“Oh, he has an understandable desire to retrieve a few odds and ends. After all, he was my father’s wife’s cousin.”

“Your father told him to go to hell.”

Ann changed the subject. “How much garden are you going to put in?”

“Not much, just enough to make the place look nice. Your father wasn’t much of a gardener... Who’s this?”

“It looks like Edgar Maudley,” said Ann.

“He’s sure come prepared,” Martin Jones observed.

Into the driveway swung a glossy station wagon, towing a trailer in which were nested a number of cardboard boxes.

Maudley climbed down from the car. He was dressed informally, in tweed trousers and an old tweed jacket. “Good morning, good morning,” he called cheerfully. “I see you’re here.”

Ann eyed him coldly. “I thought I’d made it clear...” Then she shrugged. It was too nice a day to wrangle.

“I decided I could be of help,” said Maudley, “so I came along. Clear the whole thing up in one fell swoop, you know.”

Ann turned toward the house. “Is it open?” she asked Martin Jones.

Jones nodded and, going to the front door, threw it open. “The desk in the study goes, also the two big bookcases. The rest of the furniture belongs to the house.”