The Collection (123 page)

Ollie went on with his story. There wasn't much more of it.
Dorothy Stark had known that he could never marry her but she also knew that he
very badly wanted a child, preferably a son, and had loved him enough to offer
to bear one for him. He had agreed---even if he couldn't give the child his
name, he wanted one---and two years ago she had borne him a son: Jerry, they'd
named him, Jerry Stark. Ollie loved the boy to distraction.

Uncle Am asked if Eve Bookman knew of Jerry's existence and
Ollie nodded.

“But she won't do anything about it. What could she do,
except divorce me?”

“But if that's the situation,” I asked him, “what motive
would your wife have to want to kill you? And why now, if the situation has
been the same for two years?”

“There's been one change, Ed, very recently. Two years ago,
I made out a new will, without telling Eve. You see, with angina pectoris, my
doctor tells me it's doubtful if I have more than a few years to live in any
case. And I want at least the bulk of my estate to go to Dorothy and to my son.
So--- Well, I made out a will which leaves a fourth to Eve, a fourth to Dorothy
and half, in trust, to Jerry. And I explained, in a preamble, why I was doing
it that way---the true story of my marriage to Eve and the fact that it really
wasn't one, and why it wasn't. And I admitted paternity of Jerry. You see, Eve
could contest that will---but would she? If she fought it, the newspapers would
have a
field day with its contents and make a big scandal out of
it---and her position, her respectability, is the most important thing in the
world to Eve. Of course, it would hurt Dorothy, too---but if she won, even in
part, she could always move somewhere else and change her name. Jerry, if this
happens in the next few years as it probably will, will be too young to be
hurt, or even to know what's going on. You see?”

“Yes,” I said. “But if you hate your wife, why not---”

“Why not simply disinherit her completely, leave her
nothing? Because then she
would
fight the will, she'd have to. I'm
hoping by giving her a fourth, she'll decide she'd rather settle for that and
save face than contest the will.”

“I see that,” I said. “But the situation's been the same for
two years now. And you said that something recent---”

“As recent as last night,” he interrupted. “I kept that will
in a hiding place in my office---which is in my home since I retired---and last
night I discovered it was missing. It was there a few days ago. Which means
that, however she came to do so, Eve found it. And destroyed it. So if I should
die now---she thinks---before I discover the will is gone and make another,
I'll die intestate and she'll automatically get everything. She's got well over
a hundred thousand dollars' worth of motive for killing me before I find out
the will is gone.”

Uncle Am asked, “You say ‘she thinks.’ Wouldn't she?”

“Last night she would have,” Ollie said grimly. “But this
morning, I went to my lawyer, made out a new will, same provisions, and left
it in his hands. Which is what I should have done with the first one. But she
doesn't know that, and I don't want her to.”

It was my turn to question that. “Why not?” I wanted to
know. “If she knows a new will exists, where she can't get at it, she'd know
killing you wouldn't accomplish anything for her. Even if she got away with
it.”

“Right, Ed. But I'm almost hoping she will try, and fail.
Then I'd be the happiest man on earth. I
would
have grounds for
divorce---attempted murder should be grounds if anything is---and I could marry
Dorothy, legitimize my son and leave him with my name. I---well, for the chance
of doing that, I'm willing to take the chance of Eve's trying and succeeding. I
haven't got much to lose, and everything to gain. How otherwise could I ever
marry Dorothy---unless Eve should predecease me, which is damned unlikely. She's
healthy as a horse, and younger than I am, besides. And if she should succeed
in killing me, but got caught, she'd inherit nothing; Dorothy and Jerry would
get it all. That's the law, isn't it? That no one can inherit from someone he's
killed, I mean. Well, that's the whole story. Will you take the job, Ed, or do
I have to look for someone else? I hope I won't.”

I looked at Uncle Am---we never decide anything important
without consulting one another---and he said, “Okay by me, kid.” So I nodded to
Ollie. “All right,” I said.

