A Room to Die In by Jack Vance, Ellery Queen

interesting. She doesn’t give her address?”
    “No.”
    “What about the
envelope?”
    “There’s no
return address. She just printed ‘Ann Nelson, sixty-nine fifty Granada Avenue,
San Francisco.’ That’s all.”
    Tarr grunted. “Do
you consider that typical?”
    “With my mother
nothing is typical.”
    “I see . . . I
definitely want to examine that letter. How about tomorrow?”
    “Tomorrow is the
last day of school; I should be finished about noon. If it’s convenient I’ll
drop by your office. There’s another matter about which I’d like your advice.”
    “So long as it’s
not about investing your money. I’m the lousiest businessman in the country.”
    Ann did not
deign to notice Tarr’s facetiousness. “It will probably be close to one by the
time I arrive.”
    “I’ll expect you
at one.”
    On Thursday
evening the attorney called to notify her that the Marin County Probate Court
had issued a decree naming her executrix of her father’s estate, and that he
had also obtained an authorization for the transfer of the various stocks and
securities to her name. There were papers to be signed, an inventory of
possessions, assets, and obligations compiled and filed with the court. Ann
made an appointment to meet him Monday.
    On the following
morning Ann took unusual pains with her clothes: this might well be the last
day of her teaching career. Also, she’d be leaving directly for San Rafael. In
spite of her disapproval of Tarr, his hypocrisy, and his lechery, she refused
to appear at a disadvantage compared with his vulgar girl friends. Vulgar and blowsy. Perhaps he liked them vulgar and blowsy.
So what? Tarr’s tastes were of no concern to her.
    Ann dressed in a
spanking dark-blue and white frock with white accessories, an outfit in which
she knew she looked her best.
    The morning
passed quickly; the pupils trooped home at noon. There was still a certain
amount of paper work, which Ann would take care of next week. She bade her
fellow faculty members goodbye and drove across the bridge to San Rafael.
    Tarr greeted her
with formality. She saw by his glance that the pains she had taken with her
clothes had not been wasted. He escorted her into the little office where he
had taken her before, and without preamble said, “Let’s see the letter.”
    Ann produced the
envelope. Tarr scrutinized it closely. Then, extracting the letter, he pored
over it for several minutes. Ann finally became restless. “Well?”
    Tarr said in a colorless
voice, “May I keep it?”
    “If you like.”
    He laid the
letter with exaggerated care upon the corner of his desk, leaned back, and
inspected Ann quizzically. “What do you make of the letter?”
    “What do I make
of it? It’s self-explanatory, isn’t it? Elaine wants in.”
    “Her prospects,
I gather, aren’t very good.”
    Ann smiled
faintly. “I’m required to pay her ten cents a year.”
    Tarr nodded. “Don’t
you find it odd that your mother asks for money, but doesn’t let you know where
to find her?”
    “No. According
to the letter, she plans to see me in a few days. There’ll be a flaming
quarrel; she’ll have hysterics; and she’ll run from the apartment screaming
that I’ll never set eyes on her again.” She watched Tarr, daring him to show
disapprobation. But Tarr only lurched erect in his seat, once more examined the
letter, again put it to one side. “I’ll send this to the lab. There’s one or
two points . . .” His voice trailed off. Then he said, “I’ve found out where
your mother stayed during her visit last March: the Idyllwild Motel on Highway
101. She arrived about seven o’clock and checked out the next morning. The
proprietor’s wife remembers her because your mother priced a house trailer they
had for sale, talked about Florida and Honolulu, and burned three cigarette holes
in a pillowcase. Another item of information, a rather peculiar one: your
father’s nearest neighbors live about two hundred yards up the