“Assuming,” Tarr
went on, “that someone broke into your apartment, planning to attack and kill
you, the question is, Why?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Any jealous boy
friends?”
“No.”
“How about your
ex-husband?”
Ann smiled wanly
at the idea. “He’s in Cleveland.”
“We’ll check to
make sure. Anyone else sore at you?”
“Not seriously.”
“So we’re back
where we started—in Inisfail. You’re a threat to someone, or someone profits by
your death, or someone hates you. Who?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“The
blackmailer?”
Ann shrugged.
“Who would stand
to inherit from you?”
“My mother.”
‘You haven’t
written a will?”
“No. It
seems—seemed—premature.”
“Who stands to
inherit from Harvey Gluck? Your mother again?”
“Harvey has
nothing except two or three dozen dogs, which Elaine has always hated.”
“Suppose your
mother were dead, who would inherit from you then?”
“Some cousins, I
suppose. People I hardly know. Do you think Elaine is dead?”
“I don’t think
anything. The fact is, we can’t find her.”
“What about the
letter?”
“It’s
interesting,” said Tarr, “but inconclusive.” He got to his feet. “You’d better
try to sleep while you have the chance. Fitzpatrick may or may not want to
question you some more tonight. He’ll certainly put you through the wringer
tomorrow.”
“Should I tell
him about my father?”
“Of course.”
Ann cowered in
her bathrobe. “I wish I’d never been born.”
Tarr
surprisingly patted her head. “Oh, come now; it’s not as bad as all that. Life
goes on.”
“Not for poor
Harvey. If I’d gone into the bathroom first—or come in alone—it would have been
me. He was killed in my place, and I feel as if I am to blame.”
“I don’t see how
you could have saved him. Unless you did it yourself.”
Ann glared up at
Tarr, uncertain whether he was serious. She read nothing from his face and
returned to her tea. Tarr patted her head once more and departed. Ann looked
stonily after him.
Mrs. Tanner, who
had been in the kitchen, not quite out of earshot, poked her head in. “What a
funny policeman!”
A few minutes
after Tarr left, Inspector Fitzpatrick returned and, taking Ann to the privacy
of a bedroom, interrogated her at length. Rather to Ann’s surprise, he seemed
primarily interested in Elaine and her previous romantic attachments, and in
Ann’s own history. Ann repeated that Harvey Gluck’s visit was totally
unexpected; she spoke of the circumstances of her father’s death. After about
an hour and a half Fitzpatrick rose to leave. “What are your plans now? Are you
going to stay on here?”
Ann shook her
head decidedly. The mere thought filled her with revulsion.
“Where are you
going, then?”
“For a week or
two, to a hotel. After that . . . I don’t know.”
“Which hotel?”
“I haven’t
thought. Downtown somewhere.”
“Take my advice,”
said Fitzpatrick. “Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. And I mean
anyone.
With the exception of the police, of
course.”
“I won’t.”
“Because,” Fitzpatrick
went on matter-of-factly, “if someone has it in for you, there’s nothing to
prevent him from giving it another try.”
The next morning
Ann engaged a pair of neighborhood boys to unload the books from her car and
carry them up to her apartment. Meanwhile she packed a suitcase and telephoned
the St. Francis Hotel. Then she set off downtown.
After unpacking
at the St. Francis, she telephoned the Marin County Sheriff’s Office. She was
irritated to learn that Sunday was Inspector Tarr’s day off; somehow she had
pictured him at his desk waiting anxiously for her call. She left a message and
petulantly hung up. Tarr was probably off at another picnic, enjoying himself
in the company of his newest paramour.
She lunched at
the Blue Fox, wandered along Post Street window-shopping, then returned to the
hotel. There was no message for her. Feeling neglected, she went to her room,
changed into an afternoon frock, and returned to the lobby. She bought a
magazine, leafed through it, watched passers-by, went into the bar for a cocktail,
and absently rebuffed the gambit of a handsome young man with white teeth and a
suntan.
The afternoon
passed, by and large pleasantly, or at least uneventfully. The night before
seemed a nightmare; indeed, she was unable to think of it as having actually
happened.
She dined,
lingered over her coffee, visited the cocktail lounge for a liqueur, fended off
a lingerie salesman from New York, and presently went up to bed.
