Where There's a Will (6 page)

“Now treachery is sweet.”

“It could be.”

“That's very nice of you. Why do you advise me not to see Nero Wolfe?”

“Because I know the kind of trap he's setting. What you should do is get a lawyer, a good one, and let Wolfe deal with him.”

She made a face. “I don't like lawyers. I know too much about them—I worked for a law firm for three years.”

“You'll have to hire a lawyer if there's a contest.”

“I suppose I will. But you said I am threatened by
something more dangerous than a contest. That trap Nero Wolfe is setting. What's that like?”

I grinned at her and shook my head. The maid came with the liquids, and after Miss Karn's Borrand water was poured and iced I took a sip of my milk. It was a little too cold, and I wrapped the glass with my palms, grinned again, and said, “It certainly is nice and cool here. I'm enjoying myself. Are you?”

“No,” she said, with a sudden and surprising sharpness in her tone, “I am not enjoying myself. A good friend of mine has died—just three days ago. Mr. Noel Hawthorne. Another man whom I regarded as my friend to a certain extent—at least not an enemy—is acting abominably. Mr. Glenn Prescott. He came here last evening and informed me of the terms of the will with a manner and tone that was inexcusable. Now he is openly conspiring with Mr. Hawthorne's family against me. He sent that Stauffer here to threaten me. He sent you here with your childish babble about traps and treachery. Bah! Is your milk all right?”

“Yes. Excuse me, but like hell you're not enjoying yourself. Shall we discuss it seriously?”

“I have no desire to discuss it at all. The one sensible thing you've said was that it has been handled incompetently. To send Ossie here to threaten me! I can make him stammer by looking at him! Incidentally, I can't do that with you.”

“No, but you came close to it.” I grinned at her. “Also you have an idea that another twenty minutes will do the trick; that's why you invited me to sit down. You may be right, but I can assure you I'm no Ossie. The fact is, I'm just killing time. My boss asked
me to bring you to his house, down on 35th Street, at ten to six, but I'd prefer not to get you there until ten after. He needs a lesson about what to expect and what not to expect.” I glanced at my wrist. “We ought to be leaving fairly soon, at that. I had to park over east of Third Avenue.”

“I told you, Mr. Goodwin, that I'm not enjoying myself. I see you have finished your milk.”

“No more, thank you. So you don't intend to come?”

“Certainly not.”

“What are you going to do, just refuse to say boo till you're served with a summons and complaint?”

“I'm not refusing to say boo.” Her voice got sharp again. “I tell you, what I resent is the way they've gone about it. I know that nothing rational could be expected of Mrs. Hawthorne, but couldn't Mrs. Dunn have come to see me, or asked me to come to see her, and talk it over? Couldn't she have said simply that they regarded it as unjust and asked me to consider an adjustment? Couldn't she have condescended to say that she and her sisters felt they had a natural right to some share in their brother's estate?”

“But they didn't. That wasn't it. It's Daisy that's raising hell.”

“I don't believe it. I think Glenn Prescott started it, and they helped him prevail upon Mrs. Hawthorne. They think the way to do it is to browbeat me. First they sent that Stauffer here, and then they hired a detective, Nero Wolfe, whose speciality is catching murderers. You might think I was a murderer myself. It won't work. They may be perfectly correct in thinking they should have a slice of Noel's—Mr.
Hawthorne's wealth, but if they get it now it will be because a court awards it to them.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “I'm with you. Absolutely. They're a bunch of wolverines, Prescott is a two-faced shyster, and Stauffer is Ossie. But may I ask you a hypothetical question?”

“It would take more than a hypothetical question to make me budge, Mr. Goodwin.”

“I'll ask it anyway. It'll be good exercise for us and pass the time. Let's say, of course just as a hypothesis, that Nero Wolfe is ruthless, unscrupulous, and quite cunning; that you get him sore by refusing even to go and discuss it with him; that he's out to do you; that he gets the bright idea of basing the attack on the will, not on the ground that it's unfair, but on the ground that it's phony; that he is able—”

“So that's it.” Miss Karn's eyes were going through me. “That's the new threat, is it? It's no better than the other one, not even as good. Didn't Mr. Prescott himself draw the will? Wasn't it in his possession?”

