Читать книгу The Cossack Cowboy - Lester S. Taube - Страница 12

CHAPTER IV

Paul was deliriously happy. Rubbing his smooth, clean-shaven face, he leaned forward in the foamy, sweet-scented water of the tub to accept a light for his cigar from a voluptuous red-haired maid dressed in the briefest, lowest-cut blouse a seamstress could devise without full exposure of her high, rose-tipped breasts, and wearing the sheerest, tightest, shortest sarong ever dreamed up by a discriminating connoisseur of the female loins. As she bent over to fill a wine glass beside the tub, her blouse fell open completely, and Paul splashed the water frantically.

He closed his eyes in sweet contentment, giving himself up to the tender ministrations of two more girls, a blonde and a brunette, dressed exactly like the redhead, with almost identical proportions, who were eagerly soaping his chest and back, giggling as first one and then the other explored beneath the foam with only the merest pretence of washing down His Grace.

A knock at the door of the bathing chamber preceded the entrance of another, delectable, curvaceous” blonde, dressed in the black formal wear of a butler, but clad only in the briefest shorts instead of striped trousers and a jacket which exposed ten inches of absolutely mouth-watering flesh at her midriff before falling away into tails.

“Your Grace,” she said, sighing in envy at the girls fondling Paul here and there, “your solicitors, Messrs. Blatherbell, Poopendal and Snoddergas have arrived. They await your presence in the drawing room.”

Paul looked at the disappointed expressions on the faces of his three bath attendants. “I’ll bathe again after lunch. How will that suit you?” he said.

Their faces lit up instantly and they tittered. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He rose from the tub and the three girls rushed forward with towels to dry him, their tongues moistening their lips as they stole glances downward.

When the attendants finished drying him, it being the good fortune of the brunette to minister to his hips and downwards this morning, since this duty was rotated at each bath as a result of the incident which took place during the first session when Paul had not apportioned the various parts of his body for drying and the three attendants had fought for nearly five minutes pulling hair and ripping off blouses and tearing sarongs - well, Paul had not really objected to the fight and had actually enjoyed it enough to tinker with the idea of allowing it to take place after each bath as a sort of wake-me-up in the morning, but after two of them fell on top of him during the fracas and almost drowned him, he concluded that compromise was a better solution to the problem - Paul donned his dressing gown, slipped on sandals and went across the hall to his bedroom. He had deliberately selected the room in which the old Duke had kicked the bucket for sentimental reasons, but he had brightened it up with garishly woven rugs on the floor, paintings of naked dancing girls on the walls, and seductive rose colored curtains clashing with the powder blue cover on the bed.

A French maid, dressed even more briefly than the bath attendants, with only the tip of her lace apron covering her vortex and a tiny heart-shaped morsel of lace atop her lustrous black hair, removed the robe and helped him into his clothes, It was sheer agony for Paul when she pressed up against him to button his shirt and knot his tie, but holding his breath and squeezing his hands tightly behind his back, he managed to get through the dressing without changing his plans somewhat and holding up the meeting due to take place below.

He walked out of his bedroom to the top of the staircase. Two female footmen waited for him there, tall, regal blonde Swedes, their hair drawn back in a knot at the base of their heads, garbed in black, silver-buckled shoes, pink knee-length silk stockings, brocaded shorts revealing firm flesh from knee to thigh, brocaded bolero jackets which came down only three-quarters of the way over their breasts with a four-inch gap at the front. Each servant bore a candelabra with lighted tapers, even though it was broad daylight. They curtsied.

“Your Grace,” they greeted him.

Paul nodded casually, motioned them on ahead, then rubbed his hands with glee as he studied their round tails swaying with each downward step.

They led him to the door of the drawing room, where another female footman waited, a brunette, also dressed in the new style livery of the castle. She opened the door and curtsied Paul inside.

At the far side of a round, polished oak table were seated the three solicitors. They rose and bowed the instant Paul entered,

“Your Grace,” they said in unison,

“Gentlemen,” said Paul, waving them to their seats. He took his place across from them, picked up a small bell and rang it. The door opened and the female butler and a servant came into the room, each bearing a tray with cigars, cut crystal glasses and a decanter of Madeira. The servant passed cigars and wine to the solicitors while the female butler filled a glass for Paul, then lit his cigar carefully with a match. While this was being done, Paul caressed her leg, which was hidden by the table.

When the two girls had left the room, Mr. Blatherbell stood up and raised his wine glass.

“Your Grace,” he said with evident sincerity. “Never, in all my experience have I seen such an amazing transformation of a castle. I salute your inventiveness and superb taste.”

Mr. Poopendal and Mr. Snoddergas leaped to their feet and raised their glasses.

“To Your Grace,” they shouted.

