A Room to Die In Read Online Free Page B

fixed to the wall, not
the door. Unusual, but more secure. This harness snap”—he demonstrated its
action—“pins down the bolt. It is impossible for the door to be bolted shut
except through the agency of someone standing inside this room. Then, for what it’s worth, the
door bolt was in the lock position—which in itself would very adequately secure
the door.”
    “Then why the
extra bolt? Doesn’t it seem peculiar?”
    “Yes. I suppose
you’d say so.”
    “I thought
detectives worried about odd, unexplained details?”
    Tarr grinned
ruefully. “I have worries enough with simple, ordinary details. The bolt is
peculiar, yes. So I asked Martin Jones about it—the landlord. He didn’t know it
had been installed. This is a new house; your father was its first tenant.
Jones was as annoyed as the devil.”
    “Why would
Roland want a bolt on the door in the first place? It seems so strange.”
    Tarr shrugged. “I’ve
seen a lot stranger things than that. By the way, notice that the hinges are
here on the study side, too, and that the pins are as tight as they could be.”
    Ann went to the
fireplace, stooped, peered up the chimney.
    “I checked that,
too,” said Tarr, watching her. “There’s a patent metal throat with a slit about
four inches wide when the damper is open. The damper was closed, as it is now,
with the handle firmly seated in a notch. Outside there’s a barbecue grill,
with about six inches of brick between.” He stamped on the floor. “Under the
rug here there’s vinyl tile, and then a concrete slab. The walls, the ceiling”—he
looked around—“they’re ordinary walls: plywood, plasterboard. A ghost could get
through without leaving a mark, nothing else. The window?” He motioned to Ann. “Look.
When I push down this handle, a hook clamps the sash to the frame. Not even air
can seep through the crack. In addition, the screen was securely screwed into
place from the inside, as it is now.”
    “What about the
glass? Could a pane have been broken out and replaced?”
    Tarr shook his
head. “Go outside and check for yourself. All the putty is uniform and several
years old.”
    “Several years?
I thought you said this was a new house.”
    “It’s
inconsequential. Jones might have had the window on hand. Or it might have been
a used window. Or the supplier might have had it in stock for that long. The
basic fact is that the putty is old and undisturbed. Until I broke the pane, of
course.” He turned, considered the chair behind the desk. “Do you know if your
father owned a pistol?”
    “No, I don’t
know.”
    “He was killed
by an S and W thirty-eight revolver—little snub-nose job. It was lying on the
floor under the fingers of his right hand. Don’t tell me he was left-handed.”
    “No. He was
right-handed.”
    “So it has to be
either accident or suicide. The case for accident is weak to the vanishing
point. It consists of the fact that there was no farewell note, and that you
consider your father temperamentally incapable of suicide. Still, not all suicides
leave notes, and every year thousands of people surprise their relatives by
bumping themselves off.”
    “But why? Why should he do something so foolish? He
had everything to live for.”
    “The fact that
he was living out here like a hermit might indicate . . . well, moodiness,
instability.”
    Ann laughed
scornfully. “You never knew Roland, or you wouldn’t say that.”
    “Well, I
mentioned the very strong indication of blackmail.”
    “Perhaps so.
Still—”
    “You’re not
convinced?”
    “I’m absolutely
confused. I don’t know what to think.” She turned away, went to look at the
card tables. Beside each of the four chessboards lay a stack of postcards. Ann
glanced at the postmarks. “Amsterdam . . . New York . . . Albuquerque . . .
Leningrad. Correspondence chess.”
    “He did that as a
usual thing?”
    “As long as I
can remember.” Ann thought back along the avenue of her life, recalling