by Jack Vance
Tarr nodded. “He called at the house on Neville Road, he says, which he’d just sold to your father. He found Elaine sitting at your father’s desk going through his papers, including the bill of sale. Mr. Nelson apparently was in San Francisco on business connected with his stocks. Jones had been brooding about money, and he’d already formulated his plans to make your father appear a suicide. But Elaine had seen the deed, so she had to go.
“Jones also saw that he could embellish his original idea with blackmail. He talked to Elaine a few minutes, then knocked her out, strangled her with a length of wire, stuffed her in the trunk of her car, and drove it to the old family house, where he parked it in the garage. There it stayed for almost three months, until Jones collected the final payment, whereupon he shot your father.
“Jones had his preparations all made. He went through Mr. Nelson’s papers, leaving only those that were meaningless or misleading. Naturally he burned the deed. He prepared the blackmail note, half-charred it, and wrote false rent receipts for the months of March and April—all this with the corpse of Roland Nelson sitting in the chair.” Tarr shook his head in wonder. “Then he started on the wall. He had pre-cut his material during the day, then brought it in at dusk and worked all night. He hung the door with special care, fitting it tightly—almost too tightly—to emphasize the locked-room illusion. The extra bolt was an afterthought. He didn’t realize it would have the effect not of calming suspicion but of arousing it.
“Finally he drove your mother’s Buick to the wrecking yard and ditched it. That was all there was to it—until you noticed the extra dents in the vinyl under the bookcase.”
“What about Pearl?”
“He denies killing her, and I believe him. He couldn’t have foreseen that her death would help him. Pearl probably died by accident.”
“And Harvey Gluck?”
“Jones only said two or three words which I won’t repeat. He saw that you were fascinated by the prints of the bookcase. Edgar Maudley, who was also there, hardly glanced at them, so he was safe. But Jones was afraid you’d work the thing out, and he decided you had to go, and right away, before you could tell me about the dents.”
“Poor Harvey,” said Ann. “Poor mother. Poor daddy.” It was a sort of requiem.
“It’s been a long day.” Tarr glanced at his watch.
“The few loose ends can wait till tomorrow.” He reached over and took her hands. “What about it? Let’s have a few drinks and forget this thing. I’ll even take you to dinner.”
“All right,” said Ann listlessly. “I can use some relaxing.”
“I’m just the man to relax with,” Tarr declared.
“Yes,” said Ann, coming to life. “We must call your friend Cooley and have him take photographs. . . . Oh, well. What difference does it make to me? Thank the Lord I’m not married to you.”
“You think that’s such a bad idea?” said Tarr. “I’ve always yearned for a rich wife.”
“Is that a proposal?” asked Ann tartly. “If so, it’s as disgustingly casual as the rest of you.”
“I’m a casual guy,” said Inspector Thomas Tarr. “But that doesn’t necessarily make me a heel. Where do you want to go, Miss Millionbucks?”
“I don’t care. As long as it’s quiet.”
“I know just the place.”
“You would!”
Then a peculiar silence fell. And something happened. How it happened, why it happened, almost to whom it happened. Ann was never afterward able to pin down precisely. All she knew was that she was swept up by a sort of hurricane in a pair of strong male arms, and that a delicate but vigorous kissing game began, and whoever was playing it was enjoying it very, very much.
©
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