A Room to Die In Read online

  Tarr turned into the driveway and parked under the largest of the oaks. Ann got out slowly, the unpleasantness becoming ever more acute. She shut out of her mind the recollection of her father’s dead face and, forcing herself to relax, looked around her. The house was neat and innocuously modern, quite devoid of character; it might have been a transplant from one of the tracts near San Rafael. The front wall was dark brown board-and-batten, the side walls bisque stucco. There was a shake roof, a used-brick chimney. The garden consisted of a straggling laurel hedge, a patch of lawn, and a line of new rosebushes. In the garage stood a battered green car, evidently the 1954 Plymouth of the ownership certificate.

  If Tarr was aware of Ann’s state of mind, he ignored it. Matter-of-factly he took several keys from his pocket, sorted through the labels, selected one, unlocked the front door, and stood aside for Ann to enter. She marched into the house, prepared for . . . what? The odor of death?

  The air was fresh.

  Cautiously Ann relaxed. Her apprehensions were overfanciful. This was only a house, a sorry, ordinary house lacking even the echo of her father’s personality. She looked around the living room. It seemed a trifle stuffed. The furniture, like the house itself, was impersonal and characterless, except for a large bookcase crammed with obviously expensive books. At one end of the room, beside the bookcase, a door led into another room, evidently the study where Roland Nelson had died. This was on her right hand. To her left were the dining area and kitchen; in the wall opposite, a sliding glass door opened onto the patio; behind her, a hall led to bedrooms.

  Ann said tentatively, “It’s not the house I’d expect to find my father living in.”

  “It’s a pretty big place for one man,” Tarr agreed. “I guess he liked plenty of room.” He walked into the study. Ann followed gingerly.

  The study was not large, the longest dimension corresponding to the width of the living room. To the left stood a brick fireplace. The single window, opposite the door, consisted of a pair of aluminum casements, each with six panes, each equipped with a detachable screen. One of the panes had been broken and the screen slit: the means Tarr had employed to gain entry. The wall separating the study from the living room was finished in mahogany paneling; the other three walls were textured plasterboard. A large bookcase stood back to back with, Ann judged, the bookcase in the living room, and was equally heavy with luxurious books. The other furnishings were an inexpensive metal desk on which sat a portable typewriter, two chairs, and a pair of card tables against the right hand wall supporting four chessboards with games in various stages of development.

  Ann asked, “Where was my father when you found him?”

  Tarr indicated the chair behind the desk. “The gun was on the floor.”

  Ann turned, closed the door, opened it, closed it again. It fitted the frame on all sides snugly. She said grudgingly, “I’ll have to admit there’s no conceivable way a string or wire or metal strip could have been worked through a crack.”

  Tarr looked at her quizzically. “Why do you say that?”

  “I’m not convinced that Roland killed himself.”

  Tarr closed the door, shot a heavy bolt into place, and locked the bolt in place with an old-fashioned harness snap. “This is how I discovered the door. I can swear to it, and so can Sergeant Ryan, who was with me. Notice the bolt. It’s fixed to the wall, not the door. Unusual, but more secure. This harness snap”—he demonstrated its action—“pins down the bolt. It is impossible for the door to be bolted shut except through the agency of someone standing inside this room. Then, for what it’s worth, the door bolt was in the lock position—which in itself would very adequately secure the door.”

  “Then why the extra bolt? Doesn’t it seem peculiar?”

  “Yes. I suppose you’d say so.”

  “I thought detectives worried about odd, unexplained details?”

  Tarr grinned ruefully. “I have worries enough with simple, ordinary details. The bolt is peculiar, yes. So I asked Martin Jones about it—the landlord. He didn’t know it had been installed. This is a new house; your father was its first tenant. Jones was as annoyed as the devil.”

  “Why would Roland want a bolt on the door in the first place? It seems so strange.”

  Tarr shrugged. “I’ve seen a lot stranger things than that. By the way, notice that the hinges are here on the study side, too, and that the pins are as tight as they could be.”

