“Just a scratch;
some of that sharp wire went and dug me. I thought I’d better get a bandage.”
“Right. If you
don’t and you catch blood poison, there’s no insurance. Come along to the
shack; I’ll fix you up.” He turned to Ann, and for once his expression was
boyish, almost wistful. “Can I telephone you?”
The word “insurance”
had triggered a new set of thoughts. Ann said vaguely, “I’m moving; I don’t
know where I’ll be. Perhaps I’d better call you. I think I’d better be going.”
Martin Jones
nodded brusquely. “Come along, Joe.”
Ann returned to
her car. Insurance . . . The answers to one or two questions could illuminate
the entire case. Though now she knew—or thought she knew—how her father had
been murdered.
In San Rafael
she stopped at a pay telephone and dialed the Cypriano house. Jehane’s voice
came languidly over the wire.
“Forgive me for
bothering you,” said Ann, “but do you know if Pearl carried insurance?”
“What kind of
insurance?”
“Life insurance.”
Jehane
considered. “I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose.”
“When she owned
your house she undoubtedly carried fire-and-theft.”
‘Yes, certainly.”
“Do you know the
name of her agent?”
“Arthur Eakins,
in San Rafael. We just took over the policy. Why do you ask?”
“It’s something
connected with my father’s death.”
“Oh.
Incidentally, have you seen the afternoon papers?”
“No. And I don’t
plan to. Are they . . . bad?”
“Not yet. But I
advise you to stay out of sight if you don’t want reporters descending on you.”
“That’s a good
idea. Thanks.”
Jehane said, “I’d
offer you the use of our guest room if I thought you’d accept. Would you?”
“That’s nice of
you. But I don’t think I’d better.”
“You’re not
still at your apartment?”
“No.”
Jehane’s voice
became thoughtful. “You could stay with us. Alexander really isn’t so awful. He’s
been all morning crawling around over the rocks gathering up the chess set
after his grand gesture.”
“It was
wonderful. But I do think I’d better stay where I am, at least for a while.”
“Just as you
like.” She sounded brusk.
“Goodbye.”
Ann looked up
the address of Arthur Eakins in the telephone directory and drove to his
office. Eakins proved to be an energetic little man with round, earnest eyes
and a button nose. When Ann introduced herself, he became guardedly cordial.
Yes, Pearl Maudley Orr had insured with him, both before and after her marriage
to Roland Nelson. Roland Nelson had done likewise. He supplied particulars, and
an opaque window blocking Ann’s perception was smashed.
There was now
very little about the case that she did not understand. She knew how her father
had been murdered. She knew why. She even understood the reason for the
abortive attempt on her own life; and she could guess the motive for the strangling
of her mother.
Leaving Eakins’s
office, walking toward her car, she thought: What a simple, ingenious plot! And
how evil, how selfish the perpetrator! She looked uneasily over her shoulder,
thrilling with a sense of danger.
She gained the
comparative security of her car and sat thinking. There should be a graphic way
to demonstrate her conclusions. After a moment a possibility suggested itself.
In a nearby drugstore she once again consulted a telephone directory and
located the office out of which the building inspectors worked.
A three-minute
walk took her there. At a counter she inquired if blueprints to all new
construction were kept on file. The clerk admitted that such was the case. Ann
asked to see those prints relating to the house at 560 Neville Road, near
Inisfail, and was informed that such plans were not available for public
inspection.
Using the office
telephone, she called Inspector Tarr, who expressed surprise at finding her
still in San Rafael. “You’d better be sticking to home base till we tie this
business up,” he warned her. “You had one pretty close call, remember? It could
happen again.”
“I don’t think
anything is going to happen where I am now which is at the Building Department.”
“What in the
world are you doing there?”
“Doing your work
for you. Detecting.”
“Well, well,” said
Tarr. “And what have you detected?”
“If you’ll meet
me here, I’ll show you.”
“Well, well,
well,” said Tarr. “I’m not proud, lady. I’ll be right over.”
Five minutes
later Tarr appeared in the doorway. Ann rose from the bench where she had been
waiting. “What’s this all about?”
“I had an idea,”
said Ann. “I came here to verify it, but the clerk won’t help me. Perhaps you
have more influence.”
“Influence to
what end?”
“To look at some
blueprints. Specifically those to the house on Neville Road.”
