A Room to Die In (13 page)

She made a final
survey of the study, the desk, the empty bookcases. Nothing she wanted to keep.
She returned to the living room, warm and tired. Jones asked curtly, “What are
you planning to do with the clothes?”

“Give them away.”

“Leave them
here. One of my laborers is just about your father’s size.”

“What about
Roland’s car—would he take that, too?”

“I imagine so.”

“I’ll mail the
ownership certificate to you.” Ann felt reluctant to leave, though now there
was nothing to keep her. “I’m making you a present of the desk,” she said.

“Thanks.” Jones
had not forgotten. “Since I agreed to read that idiotic book, I will. But I don’t
have to like it.”

“It’ll do you
good. You might even want to visit Venice. Or, heaven help us, read another
book.”

He grinned his
sour grin. “Fat chance.”

“You can mail me
the book when you’re finished with it.”

“I don’t have
your address,” he growled.

“Sixty-nine
fifty Granada Avenue, San Francisco.”

He made a note
of it. “Don’t expect it for about three months. I might want to read it backwards
to see if it makes more sense.”

“I’m sure you’d
find it so. Oh, and thank you for your help, Mr. Jones.”

Jones seemed
about to say something catastrophic. Instead, he turned on his heel and
re-entered the house. Ann could have kicked him.

She strode over
to her car and drove away fast.

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 bigamous?” 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:

0               0               0

0               0               0

0               0               0

________________________

“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 scribbled 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.

As Ann crossed the
bridge into San Francisco, a wall of fog was building up at the Golden Gate.
The fog overtook her at the Presidio and she was forced to slow down to a
crawl. Somewhere unseen, far to the west, the sun had set, and an eerie,
monochromatic twilight had fallen over the city. The fog grew thicker, blearing
vision; the mercury lamps above the freeway glowed sullen lavender, with a
scarlet corona.

At her apartment
the fog was almost a drizzle; little cold drops with the tang of the ocean
brushed her face. A cab groping along the street stopped by the curb, and a
short, plump man got out.

Ann, starting up
the steps, paused as the man approached. She recognized him. “Harvey!”

“Bless my soul,”
said Harvey Gluck. “Am I glad to see you! I was wondering if you’d be home. I
telephoned from the airport, but there was no answer. I took a chance, and here
I am.”

“I’m glad to see
you, too,” said Ann, with an enthusiasm totally unfeigned. She had always
considered Harvey Gluck, whom her mother had so patently hoodwinked and
exploited, the most patient and harmless of men. His devotion to Elaine Ann
found incomprehensible; it was as uncritical and undemanding as the love of one
of Harvey’s dogs for Harvey.

“Come on up,” said
Ann. “I’ll mix us a drink and find us something to eat.”

“Well.” Harvey
looked back at the waiting cab. “I thought you could tell me where to find
Elaine.”

“I’ve no idea.
Don’t you know?”

“No. A while
back she told me she’d come into money, and that’s the last I’ve seen of her.” A
trace of uncharacteristic bitterness crept into her voice. “Actually, Elaine
and I are washed up. She can’t stand my dogs. When I first met her she was the
world’s greatest dog lover. Goes to show how people change.”

“Why are you
looking for her, then?”

“If she’s come
into money, I want what she owes me—which is thirteen hundred bucks. But I didn’t
come here to bother you with my troubles. What do you say we go to Chinatown? I’ll
buy you an oriental dinner.”

“In these
clothes? I’m filthy.”

“You look just
fine to me.”

“I’d love to,
Harvey. But let me change.”

“Okay. I’ll tell
the cab to wait.”

“Of course not!
We’ll go in my car.”

He looked
relieved, and trotted across the sidewalk; money changed hands, and the cab
blinked away through the murk and was gone.

They climbed the
steps. Ann said, “I was wondering what to do with myself; it’s such a dreary
evening. You appeared just at the right time.”

“I’m
Johnny-on-the-spot where the ladies are concerned,” said Harvey gallantly. “What’s
this I hear about your father?”

“It’s a long
story.” Ann unlocked her door. “The police are calling it suicide. Maybe it is,
but I don’t believe it.”

“I never knew
him,” said Harvey. “Elaine was always talking about him. Sometimes what
a
great hero, but mostly
what a heel.”

Ann sighed. “He
was both. But I can’t understand what’s happened to Elaine. Hasn’t she written
you?”

“Not one word.” Harvey
surveyed the apartment. “Nice little place you’ve got here.”

