A Room to Die In

by Jack Vance

  “He was.”

  “You’re his closest blood relative?”

  “His only blood relative. I suppose I’d better do something. Arrangements, and so on.”

  “I guess it’s up to you. We’ll also want an official identification.”

  “Oh, heavens. Must I?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Tonight?”

  “No, that’s not necessary. In fact, I’m about to go off duty. But if you’ll telephone in the morning, or meet me here at, say, ten o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there at ten.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Ann rose slowly, stood for a moment in the middle of the room, then poured herself another glass of sherry and sat down again. Shock had worn off; something like awe took its place. Suicide! Inspector Tarr had been definite; she would have to accept it, unbelievable as it was.

  She thought of her father as she had known him over the years: a man of protean complexity, tall and spare, with assertive aquiline features and a ruff of thick, prematurely gray hair. Many times Ann had tried to puzzle out the rationale by which her father lived. Always she had arrived at the same conclusion. Roland Nelson—stating the case in its crassest form-cared not a thistle for anyone’s good opinion but his own, and often was driven to makeshifts that might have demolished the dignity of a man less assured. She thought of their meeting the previous summer. She had chanced upon him in an art shop, where he had just placed a number of “non-objective” sculptures cynically welded from oddments of junk. Obviously squandering his entire capital, he had taken Ann to lunch at the best restaurant in town.

  Over coffee he mentioned, as an item of no great importance, that he and his second wife had come to a parting of the ways.

  Ann, accustomed to capricious, apparently self-defeating acts on the part of her father, was not surprised. She expressed mild disapproval. “You were lucky to find someone as nice as Pearl.”

  “No question but she’s nice,” Roland agreed. “Too nice. And she worked hard. Too hard. I’m not used to having my every wish anticipated. Especially when I might not have been planning to wish in the first place.”

  “It wouldn’t have taken her long to learn. You’ve only been married six months.”

  “Going on seven. But it’s over with. Kaput. I’m now in a state of transition.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’m making rearrangements. Shifting the internal furniture. It takes a while.”

  “Where are you living?”

  “Out in the country, near Inisfail. I don’t see anyone for weeks on end. It’s remarkably pleasant.”

  “I suppose your art makes heavy demands on you,” said Ann, in ironic reference to the avant-garde “sculptures.”

  Roland smiled his harsh, uneven smile and called for the check.

  A week or so later, at eleven o’clock of a rainy night, Ann’s telephone had rung. At the other end was Pearl. She apologized for calling so late in the evening; Ann assured her that she had been reading a book; and they discussed Roland for half an hour. Pearl was melancholy but philosophical. She had married Roland Nelson fully aware of his peculiarities; things simply hadn’t worked out. “Roland is a very obstinate man, especially where women are concerned. He won’t believe that someone can say no and mean it. It may take him a while to come to his senses.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Ann, uncertain of what Pearl was talking about. Only later did she speculate that Pearl might have been referring to someone other than herself. And soon afterward Pearl had died. Ann wondered what had caused Pearl’s death.

  A new thought occurred to her, a startling, exciting thought that burst in her head like fireworks. Roland had inherited from Pearl; Ann would presumably inherit from Roland—and apparently a great deal of money was involved. Unless Roland had left a will making other provision—which she doubted. How strange! Money, originally the property of a total stranger, would now become hers! Ann could not restrain a thrill of joy at the prospect. She instantly scolded herself for rejoicing in a situation which had cost two lives. And she thought of her mother, who would certainly expect a share of the inheritance. Elaine would first hint, then supplicate, then viciously demand. It might be wise to move to a new address, thought Ann.

  Tomorrow was Friday, a workday. She telephoned the principal at Mar Vista, and explained the situation. Mrs. Darlington expressed sympathy and said of course take as much time as necessary.

  In the morning Ann dressed in a dark-gray suit and drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, through the hills of Marin County, to San Rafael. Inspector Thomas Tarr proved to be a man in his early thirties, of middle height, unobtrusively muscular, wearing gray flannel slacks, a jacket of nondescript tweed, and a tie selected apparently at random. He had mild blue eyes, an undisciplined crop of sun-bleached blond hair, and an air of informality that Ann found disarming.

  He greeted her with gravity. “Sorry I have to bring you here on such an errand, Miss Nelson. Shall we get the worst of it over? Then we can relax?”

  He ushered her down a flight of steps, along a brightly lit corridor, into a chilly, white-tiled room. He slid out a drawer; Ann peered gingerly down into austere features, now blurred. She backed away, shuddering. Tears that she had never anticipated came to her eyes.

  Inspector Tarr spoke in a sympathetic voice. “This is your father, Miss Nelson?”

