Читать книгу Sinfully Rich - Footner Hulbert - Страница 8

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When the police experts finished with Mrs. Ware's boudoir, Lieutenant Radigan took it for his office, since it provided more privacy than any of the downstairs rooms. Mike Speedon was with him. A bit of cork lay on the desk between them and Radigan was examining it through a magnifying glass. The cork had been found lying under the davenport sofa in that room by the police searchers.

"I can't see that it means anything in particular," said Radigan. "There are corks lying around every house."

"Not a house like this," said Mike.

"I suppose the old lady ordered up some drink and the cork rolled under the sofa, and she couldn't find it."

"That cork wouldn't fit any of the usual kinds of drinks. It's too short."

"A medicine bottle, then."

"It's too big around. Besides, the cork to a medicine bottle is always picked up.... Let me have the glass a moment."

Radigan passed it over.

"This looks like the cork out of a whisky or a wine bottle," said Mike. "It has been cut in half by a very sharp instrument. Notice how clean the cut is. Unluckily, this is the bottom half. The top half usually has the name of the bottler branded in it. Originally this cork was used for a legitimate purpose. You can see the spiral hole made by the corkscrew. But there is also a transverse cut, a clean cut, across the top, made perhaps with the same instrument."

"Quite a Sherlock, ain't yuh?" said Radigan ironically.

"Well, corks are one of my specialties. What do you make of it?"

Radigan shook his head.

"Well, put it away with the other exhibits until the right clue turns up."

Before their conference broke up, they had an opportunity to obtain some further light on the cork. There was a knock at the door, and upon being invited to do so, Kinsey entered. The elderly lady's maid had recovered from her hysterics, but when her eyes fell on the tall oaken cabinet, she paled again and swayed on her feet.

"A glass of water?" said Mike, jumping up.

She shook her head. "I'm all right." She refused to look at the cabinet again.

"What can I do for you, Miss?" asked Radigan.

"There's something you ought to know," she said. "I don't know what it means, but you ought to know it."

"Well, spill it," said Radigan.

Kinsey went to the front of the room. On the right-hand side there was a kind of corner cupboard or whatnot, with a whole rank of open shelves decreasing in size as they went up. All the shelves were crowded with bibelots such as old ladies love to collect; miniature portraits, snuff boxes, ivories, porcelains and so on. Kinsey pointed to an object on a middle shelf that she appeared to be afraid to touch.

It was a paper cutter in the form of a dagger with a repoussé handle in silver gilt. The design was of intertwined acanthus leaves; it was obviously a rare piece of craftsmanship of the Renaissance era.

"What about it?" asked Radigan.

"It wasn't there yesterday," said Kinsey hoarsely. "Madam wouldn't let anybody but me dust her things. I know everything that belongs here."

"We took no special notice of it when we searched the room," said Radigan. "Among the other gimcracks. When did you see it first?"

"When I was in here a while ago. But I was too upset to speak."

"You haven't touched it?"

"Not me!" cried Kinsey. "I'm not leaving my marks on it."

"Repoussé work don't show fingerprints," said Radigan.

Just the same, Mike took the precaution of using his handkerchief to pick the dagger up. "Good God, Rad," he said; "this is no paper cutter. It's as sharp as a razor!" He snatched up the magnifying glass. "It has recently been sharpened. Look!" Mike pulled a hair out of his thick thatch, and holding it up, sliced it neatly.

"But the old lady didn't die by that," said the puzzled Radigan. "There was no mark on her!"

"All right," said Mike, "it wasn't brought to this room for any good purpose, either."

Radigan, seeing he had something more to say that he didn't want the woman to hear, bowed Kinsey out politely. "Thank you very much, Miss. I sure am obliged to you. I'll take good care of this here dagger until I find out whose it is."

"Where's the cork?" asked Mike when she had gone.

Radigan produced it from the envelope where he had stowed it, and Mike, with delicate fingers, showed him how exactly the point of the dagger fitted the slit in the top of the cork.