“Sure it was. That's the point. It's your own idea that he's conspiring against you, isn't it? Since he drew the will and had it in his possession, isn't he in an ideal position to support Wolfe's contention that there has been a substitution and the will's a phony?”

“No. He couldn't. He is on record as accepting the will's authenticity.”

“On record with who? Wolfe and the Hawthornes. His fellow conspirators.”

“But—” She chopped it off. Her eyes had narrowed and she sat motionless. In a moment she said slowly, “Mr. Prescott wouldn't do that. After all, he is an attorney of high standing and reputation—”

“Your opinion of him seems to be going up.”

“My opinion of him is unimportant. But another thing, if he intended to play as dirty a trick as that, he could simply have not produced it. He could have destroyed it.”

“He had no such intention. The hypothesis is that Wolfe gets the idea and sells it to them. Didn't I say it was hypothetical?”

“Yes. You said so.” Her eyes got narrower. “Is it? Or is this what Nero Wolfe has got ready for me?”

I lifted the shoulders. “You'll have to ask him, Miss Karn. All I know is this, he wants you to come and discuss it with him. He has engaged to try to persuade you to agree to some sort of a settlement. I've never known anybody to make bingo by refusing to talk with Wolfe when he wants to talk.”

She looked through me for another ten seconds, and then abruptly got up without bothering to excuse herself, and left the room. I arose too and strolled over to the archway and stood there with an ear cocked, thinking I might hear some telephoning or something, but the apartment was too big or too soundproof, and I drew a blank. Fifteen minutes passed, and I had about decided on a tour of exploration, when the sound of footsteps came, and I got back to the middle of the room by the time she entered. She had changed to a blue linen thing, with a flowing wrap of the same, and had on a kind of a hat. She announced, merely imparting information:

“I'm not going because I'm scared. Not that that matters to you. Your job was to get me there. Come on.”

There was no question but that she got the gist of
things with a minimum of effort and time. Down on the sidewalk I discovered that she was nice to walk with. At that juncture of affairs she had about as much use for me as a robin has for a black snake, but since we were walking together she let it be a partnership instead of a game of tag. Most girls, walking along a busy sidewalk with you, are either clingers, divers, or laggers, and I don't know which is worst.

There was no conversation, even after we got to the roadster and climbed in and nosed it into the traffic. That suited me. The gambit I had used to pry her loose had been impromptu. It wasn't going to get me any medal from the boss, and I had to figure out a way of conveying to him its purely hypothetical nature in a diplomatic manner. Not that he would object to being portrayed as ruthless, unscrupulous and cunning, but he certainly wouldn't be enthusiastic about my giving her the impression that he was a boob. The thing to do was to deposit her in the front room and have a few words alone with him before introducing her. It would have been better to have the few words up in the plant rooms, but that was out because it was 6:15 when we arrived and he would already be back down in the office, waiting for us.

My scheme didn't pan out. Three cars parked at the curb warned me to expect competition. I opened the door with my key and ushered her into the hall, and there was Fritz Brenner approaching to head us off.

“Company?” I asked.

He nodded. “The ladies and gentlemen who were here this afternoon. They have returned. They arrived at three minutes to six.”

“You don't say.” I addressed Miss Karn: “This is unexpected and unfortunate. I guess you'll have to wait a few minutes.” I moved toward the door to the front room. “In here it won't be as cool as up at your place—”

She was moving too, and so swiftly that I couldn't head her off. I suppose I should have been on my guard, but how could I have known she would make a beeline for the office door, spotting it by instinct, and bust on through? I bounced after her, but by the time I reached the threshold she was already inside and in the middle of them. I put on the brakes and let it come.

They were all there, the whole gang except the widow with the veil. The Hawthorne girls were merely regarding the intruder with surprise, but there was a little squeal from Sara Dunn and a pair of startled exclamations from Osric Stauffer and Glenn Prescott. The intruder, paying no attention to any of them, advanced clear to the desk, faced Wolfe, and said calmly:

“You're Nero Wolfe? I'm Naomi Karn. I'm told you want to discuss something with me.”

June muttered, “Good Lord.”