Paul acknowledged their salute and they drank. When they were seated, Mr. Blatherbell opened his thick black case and drew out a number of papers. “Your Grace, I have here the lists of properties owned by you. As your uncle, may he rest in peace, left only an invalid will, he had died intestate, and his title and properties pass to his male next-of-kin, who, we are delighted to find, is your good self, a person of most obvious attributes and splendid refinement.”

“Hear, hear!” shouted Mr. Poopendal and Mr. Snoddergas, nodding and smiling.

Paul raised his glass of wine and drained it. “How much money did he leave?” he asked.

“Very little, I am afraid, Your Grace. Your uncle was a firm believer in property and invested all his money in land and farms. However, it will be no problem at all to capitalize the least desirable assets. Most of the estate consists of prime, easily-negotiable property.”

Paul rubbed his hands. “Well, let’s sell it off. How much is the estate worth?”

Mr. Blatherbell bent over his papers and began making calculations. “One moment, Your Grace,” he interrupted his addition to explain. “There is a considerable property involved.”

“Oh, a round figure will suffice,” said Paul with forced nonchalance.

Mr. Blatherbell made the last few marks on his paper and stood up. “I would say, Your Grace, that the entire estate, excluding this castle and its nearby village and roughly four thousand acres of forests and park land, the home farm herd of cattle and flock of sheep, and the stables of horses retained for your personal use, and …”

“Will you get to it, man!” shouted Paul, at the end of his patience.

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Mr. Blatherbell, slightly shaken. “The remainder of the estate has a value in the vicinity of five million pounds, give or take a little.”

Paul almost fainted from the shock. “Five mil…” His voice gave out.

“There could be more, Your Grace. Our lists are two years old, and income from the estate is more than four hundred thousand pounds per annum. As your uncle, may he rest in peace, was a frugal person, he could have purchased more property.”

Paul was choking.

Mr. Blatherbell cleared his throat. “I hesitate to bring up a delicate subject at this time, Your Grace, but our agreement with His Grace, the Thirteenth Duke, may he rest in peace, was to administer the transfer of his estate on a percentage rather than a fee basis. Our agreement stipulates that we should receive one and one-half per centum of the value of the estate.”

“One and one-half per centum!” exclaimed Paul, finally finding his voice. “It’s quite insufficient. I order you to take two per centum.”

It required several seconds for Mr. Blatherbell and Mr. Poopendal and Mr. Snoddergas to regain their breath.

“It is most generous of you, Your Grace,” sputtered Mr. Blatherbell, startled out of his usual composure. “We are most grateful.” He took a grip on himself and picked up the sheets of paper. “But to continue, Your Grace, you own this castle and its surrounding property, as I have already explained, two villages and one thousand, four hundred and twenty-three acres at Millcreek by the Pond, eleven farms consisting of three thousand, two hundred and forty-one acres at Pondmill by the Creek...”

Paul interrupted “Never mind reading all that. Just tell me, how many villages do I own?”

“Fourteen, Your Grace.”

“And farms?”

“Fifty-two, Your Grace.”

“What else?”

“Thirty-six houses in London, which are let, two more castles for your personal use, although slightly smaller than this one, a stud farm in Scotland, two coal mines in Wales, and four shooting lodges.” He stopped.

“Is that all?” asked Paul

“Yes, Your Grace. Unless, as I mentioned previously, your uncle made purchases during the past two years. We would like Your Grace’s permission to look through your uncle’s papers for other assets.”

“How soon can we sell some property?” asked Paul, rubbing his hands together joyfully. “I’d like to do some travelling---to Madrid, the Riviera, Baden Baden.”

“As soon as we have the grant of probate, Your Grace. I am expecting the Registrar at any minute. I took the liberty of having him come here, rather than disturb Your Grace with a visit to London.”

The female butler knocked on the door and stepped inside. “Your Grace,” she said. “The Registrar from the Probate Registry is here, with two gentlemen from the Crown Office. Shall I have them wait in the library?”

“No, no. Send them in, by all means.” He turned to Mr. Blatherbell. “Why would representatives of the Crown be here?”

“I do not know, Your Grace. It may have something to do with the title. I believe there is a small annual stipend from the Crown for those who bear titles.”

The door opened and the female butler ushered in three well-dressed, portly gentlemen. They bowed to Paul, and one stepped forward.

“Your Grace, I am William Herbert Flimmershine, Registrar of the Probate Registry. This gentleman …” he pointed to the more portly of the other two, “… is Mr. Cupplebaum, First Secretary of Her Majesty’s Crown Estates.”

