A Room to Die In

by Jack Vance

  “That’s not so good, either, unless you’re married to somebody like Pearl.”

  A short, paunchy man came into the coffee shop. “My lord,” muttered Tarr, “here’s Cooley.”

  Cooley wore heavy black-rimmed eyeglasses; black hair rose in a tuft from a narrow forehead. “Hey, there, Tom!” he called cheerfully. “Out feeding the missus on the taxpayer’s money, I see. That’s the spirit! Show no mercy.”

  Tarr said to Ann, “This is Ben Cooley, photographer with the city police. Until they canned him.”

  “I never thought they’d do it,” said Cooley without embarrassment. “Nichevo. I took the wrong kind of pictures of the wrong kind of people.”

  “Cooley put enterprise ahead of discretion,” Tarr told Ann.

  “In my business, enterprise is what counts,” said the photographer. “Now what would you do? I ask you, Mrs. Tarr. Here’s the situation. Picture a naked man running down the street, with a dog chasing him. You’ve got your camera ready. Would you take the picture or wouldn’t you?”

  “If I could hold the camera steady, I’d certainly take it.”

  “So did I. Turns out the man was visiting the home of a friend, and the friend arrives unexpectedly. So the man jumps out the window. I won’t mention any names—that’s not my style—but it turns out he’s one of the big shots in the Police Department. I should have recognized him, but without clothes he didn’t look the same. One thing led to another, and I was allowed to resign.”

  “Dirty shame,” said Tarr.

  “I’m through with this damned city. As soon as the Civil Service exams for the county go up, I’ll try for special investigator, or maybe photo-lab technician. Who knows, Tarr? Maybe I’ll ease you out. You’ve been on the gravy train long enough.” He winked at Ann. “Except that I’d get in dutch with your wife.”

  Tarr rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “This is Miss Nelson.”

  “Oh. Excuse me. You sure look like Mrs. Tarr. Same build. Even the face—”

  “Here now!” expostulated Tarr. “There isn’t any Mrs. Tarr! Hasn’t been for four years!”

  “Oh, come on, Tom. I saw you two at the department picnic last month. In fact, I’ve got pictures to prove it. One where she was standing on the beer keg on one leg, and another during the Charleston contest. Unless maybe it was Miss Nelson?” Cooley looked questioningly at Ann, who had risen.

  “It must have been Mrs. Tarr,” said Ann. “I don’t have a very good sense of balance. Goodbye, Mr. Cooley. Goodbye, Inspector Tarr.”

  “Wait!” said Tarr.

  “Don’t go on my account,” said Cooley.

  But Ann went, clicking along on staccato heels.

  “Cooley,” said Tarr, “I ought to beat you up.”

  “Nice-looking number,” said Cooley. “What is she, friend or criminal?”

  “She might be either . . . or both.”

  “You always come up with cute ones,” said Cooley.

  “Just a natural talent, I guess.” Tarr heaved to his feet. “I’ve got to get back to headquarters.”

  Ann arrived home in late afternoon. The apartment seemed unnaturally quiet. She made a pot of tea and sat down in the big chair by the window, wondering what to do with herself for the evening. Dinner downtown? A movie?

  She snatched the telephone and dialed Hilda Baily, who taught fourth grade at Mar Vista. There was no answer; Hilda was probably celebrating the end of the term. While she was considering whom next to call, the phone rang. Ann lifted the receiver and heard a careful baritone voice. “Miss Nelson? Edgar Maudley here. Please don’t think me a nuisance, but I’ve been wondering if you’ve come to any decision.”

  “No. Wait, let me think. Tomorrow is Saturday. Maybe I’ll go over tomorrow and check through things.”

  “About what time will you be going?” inquired Maudley.

  “I’m not sure. Probably in the morning.”

  “I’d be glad to help you. It’s quite possible—”

  “No” said Ann. “I want to look things over by myself.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Edgar Maudley said with dignity, “Certainly.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow evening, or Sunday, and we can make whatever arrangements need to be made.”

  “Very well, Miss Nelson.”