The next day was
Monday. Ann breakfasted in her room, wondering what to do with herself. As she
was dressing her phone rang. Inspector Thomas Tarr asked, “How are you this
morning?” His voice was cautious and subdued.
“Very well,
thanks.”
“No incidents?”
“None.”
“You haven’t
told anyone where you’re staying?”
“No one at all.”
“Good. Just sit
tight for a while.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.” Tarr
spoke with a harshness Ann had not heard before. “Sooner or later there’ll be a
break.”
“Do you still
think Roland committed suicide? After last night?”
“I haven’t any
reason to think otherwise.”
“Then you must
think it was the blackmailer who killed Harvey.”
“It seems to
follow,” Tarr admitted. “Assuming, of course, that you were the intended victim.”
“But why? I’ve
been racking my brain. Why should anyone want me out of the way?” The words brought
a sudden return of the nightmare. Ann’s voice blurred; she looked fearfully
about the room. “Who could do such a thing?”
“We’ll find out,”
said Tarr in a soothing tone. “Eventually. In the meantime—”
“I know. Don’t
walk along the edge of any cliffs.”
“With anybody.
Inspector Fitzpatrick seems to think it was some thief who panicked, but I don’t.”
Ann laughed
nervously. “It would be a shame to be slaughtered by chance.”
“Sit tight and
you won’t be slaughtered at all. I’ll keep in touch with you.”
Ann hung up and
sat still for a few minutes. She felt stifled and frustrated. What a detestable
mess! She had no responsibilities; she should be off and away—anywhere but
where she found herself now. . . . She sat down by the phone and telephoned
Mrs. Darlington.
“I won’t be back
at Mar Vista next fall,” said Ann. “I thought I should let you know now.”
Mrs. Darlington’s
voice softened. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness in notifying me now. We shall
miss you, of course; but under the circumstances it’s undoubtedly the best and
wisest course for all of us.”
With a shock Ann
realized that Mrs. Darlington had been casting about for some means, preferably
polite, to achieve this very end. She wanted none of her staff involved in
murders. “Naturally you can look to me for references,” said Mrs. Darlington. “I’m
sure that with your competence you’ll have no trouble—”
“I’m
not
resigning because of the death of Mr. Gluck,”
said Ann.
“Of course not,
certainly not; but under the circumstances . . . well, the school has an image
to live up to, and we can’t let it be tarnished. By the way, did your mother
get in touch with you?”
“My mother?”
“Yes. I told
Operator that I had no idea as to your current address. You’d better leave it
with me in case—”
“Exactly what
happened, Mrs. Darlington?”
“Last evening
there was a person-to-person call for you—here, to my home, of all places. I
gave Operator your address on Granada Avenue, but she said that you weren’t
there, that your mother wanted to get in touch with you, and did I know where
you could be found. Naturally I said I had no information.”
“You didn’t hear
anyone’s voice but the operator’s?”
“No.”
Hanging up, Ann
immediately telephoned the Marin County Sheriff’s Office. Inspector Tarr was
out, but he would call back as soon as he returned.
She dressed and
descended to the hotel lobby, her brain seething with conjectures. She had
planned to spend the morning shopping, but perhaps she had better wait for Tarr’s
call. Half an hour passed. She became restless and went out into Powell Street.
It was a typical
San Francisco summer morning. The air was cool, fresh, lightly salt; the
sunlight tingled. Over Union Square pigeons fluttered; a cable car clattered
past on its way up Nob Hill. In this same bright world, thought Ann, lived the
animal who had skulked in her bathroom, waiting to kill her!
She spent an
hour or so window-shopping, then telephoned San Rafael, only to learn that
Inspector Tarr had not yet returned. She lunched on a sandwich, returned to the
hotel, and once again failed to reach Tarr. Twenty minutes later, hearing
herself paged, she went to the telephone. It was Tarr.
“I understand
you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”
“Yes.” (Ann
wondered about his voice, which sounded very grim. ) She described her
conversation with Mrs. Darlington. Tarr uttered a soft cluck, as if the news
corroborated some expectation of his own.
“You don’t sound
surprised,” said Ann.
“Who do you
think was calling you?” asked the detective.
“My mother, I
suppose. Unless . . . Do you think . . .”
“I don’t think,
I know. I found your mother.”
“You found her!
Where?”
“Dead?”
“For about three
months.”