“It’s a place to
live.” Ann shivered. “Doesn’t it seem cold? Almost as if the fog has seeped in
through the windows.”

Harvey hunched
his plump shoulders. “It does seem a bit nippy.”

“I’ll turn up
the heat. How about a highball?”

“Don’t mind if I
do.” Harvey looked around. “Excuse me, but where is it?”

“The bathroom?
Through the bedroom, to the right.”

Harvey slunk
out. Ann went into the kitchenette, brought out her bottle of bourbon, two
glasses . . . She turned her head. Had Harvey called? She took a step,
listened. From the direction of the bathroom came a peculiar bumping, scraping
sound. “Harvey?”

The bumping,
scraping sound diminished. There was silence. “Harvey?” called Ann in an
uncertain voice. She peered across the dark bedroom at the line of light under
the bathroom door.

The light
snapped off. The door opened, very slowly. In the darkness loomed a shape
darker than dark. Ann’s knees wobbled; she gasped, whirled, and ran for the
front door. Behind her pounded footsteps. She clawed for the door handle; the
door opened at last, and she ran screaming out into the hall—and, screaming,
tumbled down the steps, and, screaming, picked herself up to hammer at the door
of the manager’s apartment on the ground floor.

He was
maddeningly deliberate in answering his door. Ann kept watching over her
shoulder, trembling all over. No one appeared. She held her finger on the
button, knocked, thumped.

The door opened.
The manager looked guardedly out. “Miss Nelson! What’s the matter?”

“Call the police,”
Ann cried. “There’s someone in my apartment!”

The manager, an
ex-Marine named Tanner who had left an arm on Guadalcanal, said, “Just a minute.”
He went to a cupboard, brought out a large black automatic pistol. “Let’s go
look, Miss Nelson.”

He bounded
upstairs.

Ann’s door was
shut. She said in a terrified whisper, “I left it open. I’m sure I did.”

“Stand back.” Holding
the gun between his knees, Tanner brought out his passkey, unlocked the door
fast; then snatching up his gun he thrust the door open. Once more warning Ann
back, he peered into the living room.

Empty. On the
kitchen counter was the bottle of bourbon and the two glasses.

“Be careful,” breathed
Ann. “There’s something terribly wrong.” Her voice caught in her throat.
Whatever had happened to Harvey would have happened to her. . . .

Tanner sidled
into the bedroom. He reached in with the hook of his artificial arm, switched
on the lights. Ann’s neatly made bed sprang up, the dresser, the night table.
Tanner peered under the bed, looked suspiciously at the wardrobe. Holding the
gun ready, he slid aside first one of the wardrobe doors, then the other. The
wardrobe contained only shoes and clothes.

“Stand back,
Miss Nelson,” he said quietly.

The bathroom
door was ajar. The light from the bedroom shone on a polished black shoe, a
plump ankle in a black and red silk sock.

Tanner backed
slowly off, spoke over his shoulder.

“There’s a man’s
body in the bathroom. Call the police.”

Ann fled to the
telephone. Tanner went into the kitchen and looked out on the service porch.
After a moment he returned, waiting till Ann finished. “He’s gone. Broke open
the back door to get in, probably took off the same way. What happened? Who’s
the man in the bathroom?”

Ann sank into a
chair. “My mother’s husband. We’d just come in. He had to go to the bathroom.
It was someone who was waiting for me.” The full horror of what had happened to
Harvey Gluck—and almost to her—struck her like a blow.

“Easy now,” said
Tanner. He stood alertly contemplating the door into the bathroom. Someone
might still be lurking there in the dark, undecided whether to make a lunge
through the apartment or essay the twenty-five-foot drop from the bathroom
window. Better to wait out here, he decided, with the gun trained on the
doorway.

A few frozen
moments later sirens began to moan, first faintly, then growing in volume,
finally dying down outside. A pair of officers appeared from the stairway,
burst into Ann’s living room. Tanner briefed them in a low voice, motioned with
his one arm toward the bathroom. One of the officers tiptoed over and, covered
by the gun of his mate, reached in and jabbed on the light. Then he ducked
back. Using a mirror from Ann’s dresser they surveyed the bathroom.

Its sole
occupant was Harvey Gluck. Harvey lay on his back with bulging eyes and
protruding tongue. In his neck there was a bloody crease, where a wire had
jerked tight.

