A Room to Die In

by Jack Vance

“I really can’t make any commitments,” said Ann. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cypriano, but so far I haven’t had time to think.”

  He marched to the door of the den; the conducted tour was over. He had clearly hoped for an affirmative answer. After escorting Ann to the living room, he excused himself, saying that he had an important letter to write.

  Even with Cypriano gone, the atmosphere seemed to cool in a manner Ann could not define. Jehane was as charming as ever, but the cordiality was gone. Ann presently took her leave. Her hostess accompanied her to the car and expressed the hope that Ann would call again. Ann proposed that she should telephone her on the next occasion she found herself in San Francisco. Jehane Cypriano promised to do so, and Ann drove away.

  In her rearview mirror she caught a final glimpse of the woman looking after her: wistful, fragile, lonely.

  Ann drove down the hill slowly. At Lagunitas Road she paused, then turned left, and drove into Inisfail—for no active reason other than her vague conviction that there was still much to be learned about her father’s death.

  She turned down Neville Road. Her father’s nearest neighbor, she noticed, occupied an old white stucco house in a flourishing vineyard. The name on the mailbox was Savarini. Ann weighed the idea of calling at the house. But what could they tell her? That her father was unfriendly, eccentric, a recluse, without visible means of support, of dubious morals and questionable politics? All this she already knew.

  A car was parked at her father’s house. Drawing near, she saw the car to be the green pickup. Martin Jones was in the front yard, guiding a roto-tiller. Ann turned into the driveway. Jones ignored her. He started the clattering machine on another furrow.

  Ann compressed her lips. “Mr. Jones!” she shouted.

  Martin Jones glanced at her sharply and frowned. He turned off the engine. The silence was sudden and vehement.

  “Well? What am I doing that’s so damned humorous?”

  Ann shrugged. “You’re working so intently.”

  “What of it?”

  “There’s no need to shout, now that the roto-tiller is off.”

  Martin Jones blinked. “If you’ve come to clear out the house, I’ll let you in.”

  “The thought hadn’t entered my mind.”

  “As I told you yesterday, the sooner the better.”

  “I’ll have to wait till I have the authority to act.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I don’t know. Monday I’ll see an attorney, who I believe must have the will probated. I don’t know very much about these things.”

  The builder grunted and reached to start the engine. “I’ve just had lunch with the Cyprianos,” said Ann.

  “So?” His hand hovered and stopped.

  “Since I was in the neighborhood I thought I’d drop by.”

  He studied her for a moment, the muscles in his flat cheeks twitching. “You knew the Cyprianos before?

  “I never saw them until yesterday.”

  “What do you think of them?” His voice was sardonic.

  Ann considered. “I don’t know. They’re rather puzzling people.”

  Martin Jones nodded, smiling grimly. Once again he made as if to start the engine.

  Ann blurted, “I just can’t believe my father killed himself.”

  This time he leaned on the handle. “What do you think happened to him, Miss Nelson?”

  “I don’t know. But he just wasn’t the suicide type. He had too much vitality.”

  Jones gave a snort of amusement. “In certain ways, no doubt about it.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “This garden, for instance. Nelson gave me to understand he was the world’s most enthusiastic gardener. He painted a glowing picture—flowers, shrubs, hedges, lawn—”

  “Oh, come now,” Ann scoffed. “I know he never promised you all that.”

  Jones had the grace to grin. “Well, he said he’d put me in a nice garden. Otherwise I’d have charged him more rent. I could get a hundred and thirty for this house any day of the week.”

  “How did you happen to rent to him in the first place?”

  “He was working for me and needed a place to live. I let him have the old shack down the road.”

  “He was working for you?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “As what?”

  “A laborer. Union scale is over three bucks an hour. Last year I didn’t do that well myself.” He straightened up, looked impatiently at the roto-tiller. “Roland Nelson wasn’t much of a laborer, either. He didn’t have enough ‘vitality.’ I fired him.” He reached for the starting cord to the motor, gave it a yank. The motor caught. The blades spun, kicking up a shower of dirt. Ann jumped back, yelping her indignation. But Martin Jones either did not hear or did not care to listen.