May craned her neck for a better look.

April laughed out loud and said energetically, “Curtain. Absolutely curtain.”

Wolfe had his lips pursed. Before he got them open for words, Miss Karn whirled to Glenn Prescott:

“Is it true that you're in a plot to have that will declared a forgery? Answer me!”

The lawyer gaped at her. “What's that?” he sputtered. “A plot to—a forgery—what the devil—”

“I insist it was a curtain,” April declared. Her sisters were saying something too, and Stauffer was shushing her, and Prescott and Miss Karn were making it a free-for-all, with nothing emerging for the record, until Wolfe's voice came out on top:

“That will do! Ladies and gentlemen! My office is not a barnyard!” He gave me a withering glance. “Confound you, Archie!” He switched to the lawyer. “Mr. Prescott, I beg your pardon for having in my employ a young man whose soaring imagination alights on such clichés as sinister plots and forged wills—As for you, Miss Karn, I presume you think you are being audacious and intrepid—”

“Positively Penthesilean,” May inserted.

Wolfe ignored it. “Taking the bull by the horns. Pfui! It should be possible to adhere to the code of ordinary decent manners even when fighting for a fortune. It should also be possible for a young woman with eyes as intelligent as yours to avoid being hoodwinked by Mr. Goodwin's elephantine capers. It may be, I admit, that you were disconcerted because, coming here expecting a private interview with me, you found these people here. That was not my fault, nor theirs. They did not know you were coming, nor did I know they were. They came, unannounced, to tell me that Mrs. Noel Hawthorne, immediately after leaving my office this afternoon, proceeded to engage a lawyer, and that he has already made formal application to Mr. Prescott for a copy of the will. As you see, you're not the only one—Yes, Fritz?”

Fritz had entered in his grand manner, but an unexpected bump in his right rear cramped his style. My eyes widened as I saw who it was that had
accidentally bumped him, brushing past—our old friend Inspector Cramer of the homicide squad. At his heels was that pillar of pessimism, District Attorney Skinner, and in the rear was a bony little runt with a mustache, carrying last year's straw hat. Fritz, bumped, seeing there was nothing left for him to announce, stepped aside and tried not to glare with indignation.

Wolfe's voice sang out, “How-do-you-do, gentlemen! As you see, I'm busy. If you will kindly—”

“That's all right, Mr. Wolfe.” Skinner, his deep bass croaking, pushed in front of Cramer. He glanced around at the faces. “Mrs. John Charles Dunn? I'm District Attorney Skinner. Miss May Hawthorne? Miss April Hawthorne? I have some—uh—unpleasant news for you.” He sounded apologetic. “It was necessary to find you at once—”

“Permit me, sir,” Wolfe snapped at him. “This is intolerable! We are conferring on a private matter—”

“I'm sorry,” said Skinner. “Believe me, I am sorry. Our business is extremely urgent, or we wouldn't come barging in like this. We wish to make some inquiries regarding the death of Mr. Noel Hawthorne last Tuesday afternoon. At your place in the country up near Nyack, wasn't it, Mrs. Dunn?”

“Yes.” June's dark eyes were piercing him. “What do you—why do you wish to inquire about it?”

“Because that is our unpleasant duty.” Skinner met her gaze. “Because we are confronted by evidence that your brother's death was not accidental. Evidence, in fact, that he was murdered.”

There was dead silence. Good and dead.

Skinner and Cramer were taking in faces, and I
took them in too. I was close enough to April so that when her lips moved I caught the whispered breath of the two syllables, “Curtain,” but her pallor and her staring eyes told me that she wasn't aware she had breathed at all.

W
olfe heaved a deep sigh. Prescott got to his feet, opened his mouth, shut it again, and sat down. Osric Stauffer emitted a sound suggestive of shocked and indignant disbelief, which went unnoticed.

June, her eyes still piercing Skinner, said, “That's impossible.” Her voice went a little higher: “Quite impossible!”

“I wish it were, Mrs. Dunn,” he declared. “I sincerely do. No one realizes better than I do what this will mean to all of you—your husband and your sisters—all the regrettable aspects of it—and it was with the greatest reluctance—almost unconquerable reluctance—”