A Room to Die In

by Jack Vance

  “Not at all,” said Ann. “It’s the nicest thing that ever happened to me. And since my father had to die in any event, I’m glad I was able to profit by it.”

  Maudley seemed horrified. “I must say . . . Well, it might be wise not to count your chickadees before they’re hatched.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Maudley?” Ann asked very distinctly.

  The man seemed sorry he had spoken. “Nothing, nothing at all,” he said hurriedly. “Thank you for the tea, Miss Nelson. Here is my card, in case you should change your mind.” He departed. Ann looked down at the card with a curling lip and tossed it aside.

  She took the teacups to the sink thoughtfully. Edgar Maudley’s visit had solved one mystery—the identity of the man who had quarreled with her father—but it posed another: Where was the mortgage to the Cypriano house? It had not been in the desk, where her father had kept his other important papers.

  On Sunday Ann notified Mrs. Darlington that various contingencies associated with her father’s death would prevent her coming to work until the middle of the week. The principal pointed out with just a trace of tartness that since school ended Friday, she might just as well not bother. Ann said that if she possibly could, she would return to work, although perhaps it did seem a trifle foolish under the circumstances.

  On Monday she engaged an attorney to deal with her father’s will. She also learned that cadavers were no longer in short supply at medical schools. Only after diligent effort was she able to place the body of Roland Nelson with the Stanford Medical Center.

  On Tuesday she signed various affidavits, obtained the signature of the Marin County Coroner, and arranged transportation of her father’s remains from San Rafael to Palo Alto.

  On Wednesday Ann returned to work at Mar Vista, and on Wednesday evening Edgar Maudley telephoned. He was anxious to learn what she had decided regarding the matters they had discussed. Ann informed him that she had not been able to give the situation much thought.

  When might he expect her to reach a decision? Probably not before Saturday, Ann replied. This was the earliest she would find it convenient to sort through her father’s effects.

  Edgar Maudley said that he would make sure to be on hand, if only to assist her. Ann thanked him for offering to help, but said it might be better if she conducted the preliminary survey by herself.

  Maudley made a noncommittal sound, something like “Hmm, hmm, hmm.” Then he said, “Incidentally—and I ask from sheerest curiosity; it’s no affair of mine—have you learned what disposition your father made of the Cypriano mortgage?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t checked things over.”

  “They didn’t mention the mortgage?”

  “No.”

  “Strange.”

  “There’s probably some simple explanation,” said Ann. “We spoke of other things.” The thought came to her, was this the reason she had been invited to lunch? It seemed unlikely, since the mortgage had not been mentioned. No, it was about the chess set.

  Maudley said, “I’ll give you some advice, young woman, and that is—be businesslike! Your father and the Cyprianos were friends of long standing, but don’t let this fact influence you. I hope you don’t regard me as meddlesome.”

  “Of course not.” Edgar Maudley apparently did not like the Cyprianos. Ann wondered why. Because Jehane had introduced Pearl to Roland Nelson?

  Maudley reiterated his intention of helping Ann on the coming Saturday. Ann discouraged him once more, and the conversation ended.

  On Thursday morning, as she left for work, she found a letter from her mother in the mailbox. It was postmarked Tuesday, June 4, at Beverly Hills. She read it, went back to the apartment, telephoned the Marin County Sheriff’s Office, and asked for Inspector Tarr.

  Tarr was not in, reported the clerk. Was there any message?

  “No, said Ann, it was important that she speak to Inspector Tarr personally. She had important information for him.

  The clerk promptly gave her a number at which she might be able to reach Inspector Tarr.

  Ann dialed, listened. Finally, a woman answered. “Hello?”

  Ann spoke in the most formal of voices. “May I speak to Inspector Tarr, please?”

  “Who’s calling?” The woman’s voice sounded suspicious.

  “Ann Nelson.”

  “Ann Nelson.” The woman repeated the name, then grudgingly said, “I’ll see if I can wake him up.”

  Several minutes passed. Ann, with not too much time to spare, was on the point of hanging up whenTarr’s drowsy voice sounded in her ear. “Tarr speaking.”