  Ann drove back to San Rafael seething. What an abominable man! Small wonder that his fiancée had chosen to marry someone else at the first opportunity.

  CHAPTER 5

  In San Rafael, Ann pulled into a service station, phoned the sheriff’s office, and asked for Inspector Tarr.

  Tarr’s easy voice issued from the receiver, and into Ann’s mind came an image of his solid body lounging at his desk. “This is Ann Nelson. You asked me to call you.”

  “Oh, yes.” Tarr’s voice took on a different note. “Where are you now?”

  Ann told him.

  “Wait,” said Tarr. “I’ll be right there. And if you’re not too proud, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  Ann returned to her car, of half a mind to drive off. Tarr’s assurance was almost as infuriating as Martin Jones’s boorishness. But she waited. Tarr, after all, was investigating her father’s death.

  Tarr took his time. Five minutes became ten, then fifteen. Ann’s mood darkened. Then the detective appeared in the police car, parked, and jumped to the ground in great haste. “Sorry, Miss Nelson, but I got hung up on the telephone. Some tiresome old idiot. There’s an ice-cream parlor just around the corner. Faster to walk than drive.”

  Ann got out of her car, ignoring Tarr’s proffered hand.

  At the ice-cream parlor she refused his suggestion of a fudge sundae, primly accepting a cup of coffee. To her surprise, he brought out his notebook. “I haven’t been able to locate your mother. Harvey Gluck says that to the best of his knowledge she’s still in the San Francisco area. States that he hasn’t communicated with her for several months. He’s indefinite as to the exact date. I’m wondering if you can give me any leads.”

  Ann shook her head. “I wouldn’t have the slightest idea.”

  “Does she have any relatives? Sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles?”

  “She has a married brother in New Jersey and some cousins in North Carolina, but I don’t know their addresses.”

  “What are their names?”

  Ann told him, and Tarr made note of them.

  “What about friends? Any old cronies, school chums?”

  Ann considered. “I don’t believe she had any special friends, although I don’t know for sure. Harvey Gluck would know better than I.”

  “He gave me some names, but they weren’t any help. One of these people said that she’d been talking about Honolulu.”

  “That should be easy enough to check,” said Ann. “She hated airplanes. Try the Matson line.”

  Tarr made a note. “Anything else?”

  Ann said, “She was a hypochondriac. Belonged to the Disease-of-the-Month Club, as my father expressed it. She took her astrology pretty seriously, too.”

  “That doesn’t help much.” Tarr tucked the notebook back in his pocket. “How did your lunch with the Cyprianos come off?”

  “Very nicely. I think it was at Mr. Cypriano’s instigation. He wants that chess set—it belonged to him at one time, he says. He’s got practically a chess museum in his house.”

  “Are you going to let him have it?”

  “I suppose so. It means nothing to me. Incidentally, Martin Jones wants me
to clear out my father’s belongings.”

  “He’ll have to wait. I’m not finished there yet. When did you see him?”

  “Today. I drove out past the house.”

  Tarr frowned. “If I were you . . .” He paused.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t want to alarm you, but remember that a crime has been committed. A blackmailer usually isn’t vicious or violent, but there are exceptions.”

  The warning startled her. Roland Nelson’s death, though puzzling, had seemed remote. The thought that she might personally be in danger was shocking. Ann said in a subdued voice, “I guess I’ve led too sheltered a life. Do you mean that I shouldn’t ever go anywhere alone?”

  “If you’d like round-the-clock police protection, I could arrange it.” At Ann’s look, Tarr said with a grin, “I’ve got a two-week vacation coming up. I can’t think of any way I’d rather spend it.”

  Ann finished her coffee. “For a minute I thought you were serious.”

  “I am,” said Tarr, still grinning. He was an idiot.

  “I’m going home,” snapped Ann. “Martin Jones is a misogynist, and I’m a misanthropist.”

  “You two would make a good pair!”

  Ann rose, marched to the counter, put down fifteen cents, and departed.

