A Room to Die In

by Jack Vance

  Ann could see no good reason to refuse, although the invitation evidently was prompted by something other than the charm of her personality. She said, “I’d be glad to come.”

  “Good. Twelve o’clock? The address is thirty-two Melbourne Drive, off Blue Hill Road.” She gave directions, which Ann noted on a scratch-pad, and the conversation ended.

  Ann went into the kitchen and fried bacon and scrambled eggs. She ate, tried to read; but finding that her mind wandered, she took a hot shower and went to bed.

  So many things had happened in the last few days. Her father’s death, the sudden change in her economic status. Thomas Tarr, his effortless charm, his floozy girl friend in the red coat. Luther? Lothario was more apt, Ann told herself with a sniff. Then there was the odious Martin Jones: like Tarr physically attractive, even magnetic, with an air of repressed hostility in his every word and gesture . . . She fell asleep.

  At nine thirty the next morning Inspector Tarr telephoned. His voice was unembarrassed, official. “I can’t locate your mother, Miss Nelson. She’s no longer at the address you gave me—hasn’t been there for months. Can you think of anyone who would know her whereabouts?”

  “Only her husband. He lives in Glendale. He’s a dog trainer.”

  “I’ll try him.”

  “Incidentally,” said Ann, “Mrs. Cypriano telephoned me last night”

  “So?”

  “She invited me to lunch.”

  “You’re going?”

  “Certainly. Why not?”

  “No reason. But call me afterwards, will you? I like to know what’s going on. I’ll be at the office until three or four.”

  Ann agreed in a voice of dignified reserve.

  She dressed with more than usual care, in a white sleeveless frock and light gray coat, and at eleven o’clock set forth. The day was sparkling and sunny with a cool breeze carrying the salt scent of the Pacific across the city. Ann could not help but feel an elevation of spirits.

  She drove up Lincoln Way to Nineteenth Avenue, and turned left into Park Presidio Boulevard, which took her through Golden Gate Park, the Richmond district, the gloomy forest of the Presidio, to the Golden Gate Bridge. Sailboats wandered the bay; San Francisco’s skyline rose as crisp and white as sugar icing. To the left the baby-blue ocean spread smooth and glistening, except for occasional cat’s-paws. The hills of Marin County loomed ahead; the freeway swung through a tunnel and slanted down past Sausalito to San Rafael, where Ann turned west out Lagunitas Road, toward Inisfail.

  Just before the timber bridge, she came to Blue Hill Road, a narrow lane twisting up a hillside heavy with fir trees. Melbourne Drive presently veered off to the left, a lane even narrower than Blue Hill Road. At the mailbox marked Cypriano, Ann turned up a steep driveway and came out on a graveled parking area below a tall house that was all dark wood and glass.

  She was early; it was ten minutes to twelve.

  Jehane Cypriano appeared on the terrace, waving. She descended a flight of wide stone steps. The woman wore black slacks and a short-sleeved beige sweater; her step was as light as a young girl’s.

  She seemed genuinely glad to see Ann. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

  “I followed your directions, and here I am.”

  “Apparently I got them right for once.” Jehane led Ann up to the terrace, which was being extended or repaired. There was a fine view to the west over low hills and forested valleys, with a gray glint of ocean far beyond. They entered the house through a heavy oak door that opened into a vast high-ceilinged room built on three levels. The lowest served as a lobby or foyer, the second as a living room, the highest as a dining room. To the right, a half-octagonal rotunda running from floor to ceiling overlooked the view. The walls were paneled in dark wood, with details, accents, draperies, and rugs in unconventional colors: black, scarlet, mauve, purple, black-green.

  A decidedly unorthodox house, Ann thought, like no other house she had ever seen.

  She said as much, and Jehane seemed pleased. “I designed it myself for friends. Then two years ago we bought it from them.”

  “I think that’s wonderful.”

  Jehane said, “When I was a girl I decided to become an architect. Ridiculous, of course; there simply aren’t women architects. But I went to architectural school, anyway. This is what resulted.”

