A Room to Die In Read Free Page B

might have
lain there dead God knows how long. Jones rang the bell and, receiving no
answer, looked through a window. He saw your father, obviously dead. He
telephoned the sheriff’s office, and I came out with another officer.
    “The room, a
study of sorts, was locked from the inside. The window looked the easiest way
in. I broke a pane, cranked open the casement, and crawled through. Mr. Nelson
was certainly dead, and I radioed for the coroner.
    “While waiting,
I made certain observations. As I mentioned, the room was a study. Mr. Nelson
had apparently been shot by a thirty-eight revolver which lay on the floor; the
laboratory has confirmed this. The door leading from the study into the living
room was locked and bolted from the inside. There is no access to the study
other than door and window, and both were locked. It has to have been suicide.”
Tarr glanced at Ann as if to gauge her reaction. But Ann said nothing, and he
continued. “There’s a fireplace in the study. Among the ashes I found a
crumpled sheet of paper—I can’t show it to you just now; it’s at the
laboratory. But”—he consulted a notebook “—the message reads like this: ‘I’ve
been too easy on you. I want more money. From now on fifteen hundred dollars
each and every month.’ ” Tarr replaced the notebook in his pocket. “It was made
up of letters cut from newspaper headlines and pasted to a sheet of cheap
paper. There were some fingerprints on the paper, all your father’s. The
implication is clearly blackmail.” He leaned forward. “Do you know of anything
in your father’s background for which he might have been blackmailed?”
    Ann laughed
scornfully. “I don’t think my father could be blackmailed.”
    “Why do you say
that?”
    “He had no
shame.”
    “Well, if he’d
committed a crime—”
    “I don’t think
so. Because . . . well, let me put it this way. My father was a very good chess
player. You can’t cheat at chess. Or rather, you can, but you don’t. Because if
you win, you haven’t really won; if you lose, you’ve lost double.”
    “So?”
    “My father
wouldn’t commit a crime for the same reasons he wouldn’t cheat at chess. He was
too proud.”
    “Nice if
everyone thought like that,” mused Tarr. “Except that I’d be out of a job. I
wonder if the crime rate among chess players is below average . . . Well, back
to your father. You can’t conceive a basis on which he could be blackmailed?”
    “No.”
    Tarr flung
himself back almost impatiently. “Your father seems to have been . . . well,
extraordinary. Even peculiar.”
    Ann felt a
prickle of something like anger. Now that Roland Nelson was dead, she felt a
need to defend him, or at least to explain the workings of that splendid,
reckless, sardonic personality. “It all depends on what you mean by ‘extraordinary’
and ‘peculiar.’ He was certainly independent. He never adapted to anyone. You
had to adapt to him or go your own way.”
    Tarr moved in
his chair, as if the idea were a personal challenge. He brought out his
notebook. “Your mother’s name is what?”
    “Mrs. Harvey
Gluck.”
    “Where does she
live?”
    “In North
Hollywood. Do you want the address?”
    “Please.”
    Ann looked in
her address book. “Eight twenty-eight Pemberton Avenue. I’m not sure she’s
still there. In fact, I know she’s not. I wrote her a card which was returned
by the post office.”
    Tarr made a
note. Ann noticed that he wore no ring on his left hand. “How long have your
mother and father been divorced?”
    “Years and
years. When I was two they took off in different directions and left me in
Santa Monica with my grandmother. I saw very little of either of them after
that.”
    “Did your father
contribute to your support?”
    “When he felt in
the mood. Not very often.”
    “Hmm. Now let’s
see. He married Pearl Maudley . . . when?”
    Ann studied him
a moment. “If you’re so sure he committed suicide, why are you asking