A Room to Die In Read Free Page A

was
understanding itself. He led the way to a small private office and seated Ann
in a worn leather chair. “It’s a job I never get used to.”
    “I don’t know
what came over me,” said Ann with vehemence. “Certainly not grief.”
    “You weren’t
close to your father?”
    “Not at all.”
    “I’m glad for
your sake, Miss Nelson.” Tarr rolled a pencil between his fingers. “Can you
think of any reason why your father should have wanted to kill himself?”
    Ann shook her
head. “It’s hard to believe that he did.”
    “There’s not the
slightest doubt.”
    “Couldn’t it
have been an accident? Or an act of violence?”
    “Definitely not.
You saw him last when?”
    Ann gave Tarr a
frowning inspection. Something in his manner suggested that he knew more than
he was telling. “Toward the end of last summer. I believe it was August.” Ann
described the episode, trying to convey its special flavor. Tarr listened with
polite interest. “When she had finished, he reflected a moment, staring at the
pencil. “You don’t believe, then, that he was broken up by his separation from
his wife?”
    “I’ve just
finished telling you he wasn’t.”
    “I’m sorry,”
said Tarr with patently spurious humility. “I’m sometimes a trifle dense. You
know dumb cops.”
    Ann said with
dignity, “I think he liked and respected Pearl, but apparently she got on his
nerves. I wouldn’t be surprised—”
    “If what?”
    “If there might
not be another woman involved.”
    Tarr lounged
back in his chair. “What makes you say that?”
    “Something Pearl
told me over the telephone.”
    “You don’t know
the identity of this other woman?”
    “I wouldn’t have
the faintest idea. Even if there was another woman.”
    Tarr looked
thoughtful. “According to his landlord, he’s been living like a hermit. Going
nowhere, seeing no one. Was that the way he usually lived?”
    “He had no usual
way of life. I think he just decided to live in the country. Since he had no
friends, the result would be the life of a recluse.”
    Tarr reached
into a drawer, brought out a wallet, and tossed it on the desk. “This is the
extent of what he had in his pockets. I haven’t gone through his papers yet.”
    Ann looked
through the wallet. There were four ten-dollar bills, three fives and several
ones. One compartment contained a driver’s license, a pink automobile-ownership
certificate for a 1954 Plymouth, a receipt issued by Apex Van and Storage acknowledging responsibility
for “Rugs and household effects as itemized,” with an appended schedule.
    A second
compartment contained several business cards: Martin Jones, General Contractor, with a San
Rafael address and telephone number; Hope, Braziel and
Taylor, Stockbrokers; The California and Pacific Bank, Mr. Frank Visig,
Investment Management Department, both of San
Francisco; and to Ann’s astonishment three snapshots of herself, at about the
ages of four, ten, and sixteen. On the back of the latest, her current address
and telephone number had been scribbled in pencil.
    “You were pretty
little girl,” remarked Tarr, watching her.
    “I can’t imagine
where he got these pictures,” Ann exclaimed. “Unless my grandmother sent them
to him. Dear old Granny, such an innocent thing.” She looked through the other
compartments. “Is that all?”
    “That’s all.
Your father apparently belonged to no lodges, clubs, or organizations.”
    “Small chance of
that.”
    “Didn’t he have
any close friends?”
    “None I know of.”
    “What about
enemies?”
    “I wouldn’t
think so. But I really don’t know.”
    Tarr laid the
pencil carefully on his desk. “There’s an indication that Mr. Nelson was being
blackmailed.”
    “What!”
    He clasped his
hands, surveying Ann with the blandest of expressions. “I’ll explain the
circumstances. Your father’s landlord, Mr. Jones, found the body. Jones came to
collect the rent, which was past due . . . Otherwise your father