Ann could not
restrain a sudden flow of tears. As in the case of her father, she felt neither
grief nor remorse, but there was a sundering of
something,
a loss . . . “How did she die?” Her
voice sounded strange to her own ears. They had had no relationship at all, and
yet . . .
“Wire around her
neck. Indications are that she was struck on the head first. I’m sorry I have
to sound so brutal.”
“She was murdered,
then. Where did you find her?”
“To the north of
San Rafael a concern called the Guarantee Auto Wreckers has a field full of old
cars waiting to be junked. Elaine’s car was driven onto the field and parked
among the junkers. The tires were deflated, the windows rolled down. The
mechanics, if they noticed the car at all, thought it had been acquired in the
usual way. The proprietor wasn’t aware of its existence. It might have sat
there a year. Except that this morning a customer came in wanting a part for a
Buick. The owner couldn’t find the part in stock. A mechanic named Sam said, ‘What
about that old Buick out back?’ The proprietor investigated, and in due course
we were notified.”
“Was there
anything else? Money? Luggage?”
“Her suitcase
and handbag. We’re still not absolutely sure, of course, that the woman we
found is Elaine Gluck. We’ll need you to identify her.”
“I can’t!”
“Someone who
knew her has to do it. Your father is dead, Mr. Gluck is dead.” His voice grew
quite soft. “I’m sorry.”
“Must I?”
“I’m afraid so,
Miss Nelson.”
Ann breathed
deeply, once, twice. “I’ll be right over.”
The room swam
before Ann’s eyes. She managed to say, “It’s my mother.”
“It’s easy to
make mistakes in a case like this,” said Tarr. “You’re sure this is Elaine
Gluck?”
Ann shuddered. “Yes.”
Tarr took her
upstairs to his cubbyhole. Ann collapsed in a chair.
“It must have
happened just after she saw me.”
“Within a few
days. Probably the next day.”
“But that letter
. . . It was certainly her handwriting; it was certainly her signature!”
“The report on
that letter came in just after I spoke to you. About an inch had been cut from
the top of the page, probably to remove the date and the sender’s address. The
salutation had been altered. Originally it read ‘Dear Bobo.’ The two o’s had
been carefully changed to
a
and
y,
and your name was added:
‘Baby Ann.’ Quite simple.”
“ ‘Bobo’. . . of
course,” said Ann. “One of Elaine’s politer names for Roland.”
“So it appears
that the letter was originally addressed to your father.”
“But why send it
to me?”
“Apparently to
preserve the illusion that your mother was alive. Did she own property?”
“Property? My
mother?” Ann shook her head. “She was chronically broke.”
“What about your
grandmother? Is she alive?”
“No.” Ann,
comprehending the direction of Tarr’s inquiry, became frosty. “If you think I
strangled my mother and somehow beguiled my father into shooting himself”—her
voice trembled in indignation—“you can think again.”
“I made no such
accusation,” said Tarr. “Consider my job, Miss Nelson. Naturally, we’ve got to
consider every possibility.”
“In that case
consider the possibility that I did
not
strangle my mother and Harvey Gluck.”
“Oh, I have.
Harvey Gluck’s death is the monkey wrench. If it hadn’t occurred, we could
reasonably suppose that Roland Nelson strangled Elaine Gluck, was seen doing it
by a person we shall call X, and was blackmailed by X until in desperation
Nelson killed himself.” He ignored Ann’s mutter. “The death of Harvey Gluck
creates no end of complications. Fitzpatrick leans toward the theory of a
chance intruder or a sex criminal. I don’t think so. I see X, compelled by some
urgent reason, breaking into your apartment intending to kill you, but by a
stroke of fantastic bad luck being forced to kill Harvey Gluck instead. This
seems the most logical explanation, but brings us face to face with a blank
wall: Why? Have you come up with any ideas?”
“No. None of it
seems real.”
Tarr looked at
her quite unprofessionally. “It’s real enough. I have to repeat—you mustn’t take
any chances.”
She shivered. “I
don’t plan to. . . . I don’t really know what to do with myself.”
“Don’t you have
a friend you could visit? Somebody completely unconnected with this business?”
Ann considered. “There’s
Barbara Crane in Sonoma. I might drop in on her.”
“Try to be back
before dark,” said Tarr. “I don’t want to frighten you or limit your freedom,
but facts are facts. Somebody went to considerable trouble to try to kill you.
He might try again.”
