“Well I certainly have,” Christopher Milbers said. “I’m his cousin.”
“Cousin, hell! You get ten thousand bucks under the will, and that’s all. We’re the ones that are entitled to that ten thousand dollars. We’re the ones that should get all worked up about it. It’s no put-in of yours what happens to it, and don’t forget the fact that Mrs. Cranning is the executor of the estate. I guess we’re going to quit tearing the house upside down looking for ten thousand smackers that you insinuate we’ve stolen right now. We’ll make an inventory of things in an orderly way. If we find the ten grand, we’ve found it. If we don’t it’s our loss, not yours,”
Christopher Milbers stood looking at them, swivelling his eyes from one to the other, an expression of growing dismay on his face.
“I guess you and your detective Mrs. Cool, are all done here,” Paul went on, “all washed up.”
“Paul,” Mrs. Cranning said, “you don’t need to be crude about it. However, as far as that’s Concerned, Mr. Milbers has heard the will read and it was very clear: I’m in charge.”
“That will,” Christopher Milbers declared, “is illegal. It was made under undue influence.”
Paul Hanberry laughed, a mocking, taunting laugh. “Try proving that.”
“Then it’s a forgery.”
Mrs. Cranning said, “Be careful what you say, Mr. Milbers.”
Josephine Dell said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Milbers. I don’t know what’s in the will, but, as far as the will itself is concerned, it’s absolutely genuine. I remember Mr. Milbers calling us in that day in January. Paul was washing the car outside the library, Remember, Paul? You’d backed it out in the driveway. It was right under the library window, and we could hear the hose running. Mr. Milbers went over to the safe and took out this paper. He told me that he wanted to sign a will and wanted me to be one witness, and said I’d better get one of the others as an additional witness. I asked him which one, and he said it didn’t make any difference. Then he said, ‘Isn’t that Paul washing the car out there?’ and I said, ‘Yes,’ and he said, ‘Well, tap on the window and motion for him to come in.’ “
“That’s right,” Paul said. “And when I came in the boss said he wanted to make a will, and wanted me to sign as a witness. I didn’t pay very much attention to it, because I thought—well, you know, I didn’t think there was a dime in it for me.”
Josephine said, “I remember you were working on the car, because there was a little grease on your right hand. You got it on the paper, and Mr. Milbers Christopher Milbers grabbed at the will. “Well, there’s no grease mark here,” he said.
Mrs. Cranning looked over his shoulders. For a moment she was silent with dismay.
Eva Hanberry said, “Well, a grease spot doesn’t make a will; and, besides, your recollection might be at fault, Josephine.”
“No,” Josephine Dell said firmly. “I don’t care what difference it makes or who gets hurt, Αm going to tell the truth. There was a grease spot. If that grease spot isn’t on the paper, it isn’t genuine. Let me see my signature again.”
“Wait a minute,” Nettie Cranning said. “The grease would have been wiped off.”
“Yes,” Josephine said. “I wiped it off right away with a Kleenex I took from my purse, but it left a spot and –”
“Hold it up to the light,” Nettie Cranning said. “That’s the way to tell. The grease would have soaked into the paper by this time.”
Bertha Cool, interested, turned back the heavy blue backing on the will, held the second page up to the light.
It immediately became apparent that oil had soaked through in a spot about the size of a dime on the paper.
Josephine Dell said, with a sigh of relief, “Well, I feel better about it now, because I distinctly remembered that grease spot.”
Bertha Cool said, “Now, I’m going to say something. I’m going to have a photographer come out here and make a photograph of this will while everybody’s here. I think we’re entitled to that much.”
“Personally,” Mrs. Cranning said with the suddenly assumed dignity of a woman who has inherited wealth and is making a painfully conscious effort to be a lady. “I think that is a very admirable suggestion, most compatible.”
“You mean commendable, Mother,” Eva said.
Mrs. Cranning drew herself up to her full dignity as a woman of wealth. “I said compatible, Eva, dear.”
Bertha Cool went over to the telephone and started dialling a number.
Chapter IX
BERTHA COOL, MARCHING into the office with the air of a local talent actress in a little theatre production and portraying the inevitability of tragedy, paused for a word with Elsie Brand. “Of all the rotten breaks,” she said.
“What’s the matter?” Elsie Brand asked.
“Matter?” Bertha Cool bit the end of the word off viciously. “Everything’s the matter.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?” Elsie Brand asked, pushing her chair away from the desk. “Is that what you’re getting at?”
“No,” Bertha said. “I don’t want to tell you about it. I don’t want to tell anybody about it. I’m just a sucker, that’s all. I’m mixed up in a case where it’s raining gold, and I’m caught out with a leaky teaspoon. My God, Elsie, everybody’s in the dough except Bertha Cool. How I miss that little runt!
If he were only here, he’d find some way of climbing aboard the gravy train, and we’d come out of it with some dough.”
“There’s a card from him in the mail,” Elsie said. “He’s in San Francisco and will be there for three or four days.”
“You mean Donald Lam’s in San Francisco?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to fly up to see him.”