  Ann replaced the receiver. Perhaps she should have accepted Maudley’s offer of assistance. There would be a great many books to move. Well, she’d manage. Inspector Tarr still had her father’s keys; she should have taken possession of them. But Martin Jones could let her into the house. She ascertained Jones’s number from Information, and called him. He grumbled but agreed to be on hand to open the house. So much for that.

  The evening still remained a void.

  Ann phoned two more of her friends, suggesting dinner downtown. Each was committed.

  She showered, changed into a black cocktail dress, drove downtown, and dined alone at Jack’s. The evening was still young; the Fairmont Hotel was nearby; the cocktail lounge was a dim sanctuary. Ann relaxed. Inisfail seemed far away; the circumstances of Roland Nelson’s death were remote, and she was able to consider them with detachment.

  The entire course of her life had been changed. She had not yet reckoned the total of her new riches, but it surely would exceed a hundred thousand dollars, even after taxes. With twenty-two thousand dollars still unaccounted for—the loot of the blackmailer. Or such was Tarr’s contention. He also continued to espouse the suicide theory. One was as bizarre as the other, but Ann was forced to admit the lack of any convincing refutation. Her father had been found dead in a foolproof locked room; suicide was the only rational explanation. The note rescued from the fireplace, the withdrawal of twenty-two thousand dollars from the bank, as clearly indicated blackmail. Against facts and logic Ann could only oppose her conviction that Roland would never have paid blackmail or killed himself.

  She took an envelope from her purse, wrote on the back: Questions. Gnawing on her pen, she sought to recall the various occasions she had been puzzled, surprised, mystified. Gradually she composed a list:

  How did Elaine learn that Roland had inherited money?

  Why was she so sure of collecting from him? Had she been really sure, or only optimistic?

  Why had Roland put such secure locks on his study door?

  While Roland was short of money, he paid his rent regularly (evidenced by the rent receipts). When he came into the estate he fell behind. Normal relaxation? Or other reasons?

  Where had Elaine spent the time since March? Where was Elaine now?

  Why had Elaine written so indefinite a letter, without a return address, without information of any sort other than that she wanted money?

  If Elaine had received $22,000 from Roland, why was she now complaining of financial stringency?

  The Elaine questions suggested an answer as unthinkable as Roland’s blackmail and suicide. Yet Ann was forced to admit that the three incredible ideas formed a plausible unity.

  Suppose Roland had done violence to Elaine? Suppose someone knew of it and blackmailed Roland? Suppose Roland, half crazy with guilt, worry, or fear, had then decided to kill himself? In a burst of illumination, Ann realized that these were the premises on which Inspector Tarr was working. It was an obvious point of view for someone who did not know Roland Nelson. No wonder Tarr had been so skeptical of the letter!

  Nevertheless, facts were facts. The letter had been written by Elaine, and postmarked only last Tuesday—evidence of Elaine’s continuing existence. Why was she being so elusive? Was she afraid? Of whom? Of the blackmailer? Of whoever had told her of Roland’s inheritance? Of the law? Questions, questions, questions. So very few facts . . . Ann ordered another drink from the cocktail waitress. Dance music floated in from the ballroom like smoke.

  She threw up her hands. Suicide, accident, murder, blackmail . . . what difference did it make?

  For five minutes she sat in blissful relaxation. No more school. No more second grade. Trav
el . . . Italy would be fun. Venice, Positano, Taormino: places she long had wanted to visit. Paris, Copenhagen, Vienna. Or Ireland, which must be charming. Ann toyed with the thought that she might run into Jehane Cypriano on some Dublin street . . .

  The thought of Jehane reminded Ann of Alexander Cypriano and the Paul Morphy Presentation chess set by which he set so much store. In turning the set over to Roland, Cypriano symbolically, if not actually, had cut himself off from chess, the well-spring of his existence. And in tearing up the mortgage, Roland in effect had compensated Alexander for the long-term use of his wife. Not a nice gesture, but then, Roland had not been a nice man.

  Ann was tapping her fingers to the music from the ballroom. She drank some more, feeling a little giddy. Another drink, and she would become reckless, perhaps flirt with one of the men at the bar. Wiser to go home and to bed . . . But she found herself in no hurry to leave. Here were color and shimmer and music, all to the tinkle of ice. The apartment was lonely.