"So what?" said Radigan.

"The person who carried this had no sheath for it. So he stuck the point in the cork to keep it from cutting his clothes. Many's the time I've seen my mother do that with the points of her scissors to keep them from injuring her workbag."

"And then?"

"My guess is, that the cork worked itself off the point and the dagger slit its pocket and was lost."

"How did it get laid on the shelf so neat?"

"That's for us to find out."

Cummings entered to announce Mr. Sanford MacKelcan, and the dagger was put out of sight. Cummings glanced at it strangely out of the corners of his eyes. Having made his announcement, he was forced to retire. His face had turned yellow with chagrin, as if his bile had overflowed. To be kept out of all these examinations and conferences, not to know what was going on, was almost more than he could bear. He had been ordered to attend the front door. The news of Mrs. Ware's death was now on the streets and all kinds of people were trying to get into the apartment.

MacKelcan bustled into the room, talking as he came. He was always talking. With his small head, protuberant belly and elongated legs, he had the look of a stork—an aging stork when he perched his glasses on the end of his beak. He had brought Mrs. Ware's will. Seating himself fussily and spreading the document, he said.

"I must warn you gentlemen that I can't guarantee this to be my client's last will."

Radigan glanced at the date. "It's less than a month old."

"That makes no difference. She was never satisfied."

"But if there was another will, you would know about it, wouldn't you?"

"Perhaps not. I have reason to believe she may have gone to another lawyer."

"What reason?"

MacKelcan cleared his throat deprecatingly. "It's a delicate matter! I mustn't betray the confidence of the dead!... You see, gentlemen, my client wished to take a certain course of which I strongly disapproved. We argued about it—she was a very imperious woman, but on this point, I could not give in, my conscience wouldn't let me! And so she threatened to employ another lawyer."

"When was this?"

"Three days ago."

"Well, let's read this anyhow."

It was a lengthy document since Mrs. Ware was in the habit of making all kinds of odd and capricious bequests and of canceling them as soon as made. This will already had seven codicils. There were three paragraphs of special interest to the detective.

I give and bequeath to my dear friend, Bethesda Prior, the sum of two hundred thousand dollars, over and above all taxes.

To my friend, Michael Speedon, one hundred thousand dollars over and above taxes, because he is a gentleman.

All the rest and residue of my estate to my nephew, James Fawcett, the son of my deceased sister, Emmeline Jones Fawcett, of Newcastle, England. It is my wish and desire that the said James Fawcett, after setting aside a sum sufficient for his own needs, should employ the bulk of my husband's fortune to establish a foundation for the support and education of orphan children of both sexes without respect to race or creed. It is my own intention to carry this out, and I lay this charge upon my nephew only in case I may be taken before my plans are matured. My nephew is to be advised in this matter by my friend and executor, Sanford MacKelcan, and such other persons as may be qualified to advise him.

All the servants employed by Mrs. Ware were put down for various sums except, oddly enough, Cummings. Day Radnor was not mentioned. Mrs. Ware appointed her nephew and MacKelcan to be her executors, and stipulated that the latter should receive twenty-five thousand dollars a year for his services to the estate.

When the reading was finished Radigan said dryly: "Congratulations, Mike."

"Thanks, Rad."

"You don't appear to be surprised at the news," the lawyer remarked.

"Mrs. Ware discussed this will with me at the time it was drawn," said Mike.

"Did you make any suggestions?"

"Only one—but she didn't carry it out. I thought she ought to have named an institution, a bank or a trust company as one of her executors."

"You lacked confidence in me, eh?" put in MacKelcan sourly.

"Not at all. But in the case of so large an estate it's customary."

"What did she mean by this 'gentleman' stuff?" asked Radigan.

"I have no idea," said Mike. "Maybe Mr. MacKelcan can tell us."

The lawyer shook his head. "She insisted on having it written in that manner, but she didn't say why."

"I didn't know there was a nephew," said Radigan.