Mr. Cupplebaum stepped forward and drew out an official-looking document. “Your Grace, The Fourteenth Duke of Wesfumbletonshire,” he intoned, “inasmuch as your uncle, His Grace, The Thirteenth Duke of Wesfumbletonshire, having died leaving a will in which his estate of fiefs, farms, villages, rental properties, mines, castles, and other below-listed properties was vested in Lord Percival Sanderson, his nephew, and whereas that same Lord Percival Sanderson having deceased before the time of death of His Grace, The Thirteenth Duke of Wesfumbletonshire, the Crown claims the last will and testament of His Grace, The Thirteenth Duke of Wesfumbletonshire, null and void, pro tempus passe, and hereby and herewith claims as valid and binding a will drawn up for His Grace, The Thirteenth Duke of Wesfumbletonshire, dated and signed two years ago and vesting Her Majesty’s Crown Estate with his fiefs, farms, villages, rental properties, mines, castles and other below-listed properties?”

He folded the paper, and the crackle almost shattered the absolute, stricken, incredible silence of the listeners. Then Paul found his voice.

“What does it mean?” he croaked to Mr. Blatherbell.

“I am afraid to conjecture,” gasped Mr. Blatherbell. “Your Grace,” he added hastily.

Mr. Snoddergas took over. “May I see the previous will and the lists of properties?” he asked softly.

The heaviness in the air of the room was disturbed by the sound of Mr. Cupplebaum walking to the table and handing over the sheets of paper.

Mr. Snoddergas studied the will carefully and compared the lists with those in Mr. Blatherbell’s possession before handing back the papers to Mr. Cupplebaum. “Your Grace,” he said to Paul. “It is now evident that unknown to us your uncle executed a last will and testament two years ago in which he left certain properties to the crown in the event of his demise. This document was declared null and void when your uncle drew up his last will vesting Lord Percival with his estate. But this final will, being invalid at the time of his death, due to Lord Percival’s accident, does permit his previous will and testament to be offered as your uncle’s choice of successor to his estate. However…” he turned to Mr. Cupplebaum, “…we shall challenge and seek to set aside its validity under an “intentus ad incidentus”, which stipulates that in executing a new will, be it valid or not at the time of death, His Grace not only selected a new heir but did, in fact, by his statement in his new will, intend to revoke all previous wills and testaments and to renounce his former beneficiary, which in this case is the Crown. Therefore, he died intestate and His Grace, the former Lord Paul Sanderson, is his legal heir.”

“Bravo! Bravo!” cried Paul. “Win, lose or draw, Mr. Snoddergas, you’re a man after my own heart.”

Mr. Snoddergas bowed his thanks.

Mr. Cupplebaum cleared his throat. “Mr. er…”

“Snoddergas,” said Mr. Snoddergas.

“… Snoddergas, while I would be the first to agree with the brief you have offered regarding the legality of Lord Paul Sanderson’s claims to the titles of his uncle, I would like to put forward three points which might tend to influence any action on your part on behalf of His Grace to bring this before the Probate Registry. First, I would like to mention two properties not included on my lists.”

“What properties are they?” asked Mr. Blatherbell.

“His Grace’s uncle bought two small farms last year,” said Mr. Snoddergas. “They are on our lists.”

Mr. Cupplebaum nodded. “I congratulate you, Mr. Snoddergas, on your keen observation. I wish to state that the Crown is prepared to allow all property purchased during the past two years to pass without challenge to the present Duke of Wesfumbletonshire, if…” he let the word dangle heavily before them, “. . no action is taken to contest the validity of his uncle’s previous will.”

“That is blackmail!” snapped Mr. Blatherbell.

“Mr. Blatherbell,” said Mr. Cupplebaum menacingly. “I strongly advise you to reconsider your ill-founded remark. I might add that the advisors to the Crown were exceedingly magnanimous in permitting this offer to be made, especially in view of my third point, Shall I continue?”

Blatherbell merely nodded.

“The second point,” continued Mr. Cupplebaum, “is to consider the lengthy and costly litigation to be incurred on behalf of His Grace by seeking to set aside our claim in the High Court.”

“The reward is large enough to justify all costs,” said Mr. Blatherbell.

“Then may I alter your opinion by introducing the third point,” said Mr. Cupplebaum, with a smug, self-satisfied, triumphant gleam in his eyes. “I will do this by asking you a number of questions, Mr. Blatherbell, Did His Grace, moments before his death, order you to draw up another will?”

Mr. Blatherbell’s face paled and he remained silent

“Very well,” went on Mr. Cupplebaum. “I see no need for you to answer. But, I shall continue. Was not his last wish that his entire estate - let me emphasize that again - his entire estate be left to the Crown? I should explain that we already have several signed statements to that effect. Furthermore, did not His Grace grasp a quill and attempt to sign his name to this bequest at the moment of his death? And last, but not least …” his teeth flashed in a quick, lethal smile, “… did not His Grace state publicly at least twice that he did not want his nephew, Lord Paul Sanderson, to receive a worn farthing, a withered blade of grass, a stale turd from the stables?”