  “This is Ann Nelson,” said Ann, very distinctly. “I’m sorry to disturb you—”

  “Not at all,” said Tarr. “It’s my day off. I’m at my sister’s house.”

  “Oh?” Ann tried to convey in a single word the extent of her utter indifference—and disbelief. “I’ve received a letter from my mother. I thought you ought to know about it as soon as possible.”

  “A letter from your mother?” Tarr seemed puzzled and surprised. “Where was it mailed?”

  “The envelope is postmarked June fourth, Beverly Hills.”

  “Can you read it to me?” Ann read aloud:

  My dear Baby Ann:

  I have just learned of your good fortune, so to speak, from a person who chooses to remain nameless. For some reason he is interested in you, and also me, and is asking delicate questions about the past.

  As you know, I am having a tough time financially as well as being miserably unhappy with my health. I have a practically continuous migraine which gives me hell! I hope that you will see fit to share your good fortune with me. I really need a stroke of good luck to boost my flagging spirits.

  I plan to come north in a day or so and will drop in on you. I am sure we can come to a mutually happy settlement.

  As ever,

  ELAINE

  After a short silence Tarr asked, “Do you recognize the handwriting, Miss Nelson?”

  “It’s definitely her handwriting.”

  “Is the letter itself dated?”

  “No. She just starts writing.”

  “What does she mean: ‘delicate questions about the past’?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “ ‘A person who chooses to remain nameless’—now who could that be?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “What about that ‘Baby Ann’ bit? Is that her usual salutation?”

  “It might be almost anything: ‘Snooks,’ ‘Toodles,’ ‘Brat.’ I’ve seen ‘You miserable little ingrate!’ on occasion. Anything, in fact, but ‘Dear Ann.’ ”

  “This is certainly interesting. She doesn’t give her address?”

  “No.”

  “What about the envelope?”

  “There’s no return address. She just printed ‘Ann Nelson, sixty-nine fifty Granada Avenue, San Francisco.’ That’s all.”

  Tarr grunted. “Do you consider that typical?”

  “With my mother nothing is typical.”

  “I see . . . I definitely want to examine that letter. How about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow is the last day of school; I should be finished about noon. If it’s convenient I’ll drop by your office. There’s another matter about which I’d like your advice.”

  “So long as it’s not about investing your money. I’m the lousiest businessman in the country.”

  Ann did not deign to notice Tarr’s facetiousness. “It will probably be close to one by the time I arrive.”

  “I’ll expect you at one.”

  On Thursday evening the attorney called to notify her that the Marin County Probate Court had issued a decree naming her executrix of her father’s estate, and that he had also obtained an authorization for the transfer of the various stocks and securities to her name. There were papers to be signed, an inventory of possessions, assets, and obligations compiled and filed with the court. Ann made an appointment to meet him Monday.

  On t
he following morning Ann took unusual pains with her clothes: this might well be the last day of her teaching career. Also, she’d be leaving directly for San Rafael. In spite of her disapproval of Tarr, his hypocrisy, and his lechery, she refused to appear at a disadvantage compared with his vulgar girl friends. Vulgar and blowsy. Perhaps he liked them vulgar and blowsy. So what? Tarr’s tastes were of no concern to her.

  Ann dressed in a spanking dark-blue and white frock with white accessories, an outfit in which she knew she looked her best.

  The morning passed quickly; the pupils trooped home at noon. There was still a certain amount of paper work, which Ann would take care of next week. She bade her fellow faculty members goodbye and drove across the bridge to San Rafael.

  Tarr greeted her with formality. She saw by his glance that the pains she had taken with her clothes had not been wasted. He escorted her into the little office where he had taken her before, and without preamble said, “Let’s see the letter.”

  Ann produced the envelope. Tarr scrutinized it closely. Then, extracting the letter, he pored over it for several minutes. Ann finally became restless. “Well?”

  Tarr said in a colorless voice, “May I keep it?”

  “If you like.”

  He laid the letter with exaggerated care upon the corner of his desk, leaned back, and inspected Ann quizzically. “What do you make of the letter?”

  “What do I make of it? It’s self-explanatory, isn’t it? Elaine wants in.”

