by Jack Vance
Ann described the events of the evening. Fitzpatrick took one or two notes.
“Why had Mr. Gluck called on you?”
“He was looking for my mother.” Ann hesitated, then said, “Perhaps you had better get in touch with Inspector Tarr at the Marin County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Why?”
“My father died a week or so ago. Inspector Tarr has been in charge of the investigation.”
Fitzpatrick’s black eyes snapped. “Homicide?”
“You’d better ask Inspector Tarr,” said Ann. Then with a trace of cheerless humor she said, “He thinks it was suicide.”
“And what do you think?”
“I don’t know what I think. Except that someone was waiting to kill me.” Ann bit her lip to keep it from trembling.
“Easy now, Miss Nelson. How do you know Mr. Gluck wasn’t the intended victim?”
“How could he have been?” Ann asked wearily. “He’d only just arrived in town. No one knew he’d be here. But they knew I’d be home, and alone. . . . Poor Harvey. When he went into the bathroom, whoever was there had to kill him to keep him quiet.” Then the tears came.
Fitzpatrick asked permission to use the Tanners’ telephone. When he hung up he turned back to Ann.
“If it’s any comfort to you,” said the detective, “Mr. Gluck never knew what struck him. That kind of garrote works like greased lightning. . . . By the way, was he friendly with you?”
The implication was too clear to be ignored. “What do you mean?” said Ann with as much indignation as she could muster.
Fitzpatrick was not daunted. “Just what I asked.”
“Yes. He was friendly with me.”
“How friendly?”
“I liked him. He was a kind, generous man.”
“He ever make a pass at you?”
“Certainly not.”
Fitzpatrick nodded without interest. “Has he ever been here before?”
“No”
“What about your mother? Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Fitzpatrick’s tone was incredulous.
“I haven’t seen her since early March.”
The telephone rang; Fitzpatrick answered as a matter of course. The conversation continued for several minutes. Then he hung up and said to Ann, “That was Inspector Tarr. He’s on his way.” He considered a moment. “Where are you planning to spend the night?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought.”
“A friend’s house?”
“I’ll go to a hotel.”
“She can stay right here,” said Mrs. Tanner.
Ann thanked her. She would have preferred the impersonal calm of a hotel, but she was too upset to argue.
Mrs. Tanner said, “You tell me what you’d like; I’ll run upstairs and get it for you. And you can be taking a nice hot shower.”
“That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Tanner; you’re very kind,” said Ann. “If you’d just bring some pajamas and my bathrobe.”
When Ann emerged from the shower, Mrs. Tanner had a bowl of split-pea soup and a grilled cheese sandwich waiting for her. Ann remembered that she had eaten neither lunch nor dinner. She suddenly felt famished.
While she was eating, Inspector Tarr arrived. She heard his voice in the living room and felt an almost frantic sense of relief. Tarr looked in at her. “Good evening, Miss Nelson.” Ann looked up in surprise. His voice was as coolly indifferent as Inspector Fitzpatrick’s had been. She flushed with resentment What a hypocrite! Trying to make a date with her one moment, the next speaking to her as if she were some whore picked up in a raid!
Tarr sat down beside her. Ann moved away. “This is a very serious matter,” he said.
Ann made no reply.
“Assuming someone broke into your apartment—”
Ann demanded angrily, “Is there any other possibility?”
“Of course. You might have garrotted Harvey Gluck and faked a break-in at the back door. A woman could easily do the job. Once that wire gets snapped tight, it’s all over.”
Ann curled her lip in ridicule. “Why should I want to hurt poor Harvey?”
“I don’t know.” And Tarr added blandly, “Incidentally, if you plan to confess, please confess to me. I’m bucking for promotion, and I could use any help at all.”
Ann sipped her tea, too outraged and emotionally limp to react.
“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!”
CHAPTER 11
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.”
CHAPTER 12
The room swam before Ann’s eyes. She managed to say, “It’s my mother.”
“It’s ea
sy 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?”