  Ann gave a jerky nod. “Yes.”

  They returned upstairs, Ann drying her eyes and feeling a little embarrassed. Tarr was understanding itself. He led the way to a small private office and seated Ann in a worn leather chair. “It’s a job I never get used to.”

  “I don’t know what came over me,” said Ann with vehemence. “Certainly not grief.”

  “You weren’t close to your father?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’m glad for your sake, Miss Nelson.” Tarr rolled a pencil between his fingers. “Can you think of any reason why your father should have wanted to kill himself?”

  Ann shook her head. “It’s hard to believe that he did.”

  “There’s not the slightest doubt.”

  “Couldn’t it have been an accident? Or an act of violence?”

  “Definitely not. You saw him last when?”

  Ann gave Tarr a frowning inspection. Something in his manner suggested that he knew more than he was telling. “Toward the end of last summer. I believe it was August.” Ann described the episode, trying to convey its special flavor. Tarr listened with polite interest. “When she had finished, he reflected a moment, staring at the pencil. “You don’t believe, then, that he was broken up by his separation from his wife?”

  “I’ve just finished telling you he wasn’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tarr with patently spurious humility. “I’m sometimes a trifle dense. You know dumb cops.”

  Ann said with dignity, “I think he liked and respected Pearl, but apparently she got on his nerves. I wouldn’t be surprised—”

  “If what?”

  “If there might not be another woman involved.”

  Tarr lounged back in his chair. “What makes you say that?”

  “Something Pearl told me over the telephone.”

  “You don’t know the identity of this other woman?”

  “I wouldn’t have the faintest idea. Even if there was another woman.”

  Tarr looked thoughtful. “According to his landlord, he’s been living like a hermit. Going nowhere, seeing no one. Was that the way he usually lived?”

  “He had no usual way of life. I think he just decided to live in the country. Since he had no friends, the result would be the life of a recluse.”

  Tarr reached into a drawer, brought out a wallet, and tossed it on the desk. “This is the extent of what he had in his pockets. I haven’t gone through his papers yet.”

  Ann looked through the wallet. There were four ten-dollar bills, three fives and several ones. One compartment cont
ained a driver’s license, a pink automobile-ownership certificate for a 1954 Plymouth, a receipt issued by Apex Van and Storage acknowledging responsibility for “Rugs and household effects as itemized,” with an appended schedule.

  A second compartment contained several business cards: Martin Jones, General Contractor, with a San Rafael address and telephone number; Hope, Braziel and Taylor, Stockbrokers; The California and Pacific Bank, Mr. Frank Visig, Investment Management Department, both of San Francisco; and to Ann’s astonishment three snapshots of herself, at about the ages of four, ten, and sixteen. On the back of the latest, her current address and telephone number had been scribbled in pencil.

  “You were pretty little girl,” remarked Tarr, watching her.

  “I can’t imagine where he got these pictures,” Ann exclaimed. “Unless my grandmother sent them to him. Dear old Granny, such an innocent thing.” She looked through the other compartments. “Is that all?”

  “That’s all. Your father apparently belonged to no lodges, clubs, or organizations.”

  “Small chance of that.”

  “Didn’t he have any close friends?”

  “None I know of.”

  “What about enemies?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. But I really don’t know.”

  Tarr laid the pencil carefully on his desk. “There’s an indication that Mr. Nelson was being blackmailed.”

  “What!”

  He clasped his hands, surveying Ann with the blandest of expressions. “I’ll explain the circumstances. Your father’s landlord, Mr. Jones, found the body. Jones came to collect the rent, which was past due . . . Otherwise your father might have lain there dead God knows how long. Jones rang the bell and, receiving no answer, looked through a window. He saw your father, obviously dead. He telephoned the sheriff’s office, and I came out with another officer.

  “The room, a study of sorts, was locked from the inside. The window looked the easiest way in. I broke a pane, cranked open the casement, and crawled through. Mr. Nelson was certainly dead, and I radioed for the coroner.

  “While waiting, I made certain observations. As I mentioned, the room was a study. Mr. Nelson had apparently been shot by a thirty-eight revolver which lay on the floor; the laboratory has confirmed this. The door leading from the study into the living room was locked and bolted from the inside. There is no access to the study other than door and window, and both were locked. It has to have been suicide.” Tarr glanced at Ann as if to gauge her reaction. But Ann said nothing, and he continued. “There’s a fireplace in the study. Among the ashes I found a crumpled sheet of paper—I can’t show it to you just now; it’s at the laboratory. But”—he consulted a notebook “—the message reads like this: ‘I’ve been too easy on you. I want more money. From now on fifteen hundred dollars each and every month.’ ” Tarr replaced the notebook in his pocket. “It was made up of letters cut from newspaper headlines and pasted to a sheet of cheap paper. There were some fingerprints on the paper, all your father’s. The implication is clearly blackmail.” He leaned forward. “Do you know of anything in your father’s background for which he might have been blackmailed?”