We worked out details. He'd already checked plane flights
and knew that a Pacific Airlines plane was due in from Seattle at ten fifteen
that evening; I'd arrive on that and meanwhile he'd pretend to have received a
telegram saying I was coming and would be in Chicago for a few days to a week
on business, and asking him to meet the plane if convenient. I went him one
better on that by telling him we knew a girl who sometimes did part-time work
for us as a female operative and I'd have her phone his place, pretend to be a
Western Union operator, and read the telegram to whoever answered the phone. He
thought that was a good idea, especially if his wife was the one to take it
down. We worked out the telegram itself and then he phoned his place on the
pretext of wanting to know if his wife would be there to accept a C.O.D.
package. She was, so I phoned the girl I had in mind, had her take down the
telegram, and gave her Ollie's number to phone it to. We had the telegram dated
from Denver, since the real Ed, if he were to get in that evening, would
already be on the plane and would have to send the telegram from a stop en
route. I told Ollie I'd work out a plausible explanation as to why I hadn't
decided, until en route, to ask him to meet the plane.

Actually, we arranged to meet downtown, in the lobby of the
Morrison Hotel an hour before plane time; Ollie lived north and if he were
really driving to the airport, it would take him another hour to get there and
an hour back as far as the Loop, so we'd have two hours to kill in further
planning and briefing. Besides another half hour or so driving to his place
when it was time to head there.

That meant he wouldn't have to brief me on family history
now; there'd be plenty of time this evening. I did ask what kind of work Ed
Cartwright did, so if necessary I could spend the rest of the afternoon picking
up at least the vocabulary of whatever kind of work it was. But it turned out
he ran a printing shop---which was a lucky break since after high school and
before getting with my Uncle Am, I'd spent a couple of years as an apprentice
printer myself and knew enough about the trade to talk about it casually.

Just as Ollie was getting ready to leave, the phone rang and
it was our girl calling back to say she'd read the telegram to a woman who'd
answered the phone and identified herself as Mrs. Oliver Bookman, so we were
able to tell Ollie the first step had been taken.

After Ollie had left, Uncle Am looked at me and asked, “What
do you think, kid?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Except that five hundred bucks is
five hundred bucks. Shall I mail the check in for deposit now, since I won't be
here tomorrow?”

“Okay. Go out and mail it if you want and take the rest of
the day off, since you'll start working tonight.”

“All right. With this check in hand, I'm going to pick me up
a few things, like a couple shirts and some socks. And how about a good dinner
tonight? I'll meet you at Ireland's at six.”

He nodded, and I went to my desk in the outer office and was
making out a deposit slip and an envelope when he came and sat on the corner of
the desk.

“Kid,” he said. “This Ollie just
might
be right. We
got to assume that he could be, anyway. And I just had a thought. What would be
the safest way to kill a man with bad heart trouble, like angina pectoris is?
I'd say conning him into having an attack by giving him a shock or by getting
him to overexert himself somehow. Or else by substituting sugar pills for
whatever he takes---nitroglycerin pills, I think it is---when he gets an
attack.”

I said, “I've been thinking along those lines myself, Uncle
Am. I thought maybe one thing I'd do down in the Loop is have a talk with Doc
Kruger.” Kruger is our family doctor, sort of. He doesn't get much business
from either of us but we use him for an information booth whenever we want to
know something about forensic medicine.

“Wait a second,” Uncle Am said. “I'll phone him. Maybe he'll
let us buy him dinner with us tonight to pay him for picking his brains.”

He went in the office and used his phone; I heard him
talking to Doc. He came out and said, “It's a deal. Only at seven instead of
six. That'll be better for you, anyway, Ed. Bring your suitcase with you and if
we take our time at Ireland's, you can go right from there to meet Ollie and
not have to go home again.”

So I did my errands, went to our room, cleaned up and
dressed, and packed a suitcase. I didn't think anybody would be looking in it
to check up on me, but I thought I might as well be as careful as I could. I
couldn't provide clothes with Seattle labels but I could and did avoid things
with labels that said Chicago or were from well-known Chicago stores. And I
avoided anything that was monogrammed, not that I particularly like monograms
or have many things with them. Then I doodled around with my trombone until it
was time to head for Ireland's.