“Why this sudden
interest in architecture?”
“I think I can
explain the death of my father. If I’m right, the blueprints will prove it.”
Tarr stared at
her, then went to the counter, and flashed his credentials. The blueprints were
promptly forthcoming.
He spread them
out on the counter. Ann bent forward, peered closely, and gave a choked laugh
of mingled triumph and tragedy. Her theory was now demonstrable fact.
“Well?” asked
Tarr.
Ann pointed. “Look
there.”
Tarr frowned. “I
must be dense. What are you trying to prove?”
“First, how a
bookcase with six legs can show nine dent marks. Second, how my father was
murdered in a locked room.”
Tarr ran his
fingers through his hair. “Are you still on that kick? Look, no one has any murder
motive but you. And if you did it, why aren’t you soft-pedaling the matter?”
“I didn’t kill
him. But Arthur Eakins, the insurance agent, can tell you who did.”
“I hate to feel
like a chump,” said Tarr. “Why not explain in words of one syllable?”
Ann did so. Tarr’s
expression shifted through disbelief, skeptical interest, reluctant conviction,
and finally disgust at his own stupidity. “Now I can’t claim any credit for
breaking this case,” he said.
“Do so anyway,
by all means,” said Ann. “Personally, I just feel sick.”
Tarr glanced at
his watch. With sudden energy he said, “Let’s go get Eakins. It’s two o’clock.
With any luck we can clear this thing up right now.”
In the
conference room adjoining the sheriff’s private office they had been assembled
by ones and twos: first Ann with Arthur Eakins; then Edgar Maudley and Martin
Jones, who exchanged glances of mutual detestation; then Alexander and Jehane
Cypriano. The room was long, with dark oak wainscoting and a high ceiling, from
which hung two frosted glass globes—a formal room incorrigibly ugly. Pushed
against one wall was an oak table of institutional solidity at which sat a pair
of uniformed deputies. The laity sat on straight-backed chairs ranged along the
walls. There was little conversation. Edgar Maudley leaned toward Jehane once
or twice to utter an earnest remark, to which Jehane responded politely. She
wore a sheath of beige wool with a coat the color of black coffee; gold loops
in her ears were her only jewelry; as usual she looked dramatically, wanly
beautiful. Alexander Cypriano wore a dark-blue blazer with a scarf of maroon
foulard knotted at the neck. Martin Jones had not bothered to change from his
work clothes: tan whipcord trousers, a green windbreaker over a white shirt. He
sat sulkily aloof, favoring first Edgar Maudley, then Alexander with bitter
glances.
The door from
the sheriff’s office opened; into the room came Sheriff Metzger with Robinson,
the district attorney; then Inspector Tarr and a young bespectacled assistant
to the district attorney. The deputies straightened in their chairs.
District
Attorney Robinson and his assistant took seats at the table. Tarr pulled a
chair away from the wall, seating himself like a boxer awaiting a bell.
Sheriff Metzger
leaned against the table and spoke, looking at no one in particular. “I
apologize for assembling you in this rather dramatic fashion. I assure you it’s
not our customary procedure in cases of this kind.”
“Cases of what
kind?” demanded Edgar Maudley, who apparently had resolved beforehand to put up
with no nonsense.
Metzger examined
Maudley with detachment. “I refer to the death of Roland Nelson, and also”—he
consulted a list—“the deaths of Elaine Gluck, Harvey Gluck, and Pearl Nelson,
which I hope will be clarified. To this end I’ll appreciate the help of all of
you. Inspector Tarr has been in charge of the case, and he has a few questions
to ask.” The sheriff settled into a seat beside the district attorney, who
muttered something to him. The sheriff nodded.
Tarr consulted some
notes he had scribbled on a piece of paper. He rose to lean on the back of his
chair.
“This thing
starts with the marriage of Pearl Maudley Orr to Roland Nelson. It was not a
successful marriage; it lasted only a few months. Shortly after the separation,
Mrs. Nelson died in an automobile accident. I think everyone here is familiar
with the circumstances, and I’ll say no more except to point out the obvious
fact that Roland Nelson profited greatly by her death. He inherited money and
securities worth more than a hundred thousand dollars, as well as valuable
books, rugs, and art objects.
