go up,
I’ll try for special investigator, or maybe photo-lab technician. Who knows,
Tarr? Maybe I’ll ease you out. You’ve been on the gravy train long enough.” He
winked at Ann. “Except that I’d get in dutch with your wife.”
Tarr rolled his
eyes toward the ceiling. “This is Miss Nelson.”
“Oh. Excuse me.
You sure look like Mrs. Tarr. Same build. Even the face—”
“Here now!”
expostulated Tarr. “There isn’t any Mrs. Tarr! Hasn’t been for four years!”
“Oh, come on, Tom. I saw you two at the department picnic
last month. In fact, I’ve got pictures to prove it. One where she was standing
on the beer keg on one leg, and another during the Charleston contest. Unless
maybe it was Miss Nelson?” Cooley looked questioningly at Ann, who had risen.
“It must have
been Mrs. Tarr,” said Ann. “I don’t have a very good sense of balance. Goodbye,
Mr. Cooley. Goodbye, Inspector Tarr.”
“Wait!” said
Tarr.
“Don’t go on my
account,” said Cooley.
But Ann went,
clicking along on staccato heels.
“Cooley,” said
Tarr, “I ought to beat you up.”
“Nice-looking
number,” said Cooley. “What is she, friend or criminal?”
“She might be
either . . . or both.”
“You always come
up with cute ones,” said Cooley.
“Just a natural
talent, I guess.” Tarr heaved to his feet. “I’ve got to get back to
headquarters.”
Ann arrived home
in late afternoon. The apartment seemed unnaturally quiet. She made a pot of
tea and sat down in the big chair by the window, wondering what to do with
herself for the evening. Dinner downtown? A movie?
She snatched the
telephone and dialed Hilda Baily, who taught fourth grade at Mar Vista. There
was no answer; Hilda was probably celebrating the end of the term. While she
was considering whom next to call, the phone rang. Ann lifted the receiver and
heard a careful baritone voice. “Miss Nelson? Edgar Maudley here. Please don’t
think me a nuisance, but I’ve been wondering if you’ve come to any decision.”
“No. Wait, let
me think. Tomorrow is Saturday. Maybe I’ll go over tomorrow and check through
things.”
“About what time
will you be going?” inquired Maudley.
“I’m not sure.
Probably in the morning.”
“I’d be glad to
help you. It’s quite possible—”
“No” said Ann. “I want to look things over by myself.”
There was a
moment of silence. Then Edgar Maudley said with dignity, “Certainly.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow
evening, or Sunday, and we can make whatever arrangements need to be made.”
“Very well, Miss
Nelson.”
Ann replaced the
receiver. Perhaps she should have accepted Maudley’s offer of assistance. There
would be a great many books to move. Well, she’d manage. Inspector Tarr still
had her father’s keys; she should have taken possession of them. But Martin
Jones could let her into the house. She ascertained Jones’s number from
Information, and called him. He grumbled but agreed to be on hand to open the house.
So much for that.
The evening
still remained a void.
Ann phoned two
more of her friends, suggesting dinner downtown. Each was committed.
She showered,
changed into a black cocktail dress, drove downtown, and dined alone at Jack’s.
The evening was still young; the Fairmont Hotel was nearby; the cocktail lounge
was a dim sanctuary. Ann relaxed. Inisfail seemed far away; the circumstances
of Roland Nelson’s death were remote, and she was able to consider them with
detachment.
The entire
course of her life had been changed. She had not yet reckoned the total of her
new riches, but it surely would exceed a hundred thousand dollars, even after
taxes. With twenty-two thousand dollars still unaccounted for—the loot of the
blackmailer. Or such was Tarr’s contention. He also continued to espouse the
suicide theory. One was as bizarre as the other, but Ann was forced to admit
the lack of any convincing refutation. Her father had been found dead in a
foolproof locked
I’ll try for special investigator, or maybe photo-lab technician. Who knows,
Tarr? Maybe I’ll ease you out. You’ve been on the gravy train long enough.” He
winked at Ann. “Except that I’d get in dutch with your wife.”
Tarr rolled his
eyes toward the ceiling. “This is Miss Nelson.”
“Oh. Excuse me.
You sure look like Mrs. Tarr. Same build. Even the face—”
“Here now!”
expostulated Tarr. “There isn’t any Mrs. Tarr! Hasn’t been for four years!”
“Oh, come on, Tom. I saw you two at the department picnic
last month. In fact, I’ve got pictures to prove it. One where she was standing
on the beer keg on one leg, and another during the Charleston contest. Unless
maybe it was Miss Nelson?” Cooley looked questioningly at Ann, who had risen.
“It must have
been Mrs. Tarr,” said Ann. “I don’t have a very good sense of balance. Goodbye,
Mr. Cooley. Goodbye, Inspector Tarr.”
“Wait!” said
Tarr.
“Don’t go on my
account,” said Cooley.
But Ann went,
clicking along on staccato heels.
“Cooley,” said
Tarr, “I ought to beat you up.”
“Nice-looking
number,” said Cooley. “What is she, friend or criminal?”
“She might be
either . . . or both.”
“You always come
up with cute ones,” said Cooley.
“Just a natural
talent, I guess.” Tarr heaved to his feet. “I’ve got to get back to
headquarters.”
Ann arrived home
in late afternoon. The apartment seemed unnaturally quiet. She made a pot of
tea and sat down in the big chair by the window, wondering what to do with
herself for the evening. Dinner downtown? A movie?
She snatched the
telephone and dialed Hilda Baily, who taught fourth grade at Mar Vista. There
was no answer; Hilda was probably celebrating the end of the term. While she
was considering whom next to call, the phone rang. Ann lifted the receiver and
heard a careful baritone voice. “Miss Nelson? Edgar Maudley here. Please don’t
think me a nuisance, but I’ve been wondering if you’ve come to any decision.”
“No. Wait, let
me think. Tomorrow is Saturday. Maybe I’ll go over tomorrow and check through
things.”
“About what time
will you be going?” inquired Maudley.
“I’m not sure.
Probably in the morning.”
“I’d be glad to
help you. It’s quite possible—”
“No” said Ann. “I want to look things over by myself.”
There was a
moment of silence. Then Edgar Maudley said with dignity, “Certainly.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow
evening, or Sunday, and we can make whatever arrangements need to be made.”
“Very well, Miss
Nelson.”
Ann replaced the
receiver. Perhaps she should have accepted Maudley’s offer of assistance. There
would be a great many books to move. Well, she’d manage. Inspector Tarr still
had her father’s keys; she should have taken possession of them. But Martin
Jones could let her into the house. She ascertained Jones’s number from
Information, and called him. He grumbled but agreed to be on hand to open the house.
So much for that.
The evening
still remained a void.
Ann phoned two
more of her friends, suggesting dinner downtown. Each was committed.
She showered,
changed into a black cocktail dress, drove downtown, and dined alone at Jack’s.
The evening was still young; the Fairmont Hotel was nearby; the cocktail lounge
was a dim sanctuary. Ann relaxed. Inisfail seemed far away; the circumstances
of Roland Nelson’s death were remote, and she was able to consider them with
detachment.
The entire
course of her life had been changed. She had not yet reckoned the total of her
new riches, but it surely would exceed a hundred thousand dollars, even after
taxes. With twenty-two thousand dollars still unaccounted for—the loot of the
blackmailer. Or such was Tarr’s contention. He also continued to espouse the
suicide theory. One was as bizarre as the other, but Ann was forced to admit
the lack of any convincing refutation. Her father had been found dead in a
foolproof locked
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