  Ann laughed scornfully. “I don’t think my father could be blackmailed.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He had no shame.”

  “Well, if he’d committed a crime—”

  “I don’t think so. Because . . . well, let me put it this way. My father was a very good chess player. You can’t cheat at chess. Or rather, you can, but you don’t. Because if you win, you haven’t really won; if you lose, you’ve lost double.”

  “So?”

  “My father wouldn’t commit a crime for the same reasons he wouldn’t cheat at chess. He was too proud.”

  “Nice if everyone thought like that,” mused Tarr. “Except that I’d be out of a job. I wonder if the crime rate among chess players is below average . . . Well, back to your father. You can’t conceive a basis on which he could be blackmailed?”

  “No.”

  Tarr flung himself back almost impatiently. “Your father seems to have been . . . well, extraordinary. Even peculiar.”

  Ann felt a prickle of something like anger. Now that Roland Nelson was dead, she felt a need to defend him, or at least to explain the workings of that splendid, reckless, sardonic personality. “It all depends on what you mean by ‘extraordinary’ and ‘peculiar.’ He was certainly independent. He never adapted to anyone. You had to adapt to him or go your own way.”

  Tarr moved in his chair, as if the idea were a personal challenge. He brought out his notebook. “Your mother’s name is what?”

  “Mrs. Harvey Gluck.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “In North Hollywood. Do you want the address?”

  “Please.”

  Ann looked in her address book. “Eight twenty-eight Pemberton Avenue. I’m not sure she’s still there. In fact, I know she’s not. I wrote her a card which was returned by the post office.”

  Tarr made a note. Ann noticed that he wore no ring on his left hand. “How long have your mother and father been divorced?”

  “Years and years. When I was two they took off in different directions and left me in Santa Monica with my grandmother. I saw very little of either of them after that.”

  “Did your father contribute to your support?”

  “When he felt in the mood. Not very often.”

  “Hmm. Now let’s see. He married Pearl Maudley . . . when?”

  Ann studied him a moment. “If you’re so sure he committed suicide, why are you asking these questions?”

  Tarr grinned as if Ann had made a joke. To her surprise, he tossed the pencil in the air with one hand, caught it with the other. Detectives were supposed to be grim and incisive. Tarr said, “There’s still the matter of blackmail.”

  “He and Pearl were married a year and a half ago. She was a widow with a good deal of money—which may or may not have persuaded him.”

  “Were you at the wedding?”

  “No.”

  “But you did meet the new Mrs. Nelson?”

  “About a month after they were married she invited me to dinner. They had a beautiful apartment in Sausalito. After meeting Pearl, I felt that my father was very lucky.”

  “But they separated. When she died—since there was no divorce and she had no close relatives—he came into her estate. Is that correct?”

  “So far as I know. I wasn’t even aware Pearl was dead till my mother told me.” “And how did she find out?”

  “I have no idea. It’s something I wondered about myself.”

  Tarr leaned back, his eyes quite blank. “And now you’ll inherit.”

  Ann laughed humorlessly. “If you’re suggesting that I killed my father for his money . . .”

  “Did you?”

  “Would you believe me if I said I did?”

  “I’d like to know how you arranged it.”

  “Just for the record,” said Ann with a curling lip, “I did not shoot Roland.”

  Tarr asked carelessly, “You weren’t blackmailing him?”

  “I neither murdered nor blackmailed my father.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “What about her?”

  “Do you think she might have been blackmailing him?”

  “No. I really don’t.”

  Tarr frowned, put the pencil definitely aside. “You saw her when?”

  “The early part of March—the first or the second.”

  “Which would be shortly after your father came into the estate. Did she tell you of her intentions?”

  “She wanted money from him. I told her she was wasting her time, but she paid no attention.”

  “Wouldn’t that suggest that she had some sort of hold over him? In other words, blackmail?”

  “It seems utterly fantastic.”

  “You have the same reaction to the idea of suicide,” Tarr pointed out, “which is demonstrable fact.”


  “It hasn’t been demonstrated to me yet.”

  “Very well,” said Tarr. He rose. “I’m going out to Inisfail now to check through your father’s papers. You can come along if you like; in fact, I’d appreciate your help. I believe I can also demonstrate the fact of suicide.”

  “Very well,” said Ann with dignity. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

  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 school teachers,” 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.