  “It’s a beautiful house,” said Ann. “It has a romantic, impractical feel to it. Like a fairy castle. I don’t mean,” she hastened to say, “that it’s really impractical.”

  “Oh, it probably is,” said Jehane. “I’m both romantic and impractical. And who wants a house that’s dull? As a matter of fact, I designed it for Rex and Pearl Orr. They were romantic and impractical, too. When Rex died, Pearl wouldn’t live here. . . . But let me mix you a daiquiri. I’ve just acquired an electric ice crusher, and I love to play with it.”

  Ann accompanied her to the top level and into the kitchen.

  “Alexander’s still in bed,” said Jehane. “Sometimes he gets up before dawn; sometimes he stays in bed till two. He’ll never get up at a normal hour.”

  There was the faint far sound of a toilet flushing. Jehane listened, her head at a birdlike tilt. “Alexander is greeting the day. He’ll be with us shortly.”

  Fresh lime juice, Cointreau, rum went into a shaker with a cup of shaved ice; Jehane gave the mixture a stir and served it in champagne goblets.

  “Mmm,” said Ann. “I suddenly see that I need an ice shaver.”

  “It’s a foolishly expensive gadget. But it’s fun.”

  “Foolish things are always the most fun,” said Ann.

  “Yes, the things in my life I regret the most are the wise things I’ve done.”

  After a moment Ann asked, “Is Pearl Orr the Pearl my father married?”

  Jehane nodded. “Roland met her here after Pearl sold us the house. I think she half regretted it—the sale, I mean, not meeting Roland, because she was always visiting.”

  “I don’t blame her. If I ever build a house, you can be the architect.”

  Jehane shook her head with a wistful laugh. “I don’t think I’ll ever design another. You can run into the most frightful headaches. There’s zoning, building inspectors, headstrong contractors—heaven knows what-all.”

  Ann had a sudden flash. “Was Martin Jones the contractor?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. But when he appeared yesterday, you left, and rather abruptly.”

  Jehane nodded slowly. “He built it.”

  “He’s a surly brute. Good-looking, though.”

  Jehane made a neutral gesture. “He goes on the defensive with attractive women.”

  “He’s not married, then.”

  Jehane shook her head. “There’s quite a story about Martin. He was engaged to an Inisfail girl—I think they’d been sweethearts in high school. He built the house—where your father lived—for himself and his bride. Last winter the girl flew to San Diego to visit her sister, met a naval officer, and married him the next day. The sister gave Martin the news over the telephone. So now he loathes all women. The prettier they are, the more he hates them.”

  “I should be flattered,” said Ann. “He practically snarled at me. Although, in a way, I can see his point.”

  Jehane shrugged. “Alexander can’t bear the sight of him.”

  She raised her head. Ann, listening, heard languid footsteps. “Here comes Alexander now,” said Jehane.

  Alexander entered the room: a heavy-shouldered man with thin flanks, short legs, and a magnificent head. His hair was thick, dove-gray; his eyes were large, coal-black; his mouth and chin were small and almost dainty; his nose was a small parrot’s beak. He wore dark-gray slacks and a shirt of maroon gabardine.

  Not a man to inspire instant liking, thought Ann.

  She wondered why Jehane had chosen to marry him. Still, the match was no odder than dozens of others she had wondered about.

  Jehane performed a
casual introduction, then said, “I suppose I should see to lunch.”

  Alexander nodded. “Excellent idea. It seems to be a beautiful day. Miss Nelson and I will go out on the deck.” His voice was slow, deep, resonant. “Perhaps you’d bring us another round of drinks?”

  He ushered Ann through a pair of French windows out to the second-level deck, which was cantilevered alarmingly over a rocky gulch.

  “It’s quite safe,” said Alexander in a patronizing tone. “But I agree the first sensation is apt to be unpleasant.” He drew up a chair for Ann and settled himself in another. The view was even more dramatic than from the terrace, with the full bulk of Mount Tamalpais looming to the south. “Do you smoke?” asked Alexander.

  “No. I’m one of those annoying people who never acquired the habit.”