  On her way back to San Francisco, Ann wondered why Tarr’s gibe had got under her skin. It was so really inane. She wasn’t a misanthropist; she merely disliked males who leaped at every female they met.

  (An accusation that certainly could not be leveled against Martin Jones!)

  Shortly after she got home her telephone rang. Ann told herself that it would surely be Tarr to apologize for his rudeness, but the voice was a stranger’s.

  “Miss Nelson?”

  “Yes?”

  “Glad to find you home. My name is Edgar Maudley—I’m the late Pearl Maudley Nelson’s cousin. I wonder if you’d allow me to call on you. It’s a matter of some importance.”

  “Now?”

  “Now preferably, but of course if it’s not convenient—”

  “Now is as good a time as any, Mr. Maudley.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll be there very shortly. From your address I gather that you live in the Sunset district?”

  “Yes. Ten blocks from the beach.”

  “It shouldn’t take me more than half an hour.”

  Twenty-six minutes later Edgar Maudley arrived. He was a large, pale, luxurious man smelling of lilac hair tonic. His hair was silver gray, precisely brushed; he had a regimental mustache, and altogether he looked urbane and distinguished.

  Ann took his Tyrolean hat and burberry and indicated a chair. Edgar Maudley settled himself decorously.

  “I was on the point of making a pot of tea,” said Ann. “If you’d care to join me?”

  “Oh, excellent,” said Edgar Maudley. “This is so very kind of you.”

  “It’ll be a minute or two. The water’s only just starting to boil.”

  Edgar Maudley cleared his throat. “You no doubt are wondering why I’m calling on you.”

  “I suppose you’re curious, or resentful. After all, I’m inheriting money which was originally Pearl’s, and that makes me something of an interloper.”

  “Not at all. You are who you are—an obviously intelligent young lady. The circumstances that occasion our meeting certainly are not your responsibility.”

  “Excuse me,” said Ann. “I’ll make the tea.” She went into the kitchenette and busied herself with teapot, teacups, tray, and gingersnaps.

  Edgar Maudley continued to speak in his cautious voice. “First of all, let me offer condolences on the loss of your father. I do so with complete sincerity. Although I am given to understand that you and your father were not close.”

  Ann set the tray on the counter and returned to the living room. “Who gave you to understand this?”

  Maudley touched his mustache. “I hardly remember . . . Village gossip, most probably. Your father, you must be aware, was something of a rara avis. He kept to himself—lived alone, saw no one.”

  “Antisocial, but not disreputable. Did you know him yourself?”

  Maudley nodded briskly. “I met him several times. I won’t conceal from you that I tried to dissuade Pearl from the marriage. She was my only cousin; and, like Pearl, I have neither sister nor brother. She took the place of a sister, and I was very, very fond of her. I considered your father much too . . . undisciplined—shall we say?—for a woman who was actually inexperienced and naive.”

  Ann wordlessly poured tea. Edgar Maudley took a lump of sugar and a slice of lemon, but refused the gingersnaps. He sipped, then sat back in his chair. “Perhaps I should tell you something about the Maudleys, Miss Nelson. My grandfather arrived in San Francisco in 1880 and began to publish The Oriental Magazine—now a rare and valuable collector’s item. He had two sons, my father and Pearl’s father. In 1911 the brothers organized The Pandora Press, specializing in the printing of limited editions. I may say that they prospered—both became quite wealthy. When Grandfather died they sold The Oriental, which merged with another magazine and lost its identity. My father died in 1940, Pearl’s father five years later. Neither I nor Pearl cared to continue The Pandora Press, and we sold it.

  “This is beside the point. What is to the point is that, when her father died, Pearl naturally came into possession of a large number of heirlooms: books, pictures, ivories, vases, objets d’art. Many quite valuable.”

  Ann said, “I was admiring my father’s books yesterday.”

  Edgar Maudley winced. “Legally, of course, they were his—just as, now, legally they’re yours.”

  Ann nodded in profound understanding. “And you want me to turn these objects over to you, Mr. Maudley. Is that it?”