  Suddenly Ann recalled something Tarr had said about danger, danger to herself. Presumably he had not been talking idly. Ann considered the questions she had noted on the back of the envelope. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that she chanced upon a clue that would lead to the identity of the blackmailer. Then there might be danger indeed.

  A frightening possibility existed that she was already in possession of the clue, and that the blackmailer knew it. The apartment seemed lonelier than ever. . . . She didn’t have to go home. She could take a room for the night here at the Fairmont. But no, she told herself in a sudden reversal of mood, it was ridiculous; why should anyone want to injure her? She paid her check and left.

  She drove out Geary Boulevard toward the Pacific.

  Fog drifted across the street lamps. Ann began to wish that she had given in to her fears and remained at the Fairmont.

  She crossed Golden Gate Park, turned right into Judah Street, then left into Granada Avenue. She drove slowly past her apartment building. She saw nothing unusual. Making a U-turn at the corner, she returned, parked, locked her car, then gave way to nervousness and ran at full speed up to her apartment. Looking over her shoulder, she fumbled with the key, unlocked the door, snapped on the light, and slipped inside, with panting relief. The apartment was exactly as she had left it.

  Nevertheless, she checked bedroom and bathroom, and tested the lock of the service door, angry at herself for her childishness.

  She hurried into the bedroom and could hardly shed her clothes fast enough and dive into her bed.

  She awoke to find sunlight streaming into the room. Her fears of the night before seemed absurd. How could she ever have got herself into such a state?

  It was almost nine o’clock; she would have to hurry. She dressed in blue jeans, a yellow polo shirt, and sneakers; scrambled an egg, made toast and a cup of instant coffee; and, taking an orange to eat on the way, Ann ran down to her car.

  She was in the best of moods. On this sparkling day the job ahead of her seemed not too formidable. Martin Jones? More bark than bite, no doubt highly sensitive underneath his glowering facade. She’d be especially nice to him. And she’d let Edgar Maudley have his darned old books . . . maybe.

  She laughed.

  Ann did not arrive at the house on Neville Road until twenty minutes past ten. Martin Jones was already here, raking the area he had cultivated the previous week. In his pickup lay flats of dichondra. He greeted her almost with civility. “I see you’ve come to work. What are you going to do with the stuff?”

  “Sort everything into three piles. For myself, for the Salvation Army, and for Edgar Maudley.”

  “Maudley?” Jones gave a contemptuous snort. “Why Maudley?”

  “Oh, he has an understandable desire to retrieve a few odds and ends. After all, he was my father’s wife’s cousin.”

  “Your father told him to go to hell.”

  Ann changed the subject. “How much garden are you going to put in?”

  “Not much, just enough to make the place look nice. Your father wasn’t much of a gardener . . . Who’s this?”

  “It looks like Edgar Maudley,” said Ann.

  “He’s sure come prepared,” Martin Jones observed.

  Into the driveway swung a glossy station wagon, towing a trailer in which were nested a number of cardboard boxes.

  Maudley climbed down from the car. He was dressed informally, in tweed trousers and an old tweed jacket. “Good morning, good morning,” he called cheerfully. “I see you’re here.”

  Ann eyed him coldly. “I thought I’d made it clear . . .” Then she shrugged. It was too nice a day to wrangle.

  “I decided I could be of help,” said Maudley, “so I came along. Clear the whole thing up in one fell swoop, you know.”

  Ann turned toward the house. “Is it open?” she asked Martin Jones.

  Jones nodded and, going to the front door, threw it open. “The desk in the study goes, also the two big bookcases. The rest of the furniture belongs to the house.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The house smelled warm, dusty, and stale. Ann left the front door open and slid back the living-room door that opened to the patio. A pleasant current of air flowed through the room.

  Edgar Maudley looked frowningly around the room. “Yes, there are the books. Some of them. I wonder what happened to the rugs.”

  “They’re in storage.”

  “Indeed. Just as well. Certain of them are quite good, notably the two Kashans.” He surveyed the walls, and said gloomily, “There’s the Monet.”