The silence in the room could be cut with a blunt knife. Finally Paul leaned back in his chair and lifted his booted feet onto the table,

“How much are the two farms worth?” he asked.

Mr. Blatherbell swallowed. “Ten thousand pounds for the two - at the most.”

Paul chuckled. “Well, that will at least take care of the Madrid, Riviera and Baden Baden venture.”

“But, Your Grace,” blurted out Mr. Blatherbell. “How can you sit there so calmly after losing over five million pounds?”

“That’s easy,” said Paul. I never had them.” He laughed aloud. “What do you think of that old bastard? Sinking the knife to the hilt even from his grave.” His eyes followed the line of portraits of previous Dukes extending the length of one wall and stopped on the last one - a painting of his uncle. “But, by the Lord,” lie mused softly, “I bet you’re whirling in your coffin to think that my picture will be hanging next to yours.”

Paul and the three solicitors ate supper in the dining room, waited on by the half-naked servants of the house. It was a cheerless meal, even though bottle after bottle of wine was consumed. Paul finally pushed his plate away and lit a cigar.

“What about your commission?” he asked Mr. Blatherbell.

“There will be very little,” said Mr. Blatherbell sadly. “Our agreement concerned only the final will or the administering of the property if he died intestate. The Crown owes us nothing.”

“We’ll share the money from the sale of the farms,” said Paul.

“Thank you, Your Grace, we are grateful. It will help to defray our expenses.”

Paul sat up in his chair. “Let’s search the castle. Maybe the old bastard had bought something else. After all, he took in eight hundred thousand pounds during the past two years, and, knowing him, he wouldn’t have spent much of it. Where should we start?”

“I would suggest the library,” said Mr. Snoddergas. “I know he did most of his work there before he became ill.”

“Let’s go,” said Paul, rising from his chair. He led them to the library. It was a huge, cold-looking room of stone, one wall literally covered by shelves of books with a captive ladder fixed to a rail at the top to reach the upper tiers. In front of the heavily-draped windows stood a large double-desk containing rows of drawers on each side, its top littered with piles of papers and books tied with pieces of string. It was a rat’s nest. They lighted candles standing on the desk and in wall holders.

Paul took command. “Mr. Poopendal, you will look in the boxes. Mr. Blatherbell, you will glance through the books. It would be characteristic of my uncle to hide something where no one would think of searching for it. Mr. Snoddergas, you will take the desk drawers. I’ll look over the things on the desk.”

Each one set to work. Mr. Blatherbell moved the ladder into position and climbed to the top shelf, pulling out books and examining them. Mr. Poopendal cut the string of one box, drew out a handful of papers, and sat on the floor to study them.

“The drawers are locked,” said Mr. Snoddergas.

Paul picked up a paper-knife and snapped the lock, then went back to the litter on top of the table.

The candles had burned nearly halfway down when Paul rose, arched his weary back, and went to the door. He whistled, and instantly the female butler appeared. “Bring some wine,” he told her, pinching her cheek.

She purred like a kitten. “At once, Your Grace,” she said, tripping over her feet as she hurried away.

Paul went back into the room. Mr. Blatherbell and Mr. Poopendal were gathered around Mr. Snoddergas, excitedly reading a document he was holding.

“Look, Your Grace!” shouted Mr. Snoddergas. “Your uncle does own some other property.”

“What is it?” asked Paul.

“The deed to a … a ranch, in a place called the Territory of New Mexico.”

“The Territory of New Mexico? Where the devil is that?”

“It is in the United States,” said Mr. Blatherbell. “I believe it is in the west, or the southwest, of that country.”

“But there are only Indians in the west of the United States,” said Mr. Poopendal. “Whatever would prompt His Grace to buy Indian land?”

“This says it is a ranch,” said Mr. Snoddergas. “That is where they raise cattle over there?”

“How large is it?” asked Paul.

Mr. Snoddergas calculated rapidly. “It seems to be about one thousand square miles in area.”

Paul snorted. “A thousand acres? That’s not worth going all the way there to sell.”

“Not acres, Your Grace, miles.”

Paul’s eyes popped open. “Miles?” He snatched the document from Mr. Snoddergas’ hand. “Show me.” Mr. Snoddergas pointed it out. “It can’t be,” said Paul, incredulous. He looked up at the three intense men. “Maybe their miles are smaller than ours, like acres.”

“No, Your Grace,” said Mr. Blatherbell. “They have the same number of furlongs to the mile as we have - eight.”

Paul looked closely at the deed again and a smile wreathed his lips. “Who’s for a trip to this Territory of New Mexico?”

“I am, Your Grace,” spoke up Mr. Snoddergas quickly.

“And I, Your Grace,” said Mr. Blatherbell.

Mr. Poopendal sighed. “And I too, Your Grace.”