Ann turned north
on Highway 101, toward Sonoma, a town twenty or thirty miles away. After a few
miles her interest in visiting Barbara Crane began to dwindle. Barbara taught
sociology at Sonoma Junior College; she would demand a detailed explanation for
Ann’s presence, which would lead to hours of hashing everything over. Martin,
Barbara’s husband, taught geology and was inclined to absolute judgments. The
visit lost its attraction.
She turned off
the freeway and drove westward, over a gently rolling landscape, once placid
and rural but now blotched with housing developments. Meanwhile “Martin Crane”
had suggested “Martin Jones.” Or perhaps the housing developments had worked to
this end; whatever the cause, Ann found herself occupied with the image of that
dour individualist engrossed in Ruskin’s
Stones of Venice.
Perhaps she
should have been surprised, but it seemed quite natural to come upon a sign
reading:
PLEASANT VALLEY ESTATES
Top Value for Discriminating Home Buyers
A MARTIN JONES Development
Ann slowed and
halted. From the road she could see two dozen houses in various stages of
construction, with as many more lots in the process of being graded. On one of
these she spied the contractor, sighting through a transit toward a young man
in carpenter’s overalls who held a surveyor’s rod.
Ann watched for
several minutes. Then Jones straightened up, jotted something on a clipboard,
called to the rodman—who drove a stake, wrote on a label, and tacked it to the
stake—and moved on to another location. Martin Jones bent once more over the
transit and the process was repeated.
Ann backed her
car into the driveway. Martin Jones spotted her, scowled, and returned to his
transit. “Five inches low!” he called to the rodman. “That’s all for now.” He
walked over to Ann.
“What brings you
out here?”
“I was driving
past, noticed your name, and stopped.”
His attention
was distracted by a pickup loaded with doors pre-hung in their frames, and he
jerked as if he had been struck with a pin. “Hey, Shorty, not
there!
Does that house look like it’s ready for
doors?”
“It’s where Steve
told me to bring them,” the truck driver said defensively.
“Where? House
fourteen? Or house four?”
“It might have
been four.”
“You bet your
life it was four. What good are doors here? The roof isn’t even framed yet. Use
your head!” The pickup moved on; Jones turned back to Ann. “You got to watch
these guys every minute. About one in ten knows what he’s doing.”
“You’re busy,” said
Ann politely, “so don’t let me keep you.”
“I’m always busy,”
he growled. “I’d go broke in a week if I weren’t.” He glanced up and down the
street. “I’ve got to make the rounds. Come along if you like,” he said, looking
everywhere but at Ann. “I’ll show you around.”
“If you’re sure
you can spare the time.”
“No time lost. I’d
let you know.”
“I don’t doubt
it.” Ann climbed out. The sunlight was bright; the new lumber smelled clean and
fresh; the clatter of hammers, the whine of power saws, made cheerful sounds.
Ann found it impossible not to relax.
Martin Jones
seemed to sense her mood and became almost cordial. “Let’s walk down this way.
I’ll show you the whole thing, from beginning to end.” He led her to a lot
where a loader was scooping up two tons of red-brown earth at a thrust. “Incidentally,”
said Martin Jones, “I read your book. Or most of it.”
“How did you
like it?” He
had
read
it!
“Hard to say. He
writes like somebody building one of the old-time houses, full of stained glass
and gingerbread. If you like that kind of thing, I suppose it’s great.”
“Do you like
it?*
Jones’s smile
turned sheepish. “Parts of it are interesting. About the tides, for instance,
and the mud flats. If they were just a bit different there wouldn’t be any
Venice. . . . The tide flats along Black Point aren’t much different. They’d
cost a lot to build on when you figure in a causeway, dredging, piles. It could
always be worked into overhead, I suppose. The houses would sell; that’s the
main thing.”
They moved on to
another lot, where carpenters were setting foundation forms, while laborers
laid out reinforcing steel for the concrete. The sight of the steel reminded
Ann of the cracked footing at the Cypriano house. She said, “I understand you
built the Cypriano house.”
He nodded
shortly. “I did. While I was still young and easygoing.”
“They’re having
trouble with the foundations,” said Ann sweetly. “They seem to blame you for
the trouble.”
“They blame
me?”
“So I understand.”
“That’s a laugh.”
“How do you
mean?”