"Mrs. Ware had never seen him," said MacKelcan. "Over half a century ago her sister married beneath her and went to England to live, and her family lost touch with her. When Mr. Ware died last year, this man Fawcett wrote to the widow and sent proofs of his identity. He wanted to come over and see his aunt. He was a very plain fellow, a coal miner, in fact, and at the time he wrote, he was on the dole. Mrs. Ware naturally didn't want to be associated with persons of that sort, and, in obedience to her instructions, I wrote sending Fawcett two hundred dollars, and telling him he could depend upon receiving the same amount monthly as long as he remained in England. It has been sent regularly. Two hundred would be riches to people like that, and I expect they have been living high. They have moved to London."

"Sixty millions will destroy them!" said Mike.

"Oh, it will be my job to see that the orphans get the bulk of it."

"This Fawcett will have to come over now."

"Surely. I'll cable to a lawyer in London with whom I have connections, and ask him to get the fellow off on the next ship."

"Strange that Cummings should have been overlooked," said Mike.

"I spoke to Mrs. Ware about that. She told me that Cummings himself had come to her that very day, saying he had heard gossip in the servants' hall that she was going to make a new will, and that all the servants were to be remembered. She told me that Cummings, almost with tears in his eyes had asked her not to name him. He had only been working for her a few months, he said, and if she should die, it would make talk. 'Wait till I have time to prove myself in your service,' he said."

"Hm! Sounds a little too good to be true!" said Mike.

There was a knock on the door, and Alfred entered. The young second man was badly shaken by the day's events, but nobody paid any attention to him. He handed a card to Radigan.

"The gentleman said he wanted to see the detective in charge, sir. Mr. Cummings talked to him. Mr. Cummings said it was important."

"All right. Bring him up." Radigan showed the card to MacKelcan. "Do you happen to know him?"

MacKelcan glanced at the card calmly. "Keppelman? Slightly. He's said to be a good man."

Mr. Keppelman was shown in; a prosperous, dignified man; he looked as if he had a nice little place at Greenwich, a son at Yale and a daughter at Smith. He seemed embarrassed to find MacKelcan in the room, but quickly concealed it. Radigan invited him to be seated, and he took a folded document from his breast pocket.

"At Mrs. Ware's request, I came here yesterday to discuss drawing up her will. I had been recommended to her by the Washington Trust Company, where she banks. When she had made her wishes clear, I returned to my office and had it written accordingly. Yesterday afternoon she came to my office unexpectedly. She had thought of several changes and additions she wanted made, and the document had to be typed a second time. Here it is according to her final instructions."

"But not signed," said MacKelcan.

"Not signed. It has no standing in law. However, since the police have considered it necessary to investigate Mrs. Ware's sudden death, I thought they ought to see it."

Radigan took the document. "By all means. And thank you very much for your co-operation, Mr. Keppelman."

"Read it," said MacKelcan.

Radigan did so. In certain particulars it was the same as the former will. Bethesda Prior and Mike Speedon were still to get their legacies.

"This was before the ill-fated hay ride," murmured Mike.

The servants were remembered as before, excepting Cummings, who was still omitted. The nephew, however, was now cut off with fifty thousand dollars, which Mrs. Ware had no doubt figured would continue to yield his two hundred a month. The estate was left to "my beloved husband-to-be, Norbert Besson." Besson was enjoined to establish a foundation for the orphans in the same words that Mrs. Ware had previously used. The executors named in this will were Norbert Besson, George Keppelman, Sanford MacKelcan and the Washington Trust Company; Keppelman and MacKelcan were each to receive twenty-five thousand a year for their services.

When it had been read, Mr. Keppelman said: "Well, gentlemen, I feel that I have done my duty. This paper is of no further value now." He reached for it.

"Don't destroy it," said Mike quickly. "You never know!"

Radigan folded it. "With your permission I'll keep it for a while," he said to Keppelman.

"By all means." The lawyer got up. "I'll bid you good day, gentlemen."

"Good day, Mr. Keppelman, and thank you again."