  Ann went to the fireplace, stooped, peered up the chimney.

  “I checked that, too,” said Tarr, watching her. “There’s a patent metal throat with a slit about four inches wide when the damper is open. The damper was closed, as it is now, with the handle firmly seated in a notch. Outside there’s a barbecue grill, with about six inches of brick between.” He stamped on the floor. “Under the rug here there’s vinyl tile, and then a concrete slab. The walls, the ceiling”—he looked around—“they’re ordinary walls: plywood, plasterboard. A ghost could get through without leaving a mark, nothing else. The window?” He motioned to Ann. “Look. When I push down this handle, a hook clamps the sash to the frame. Not even air can seep through the crack. In addition, the screen was securely screwed into place from the inside, as it is now.”

  “What about the glass? Could a pane have been broken out and replaced?”

  Tarr shook his head. “Go outside and check for yourself. All the putty is uniform and several years old.”

  “Several years? I thought you said this was a new house.”

  “It’s inconsequential. Jones might have had the window on hand. Or it might have been a used window. Or the supplier might have had it in stock for that long. The basic fact is that the putty is old and undisturbed. Until I broke the pane, of course.” He turned, considered the chair behind the desk. “Do you know if your father owned a pistol?”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “He was killed by an S and W thirty-eight revolver—little snub-nose job. It was lying on the floor under the fingers of his right hand. Don’t tell me he was left-handed.”

  “No. He was right-handed.”

  “So it has to be either accident or suicide. The case for accident is weak to the vanishing point. It consists of the fact that there was no farewell note, and that you consider your father temperamentally incapable of suicide. Still, not all suicides leave notes, and every year thousands of people surprise their relatives by bumping themselves off.”

  “But why? Why should he do something so foolish? He had everything to live for.”

  “The fact that he was living out here like a hermit might indicate . . . well, moodiness, instability.”

  Ann laughed scornfully. “You never knew Roland, or you wouldn’t say that.”

  “Well, I mentioned the very strong indication of blackmail.”

  “Perhaps so. Still—”

  “You’re not convinced?”

  “I’m absolutely confused. I don’t know what to think.” She turned away, went to look at the card tables. Beside each of the four chessboards lay a stack of postcards. Ann glanced at the postmarks. “Amsterdam . . . New York . . . Albuquerque . . . Leningrad. Correspondence chess.”

  “He did that as a usual thing?”

  “As long as I can remember.” Ann thought back along the avenue of her life, recalling the infrequent occasions when it intersected with her father’s existence. “He was a very talented chess player. Five years ago he placed second in the California Masters Tournament. He might have done better if he had studied more.”

  Tarr turned to the desk, moved the portable typewriter to the side. “Let’s get to work.” He pulled up a chair for Ann; then, seating himself, he tried the drawers on the right side of the desk. They were unlocked, and he opened them one after the other. “Not much here.” He returned to the top drawer, brought forth a sheaf of check-sized green papers. “Rent receipts. Eighty-five dollars a month, paid on the”—he looked through them—“well, toward the first of the month. There’s one reason why he li
ked the house. Cheap rent.”

  Ann examined the receipts. They were standard printed forms, signed in a neat square hand Martin Jones. “The first is dated August forth of last year—just after he and Pearl separated.” She ran through the forms, one after the other. “The last is dated April fifth. There’s no receipt for May.”

  “Your father didn’t pay his rent. If he had, we probably wouldn’t have found him for another month . . . Let’s see what else we’ve got. A bankbook. Account opened March fourth. First deposit: sixty-eight thousand five hundred and twenty-five dollars. Nice chunk of cash. Rather unusual form for an inheritance.”

  “It might have been a savings-and-loan account,” Ann suggested.

  “March fourth. That would be six months after his wife died. The court apparently appointed someone else as administrator of the estate. Otherwise he would have had control of the money sooner.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t pay his rent?” Ann mused. “With all that money . . .”

  “That’s when people get tight-fisted,” said Tarr dryly. “Look here now. On March fifth, a withdrawal: twenty thousand dollars.”