  Alexander fitted a cigarette into a long holder. “Jehane doesn’t smoke, either. I must say that I derive an ignoble satisfaction whenever a nonsmoker contracts lung cancer. . . . I don’t believe your father smoked.”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “A peculiar man. In many ways an admirable man. I suppose I knew him as well as anyone alive.”

  “I’ve heard him speak of you. In fact, five years ago, at the California Masters Tournament—”

  “Alexander chuckled, a deep, fruity croak. “I remember that very well. Your father made one mistake—one little mistake. It was enough. Six moves later he resigned. It was a hard game, though to be honest I never found myself in serious difficulty.”

  Alexander Cypriano seemed more than complacent about it, thought Ann—pompous, actually.

  “I’ve given up active competition. In fact, I rarely play these days. Chess is a young man’s game, though of course a number of older men have played superbly. Steinitz . . . Lasker. Do you play?”

  The suddenness of the question caught Ann off guard. She stammered, “I know the moves . . . Yes, I play. I’ve played a few games with my father. Naturally, he won.”

  “Your father was highly competent—a beautiful tactician. He played a resourceful end game, where most chess players are weak. My own end game is entirely adequate, and my opening game considerably sounder than your father’s. When we played I usually won.” He peered quizzically at Ann. “I hope I don’t seem vain?”

  “Not at all,” said Ann, thinking, “Oh, don’t you?”

  “It’s often hard to distinguish vanity from simple honesty. We played many an interesting game, your father and I. He exhibited three characteristic faults. First, he refused to study the openings, and often embroiled himself in a line which a more profound student would have avoided. Second, he loved the spectacular combination—he loved to astound, with lunges and sorties, gallops along the edge of a precipice, cryptic exposures of his king . . . These tactics were likely to outrage and confuse players of average ability, but a man maintaining the grand view could usually refute such gasconades. His third fault was his most singular and, I would say, paradoxical. I don’t know how to describe it. Indecisiveness? At a crucial moment, when it came to administering the coup de grâce, he would falter, veer, temporize. Inexplicable. He lost otherwise brilliant games that way. By the way, my appraisal of your father’s character does not include soft-heartedness. I would judge Roland to have been a man quite cold and merciless where his own interests were involved.”

  Ann, listening with only half an ear, and wondering why she had been invited to lunch, was brought back to reality by the hardening of Alexander Cypriano’s tone.

  Rising, the man went to the edge of the deck. He took a long, slow sip of the daiquiri that Jehane had quietly brought out on a tray, and looked out toward the far gray sheen of the Pacific.

  Ann could think of nothing to say.

  Alexander swung around. “But enough of chess. To a nonplayer nothing is less interesting than the maunderings of an addict.”

  “I’m interested in anything that concerns my father,” Ann said politely. “We weren’t close, but now that he’s dead . . .” She laughed in embarrassment. “I wouldn’t call it remorse, because the neglect came from him, not from me—but, after all, he did name me his heir.”

  “He wrote a will, then? Odd.”

  “I’d say he had some motive other than simple practicality.”

  Alexander seemed fascinated. “What makes you say that?”

  For no well-defined reason, Ann chose to be evasive. At least until she found out why she had been invited to lunch. “Oh, the general tone of the will. Certain of the bequests.”

  Alexander inquired humorously, “I take it I wasn’t mentioned?”

  “No.”

  He pursed his lips.

  “I understand you knew my father’s second wife well,” said Ann after a moment’s silence.

  “Yes, she was an old friend of Jehane’s. An impulsive, warmhearted woman.”

  “That was my feeling, although I met her only once. I never did hear how she died, except that it was in an automobile accident.”

  “To be blunt, she was driving while drunk and simply ran off Blue Hill Road.”

  “Oh.” Ann hesitated. “This may sound like an extraordinary thing to ask. Is there any possibility that my father could have been involved?”

  “Involved?” Alexander shot her a sharp glance.

  Ann said steadily, “I mean, could he have been responsible?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” said Alexander in a brand-new tone. “But I don’t see how he could have managed it. In the first place, Roland could have had no idea she was here. Why should the question occur to you?”