Detective Inspector
Fitzpatrick presently descended to the manager’s apartment, where Ann sat
cuddling a cup of coffee she did not want. Fitzpatrick brought forth his
notebook and spoke in a bored voice. “Name?”

“Ann Nelson.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Employed where?”

“I teach school.
Mar Vista Elementary.”

“The deceased is
who?”

“My mother’s
husband. His name is Harvey Gluck.”

“Tell me what
happened.”

Ann described
the events of the evening. Fitzpatrick took one or two notes.

“Why had Mr.
Gluck called on you?”

“He was looking
for my mother.” Ann hesitated, then said, “Perhaps you had better get in touch
with Inspector Tarr at the Marin County Sheriff’s Office.”

“Why?”

“My father died
a week or so ago. Inspector Tarr has been in charge of the investigation.”

Fitzpatrick’s
black eyes snapped. “Homicide?”

“You’d better
ask Inspector Tarr,” said Ann. Then with a trace of cheerless humor she said, “He
thinks it was suicide.”

“And what do you
think?”

“I don’t know
what I think. Except that someone was waiting to kill me.” Ann bit her lip to
keep it from trembling.

“Easy now, Miss
Nelson. How do you know Mr. Gluck wasn’t the intended victim?”

“How could he
have been?” Ann asked wearily. “He’d only just arrived in town. No one knew he’d
be here. But they knew I’d be home, and alone. . . . Poor Harvey. When he went
into the bathroom, whoever was there had to kill him to keep him quiet.” Then
the tears came.

Fitzpatrick
asked permission to use the Tanners’ telephone. When he hung up he turned back
to Ann.

“If it’s any
comfort to you,” said the detective, “Mr. Gluck never knew what struck him.
That kind of garrote works like greased lightning. . . . By the way, was he
friendly with you?”

The implication
was too clear to be ignored. “What do you mean?” said Ann with as much
indignation as she could muster.

Fitzpatrick was
not daunted. “Just what I asked.”

“Yes. He was
friendly with me.”

“How friendly?”

“I liked him. He
was a kind, generous man.”

“He ever make a
pass at you?”

“Certainly not.”

Fitzpatrick
nodded without interest. “Has he ever been here before?”

“No”

“What about your
mother? Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”
Fitzpatrick’s tone was incredulous.

“I haven’t seen
her since early March.”

The telephone
rang; Fitzpatrick answered as a matter of course. The conversation continued
for several minutes. Then he hung up and said to Ann, “That was Inspector Tarr.
He’s on his way.” He considered a moment. “Where are you planning to spend the
night?”

“I don’t know. I
hadn’t thought.”

“A friend’s
house?”

“I’ll go to a
hotel.”

“She can stay
right here,” said Mrs. Tanner.

Ann thanked her.
She would have preferred the impersonal calm of a hotel, but she was too upset
to argue.

Mrs. Tanner
said, “You tell me what you’d like; I’ll run upstairs and get it for you. And
you can be taking a nice hot shower.”

“That sounds
wonderful, Mrs. Tanner; you’re very kind,” said Ann. “If you’d just bring some
pajamas and my bathrobe.”

When Ann emerged
from the shower, Mrs. Tanner had a bowl of split-pea soup and a grilled cheese
sandwich waiting for her. Ann remembered that she had eaten neither lunch nor
dinner. She suddenly felt famished.

While she was
eating, Inspector Tarr arrived. She heard his voice in the living room and felt
an almost frantic sense of relief. Tarr looked in at her. “Good evening, Miss
Nelson.” Ann looked up in surprise. His voice was as coolly indifferent as
Inspector Fitzpatrick’s had been. She flushed with resentment What a hypocrite!
Trying to make a date with her one moment, the next speaking to her as if she
were some whore picked up in a raid!

Tarr sat down
beside her. Ann moved away. “This is a very serious matter,” he said.

Ann made no
reply.

“Assuming
someone broke into your apartment—”

Ann demanded
angrily, “Is there any other possibility?”

“Of course. You
might have garrotted Harvey Gluck and faked a break-in at the back door.
A
woman could easily do the
job. Once that wire gets snapped tight, it’s all over.”

Ann curled her
lip in ridicule. “Why should I want to hurt poor Harvey?”

“I don’t know.” And
Tarr added blandly, “Incidentally, if you plan to confess, please confess to
me. I’m bucking for promotion, and I could use any help at all.”

Ann sipped her
tea, too outraged and emotionally limp to react.