  Ann reflected. “That would be about the time my mother visited me. Somehow she’d heard about his coming into money.”

  “Would Mr. Nelson be disposed to give your mother twenty thousand dollars?”

  “Not likely.” Ann laughed. “He was an easy man to irritate—and she’s an irritating woman, to say the least.”

  “How long did they stay together?”

  “Off and on, three or four years. It was never a very stable association.”

  Tarr returned to the bankbook. “Withdrawals on the first of April and the first of May, a thousand dollars on each occasion—which confirms the existence of blackmail. I’ll have to inquire at the bank to see how he took the money.” He wrote in his notebook. “A blackmailer would naturally want cash.”

  Ann snorted. Tarr ignored her, studied the bankbook a moment longer, then laid it aside. “What else do we have?” He sorted through the papers. “Nothing of consequence. Three books of blank checks, no stubs. And no checkbook in current use. It wasn’t on his person, either. Just a minute.” He jumped to his feet and left the room. Three or four minutes later he returned, looking puzzled. “No checkbook in his bedroom or clothes . . . Oh, well. It’ll show up. What’s that you’re looking at?”

  “An address book.” She handed it to him; Tan-leafed through the pages. “Hmm. Here’s a local address: Alexander Cypriano. Thirty-two Melbourne Drive, Inisfail.”

  “I’ve heard that name before,” said Ann. “Something to do with chess, I think.”

  Tarr continued to go through the book. “These all might be chess connections. There’s not another local address.”

  “I think you’re right. Some of the names I half recognize.”

  “You’re a chess player, too?”

  Ann shook her head. “But because of my father I’ve always been interested. Once when I was, oh, eight or nine, he took me to a tournament in Long Beach. I was very much impressed.” She looked over Tarr’s arm into the drawer. “There’s the card I sent him last Christmas.”

  Tarr examined it. “ ‘Merry Christmas, Ann.’ Not what I’d call effusive.”

  “I never felt effusive.”

  “But he kept the card. He also carried your photographs. Out of sentiment?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Still, you stand to inherit from him, unless a will providing otherwise turns up.”

  “Whatever’s left after blackmail and taxes.”

  Tarr considered the bankbook once again. “There should be at least thirty thousand cash. A comfortable sum. There’s another twenty thousand represented by that withdrawal. I’d like to know where it went. If your mother got it, she’d naturally claim it was a gift. Unless threats or duress could be proved, that’s the last you’d see of it.”

  “She can keep it, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I’ll certainly want to talk to your mother.”

  He opened the bottom drawer. There was nothing in it but a ream of typing paper. On the left side of the desk was a single drawer that proved to be locked. Tarr brought the keys from his pocket and unlocked it. He withdrew a bulging nine-by-twelve-inch manila envelope and opened it. “Stock certificates issued to Roland Nelson.” He sheafed through them. “Kaiser Aluminum, a hundred shares. Lockheed, two hundred shares. Pacific Gas and Electric, fifty shares. No, here’s more—two hundred and fifty. U.S. Rubber, five hundred. Sinclair Oil, Southern California Edison, International Harvester, DiGiorgio Farms, Lykes Steamship, Koppers, National Cash Register, Fruehauf Trailer . . . there must be a hundred thousand dollars here. Good heavens, woman— you’re wealthy!”

  Ann tried to keep her voice even. “Unless there’s a will.”

  Tarr reached into the drawer and brought out a long white envelope, from which he withdrew two sheets of typing paper. “Speaking of wills . . .” He read to himself with what seemed maddening deliberation. Ann forced herself to sit quietly, though her heart was pounding and she felt hot, stupid and greedy.

