by Jack Vance
“You,” said Ann, “have a dirty mind!” She walked back toward the house. Edgar Maudley drove off with a jerk, the trailer groaning and rumbling at his bumper.
At the door Ann paused to take her first thorough look at the Persian miniatures. They were contained in two intricately carved ivory trays, hinged to form the box. A silver filigree emanating from the hinges divided the exterior into medallions, inside which the filigree branched and elaborated into a thousand twining tendrils, and these were garnished with leaves of turquoise, flowers of lapis lazuli, cinnabar, and jet.
The miniatures themselves were cemented to the interior of the trays. They depicted a garden on a hillside overlooking a city: in the bright light of noon on the one side, in the blue dimness of midnight on the other. In the daylight garden a warrior prince walked with four advisers. A Nubian slave proffered sherbet; on parapets stood stiff men-at-arms. In the night garden the prince reclined with a languorous odalisque. She wore diaphanous trousers; black hair flowed over her shoulders.
Ann unfolded a slip of paper: Garden of Turhan Bey: Behzad of Herat. 1470-1520. Ann closed the box and carried it over to her car. A beautiful, authentic treasure; she could well understand Edgar Maudley’s covetousness.
She went back into the house. Martin Jones stood in the middle of the living room. Ann saw that his mood had changed; he once again had become hostile. Because they were alone? Was he afraid of her? Or of women in general? She picked up an armload of books and took it out to her car. With surly grace Jones helped her. When the books were loaded, Ann packed the four chessboards and the chessmen, feeling a twinge as she broke up games that would never be finished. She must remember to notify the four chess-playing correspondents of her father’s death.
She made a final survey of the study, the desk, the empty bookcases. Nothing she wanted to keep. She returned to the living room, warm and tired. Jones asked curtly, “What are you planning to do with the clothes?”
“Give them away.”
“Leave them here. One of my laborers is just about your father’s size.”
“What about Roland’s car—would he take that, too?”
“I imagine so.”
“I’ll mail the ownership certificate to you.” Ann felt reluctant to leave, though now there was nothing to keep her. “I’m making you a present of the desk,” she said.
“Thanks.” Jones had not forgotten. “Since I agreed to read that idiotic book, I will. But I don’t have to like it.”
“It’ll do you good. You might even want to visit Venice. Or, heaven help us, read another book.”
He grinned his sour grin. “Fat chance.”
“You can mail me the book when you’re finished with it.”
“I don’t have your address,” he growled.
“Sixty-nine fifty Granada Avenue, San Francisco.”
He made a note of it. “Don’t expect it for about three months. I might want to read it backwards to see if it makes more sense.”
“I’m sure you’d find it so. Oh, and thank you for your help, Mr. Jones.”
Jones seemed about to say something catastrophic. Instead, he turned on his heel and re-entered the house. Ann could have kicked him.
She strode over to her car and drove away fast.
CHAPTER 9
Ann arrived in San Rafael shortly before three, ravenously hungry; she stopped at a drive-in for a sandwich. No question but that she should report the events of the day to Inspector Tarr. Tarr, in his vanity, would of course assume that infatuation had induced her to call him. The notion irritated her. Let him assume anything he liked.
At a service station she freshened up, then telephoned the sheriff’s office. Tarr got on the phone and said yes, he would like to see her. Could she stop by the office? Or would she prefer to meet him elsewhere?
The office was perfectly satisfactory, Ann said in a tone she hoped would put the Don Juan of the force in his place.
But when she arrived at the sheriff’s office, Tarr seemed anything but abashed. He took her into his cubbyhole and seated her with gallantry. “I’ve been in communication with the Los Angeles County authorities. No sign anywhere of your mother. Harvey Gluck says he knows nothing. He hasn’t seen her for two months and professes great concern.”
“What about Beverly Hills?”
Tarr looked puzzled. “Beverly Hills?”
“That’s where the letter was mailed from.”