I got there exactly on time and Doc and Uncle Am were there
already. But there were three Martinis on the table; Uncle Am had known I
wouldn't be more than a few minutes late, if any, so he'd ordered for me.

Without having to be asked, since Uncle Am had mentioned it
over the phone, Doc started telling us about angina pectoris. It was incurable,
he said, but a victim of it might live a long time if he took good care of
himself. He had to avoid physical exertion like lifting anything heavy or
climbing stairs. He had to avoid overtiring himself by doing even light work
for a long period. He had to avoid overindulgence in alcohol, although an
occasional drink wouldn't hurt him if he was in good physical shape otherwise.
He had to avoid violent emotional upsets as far as was possible, and a fit of
anger could be as dangerous as running up a flight of stairs.

Yes, nitroglycerin pills were used. Everyone suffering from
angina carried them and popped one or two into his mouth any time he felt an
attack coming on. They either prevented the attack or made it much lighter than
it would have been otherwise. Doc took a little pillbox out of his pocket and
showed us some nitro pills. They were white and very tiny.

There was another drug also used to avert or limit attacks
that was even more effective than nitroglycerin. It was amyl nitrite and came
in glass ampoules. In emergency, you crushed the ampoule and inhaled the
contents. But amyl nitrite, Doc told us, was used less frequently than
nitroglycerin, and only in very bad cases or for attacks in which nitro didn't
seem to be helping, because repeated use of amyl nitrite diminished the effect;
the victim built up immunity to it if he used it often.

Doc had really come loaded. He'd brought an amyl nitrite
ampoule with him, too, and showed it to us. I asked him if I could have it,
just in case. He gave it to me without asking why, and even showed me the best
way to hold it and crush it if I ever had to use it.

We had a second cocktail and I asked him a few more questions
and got answers to them, and that pretty well covered angina pectoris, and then
we ordered. Ireland's is famous for sea-food; it's probably the best inland
sea-food restaurant in the country, and we all ordered it. Doc Kruger and Uncle
Am wrestled with lobsters; me, I'm a coward---I ate royal sole.

Doc had to take off after our coffee, but it was still
fifteen or twenty minutes too early for me to leave---I'd have to take a taxi
to the Morrison on account of having a suitcase; otherwise, I'd have walked and
been just right on the timing---so Uncle Am and I had a second coffee apiece
and yakked. He said he felt like taking a walk before he turned in, so he'd
ride in the taxi with me and then walk home from there.

I fought off a bellboy who tried to take my suitcase away
from me and made myself comfortable on one of the overstuffed chairs in the
lobby. I'd sat there about five or ten minutes when I heard myself being paged.
I stood up and waved to the bellboy who'd been doing the paging and he came
over and told me I was wanted on the phone and led me to the phone I was wanted
on. I bought him off for four bits and answered the phone. It was Ollie Bookman,
as I'd known it would be. Only he and Uncle Am would have known I was here and
Uncle Am had left me only ten minutes ago.

“Ed,” he said. “Change of plans. Eve wasn't doing anything
this evening and decided to come to the airport with me, for the ride. I
couldn't tell her no, for no reason. So you'll have to grab a cab and get out
there ahead of us.”

“Okay,” I said. “Where are you now?”

“On the way south, at Division Street. Made an excuse to
stop in a drugstore; didn't know how to get in touch with you until the time of
our appointment. You can make it ahead of us if you get a cabby to hurry. I'll
stall---drive as slow as I can without making Eve wonder. And I can stop for
gas, and have my tires checked.”

“What do I do at the airport if the plane's late?”

“Don't worry about the plane. You take up a spot near the
Pacific Airlines counter; you'll see me come toward it and intercept me. Won't
matter if the plane's in yet or not. I'll get us the hell out of there fast
before Eve can learn if the plane's in. I'll make sure not to get there
before
arrival time.”

“Right,” I said. “But, Ollie, I'm not supposed to have seen
you for twenty years---and I was five then, or supposed to be. So how would I
recognize you? Or, for that matter, you recognize me?”