“Mrs. Nelson
died intestate; The California and Pacific Bank, which managed her affairs, was
appointed administrator of her estate, and an interval of six months elapsed before
Roland Nelson came into his inheritance. During this six months Mr. Nelson had
very little cash. He rented an old house from Mr. Jones, and he also worked for
Mr. Jones. I understand that he was not a very satisfactory employee. Right,
Mr. Jones?”
“Right,” said
Martin Jones.
“You fired him?”
“Correct.”
“How did this
affect your personal relations with Mr. Nelson?”
“No difference.
I got along with him just as well after I fired him as before. He wasn’t making
any money for me, and he knew it.”
“You rented him
your old family home for eighty-five dollars a month.”
“Correct.”
“During this
time you completed the house at five sixty Neville Road and allowed Mr. Nelson
to move in?”
“Correct.”
“Why did he want
to move?”
Jones shrugged. “I
didn’t give him any choice. I wanted to sell the old place. He had no
complaints; I let him have the new house for the same rent.”
“Do you know if
he had any visitors during this period?”
Jones grinned. “While
he was still at the old house I think he once conducted a séance, or something
of the sort. Mr. and Mrs. Cypriano were there. I watched for a few minutes, but
nothing much happened.”
Tarr turned to
Alexander Cypriano. “Do you recall such an occasion, Mr. Cypriano?”
“Naturally.” Alexander
was clearly uncomfortable.
“What happened?”
“Very little.
Mr. Nelson, after reading certain books belonging to his wife, had become
interested in psychic phenomena. The occasion Mr. Jones refers to was not a
spiritualistic séance, but an experiment to see if a person’s natural
telepathic powers are enhanced by special conditions.”
“What sort of
special conditions?”
“Hypnotism.”
“Who was the
subject?”
“My wife.”
“Were your
experiments successful?”
“Not to any
significant degree. My wife is not a good hypnotic subject.”
“How long did
these experiments continue?”
“On this single
occasion. None of us was more than superficially interested. In fact, I’d
forgotten the incident until Mr. Jones just recalled it.”
“This experiment
took place in the first house Mr. Nelson rented from Mr. Jones—the old house?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you ever
visit him in the new house?”
“No.”
“How about you,
Mrs. Cypriano?”
“No. Never.”
“Mr. Maudley?”
“I visited him
once,” said Maudley with dignity, “in an attempt to arrange an equitable
division of Mrs. Nelson’s property.”
“Did you
actually enter the house?”
“No. Mr. Nelson
was insulting and offensive, and we remained outside. We did not come to any
understanding. At any rate, no understanding satisfactory to me.”
“In fact, to
emphasize his position he wrote out a will and showed it to you?”
“He had the
insolence to ask me to witness it. The effect, of course, was to cut me off
completely from my cousin’s property.”
“Which you had
hoped to inherit?”
“Naturally. Mr.
Nelson practically gave my cousin’s house to the Cyprianos, though it was as
much a liability as an asset because of faulty construction.”
Martin Jones
said gently, “That sounds like slander to me. You asking for a bust in the
nose?”
“Slander?” Edgar
Maudley snorted. “Truth is a completely adequate defense against a charge of
slander. Only an incompetent or worse would omit reinforcing steel from the
foundations.”
“Those were my
instructions.”
“Nonsense. There
was no need to skimp. My cousin was a wealthy woman. Mr. Orr, her husband at
that time, was not only wealthy but a cautious and conservative man.”
“Who studied
ghosts and mind reading and hypnotism. He was a screwball.”
Tarr broke into
the exchange. He asked Alexander Cypriano, “When Mrs. Nelson learned of the
faulty foundation, what was her attitude?”
Cypriano darted
a quick, malicious look at Jones. “She was surprised and angry. She said that
she would see that repairs were made. After she died, Mr. Nelson and I came to
an understanding, and I agreed to perform the necessary repairs.”
Tarr examined
his notes. “On March third, Elaine Gluck visited Roland Nelson and disappeared.
On May twenty-fifth, approximately, Roland Nelson died. He was discovered on
May thirtieth in circumstances strongly suggesting suicide. During my
investigation I found evidence of blackmail. It crossed my mind that Nelson
might have murdered Mrs. Gluck—a notion that was reinforced when we eventually
found Mrs. Gluck’s strangled body. I might say here that Miss Nelson”—he nodded
toward Ann—“insisted from the first that her father would neither pay blackmail
nor commit suicide. I could see no alternative theory.”