“Oh, the letter.” Tarr pursed his attractive lips. “It might have been mailed by almost anyone. A friend, a mailing service, even the postmaster. The postmark doesn’t mean much.”
“Do you think something happened to her?”
He ran his fingers through his blond hair. “Anything might have happened. We can’t rule out illness or accident. Hospitals report negative, there’s no police information, but she’ll turn up. Don’t worry about that.”
“It seems she’s been working in cahoots with Edgar Maudley.”
“How’s that again?”
Ann told him what Maudley had said. “She sold poor Edgar on the idea that she could prove Roland’s marriage to Pearl invalid—in which case Edgar would have inherited as next of kin.”
“Could she do it?”
“I don’t see how. Though, when I saw her,” said Ann, “she seemed pretty sure of herself.”
Tarr was unimpressed. “Unless she had irrefutable proof that Roland Nelson had made a bigamous marriage, she couldn’t pressure him.”
“How could he have married Pearl bigamous?” asked Ann. “He wasn’t married to my mother.”
“Unless he’d married still another woman, whom he hadn’t divorced—I mean, between your mother and Pearl.”
“I don’t know of any such woman. Of course, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t exist.”
“Still, suppose this hypothetical in-between woman was also putting pressure on him,” suggested Tarr, “so that he had to pay off two women instead of one. This would explain the bank withdrawals. Twenty thousand to one of them, a thousand a month to the other.”
Ann shook her head skeptically. “Not that I have any better explanation . . . Oh, I’ve run into another mystery.”
“What mystery?”
Ann drew on a sheet of paper:
0 0 0
0 0 0
0 0 0
________________________
“This line represents the wall separating the living room from the study. The top and bottom marks are where the feet of the living-room bookcase rested before the case was moved—about nine inches apart. Between is the dent of an extra foot, in the position I’ve indicated, about five and a half inches from the front leg.”
Tarr examined the drawing intently. “What about the other bookcase, the one in the study? Did that show a similar set of dents?”
“No. I looked.”
“It’s certainly a queer one.” Tarr kept staring at Ann’s little diagram. He seemed far away. Then he shook his head violently. “I’ll have to think about this. Oh, before I forget, Miss Nelson. I’ll release that fancy chess set to you, also your father’s wallet.” He scribbled on a form. “Sign here.”
Ann signed, and Tarr brought the chess set and wallet from a cabinet. She opened the case and took out the black king with its dented crown. “Poor Alexander Cypriano.”
Tarr chuckled. “Losing that game probably hurt him more than the prospect of losing his wife. Speaking of wives, that fool Ben Cooley, the photographer—don’t pay any attention to what he said. There is no Mrs. Tom Tarr. There was one in the dim past, and I mean dim. The way Cooley talks you’d think I’m running around with five women at a time.”
“I don’t know why you think it concerns me.” She rose. “I’ll have to be going.”
Tarr said with engaging boyishness, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “Oh, what about having dinner with me next week?”
“I don’t think that would be wise, Inspector.”
“Come on, now . . .”
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But Ann took the chess set and wallet, and departed.
Back in her car she scowled down at the chess set; she supposed she ought to return it to Alexander Cypriano. It meant another trip to Inisfail. She sighed, started her car, drove west on Lagunitas Road, and presently turned into the driveway of the house on Melbourne Drive.
Ann walked up the stone steps to the front door and rang the bell. The door opened slowly; Jehane, pale and serious, looked out from the gloomy interior.
Ann held out the leather case. “I brought the chess set back to your husband.”
Jehane stepped back quickly, as if the box were infected. “Come in, please,” she said in a pale voice. “I’ll call Alexander.”
Ann reluctantly went up with her to the second level. Jehane disappeared down the hall, and Ann heard her rapping at a door, then the mutter of conversation.
Jehane returned. Her face was expressionless. “He’ll be out in a moment.” After a pause she said, “I’m afraid Alexander feels that I never should have told you and Inspector Tarr what happened to the mortgage.” She broke off as Cypriano appeared in the hallway. He wore a red satin dressing robe with black lapels, and black leather slippers. His hands were in his robe pockets. He glowered at Ann from under threatening eyebrows.