  Ann reflected before answering. Alexander Cypriano clearly regarded Roland Nelson as a rival—possibly in more fields than chess—and seemed to relish any information to Roland’s discredit, even after death. But if information was to be obtained from the man, Ann would have to prime the pump. So, reluctantly, she said, “The truth is, there’s some indication he was being blackmailed.”

  “Blackmailed!” Alexander seemed genuinely startled. He turned as Jehane came out on the deck to announce that lunch was ready. “Miss Nelson tells me that Roland was being blackmailed.”

  Jehane became as still as death. “That’s hard to believe. What could he possibly be blackmailed for?”

  “In everyone’s life there are dark corners,” said Alexander. “There are one or two things about myself I wouldn’t care to have known. And don’t forget, Jehane, we haven’t seen him for months. Anything might have happened.”

  “It’s silly,” said his wife abruptly. “Let’s have lunch.”

  She had set a table on the cool eastern terrace with a green checked cloth and dishes decorated with green leaves. In the center stood a tall green bottle of white wine.

  Lunch was as Ann had expected: simple, ample, beautifully prepared. There was a salad of shrimp and avocado; then breasts of chicken in individual iron skillets, swimming in a piquant buttery sauce, served with small round potatoes and watercress; then a dessert of strawberries and vanilla ice cream, with black coffee. Conversation was desultory. Alexander apologized for the clutter of lumber, saw-horses, reinforcing steel, and mesh. He pointed out the extent of the new terrace and indicated where repair work was being done on the foundations. “If the contractor had done his work properly to begin with,” he grumbled, “all this mess could have been avoided.”

  The reference, thought Ann, was to Martin Jones.

  After a second cup of coffee, Alexander slapped his hands down on the table. “Since you’re interested in chess, I imagine you’d like to see my den.”

  Ann looked at Jehane, but her face was completely neutral.

  “I’m a collector or sorts,” Alexander went on. “I believe I have the finest set of chess portraits and photographs extant.”

  Ann dutifully rose to her feet. Alexander nodded to Jehane. “A delightful lunch, my dear.” Ann hastily echoed the compliment. Jehane smiled faintly.

  Cypriano led Ann to his den, a large room at the rear of the house. One
wall was covered with drawings and photographs of chess masters of every age and physiognomy. There was Sammy Reshevsky perched on a high stool; the autocratic Dr. Tarrasch; Paul Morphy, leaning languidly over a piano like a young Oscar Wilde. Capablanca, suave and handsome, faced a brooding Alekhine; Frank Marshall stared off to the left; Tchigorin peered to the right. There were dozens of group photographs, including a two-foot by three-foot enlargement depicting the participants of the great AVRO tournament, with autographs beside each figure.

  Alexander darted back and forth, pointing, declaiming, expounding. When he had exhausted the wall photographs he drew out albums of classic scores, autographed by the competitors. In a cabinet he drew Aim’s attention to a group of trophies, cups, and medals. “My own small achievements.” Another case held books in six languages.

  “Can you read all these?” asked Ann in wonder.

  “Oh, yes. I know German, Russian, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Greek, Serbian, a smattering of Chinese and Arabic—I’m what is known as a natural linguist.”

  Ann expressed her astonishment, and Alexander nodded his massive head in satisfaction. “I was trained for the bar,” he said, “but I have always preferred music and chess. Hence”—he held out his hands—“you see me. No pauper, but by no means a rich man. Luckily I have a shrewd head for investments.”

  He took Ann to another cabinet, which contained perhaps two dozen sets of chessmen, in a number of styles and materials: wood, stone, ivory, pewter. “Notice these,” said Alexander, “. . . Hindu, of the eighteenth century. And these, once used by Ruy Lopez himself. Which reminds me . . . yes, before I forget. Among your father’s effects you will find a handsome set of chessmen, which at one time belonged to me, and which he acquired under circumstances that are irrelevant. I’d like the set back, and I think he would want it so. I am naturally willing to pay any reasonable valuation you put upon it.”

  Could this have been the motive for the invitation? Why else? Ann temporized. “I’m still not in charge of my father’s estate.”

  Alexander’s eyes snapped. “Your father’s possession of the set came as the result of a joke.”