A Room to Die In

by Jack Vance

  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 up 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 rose-bushes, 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.

  Presented to

  PAUL MORPHY

  of the United States of America

  in appreciation of his magnificent achievements

  and to commemorate his notable triumphs

  in competition against the most eminent chess masters

  of Europe and the world

  at the

  GRAND MASTERS TOURNAMENT

  Geneva Switzerland

  August 23, 1858

  by the patrons.

  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 chess-men. 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 blonde 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.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Ann’s apartment, so often her haven of peace, seemed drab when she got home. The sun, hanging low, shone under a reef of cloud, producing a strange watery light, the color of weak tea. Ann felt cross and restless.

  She mixed herself a highball and, dropping onto the couch, stared out the window. She almost wished that she had accepted Tarr’s invitation. Though, considering the circumstances . . . Inspector Thomas Tarr—Ann curled her lip, half in amusement, half in disdain—a blond, affable, woman-chasing lout. Though the affability might be only an act to lull wrongdoers. And suspects. There was no use deceiving herself. Until the whole truth about her father’s death was known, she was a suspect—of blackmail, at least.

  She ruminated upon the events of the day. Tarr had refused to consider any other possibility than suicide. Ann conceded that his case looked unshakable. It would be gratifying to prove him wrong, or at least to demonstrate that suicide was not the only possibility. She reviewed in her mind the various locked-room situations of which she had read. None of the devices, illusions, or gimmicks seemed applicable. The door and the window could not be manipulated from the outside. Walls, floor, and ceiling were unquestionably sound. No one could possibly have been hidden within the room, to make his exit after Tarr arrived. The fireplace? Ann tried to imagine a long mechanical arm lowered ingeniously down the chimney, thrust across the room, finally to fire a bullet into Roland Nelson’s brain. Fantasy . . . Here was a startling idea: suppose Inspector Tarr, Sergeant Ryan, and Martin Jones had banded together to kill Roland Nelson! As Sherlock Homes had pointed out, when the possibilities had been eliminated, what remained, no matter how improbable, must be truth. Still—Ann told herself regretfully—suicide looked like the answer. Accident? Of course that was always possible.

  Ann put aside her conjectures. They were fruitless as well as tiring. Let Tarr worry about it; he was paid to do so. Except that Tarr was too amiable to worry—in notable contrast to the boorish Martin Jones. Ann wondered if Jones was married. If so, God help his wife! . . .

  That made her think of her own marriage to the hypersensitive Larry. A mollycoddle. Though, to be sure, her mother had brought out the worst in him. A more virile man—Martin Jones, for instance—would very quickly have set things straight with Elaine.

  The thought of Elaine prompted Ann to reach for the telephone. She dialed Operator and put in a call to Mrs. Harvey Gluck, at 828 Pemberton Avenue, North Hollywood. A peevish voice answered the ring: Mrs. Harvey Gluck was no longer residing there. She had taken off several months before,
leaving no forwarding address. Ann shifted the call to Mr. Harvey Gluck, in Glendale. The connection was made, the phone rang. No answer.

  Ann replaced the receiver and went back to staring out the window. The sun had dropped from sight; the underside of the clouds burned with gold, deepening to persimmon as she watched. The room dimmed. Ann rose, switched on the lights, and mixed another highball.

  She thought of dinner, but the idea of cooking . . . Now, as a wealthy woman, she could call a cab and dine at any restaurant in the city. If she chose. She did not choose; it seemed a sordid thing to do, so soon after her father’s death—the source of her good fortune.

  She had never really been fond of her father, aware always of his subsurface streak of cruelty. “Cruelty” was not the word. “Callousness” was better—though it still failed to describe Roland Nelson and his devil-take-the-hindmost attitude. He had asked no quarter from life, and he gave none: a mocking, cynical man, austere, flamboyant, disliked by some women, irresistible to others . . .

  Jehane Cypriano. Ann’s subconscious tossed up the name. She sipped her highball reflectively. Roland Nelson would be attracted. But what of the woman’s husband? He looked like a tyrant. What of Jehane herself?

  The telephone rang. Telepathy might well have been at work, because, lifting the receiver, Ann was sure that she would hear the voice of Jehane Cypriano.

  “Hello?”

  “Ann Nelson?” She had been right! “This is Jehane Cypriano. I haven’t disturbed you?”

  “Not at all. I was actually thinking of you.”

  “I couldn’t speak to you today. It was such a shock to hear of your father’s death.”

  “I was surprised, too, Mrs. Cypriano. Especially with the police convinced that he killed himself.”

  “It’s very strange. Couldn’t it have been an accident?”

  “Inspector Tarr doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose it must have been suicide. Although I still can’t believe it.”

  “I can’t either.” Jehane went on, rather hurriedly: “I wonder if you’d come to lunch tomorrow? There’s so much to talk about, and Alexander is anxious to meet you.”