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Drive. The other side of Inisfail, up Blue Hill Road.”
    Another car
turned up into the parking area, a green pickup, with Martin Jones, Building Contractor, painted on
its side. Jehane Cypriano, at the sight of the pickup, returned to the car. Her
husband immediately started the engine, and they drove away.
    “That was fast,”
Tarr remarked. He put away his notebook.
    Martin Jones got
down from the pickup—a compact, sunburned man with a square face in which
things rippled and twitched as if of their own accord. If Jones’s temperament
were as bellicose as his appearance, thought Ann, it was not surprising that he
had clashed with her father. The man favored her with a single glance, which
nevertheless seemed to encompass instantly every detail of her face, figure,
and clothing.
    Tarr said, “This
is Miss Nelson, Mr. Nelson ’s daughter. Martin Jones.”
    Martin Jones
acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod that dismissed her. He gave his
entire attention to Tarr. “Find anything?”
    “Nothing much.
There’s one or two points I’d like to clear up. Nelson was in this house how
long?”
    “Since February
or thereabouts. Before that he rented the old family place up the road. I had a
chance to sell it; this house was empty, so I moved him in here.”
    “I see. Another
thing. You witnessed his will?”
    “I did.”
    “You didn’t mention
it when we spoke yesterday.”
    “You didn’t ask.”
    “Who is Raymond
Santell, the other witness?”
    “The mailman.”
    “What were the
circumstances?”
    “I came out one
day to find him talking to a man; in fact, they were having a hell of an
argument. I didn’t pay any attention, started to load the stuff I had come for.
Pretty soon Nelson went into the house, leaving the other man outside. About
five minutes later he came back out with a sheet of paper. He called me over
and asked if I’d witness a will. I said I would. Then Nelson asked the other
man if he’d also witness the will. The man said, ‘What’s in it?’ Nelson grinned
and let him read it. The man got even madder than before. He just turned around
and stomped to his car and drove off. Just about this time Santell came past on
his mail route. Nelson asked him if he’d be a witness, and Santell agreed. So
Nelson signed, and Santell and I signed, and that’s all there was to it.”
    “This other
man—did you hear his name?”
    “No. He was
about fifty, I’d say—big soft guy in fancy clothes, with a trick mustache.
Drove a black Mercedes sedan.”
    “You didn’t hear
what they were quarreling about?”
    Jones gave his
head a shake. “I couldn’t have cared less.”
    “Anything else
out of the ordinary ever happen that you recall?”
    The building contractor
considered. He said in a grudging voice, “Nothing particular. In fact, nothing.
He was a queer customer, a loner—wouldn’t have anything to do with anybody. He
played chess by mail—an egghead.”
    Ann decided that
she disliked Martin Jones with great intensity. A boor, a cultural barbarian,
and probably proud to be both.
    Jones looked
over Tarr’s shoulder into the house. “When do you think you’ll be through
around here, Inspector?”
    Ann said
distinctly. “To what date is the rent paid, please?”
    Martin Jones
seemed surprised to hear her speak; he examined her once again before replying.
“If he’s dead, his tenancy is over. In any case, he hasn’t paid the rent.”
    “He paid in
advance?”
    “Usually.”
    “So he actually
owes you a month’s rent?”
    “That’s right.”
    “It runs to the
first of the month?”
    “To the fourth.”
    “I’ll see that you ’re paid. In fact, I’ll
write you a check right now—and you can come back on the fourth of June.”
    “In that case,
skip the rent. I want to put the place on the market.”
    Tarr asked in an
easy voice, “You’re not going to rent any more?”
    “No, sir. It’s
been nothing but a headache. Nelson got the place for peanuts because he