“It wouldn’t do any good,” Elsie Brand said. “He says in ,is card that you can’t see him, but he can get mail.”
The angle of Bertha Cool’s jaw showed sudden irrevocable decision. “All right then,” she said. “I’m going to write to the little shrimp. Brainy little bastard! He’ll know what to do. Suppose he’ll be snooty about it. He’s got to tell me what to do. Bring your notebook, Elsie. I’m going to write Donald Lam every single thing that’s happened.”
Bertha Cool led the way into the inner office. She seated herself in the swivel chair and said to Elsie Brand, “This letter goes air mail, special delivery. Put rush on the envelope, urgent, personal, and very private.”
Elsie Brand’s pencil moved over the paper.
“We’ll start it this way,” Bertha said. “Dear Donald: It was so good to hear from you, and I miss you so much. Bertha is trying to carry on the business the best she can so that you’ll have something to come back to when the war is over –”
“Wait a minute, Elsie. I guess I won’t say that.”
Elsie Brand looked up.
“Might give him some legal hold on me,” Bertha Cool said.
“Don’t you want him back in the business?” Elsie asked.
“How the hell do I know?” Bertha said irritably. “The end of the war may be a long way off. You strike that out and write this to him: ‘Donald darling: Since you left Bertha in the lurch, you’ve got to help her get things cleaned up.’ No, that sounds too damn much as though I needed him. Strike that out, Elsie.”
Bertha Cool was thoughtfully silent for a moment.
Abruptly she said, “We’ll write it this way: ‘Dear Donald: Bertha is quite busy this afternoon, but she’s taking time out, just the same, to write you a long letter to cheer you up, because Bertha knows how it is with persons who are in the armed forces. They get lonely for letters from people who love them.’ Now, Elsie, you can make a paragraph there, and then go on: ‘There isn’t very much to tell you about except what’s going on in the business, but because you must miss having problems to which you can turn your mind, I’m going to tell you about a very interesting case that’s in the office now.’ “
Bertha paused long enough to think that over, then smiled beaming satisfa
ction. “That’s the angle,” she said to Elsie Brand. “That gives me an opportunity to tell him all about it without putting myself under any obligations to him, and he’ll make some suggestions. You can bet on that.”
“Suppose he doesn’t?” Elsie Brand asked.
“Well, I’ll put right in the letter,” Bertha said, “that he should wire me any ideas he may have. Of course, I won’t use exactly those words. I’ll tell him that if he wants me to keep him posted on what’s happening in the case so he’ll have something to think about, he can send me a wire, giving me his ideas, and I’ll write him again and let him know about developments.”
Elsie Brand looked at her wrist watch, “If the letter is going to be long,” she said, “perhaps you’d better dictate it directly to the typewriter if you want it to get into the mail this evening.”
“Want it to get in the mail!” Bertha Cool exclaimed. “I’d send the damn thing by wire if it didn’t cost too much. All right, Elsie, let’s go out to your typewriter. And here’s a photostat of the will which I’m going to include in the letter, too. I got three extra copies for the office.
Chapter X
THE TALL, WELL-DRESSED man who spoke in the quietly modulated tones of a college graduate approached Elsie Brand’s desk.
The brief-case which he carried in his right hand was a creation of heavy black leather and gleaming brass. The hand which rested lightly upon the corner of Elsie Brand’s desk was soft, well kept, the nails neatly manicured and highly polished.
“Mrs. Cool?” he inquired with just the right rising inflection of culture.
“She isn’t in yet.”
The man looked at his wrist watch as though not so much interested in verifying the time for himself as in conveying a subtle rebuke to Bertha Cool’s tardiness. “It’s nine-fifteen,” he said.
“Sometimes she doesn’t get in before ten or ten-thirty,” Elsie Brand told him.
“Indeed?”
As no reply was made to that comment, the man went on, “I’m from the Intermutual Indemnity Company. Mrs. Cool is, I believe, the one who placed the ad in the paper asking for information about witnesses to a certain automobile accident.”
Elsie met his eyes and said, “I couldn’t tell you.”
“You mean you don’t know?” he asked in well-bred surprise.
“I mean, I couldn’t tell you. I’m here to do the typing. Mrs. Cool has charge of the department that gives out information. I –”
The door pushed open.
Bertha Cool, barging into the room, said, “Did you hear anything from Donald, Elsie?” before her eyes had become sufficiently focused on the interior of the office to see the visitor.
“Nothing yet,” Elsie Brand said.
The tall man moved toward Bertha Cool. “Mrs. Bertha Cool, I take it.”
Bertha, chunky and capable, looked up at the languid humour in the tall man’s eyes and said, “All right, go ahead and take it.”
The tall man flushed. “I didn’t mean it that way Mrs. Cool. I was merely using a colloquial expression. I’m from the Intermutual Indemnity Company.”
“What’s your name?” Bertha asked.
