A Room to Die In Read Online Free PDF Page B

witnesses.
     
    RAYMOND
SANTELL, 465 Linden Way, Inisfail, California
    MARTIN
JONES, 2632 13th Street, San Rafael,
California
     
    Ann replaced the
will on the desk. Tarr said, “That makes it official. You’re rich.” Ann said,
in a voice she tried to keep calm, “I’m surprised he went to all this trouble.”
    “It indicates,”
said Tarr, in what Ann thought a rather sententious tone, “that he had death on
his mind.”
    Ann dissented. “It
indicates that for the first time in his life he had property to worry about.
If you ’ll notice
the date—”
    “I noticed.
March eleventh. Immediately after he took possession of the estate.” He sheafed
once more through the stock certificates. “What’ll you do with all your money?”
    “Well, I’ve got
obligations. There’s ten cents a year to my mother—”
    “If she asks for
it.”
    Ann smiled. “He
had fun writing the will.”
    “What about this
article of medieval Persian manufacture?”
    Before Ann could
answer, the doorbell rang. Tarr jumped up and crossed the living room at a
lope. Ann followed more slowly. Tarr opened the door. There stood a tall,
slender woman, dramatically beautiful. She wore a dark umber skirt and a black
pull-over sweater. She had pale-bronze skin, jet-black hair, clear hazel eyes.
She wore no make-up; gold rings in her ears were her only jewelry. Her age was
unguessable.
    In a car, barely pulled off
the road, a plumpish man watched attentively. His face was shrewd, shaped like
an owl’s; he had a choppy beak of a nose and a fine ruff of gray hair.
    The woman seemed
surprised at the sight of Tarr. She peered over his shoulder at Ann and spoke
in a soft voice. “Is something wrong? We were driving past and noticed the
police car. We naturally wondered . . .” Her voice dwindled.
    Tarr looked from
the man in the car back to the woman. “You’re friends of Mr. Nelson’s?”
    “We live nearby,
although we haven’t heard from him for months. But seeing the police car . . .”
Again her voice trailed off. She half turned, irresolutely, toward the watching
man in the car.
    “Mr. Nelson is
dead,” said Tarr.
    “He’s dead ?”
    “I’m afraid so.
May I have your name, please?”
    She looked back
once more at the man in the car.
    “Mr. and Mrs.
Cypriano.”
    “First names?”
Tarr brought out his notebook.
    “Alexander and
Jehane.”
    “How do you
spell that last?”
    The woman
spelled her name, then turned and called to the man. “Roland is dead.”
    The man gave no
visible sign that he had heard.
    Tarr asked, “How
long have you known Mr. Nelson?”
    “Years. Since .
. . well, it’s been at least five years.”
    Ann spoke. “Your
husband is a chess master, isn’t he?”
    “Yes,” said
Jehane Cypriano quickly, as if Ann had offered her unexpected support. “He’s
been California champion twice.”
    From the car
Alexander Cypriano suddenly called, “How did he die?”
    “Gunshot,” said
Tarr.
    “Who shot him?”
Cypriano might have been asking who won a chess game.
    “Nothing is
definite yet,” Tarr called out.
    “He probably
deserved it.”
    His wife said, “Don’t
pay any attention to my husband. He likes to shock people.”
    Ann asked
casually, “Do you know why Mr. Nelson chose this place to live? It seems such a
big house for one person.”
    Jehane examined
Ann with careful attention. “I really couldn’t say. I haven’t spoken to him
since shortly after his wife died. He was living in a different house then.”
She pointed up Neville Road to a gray cottage just visible in a copse of oaks,
horse chestnuts, and eucalyptus.
    Tarr reflected a
moment. “There’s some indication that Mr. Nelson committed suicide,” he said. “Have
you any idea why he might have done such a thing?”
    Jehane Cypriano’s
face became stony. “I find it very hard to believe.”
    Tarr once more
opened his notebook. “May I have your address? I’ll probably want to talk to
you further.”
    “Thirty-two
Melbourne