Ann said, “I’ve brought you the chess set.”
“I see.” His voice was supercilious. “And what price have you set on it?”
“Nothing. I’m giving it back to you.”
Cypriano’s eyes went yellow. He seized the case, ran out on the deck, swung his arm. Far out over the rocks flew the leather case, sailing, spinning, disappearing into the gulch.
CHAPTER 10
As Ann crossed the bridge into San Francisco, a wall of fog was building up at the Golden Gate. The fog overtook her at the Presidio and she was forced to slow down to a crawl. Somewhere unseen, far to the west, the sun had set, and an eerie, monochromatic twilight had fallen over the city. The fog grew thicker, blearing vision; the mercury lamps above the freeway glowed sullen lavender, with a scarlet corona.
At her apartment the fog was almost a drizzle; little cold drops with the tang of the ocean brushed her face. A cab groping along the street stopped by the curb, and a short, plump man got out.
Ann, starting up the steps, paused as the man approached. She recognized him. “Harvey!”
“Bless my soul,” said Harvey Gluck. “Am I glad to see you! I was wondering if you’d be home. I telephoned from the airport, but there was no answer. I took a chance, and here I am.”
“I’m glad to see you, too,” said Ann, with an enthusiasm totally unfeigned. She had always considered Harvey Gluck, whom her mother had so patently hoodwinked and exploited, the most patient and harmless of men. His devotion to Elaine Ann found incomprehensible; it was as uncritical and undemanding as the love of one of Harvey’s dogs for Harvey.
“Come on up,” said Ann. “I’ll mix us a drink and find us something to eat.”
“Well.” Harvey looked back at the waiting cab. “I thought you could tell me where to find Elaine.”
“I’ve no idea. Don’t you know?”
“No. A while back she told me she’d come into money, and that’s the last I’ve seen of her.” A trace of uncharacteristic bitterness crept into her voice. “Actually, Elaine and I are washed up. She can’t stand my dogs. When I first met her she was the world’s greatest dog lover. Goes to show how people change.”
“Why are you looking for her, then?”
“If she’s come into money, I want what she owes me—which is thirteen hundred bucks. But I didn’t come here to bother you with my troubles. What do you say we go to Chinatown? I’ll buy you an oriental dinner.”
“In these clothes? I’m filthy.”
“You look just fine to me.”
“I’d love to, Harvey. But let me change.”
“Okay. I’ll tell the cab to wait.”
“Of course not! We’ll go in my car.”
He looked relieved, and trotted across the sidewalk; money changed hands, and the cab blinked away through the murk and was gone.
They climbed the steps. Ann said, “I was wondering what to do with myself; it’s such a dreary evening. You appeared just at the right time.”
“I’m Johnny-on-the-spot where the ladies are concerned,” said Harvey gallantly. “What’s this I hear about your father?”
“It’s a long story.” Ann unlocked her door. “The police are calling it suicide. Maybe it is, but I don’t believe it.”
“I never knew him,” said Harvey. “Elaine was always talking about him. Sometimes what a great hero, but mostly what a heel.”
Ann sighed. “He was both. But I can’t understand what’s happened to Elaine. Hasn’t she written you?”
“Not one word.” Harvey surveyed the apartment. “Nice little place you’ve got here.”
“It’s a place to live.” Ann shivered. “Doesn’t it seem cold? Almost as if the fog has seeped in through the windows.”
Harvey hunched his plump shoulders. “It does seem a bit nippy.”
“I’ll turn up the heat. How about a highball?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Harvey looked around. “Excuse me, but where is it?”
“The bathroom? Through the bedroom, to the right.”
Harvey slunk out. Ann went into the kitchenette, brought out her bottle of bourbon, two glasses . . . She turned her head. Had Harvey called? She took a step, listened. From the direction of the bathroom came a peculiar bumping, scraping sound. “Harvey?”
