A Room to Die In (7 page)

“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.

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’?”