  “Her prospects, I gather, aren’t very good.”

  Ann smiled faintly. “I’m required to pay her ten cents a year.”

  Tarr nodded. “Don’t you find it odd that your mother asks for money, but doesn’t let you know where to find her?”

  “No. According to the letter, she plans to see me in a few days. There’ll be a flaming quarrel; she’ll have hysterics; and she’ll run from the apartment screaming that I’ll never set eyes on her again.” She watched Tarr, daring him to show disapprobation. But Tarr only lurched erect in his seat, once more examined the letter, again put it to one side. “I’ll send this to the lab. There’s one or two points . . .” His voice trailed off. Then he said, “I’ve found out where your mother stayed during her visit last March: the Idyllwild Motel on Highway 101. She arrived about seven o’clock and checked out the next morning. The proprietor’s wife remembers her because your mother priced a house trailer they had for sale, talked about Florida and Honolulu, and burned three cigarette holes in a pillowcase. Another item of information, a rather peculiar one: your father’s nearest neighbors live about two hundred yards up the road.”

  “The Savarinis.”

  “Correct. Simple people, but far from stupid. About two weeks ago they heard three shots. I wish they could be sure of the date, but they can’t. The time was midnight; they remember that well enough. They had just turned off the TV and gone to bed.”

  “Three shots?”

  “Three shots, at intervals of about a minute, from the direction of Roland Nelson’s house. Mr. Savarini is positive that the sounds were shots, not backfires or firecrackers. He owns six guns and he insists that he knows what a shot sounds like. That’s about all there is to it. Three shots at midnight, about the time your father died.”

  “Odd.”

  “I agree. Damned odd. Roland Nelson was killed by a single shot; we found a single empty cartridge. It’s possible that someone totally unconnected with the case may have fired the shots, but it’s certainly stretching coincidence. . . . Well, it’ll all come out in the wash.” He stretched lazily. “You mentioned a problem.”

  “I suppose it’s a problem. Pearl’s cousin called on me the other night, a man named Edgar Maudley. Incidentally, he’s the man who refused to witness my father’s will.” Tarr looked at her reproachfully. “I suppose I should have telephoned you.”

  “For two days Sergeant Ryan has been out flagging down black Mercedes sedans, interviewing dealers, checking registrations—”

  Ann said hurriedly, “He wanted some of Pearl’s belongings, which he described as heirlooms. He tried to get them from my father, but had no luck.” She described Edgar Maudley’s visit in detail.

  “Edgar Maudley has a grievance,” mused Tarr. “If it hadn’t been for Pearl’s marriage to Roland, he probably would have inherited. Still, that’s not your problem. . . . By the way, what is your problem?”

  “It’s something Maudley mentioned. In addition to cash and securities, Pearl also seems to have held a first mortgage on the Cyprianos’ house—presumably part of my father’s estate. Where is the mortgage? It wasn’t among his papers. Did Roland have a safe-deposit box? If so, why didn’t he keep his stock certificates there?”

  Tarr shook his head. “He rented no safe-deposit box in any local bank. I’ve checked. In addition, I’ve accounted for all his keys, so it’s unlikely he had a box elsewhere. But in the matter of the mortgage, why not ask the Cyprianos?”

  “I could, I suppose—but, oh, I don’t know—it would make me seem avaricious.”

  Tarr pushed the telephone toward her. “Call right now. Maybe they paid the mortgage off. Better find out one way or another.”

  Ann reluctantly dialed the Cyprianos’ number. Jehane answered. Ann said brightly, “I’ve been trying to find the mortgage my father held on your house, and it’s in none of the obvious places. Inspector Tarr suggested I call you.”

  Jehane was silent for several seconds. Then she asked, “Where are you now?”

  “In San Rafael.”

  “Can you drop up to the house? Alexander is in San Francisco today with the car; otherwise I’d come into San Rafael.”

  “I’ll be glad to stop by.”

  “I’ll see you shortly, then.”

  Ann hung up the telephone. “She wants to talk to me.”

  Tarr rose to his feet. “I’ll come along for the ride.”

  “I don’t think she expects you,” said Ann dubiously.