MacKelcan unwound his long legs and accompanied him to the door. The tall man was extremely affable. "So sorry we're not going to be in this together, Keppelman. It would be a pleasure to serve with you in so worthy a cause. When I form a board of trustees for the Ware Foundation, perhaps ..." He left the sentence in the air. "In the meantime, you must send in a bill to the estate for drawing the will."

"Thank you, I shall," said Keppelman dryly.

"Well, that's that!" said MacKelcan, rubbing his hands together when the other had gone. "It appears that my will is okay. I must immediately notify the heir by cable. See you later."

He went out. Radigan and Mike lighted cigarettes.

"What the hell do you make of this will business?" asked the former.

"Can't say offhand. It needs thought."

"I believe these two lawyers are in cahoots."

"Why?"

"MacKelcan must have known about that second will beforehand. He never turned a hair when it was produced."

"Why should he? He profits just the same under the one as the other."

"Sure. And he must have known it in advance. Would Mrs. Ware have told MacKelcan that she was going to hire Keppelman?"

"Not on your life! She would never face a disagreeable scene."

"Then the two lawyers are in cahoots."

"It's arguable," said Mike, "but I think you're wrong.... Did you notice how put out Keppelman was when he found MacKelcan here? And that last speech of MacKelcan's when he was leaving certainly got under his skin. That doesn't look as if they had an understanding."

"Then why should MacKelcan appear as an executor in Keppelman's will?"

"It would be like the old girl to keep MacKelcan for an executor just to let him down easy. She was a soft-hearted old thing; didn't want to hurt anybody's feelings."

"Can you dope out why she wanted a new lawyer?"

"Yes. MacKelcan had persuaded her not to name the bank as an executor, but she felt in her heart that I was right about it, so she sent for Keppelman. We've got to dig deeper, Rad."

Mike went downstairs, and on the pretence of inspecting the guard at the back door, passed through the service rooms, looking for Adele. He found the maid in the servants' hall demurely eating her lunch, but as the sharp-eyed Cummings had followed him back, he could only exchange a glance with her and pass on.

He returned upstairs. Soon after, he heard a feminine voice casually humming an air on the other side of the door, and went out. It was Adele, making believe to be busy on the landing with a dustcloth. She smiled seductively.

"Hello, Mike."

"Hi, beautiful!"

He gave her the ten-dollar bill he had promised her. "Look, girl," he said, "if you're smart you can earn more of the same during the next couple of days. See all you can, hear all you can, and keep your pretty mouth tight shut."

She nodded. Adele belonged to the cuddly type. She leaned against Mike's broad chest and, looking up in his eyes, murmured: "I would do anything for you, Mike."

Just at that moment the elevator door slid back, and Day Radnor stepped out. Adele jumped away, but Day's eyes had already taken in the little tableau and an amused smile crept over her face. Adele was still holding the ten-dollar bill between thumb and forefinger. Mike ground his teeth together. If it had been anybody else he wouldn't have minded, but Day's smile raked him with sharp points.

She went on into the boudoir. Mike sent the girl away and followed. Radigan was busy with some reports at the far end of the room. Day was still smiling.

"Damn it all!" muttered Mike. "Damn it all!..."

That caused Day's smile to break into an outright laugh.

"Don't laugh at me!"

"But you look so sheepish! It's funny to see a sheepish look on your confident face."

"It's not what you think. I pay the girl for doing a little espionage for me."

Day pulled an aggravating face. "I'm so disappointed! I thought I had surprised something really naughty."

"Don't you believe me?"

"What difference does it make? You and I have no illusions about each other. Why can't we be natural?"

Mike gritted his teeth again. "Sometimes I'd like to strangle you! Yes! To put my thumbs against your beautiful windpipe and press hard!"

"But why, for Heaven's sake?"

"You're too damn cool!"

Day laughed again. "Maybe it's just as well for both of us that I am.... Be yourself! I came up to tell you that the assembled reporters are waiting in my office. They say you promised them another statement at two o'clock."

"All right, I'll be down," growled Mike.