  Maudley said in a vibrant voice, “Many of these articles have a deep, a very deep, sentimental value to me. Certain of the books are unique—not of vast monetary value, but I’d loathe seeing them pass into the hands of unappreciative strangers, or end up in a secondhand bookshop.”

  “That’s quite natural.”

  “When your father came into the estate, I paid him a visit and made more or less the same representations to him that I am making to you. He was by no means so sympathetic.”

  “Do you drive a Mercedes?”

  “Yes. How did you find out, may I ask?”

  Ann smiled. “Village gossip, most probably.”

  Her visitor forced himself to smile. “In any event, you now understand the motive behind my visit.”

  “Not really. Just what is it you expect me to do?”

  Maudley raised his eyebrows. “I thought I had made myself clear, Miss Nelson. By a set of unusual circumstances, you are now in possession of a number of Maudley heirlooms.”

  “Including some sort of medieval Persian artwork?”

  “Including a set of medieval Persian miniatures in a carved ivory box inlaid with cinnabar, jade, lapis lazuli and turquoise.”

  “You want me to give you this item?”

  “I would willingly offer you money. But I find it hard to put a price on sentimental attachment.”

  “My father, I understand, refused this request.”

  “He was not sympathetic at all.”

  Ann pictured Edgar Maudley expostulating with her father, and smiled. Edgar Maudley sipped his tea. Ann said, “I’d like to be fair about this. I can’t give you any definite answer now, Mr. Maudley; I’m not yet in a legal position to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Anyway, while I don’t want to be mercenary, these are apparently articles of considerable value. There doesn’t seem to be any reason why I should make a gift to you of what will be legally my property.”

  Maudley grew slightly excited. “But, Miss Nelson, the value of certain of these objects—the Persian miniatures, for instance—is incalculable. The miniatures have been in the family since 1729, when Sir Robert Maudley was in Persia.”

  “Unfortunately, it is precisely the miniatures which I can’t let out of
my possession.”

  He seemed puzzled. “How so?”

  “Weren’t you at my father’s house when he wrote his will? I understand that he asked you to witness it.”

  “Oh, that. I refused to read the will. I knew it contained abuse or disparagement, and I did not care to be insulted. To be quite frank, I never thought that your father, as a sensible man, would go through with a document composed in such haste and high feeling.”

  “He was angry, then?”

  “I would say so. My requests appeared to irritate him.”

  “I can’t tell you anything more until I’ve looked through the estate. Certain of the books I’m sure you can have—those dealing with metaphysics and Oriental religion, for example, which don’t interest me in the least.”

  Maudley worked his lips in and out, as if he wanted to say more but was not sure of the wisdom of saying it.

  “Let me pour you another cup of tea,” said Ann. She felt a little sorry for him.

  “Thank you.” He spoke with the stiffish dignity of a man unfairly put upon.

  “You knew my father well?” Ann asked.

  “No. We had little in common.”

  “You must be acquainted with the Cyprianos.”

  “Oh, yes. Pearl thought very highly of Mrs. Cypriano. Girlhood chums, and all that. She sold the Cyprianos her lovely home for far less than its market value. I assume they’ve kept up the payments.” His tone was half-questioning.

  “ ‘Payments’?”

  “Yes. They paid eight thousand dollars down, I believe, and Pearl held a mortgage on the balance, about thirty thousand dollars. The mortgage would naturally be part of your father’s estate.”

  “I haven’t come across it,” said Ann. “Thank you for mentioning it.”

  Edgar Maudley set his cup down and rose. “Well, I must be on my way. I’m sure we can work something out, Miss Nelson. If I were a rich man—which, alas! I am not—I could offer you what these articles are worth to me, although, as I mentioned, sentiment and value are incommensurable.”

  “Exactly. So if any of these articles should change hands between us, we’ll have them appraised by an impartial authority. Will that be satisfactory?”

  Maudley took his hat and coat. With a bitter smile he said, “I did think you might feel the slightest bit uncomfortable, coming into possession of an estate which, strictly speaking, was your father’s by sheer chance.”