  “I’m investigating a crime. It makes no difference whether she expects me or not.”

  Ann shrugged. “By the way, what crime are you referring to?”

  “Blackmail, naturally,” said Tarr. “Has there been another?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Don’t wish too hard,” said Tarr. “You might wish yourself out of a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Ann started to ask his meaning, then, like a coward, decided not to.

  They went out into the street. “Let’s go in my car,” said Ann. “It looks so brutal, arriving in that police car.”

  Tarr laughed.

  All the way out to Inisfail, Ann pondered the implications of Tarr’s remark, and arrived at 32 Melbourne Drive in a rather unsettled state of mind. It would be terrible to lose a hundred thousand dollars now that she’d become accustomed to the idea of inheriting leisure and independence.

  She drove up the steep driveway to the parking area. As before, Jehane came out on the terrace; seeing Tarr, she swiftly became gracious.

  Ann steeled herself for what could only be a difficult interview. At Jehane’s invitation she entered the house, with Tarr, apparently oblivious to atmospheres, coming behind.

  Jehane took them up the stairs to the middle level and arranged chairs. She asked, rather uncertainly, if they’d like a glass of sherry.

  Feeling a pang of sympathy, Ann said, “Yes, please.” Tarr echoed her. Jehane poured, then seated herself on a sofa, legs tucked beneath her.

  There was an awkward pause. Ann could think of nothing to say.

  “You asked about the mortgage,” began Jehane with a shaky laugh. “I’ve tried to work out some simple way of telling you, without going into all the complications. But it’s impossible. So I’ll tell you everything. The exact truth.”

  CHAPTER 6

  When Pearl Maudley Orr sold her house to the Cyprianos, she took a down payment of eight thousand dollars and a first mortgage on the balance—that was true enough. The mortgage, however, was at Jehane’s insisten
ce, she said. Pearl had been quite willing to sell for the eight thousand. “We’re by no means wealthy people,” said Jehane. “I have a small income, and Alexander a bit more, and he also does fairly well on the stock market. That’s where he is today.”

  After the Cyprianos moved into their new house, Roland Nelson became a frequent visitor. He played an occasional game of chess with Alexander, but more often they would dispute the tactics of long-dead chess masters in the classic games. They would argue with great dash and vehemence; out would come the board, the pieces would be arranged, each would seek to demonstrate the accuracy of his judgment. Alexander generally got the better of these arguments. He had the more meticulous mind, and he played the careful positional game of the modern Russian masters. Roland’s style being swash-buckling and adventurous, Alexander predictably won most of the games they played. On other occasions Alexander might be off on business, whereupon Jehane and Roland would discuss their own affairs. Here a pinkness came into Jehane’s cheeks.

  Pearl, returning from a trip to Mexico, had met Roland at the Cypriano house. She was at first repelled, then by successive stages curious, interested, fascinated, infatuated. Jehane did nothing either to advance or discourage the situation. Roland’s attitude was equivocal. No one could avoid liking Pearl: she was generous, modest, and not unattractive; though, beside Jehane, she looked like an English schoolgirl.

  Jehane could not be certain which of the two put forward the idea of marriage; she speculated that it might well have been Pearl. In any event, the marriage took place. Pearl was quite aware that her money was the main attraction, Roland making no pretense, but she was naïvely sure that she could make it a successful marriage. And the marriage was far from unsuccessful. The Nelsons rented an apartment in Sausalito; Pearl did her best to avoid smothering Roland, who on his part could hardly have failed to recognize her virtues.

  Edgar Maudley, Pearl’s cousin and confidant, wholeheartedly disapproved of the marriage. He and Roland held contrary opinions about everything, and each detested the sight of the other. Whenever Edgar found the opportunity, he would hint to Pearl that Roland would do well to secure employment— “to make something of himself,” as Edgar put it. Edgar himself was a quasi-professional bookdealer who bought and sold when the price was right. His resentment of Roland was enhanced by the fact that valuable books and art objects, originally the property of his grandfather, and subsequently divided between his father and Pearl’s father, were now more or less in Roland’s control. To put a final touch to the situation, Pearl gave Roland as a wedding token the set of Persian miniatures.