A Room to Die In by Jack Vance, Ellery Queen Read Free Book Online Page A

work, because, lifting the receiver,
Ann was sure that she would hear the voice of Jehane Cypriano.
    “Hello?”
    “Ann Nelson?”
She had been right! “This is Jehane Cypriano. I haven’t disturbed you?”
    “Not at all. I
was actually thinking of you.”
    “I couldn’t
speak to you today. It was such a shock to hear of your father’s death.”
    “I was
surprised, too, Mrs. Cypriano. Especially with the police convinced that he
killed himself.”
    “It’s very
strange. Couldn’t it have been an accident?”
    “Inspector Tarr
doesn’t seem to think so.”
    “What do you
think?”
    “I don’t know. I
suppose it must have been suicide. Although I still can’t believe it.”
    “I can’t either.”
Jehane went on, rather hurriedly: “I wonder if you’d come to lunch tomorrow?
There’s so much to talk about, and Alexander is anxious to meet you.”
    Ann could see no
good reason to refuse, although the invitation evidently was prompted by
something other than the charm of her personality. She said, “I’d be glad to
come.”
    “Good. Twelve o’clock?
The address is thirty-two Melbourne Drive, off Blue Hill Road.” She gave
directions, which Ann noted on a scratch-pad, and the conversation ended.
    Ann went into
the kitchen and fried bacon and scrambled eggs. She ate, tried to read; but
finding that her mind wandered, she took a hot shower and went to bed.
    So many things
had happened in the last few days. Her father’s death, the sudden change in her
economic status. Thomas Tarr, his effortless charm, his floozy girl friend in
the red coat. Luther? Lothario was more apt, Ann told herself with a sniff.
Then there was the odious Martin Jones: like Tarr physically attractive, even
magnetic, with an air of repressed hostility in his every word and gesture . .
. She fell asleep.
    At nine thirty
the next morning Inspector Tarr telephoned. His voice was unembarrassed,
official. “I can’t locate your mother, Miss Nelson. She’s no longer at the
address you gave me—hasn’t been there for months. Can you think of anyone who
would know her whereabouts?”
    “Only her
husband. He lives in Glendale. He’s a dog trainer.”
    “I’ll try him.”
    “Incidentally,”
said Ann, “Mrs. Cypriano telephoned me last night”
    “So?”
    “She invited me
to lunch.”
    “You’re going?”
    “Certainly. Why
not?”
    “No reason. But
call me afterwards, will you? I like to know what’s going on. I’ll be at the
office until three or four.”
    Ann agreed in a
voice of dignified reserve.
    She dressed with
more than usual care, in a white sleeveless frock and light gray coat, and at
eleven o’clock set forth. The day was sparkling and sunny with a cool breeze
carrying the salt scent of the Pacific across the city. Ann could not help but
feel an elevation of spirits.
    She drove up
Lincoln Way to Nineteenth Avenue, and turned left into Park Presidio Boulevard,
which took her through Golden Gate Park, the Richmond district, the gloomy
forest of the Presidio, to the Golden Gate Bridge. Sailboats wandered the bay;
San Francisco’s skyline rose as crisp and white as sugar icing. To the left the
baby-blue ocean spread smooth and glistening, except for occasional cat’s-paws.
The hills of Marin County loomed ahead; the freeway swung through a tunnel and
slanted down past Sausalito to San Rafael, where Ann turned west out Lagunitas
Road, toward Inisfail.
    Just before the
timber bridge, she came to Blue Hill Road, a narrow lane twisting up a hillside
heavy with fir trees. Melbourne Drive presently veered off to the left, a lane
even narrower than Blue Hill Road. At the mailbox marked Cypriano, Ann turned up a steep driveway and
came out on a graveled parking area below a tall house that was all dark wood
and glass.
    She was early;
it was ten minutes to twelve.
    Jehane Cypriano
appeared on the terrace, waving. She descended a flight of wide stone steps. The
woman wore black slacks and a short-sleeved beige sweater; her