“Blame Rex Orr,
not me. He wanted a forty-thousand-dollar house on a twenty-thousand-dollar
budget. I told him I’d have to cut corners awful close. He said to go ahead,
just so long as it didn’t show. I used all utility lumber in the framing. The
house stands up, but the floors squeak here and there. No harm done. Wherever I
dared, I cut down on reinforcing in the footings. If the ground is solid, it makes
no big difference. If the ground settles, though, there’s trouble. I explained
this to Orr, but he gave me the green light. I guessed wrong. After the rains
the ground began to go. I don’t feel too bad. I took a beating on that house.”
“Don’t the building
inspectors check on things like that?”
“Sure. But there’s
angles you can work. You put the steel in the forms, the inspector looks, signs
the permit. As soon as he leaves you yank out the steel and pour concrete. Nine
times out of ten you’re in business, with no harm done. But once in a while
there’ll be trouble. I don’t have any remorse. Orr asked for a jackleg job
where it wouldn’t show and he got it. The Cyprianos tried to make me the goat;
in fact, Cypriano got nasty. He was going to bring out the building inspector,
but Mrs. Orr backed me up.
“Do you know
something? Cypriano is a kook. I was sitting out there talking to him; he gave
me a drink and then, sitting across the table, he began letting his keys swing
back and forth. Slow and easy. And he’d say, ‘My, but it’s a peaceful day. How
calm it is. How peaceful. Don’t you feel sleepy?’“ Jones gave a bark of savage
laughter. “The so-and-so was trying to hypnotize me! Then he’d convince me that
I should fix his house. I just laughed at him. He slammed off into one of the
back rooms.”
Ann listened in
surprise and amusement. The taciturn Martin Jones was talking as if a dam had
broken. They walked on to where a truck was discharging concrete into footings.
Martin Jones became abruptly silent; stopping, he ran his eye along the forms
that delineated the outer edge of the house-to-be. He called, “Hey, Pete!” But
his voice was inaudible over the rumble of the concrete truck, and he strode
off, beckoning to one of the carpenters, pointing to the offending form. Ann,
sighting along the edge, saw that it was just a trifle crooked.
While the
contractor watched, the carpenter drove a stake with a sledgehammer, and wedged
in a brace to straighten the form to Jones’s satisfaction.
He rejoined Ann.
“As I say, you’ve got to watch these guys every minute.”
“It seems like
an active life,” smiled Ann.
“I don’t get
bored. Ulcers, yes. Boredom, no.”
“Do you really
have ulcers?”
He grinned,
shaking his head. “It’s the building contractor’s occupational disease. But I’m
too ornery for ulcers. Ask one of these carpenters what they think of my
disposition.” He stopped abruptly to face Ann. “Let’s go somewhere tonight. A
show . . . opera . . . circus . . . dog races . . . public library . . . you
name it; I’ll take you.”
Ann was so
astonished she almost permitted herself to show it. Martin Jones asking for a
date! He
did
have a potential.
She was pleased, very pleased. More than very pleased. “Oh, I’d like to, but
darn it, I can’t, not tonight.”
Martin Jones’s
mouth twisted at the corners. “Okay.”
“Next week,
perhaps,” Ann said hastily. “The police don’t want me going anywhere until they
clear up these deaths.”
“That might take
a long time if that fellow Tarr’s running things.”
“Just for a week
or so.” Ann wondered if she was sounding overanxious, so she composed herself
and became interested in the next lot. Here a crew of carpenters worked on the
concrete slab, laying down redwood two-by-fours along the line of the eventual
partitions, fixing them in place with a device which, after being loaded with a
cartridge and a heavy nail, shot the nail through the wood into the concrete.
“All
four-bedroom houses,” said Jones, noting Ann’s interest. “Four bedrooms, two
baths, playroom, and dining area. They should go fast. I won’t be a millionaire,
but I’ll be out of the woods.”
“You’re going to
sell the Inisfail house?”
“As soon as a
buyer shows up.”
“And your old
family house, too?”
“That shack.” He
pursed his lips. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll remodel it.”
“I like it
better than the new house.”
“Your father
liked the old place better, too . . . What’s so interesting?”
Ann had been
watching the carpenters, conscious of a vague tickling at the back of her head.
A laborer approached Jones, one hand aloft, blood streaming down his black
wrist. “What happened to you?” asked Jones in disapproval. “You trying to cut
your hand off?”