  Ann had not previously noticed the painting, a little confection of pink, blue, and green. “A real Monet?” She went over to look at it.

  Maudley seemed to regret having spoken. “You hadn’t known of it?”

  “No.”

  “Uncle Dan bought it in Paris in 1923.”

  “Your family seems to have run to collecting.”

  “I’m afraid so. Shall we start? I’ll bring in boxes, then I can point out the books not specifically part of the Maudley collection . . .”

  Ann decided to establish a position immediately. “You certainly may bring in the boxes,” she said. “Then I’d like you to sit down somewhere while I sort through things. That way there’ll be no confusion.”

  Maudley assumed a stiff stance. “I can’t see how confusion can result—”

  “Also, I want to work at my own speed—which I’m afraid means slowly.”

  Maudley glanced at his watch. “The more reason for us both to pitch in and separate the Maudley books from Rex Orr’s, which I don’t care about.”

  “Please, Mr. Maudley, bring in the boxes. We’ll do this my way. If any of your father’s books are among those I don’t care to keep, I’ll be happy to let you take them.”

  Pearl’s cousin swung on his heel and went out to his car, exuding unhappiness. Ann resolved not to let his avarice influence her decisions, though it was impossible not to sympathize with him. In his place, she supposed, she’d feel the same way.

  The books, she found, could be divided into five general categories. First, children’s books, for the most part with Christmas and birthday inscriptions: To little Pearl, on her fifth birthday; may she learn to be as brave and pure as the little girl whom this book is about. Love, Aunt Mary. Second, volumes dealing with metaphysical subjects: mysticism, Oriental philosophy, spiritualism, the Bahai and the Rosicrucian doctrines, telepathy, clairvoyance, even hypnotism. These books apparently had been the property of Rex Orr. Third, luxuriously bound and illustrated uniform editions: Shakespeare, Robert Louis Stevenson, Alexandre Dumas, Goethe, Balzac, Flaubert, many others. Fourth, a potpourri of books printed by The Pandora Press of San Francisco: genteel erotica, flamboyant works by obscure authors, volumes of poetry, collections of graphic art, belles-lettres of various lands. Fifth, standard modern works, those normally accumulated by the literate upper-and upper-middle-class families: Proust, Joyce, Mann, Cary, assorted best sellers of the past two or three decades.
>
  The entire group seemed to include no volumes of extraordinary value or even special antiquarian interest. The children’s books Ann decided not to keep; they exhaled memories of a childhood of happier times. They were keepsakes that meant nothing to Ann. She packed them for Maudley in a box.

  The second category, expounding the occult and the doctrines of the Orient, Ann likewise put aside for him. She had no interest in yoga or the powers conferred by hypnotism. A thought wandered through her head: Could chess-playing ability be enhanced by hypnosis? From somewhere her father had dug up the resources to beat Alexander Cypriano. Had he been benefiting from a study of Rex Orr’s books?

  The third category, the uniform editions, she decided to keep. Maudley, who with saintly patience had composed himself on the couch, uttered a feeble bleat when he saw Ann’s intention. Ann ignored him.

  The books from The Pandora Press posed the most serious problem. Some of them she wanted to keep, and Maudley was watching like a distraught mother. Ann could not restrain her guilt pangs. To him these books represented irreplaceable treasures. An unpleasant dilemma. Ann wondered, were their positions reversed, how generously Maudley would have dealt with her. But this was a sterile line of thought.

  The front door opened and Martin Jones peered in. He clumped into the living room, staring first at Edgar—composed with glacial self-discipline on the couch—then at Ann. His grin comprehended everything. He asked Ann, “What are you planning to do with the bookcases?”

  Ann inspected the living-room bookcase dubiously. Like its twin in the study, it was a massive mahogany piece resting on six short legs. Two beautiful pieces of furniture, but far too big for her apartment. “I don’t have any particular use for them.”

  “I’ll take them off your hands,” said Jones, “provided the price is right. The fact is, I don’t want them very much.”

  Ann shrugged. “Twenty dollars apiece?”

  “That’s high.”

  “Oh, hell, I’m not going to haggle with you. They’re worth lots more. You keep them. They’re yours. No charge.”