“On the evening
of Saturday June eighth, Miss Nelson, arriving home, encountered her mother’s
husband, Harvey Gluck, who had arrived unexpectedly from Los Angeles. They went
up to her apartment together. Mr. Gluck had occasion to use the bathroom and
was garroted by someone waiting there. Under the circumstances it’s clear that
Miss Nelson was the intended victim. But why should anyone wish to kill Miss
Nelson? Well, she is now a girl of considerable wealth. Who would inherit from
her if she died? She has no close relatives; her mother and father are both
dead. Her nearest kin live in North Carolina. The money cannot revert to the
Maudleys. So gain is not a credible motive.”
“It would seem,
then, that Miss Nelson is a threat to someone. Remember that she has never
accepted the theory of suicide in connection with her father’s death, even
though no other theory presented itself. The study in which Mr. Nelson died was
almost hermetically sealed. The door was bolted securely, the windows clamped
shut, the damper in the chimney fixed in the ‘shut’ position. Murder seems
impossible. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say this: to shoot someone and leave
the room in the condition in which I found it
is
impossible.”
“Could Mr.
Nelson somehow have been persuaded to raise a pistol to his forehead and pull
the trigger? There are conceivable circumstances where this might be the
case—an elaborate practical joke to astound someone watching through the
window, perhaps. But surely Mr. Nelson would have checked and double-checked
the gun to make sure he was in no danger of shooting himself.”
“In any event,
whatever the plot—if such a plot existed—the fact that Miss Nelson was a victim
of attempted murder makes it appear that she either suspected or was in a
position to suspect it. Hence, by a kind of backward reasoning, we must take
very seriously the idea that Roland Nelson was indeed murdered.”
“What did Miss
Nelson learn? What was she about to learn? In the first place, she was baffled
by a series of peculiar events and circumstances. One was the three shots heard
by Mr. Nelson’s neighbors, the Savarinis, about the time or shortly after Mr.
Nelson died—never satisfactorily explained. Another was: Why hadn’t her father
paid his rent when he had ample funds?”
“She was also
puzzled by the fact that the bookcase standing along the wall that separated
the living room from the study—the case facing into the living room—had made
nine dent marks in the vinyl flooring, although it had only six legs—three sets
of two each, the two in each set being nine inches apart from back to front.
The extra dent marks were approximately five and a half inches from the front
legs, between the front and back legs.”
“Obviously, that
bookcase had once stood in a different position. Away from the wall—further out
into the room? But in that case there should have been
twelve
dents in all, not nine—two sets of six.
So it couldn’t have been that.”
Tarr fixed them
with a glittering eye. “That the bookcase had once stood in a different
position had to be, from those extra three dents. But if it wasn’t because the
bookcase stood
away
from the wall, it had to be because the bookcase extended
into the wall.
Obviously, that’s impossible . .
.
unless there hadn’t been a wall there.
“The solution
came to Miss Nelson this morning, when she noticed carpenters fastening
two-by-four partitions to concrete slabs using a stud driver—a kind of tool,
almost a gun, which shoots nails through wood into concrete. The sound of the
shots suggested her father’s death—the three shots heard by the Savarinis.
Could it be that the three shots had been not the reports of a gun but the
reports of a stud shooter? Somebody building something? A wall?”
Tarr glanced at Ann
with unabashed admiration. “Miss Nelson pictured the dents the bookcase had
left in the flooring. She eliminated the further-out-into-the-room theory
because it would have left three more marks than were actually there. She
embraced the back-into-the-wall theory because that’s the only theory that
explains those three extra dents where there should have been six—
the
wall stood where the missing three marks lay.
In
other words, again, somebody had built a wall. That wall, the wall that turned
the end of the living room into apparently a second room, the study. And for
the wall to be built, the bookcase in the living room obviously had to be
shifted the thickness of the wall, out further into the living room, where it
now stands.”
Tarr was all
business now; Ann had never seen him so cold and inevitable-looking.
“I consulted a
carpenter an hour ago. He tells me that a wall like the one in the house where
Nelson lived would typically consist of framing three and five-eighths inches
in thickness, with half an inch of plasterboard on one side, a quarter inch of
plywood on the other, and two baseboards half an inch thick—adding up to five
and three-eighths inches. . . in other words, just about the distance between
the front dents and the extra dents in the vinyl tiling.