The bumping, scraping sound diminished. There was silence. “Harvey?” called Ann in an uncertain voice. She peered across the dark bedroom at the line of light under the bathroom door.
The light snapped off. The door opened, very slowly. In the darkness loomed a shape darker than dark. Ann’s knees wobbled; she gasped, whirled, and ran for the front door. Behind her pounded footsteps. She clawed for the door handle; the door opened at last, and she ran screaming out into the hall—and, screaming, tumbled down the steps, and, screaming, picked herself up to hammer at the door of the manager’s apartment on the ground floor.
He was maddeningly deliberate in answering his door. Ann kept watching over her shoulder, trembling all over. No one appeared. She held her finger on the button, knocked, thumped.
The door opened. The manager looked guardedly out. “Miss Nelson! What’s the matter?”
“Call the police,” Ann cried. “There’s someone in my apartment!”
The manager, an ex-Marine named Tanner who had left an arm on Guadalcanal, said, “Just a minute.” He went to a cupboard, brought out a large black automatic pistol. “Let’s go look, Miss Nelson.”
He bounded upstairs.
Ann’s door was shut. She said in a terrified whisper, “I left it open. I’m sure I did.”
“Stand back.” Holding the gun between his knees, Tanner brought out his passkey, unlocked the door fast; then snatching up his gun he thrust the door open. Once more warning Ann back, he peered into the living room.
Empty. On the kitchen counter was the bottle of bourbon and the two glasses.
“Be careful,” breathed Ann. “There’s something terribly wrong.” Her voice caught in her throat. Whatever had happened to Harvey would have happened to her. . . .
Tanner sidled into the bedroom. He reached in with the hook of his artificial arm, switched on the lights. Ann’s neatly made bed sprang up, the dresser, the night table. Tanner peered under the bed, looked suspiciously at the wardrobe. Holding the gun ready, he slid aside first one of the wardrobe doors, then the other. The wardrobe contained only shoes and clothes.
“Stand back, Miss Nelson,” he said quietly.
The bathroom door was ajar. The light from the bedroom shone on a polished black shoe, a plump ankle in a black and red silk sock.
Tanner backed slowly off, spoke over his shoulder.
“There’s a man’s body in the bathroom. Call the police.”
/> Ann fled to the telephone. Tanner went into the kitchen and looked out on the service porch. After a moment he returned, waiting till Ann finished. “He’s gone. Broke open the back door to get in, probably took off the same way. What happened? Who’s the man in the bathroom?”
Ann sank into a chair. “My mother’s husband. We’d just come in. He had to go to the bathroom. It was someone who was waiting for me.” The full horror of what had happened to Harvey Gluck—and almost to her—struck her like a blow.
“Easy now,” said Tanner. He stood alertly contemplating the door into the bathroom. Someone might still be lurking there in the dark, undecided whether to make a lunge through the apartment or essay the twenty-five-foot drop from the bathroom window. Better to wait out here, he decided, with the gun trained on the doorway.
A few frozen moments later sirens began to moan, first faintly, then growing in volume, finally dying down outside. A pair of officers appeared from the stairway, burst into Ann’s living room. Tanner briefed them in a low voice, motioned with his one arm toward the bathroom. One of the officers tiptoed over and, covered by the gun of his mate, reached in and jabbed on the light. Then he ducked back. Using a mirror from Ann’s dresser they surveyed the bathroom.
Its sole occupant was Harvey Gluck. Harvey lay on his back with bulging eyes and protruding tongue. In his neck there was a bloody crease, where a wire had jerked tight.
Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick presently descended to the manager’s apartment, where Ann sat cuddling a cup of coffee she did not want. Fitzpatrick brought forth his notebook and spoke in a bored voice. “Name?”
“Ann Nelson.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Employed where?”
“I teach school. Mar Vista Elementary.”
“The deceased is who?”
“My mother’s husband. His name is Harvey Gluck.”
“Tell me what happened.”
