Read Online A Room to Die In by Jack Vance, Ellery Queen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jack Vance, Ellery Queen
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any
way I’d rather spend it.”
Ann finished her
coffee. “For a minute I thought you were serious.”
“I am,” said
Tarr, still grinning. He was an idiot.
“I’m going home,”
snapped Ann. “Martin Jones is a misogynist, and I’m a misanthropist.”
“You two would
make a good pair!”
Ann rose,
marched to the counter, put down fifteen cents, and departed.
On her way back
to San Francisco, Ann wondered why Tarr’s gibe had got under her skin. It was
so really inane. She wasn’t a misanthropist; she merely disliked males who
leaped at every female they met.
(An accusation
that certainly could not be leveled against Martin Jones!)
Shortly after
she got home her telephone rang. Ann told herself that it would surely be Tarr
to apologize for his rudeness, but the voice was a stranger’s.
“Miss Nelson?”
“Yes?”
“Glad to find
you home. My name is Edgar Maudley—I’m the late Pearl Maudley Nelson’s cousin.
I wonder if you’d allow me to call on you. It’s a matter of some importance.”
“Now?”
“Now preferably,
but of course if it’s not convenient—”
“Now is as good
a time as any, Mr. Maudley.”
“Wonderful. I’ll
be there very shortly. From your address I gather that you live in the Sunset
district?”
“Yes. Ten blocks
from the beach.”
“It shouldn’t
take me more than half an hour.”
Twenty-six
minutes later Edgar Maudley arrived. He was a large, pale, luxurious man
smelling of lilac hair tonic. His hair was silver gray, precisely brushed; he
had a regimental mustache, and altogether he looked urbane and distinguished.
Ann took his
Tyrolean hat and burberry and indicated a chair. Edgar Maudley settled himself
decorously.
“I was on the
point of making a pot of tea,” said Ann. “If you’d care to join me?”
“Oh, excellent,”
said Edgar Maudley. “This is so very kind of you.”
“It’ll be a
minute or two. The water’s only just starting to boil.”
Edgar Maudley
cleared his throat. “You no doubt are wondering why I’m calling on you.”
“I suppose you’re
curious, or resentful. After all, I’m inheriting money which was originally
Pearl’s, and that makes me something of an interloper.”
“Not at all. You
are who you are—an obviously intelligent young lady. The circumstances that
occasion our meeting certainly are not your responsibility.”
“Excuse me,” said
Ann. “I’ll make the tea.” She went into the kitchenette and busied herself with
teapot, teacups, tray, and gingersnaps.
Edgar Maudley
continued to speak in his cautious voice. “First of all, let me offer condolences
on the loss of your father. I do so with complete sincerity. Although I am given to understand that you and your father
were not close.”
Ann set the tray
on the counter and returned to the living room. “Who gave you to understand
this?”
Maudley touched
his mustache. “I hardly remember . . . Village gossip, most probably. Your
father, you must be aware, was something of a rara avis. He kept to himself—lived alone, saw
no one.”
“Antisocial, but
not disreputable. Did you know him yourself?”
Maudley nodded
briskly. “I met him several times. I won’t conceal from you that I tried to
dissuade Pearl from the marriage. She was my only cousin; and, like Pearl, I
have neither sister nor brother. She took the place of a sister, and I was
very, very fond of her. I considered your father much too . . .
undisciplined—shall we say?—for a woman who was actually inexperienced and
naive.”
Ann wordlessly
poured tea. Edgar Maudley took a lump of sugar and a slice of lemon, but
refused the gingersnaps. He sipped, then sat back in his chair. “Perhaps I
should tell you something about the Maudleys, Miss Nelson. My grandfather
arrived in San Francisco in 1880 and began to publish The Oriental Magazine— now a rare and valuable
collector’s item. He had two sons, my father and Pearl’s father. In 1911 the
brothers organized The Pandora
way I’d rather spend it.”
Ann finished her
coffee. “For a minute I thought you were serious.”
“I am,” said
Tarr, still grinning. He was an idiot.
“I’m going home,”
snapped Ann. “Martin Jones is a misogynist, and I’m a misanthropist.”
“You two would
make a good pair!”
Ann rose,
marched to the counter, put down fifteen cents, and departed.
On her way back
to San Francisco, Ann wondered why Tarr’s gibe had got under her skin. It was
so really inane. She wasn’t a misanthropist; she merely disliked males who
leaped at every female they met.
(An accusation
that certainly could not be leveled against Martin Jones!)
Shortly after
she got home her telephone rang. Ann told herself that it would surely be Tarr
to apologize for his rudeness, but the voice was a stranger’s.
“Miss Nelson?”
“Yes?”
“Glad to find
you home. My name is Edgar Maudley—I’m the late Pearl Maudley Nelson’s cousin.
I wonder if you’d allow me to call on you. It’s a matter of some importance.”
“Now?”
“Now preferably,
but of course if it’s not convenient—”
“Now is as good
a time as any, Mr. Maudley.”
“Wonderful. I’ll
be there very shortly. From your address I gather that you live in the Sunset
district?”
“Yes. Ten blocks
from the beach.”
“It shouldn’t
take me more than half an hour.”
Twenty-six
minutes later Edgar Maudley arrived. He was a large, pale, luxurious man
smelling of lilac hair tonic. His hair was silver gray, precisely brushed; he
had a regimental mustache, and altogether he looked urbane and distinguished.
Ann took his
Tyrolean hat and burberry and indicated a chair. Edgar Maudley settled himself
decorously.
“I was on the
point of making a pot of tea,” said Ann. “If you’d care to join me?”
“Oh, excellent,”
said Edgar Maudley. “This is so very kind of you.”
“It’ll be a
minute or two. The water’s only just starting to boil.”
Edgar Maudley
cleared his throat. “You no doubt are wondering why I’m calling on you.”
“I suppose you’re
curious, or resentful. After all, I’m inheriting money which was originally
Pearl’s, and that makes me something of an interloper.”
“Not at all. You
are who you are—an obviously intelligent young lady. The circumstances that
occasion our meeting certainly are not your responsibility.”
“Excuse me,” said
Ann. “I’ll make the tea.” She went into the kitchenette and busied herself with
teapot, teacups, tray, and gingersnaps.
Edgar Maudley
continued to speak in his cautious voice. “First of all, let me offer condolences
on the loss of your father. I do so with complete sincerity. Although I am given to understand that you and your father
were not close.”
Ann set the tray
on the counter and returned to the living room. “Who gave you to understand
this?”
Maudley touched
his mustache. “I hardly remember . . . Village gossip, most probably. Your
father, you must be aware, was something of a rara avis. He kept to himself—lived alone, saw
no one.”
“Antisocial, but
not disreputable. Did you know him yourself?”
Maudley nodded
briskly. “I met him several times. I won’t conceal from you that I tried to
dissuade Pearl from the marriage. She was my only cousin; and, like Pearl, I
have neither sister nor brother. She took the place of a sister, and I was
very, very fond of her. I considered your father much too . . .
undisciplined—shall we say?—for a woman who was actually inexperienced and
naive.”
Ann wordlessly
poured tea. Edgar Maudley took a lump of sugar and a slice of lemon, but
refused the gingersnaps. He sipped, then sat back in his chair. “Perhaps I
should tell you something about the Maudleys, Miss Nelson. My grandfather
arrived in San Francisco in 1880 and began to publish The Oriental Magazine— now a rare and valuable
collector’s item. He had two sons, my father and Pearl’s father. In 1911 the
brothers organized The Pandora
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