  “Speaking of wills,” said Tarr once again, “here it is. Holographic.” He handed the will to Ann. Her eyes raced across the handwritten sentences:

  Inisfail, California

  March 11, 1963

  LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

  I, Roland Nelson, being of sound mind, good health, and in a noteworthy state of sobriety, declare this to be my last will and testament. I bequeath all the property of which I die possessed to my daughter, Ann Nelson, and I nominate her to be executrix of this will, subject only to the following exceptions and provisions:

  1. She must pay all my legitimate debts;

  2. I bequeath my corpse to any medical or educational institution which will accept said corpse. If such institution is not conveniently to be found, I direct my executrix to dispose of said corpse by the least costly method consistent with the laws of California, without the intercession of participation of priest, dervish, witch doctor, seer, shaman, professional mourner, monk, fakir, exorcist, musician, incense-swinger, or other religious practitioner, or cleric of any sect, cult, or superstition whatsoever;

  3. She must by all lawful and practical means retain in her personal and immediate possession for a period of at least twenty years from the date of my death that article of medieval Persian craftsmanship presented to me by Pearl Maudley Nelson on or about February 2, 1962;

  4. She must pay to Mrs. Harvey J. Gluck of North Hollywood, California, the sum of ten cents per annum, at the demand of the said Mrs. Harvey J. Gluck, for the duration of the life of the said Mrs. Harvey J. Gluck;

  5. To each of all and any other claimants upon my estate, I bequeath the sum of one cent.

  In witness whereof, on this eleventh day of March, 1963 I subscribe my signature:

  ROLAND NELSON

  This instrument, having been signed and declared by Roland Nelson to be his last will and testament, in our presence, on this eleventh day of March, 1963, in the presence of Roland Nelson and each other, we subscribe our names as witnesses.

  RAYMOND SANTELL, 465 Linden Way, Inisfail, California

  MARTIN JONES, 2632 13th Street, San Rafael, California

  Ann replaced the will on the desk. Tarr said, “That makes it official. You’re rich.” Ann said, in a voice she tried to keep calm, “I’m surprised he went to all this trouble.”

  “It indicates,” said Tarr, in what Ann thought a rather sententious tone, “that he had death on his mind.”

  Ann dissented. “It indicates that for the first time in his life he had property to worry about. If you’ll notice the date—”

  “I noticed. March eleventh. Immediately after he took possession of the estate.” He sheafed once more through the stock certificates. “What’ll you do with all your money?”

  “Well, I’ve got obligations. There’s ten cents a year to my mother—”

  “If she asks for it.”
/>   Ann smiled. “He had fun writing the will.”

  “What about this article of medieval Persian manufacture?”

  Before Ann could answer, the doorbell rang. Tarr jumped up and crossed the living room at a lope. Ann followed more slowly. Tarr opened the door. There stood a tall, slender woman, dramatically beautiful. She wore a dark umber skirt and a black pull-over sweater. She had pale-bronze skin, jet-black hair, clear hazel eyes. She wore no make-up; gold rings in her ears were her only jewelry. Her age was unguessable.

  In a car, barely pulled off the road, a plumpish man watched attentively. His face was shrewd, shaped like an owl’s; he had a choppy beak of a nose and a fine ruff of gray hair.

  The woman seemed surprised at the sight of Tarr. She peered over his shoulder at Ann and spoke in a soft voice. “Is something wrong? We were driving past and noticed the police car. We naturally wondered . . .” Her voice dwindled.

  Tarr looked from the man in the car back to the woman. “You’re friends of Mr. Nelson’s?”

  “We live nearby, although we haven’t heard from him for months. But seeing the police car . . .” Again her voice trailed off. She half turned, irresolutely, toward the watching man in the car.

  “Mr. Nelson is dead,” said Tarr.

  “He’s dead?”

  “I’m afraid so. May I have your name, please?”

  She looked back once more at the man in the car.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Cypriano.”

  “First names?” Tarr brought out his notebook.

  “Alexander and Jehane.”

  “How do you spell that last?”

  The woman spelled her name, then turned and called to the man. “Roland is dead.”

  The man gave no visible sign that he had heard.

  Tarr asked, “How long have you known Mr. Nelson?”

  “Years. Since . . . well, it’s been at least five years.”

  Ann spoke. “Your husband is a chess master, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Jehane Cypriano quickly, as if Ann had offered her unexpected support. “He’s been California champion twice.”