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said
he’d put in a garden.” Jones chuckled. “He planted those rosebushes and that
was it.” He said it without resentment, as if this sort of conduct were only to
be expected from Roland Nelson. Ann’s irritation swelled.
    The man looked
around the yard. “I’ve got a lot to do around here.” He moved off across the
lawn to the rose-bushes, examined the leaves, then without a backward glance returned
to his pickup and drove away.
    Ann glared after
him. “There goes my candidate for most unlovable man of the year.”
    Tarr grinned. “You
rubbed him the wrong way.”
    “I rubbed him the wrong way!”
    “He’s no
diplomat, I’ll say that.” He took Ann’s arm and steered her back into the
living room. Ann pulled her arm free, stalked to the big bookcase, and
pretended an interest in the titles. It presently became genuine.
    “These must have
been Pearl’s books. I can’t imagine my father’s investing in books like these.
They’re all special editions.”
    Tarr pulled one
out. “Phaedra’s Dream , by
Richard Maskeyne. Who’s he?”
    “I’ve forgotten,
if I ever knew.” Ann took the book. “Published in nineteen thirty-two. . . .
Look at these illustrations. Even in nineteen thirty-two it must have cost ten
or fifteen dollars. Now it would cost double that.”
    Tarr squinted
along the shelves. “Not a paperback in the lot.” He took the book back from
Ann. “Eight inches wide, ten high, an inch and a half thick—a hundred twenty
cubic inches. For convenience, let’s say it’s worth twelve dollars. That’s ten
cents a cubic inch. This bookcase now. It’s just about six feet tall, eight
feet wide, something less than a foot deep.”
    He calculated on
the back of an envelope. “Call it thirty-six cubic feet. Subtract six cubic
feet of air—thirty cubic feet . . .” He looked up with an expression of shock. “That’s
more than five thousand dollars stacked into just this one case! And there’s a
case just like it in the study!”
    Ann said
fatuously. “There’s probably more than six cubic feet of air. And many of these
books aren’t that expensive.”
    “So knock off a
couple of thousand bucks. It’s still a lot of money.”
    But Ann shook
her head. “If Roland could have sold them for half of that, they’d be gone.” She
couldn’t believe her good fortune.
    They went into
the study again. Tarr seated himself behind the desk and picked up the
bankbook. “Twenty thousand dollars paid out in a lump, then a thousand a month .
. . Did your father have any other income?”
    Ann shrugged. “Sometimes
he’d sell a so-called sculpture or non-objective painting. He had a knack for
things like that. He tried writing, but I don’t believe he ever got anything
published. He’d work at odd jobs if he had to. By his own standards he managed
to live pretty well. Meaning he had leisure to do what he wanted.”
    Tarr studied the
bankbook. “This twenty thousand dollars. It’s just possible he gave it to your
mother.”
    “Mother and the
blackmailer may be the same character,” said Ann dryly. “I’m sure you’ve
considered the possibility. If you haven’t, you’d better.”
    “What could she
know that would induce your father to pay her off?”
    “I can’t
imagine.”
    “We’ll certainly
want to ask your mother some questions.” Tarr gathered the papers together,
rose. “That’s all for today. Next comes the hard part—leg work.”
    “To find the
blackmailer?”
    “Yes.”
    “I still find
your suicide theory incredible.”
    “Well, unless
you can demonstrate otherwise . . .”
    Ann made a slow
survey of the study. “I’d love to.”
    “If only to make
me look a chump,” Tarr laughed. “Be my guest.”
    “Ann went to the
study bookcase. On the lower shelf, along with two or three large books lying
flat, lay a large leather case. She pulled it out and, taking it to the desk,
unfastened the snaps and raised the lid.
    “What is it?”
demanded Tarr.
    Ann read