“Mr. P. L. Fosdick,” he said, rolling the name over his tongue as though he were reciting something very pleasant. His well-manicured hand went to his vest pocket, producing a card case which snapped open and automatically extended a card. Bowing slightly, Fosdick handed this card to Bertha Cool.
Bertha took the card, looked at it, rubbed her thumbnail over the embossed lettering in a gesture of quick, financial appraisal, and said, “All right, what do you want?”
Fosdick said, “You have been investigating an accident case, Mrs. Cool, advertising for witnesses in fact. My company naturally views this activity with some concern.”
“Why?”
“It looks as though you were preparing to file a suit.”
“Well?” Bertha demanded belligerently, her square-toed personality bristling at the suave, patronizing splendour of the tall man’s manner. “What’s wrong with that? I’ve got a right to file suit if I want to, haven’t I?”
“Yes, yes, Mrs. Cool. Please don’t misunderstand me. It may not be necessary.”
Bertha stubbornly refused to invite him into her private office. She stood there sizing him up with greedy, glittering eyes.
The door from the corridor opened and closed.
Elsie Brand coughed significantly.
Bertha didn’t turn around immediately.
Fosdick said in the manner of a man attempting to be deliberately impressive, “It might not be at all necessary to file suit, Mrs. Cool. It is quite possible that the Intermutual Indemnity Company, which insures the driver of the car involved, would accept the responsibility, admit liability, and make an adequate settlement.”
Elsie Brand coughed again. When Bertha didn’t turn around, Elsie said, “Mrs. Cool is busy at present. Could you come back a little later?”
The tone of Elsie Brand’s voice made Bertha whirl.
The droopy individual who had answered her ad as one of the witnesses and who had consistently refused to give his name was drinking in the situation.
Bertha said to Fosdick, “Come in my office,” and to the witness, “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you today.”
“I’ll wait anyway,” he said, smiling and making himself comfortable in one of the chairs.
“I’m not going to have anything for you.”
“It’s all right. I’ll wait.”
“I am definitely not interested.”
“All right, Mrs. Cool. All right, all right.” He picked up a magazine from the table, opened it at random, and apparently became instantly interested in the printed page.
Fosdick gallantly moved over to open the door of Bertha Cool’s private office, and then, bowing with well-mannered politeness, stood to one side.
Bertha, sailing on into the inner office, watched Fosdick close the door and stand by the big chair at the window, quite ostentatiously waiting for Bertha Cool to seat herself.
Sheer irritation caused Bertha to keep him standing for several unnecessary seconds before she adjusted herself in the depths of the swivel chair.
“You’ll understand of course,” Fosdick went on smoothly, “that the Intermutual Indemnity Company is not admitting any liability. We are only engaging in a preliminary discussion looking toward a compromise of an outstanding claim, and, as I suppose you realize, there are Supreme Court decisions to the effect that any statement made under such circumstances is not admissible in evidence—since it is the policy of the law to encourage settlements wherever possible.”
Bertha didn’t say anything.
“Now,” Fosdick went on as smoothly as flowing syrup, “we try to be just, Mrs. Cool. Many people think an insurance company is a heartless, soulless corporation intent only upon collecting as large premiums as possible on the one hand and paying out as small losses as possible on the other. The Inter-mutual Indemnity Company always endeavours to be fair. When our client is responsible, we make every effort to bring about a fair settlement, regardless of the financial expenditure.”
Fosdick elevated the brief-case to his lap, opened it, took out a file of papers, and let Bertha Cool see varying expressio s on his face as his well-manicured fingers turned over the leaves; the raised eyebrow of interest, the little moue of sceptical surprise, the sympathetic frown of one who is horrified at physical suffering.
Bertha said impatiently, “Okay, go ahead and say it.”
Fosdick looked up. “Mrs. Cool,” he said, “if you secure a proper release, duly signed by the person injured, the insurance company would be willing to pay one thousand dollars cold—hard—cash.”
“You’re so good to me,” Bertha murmured sarcastically.
“Of course,” Fosdick went on tentatively, “it appears that there were no serious injuries. It is further apparent that the person you represent must have been crossing the street without proper regard for t
he conditions of traffic. It is indeed quite possible that she was crossing against a red light. In court, a defence of contributory negligence would be raised, and, quite probably, sustained. However, it is always the policy of the Intermutual Indemnity Company to give the benefit of the doubt to any person who has actually been struck by a car operated by one of our insured up to and until the time such person files suit. After suit is filed, we are as adamant. We seldom lose a lawsuit. Once in court, we ask no quarter, and we give none. Under those circumstances, Mrs. Cool, regardless of the fact that the damage seems to have been so purely nominal, the insurance company will make you that as an offer—one thousand dollars in cold, hard cash.”
Fosdick closed the file of papers, carefully replaced it in the brief-case, snapped the catch on the brief-case, inserted the leather straps through the brass buckles, adjusting them carefully into position, and got to his feet. His manner was that of one who has made a very handsome gesture indeed and expects to be applauded.
Bertha Cool said, “A thousand dollars is nothing for what this woman suffered.”
“A thousand dollars,” Fosdick proclaimed, “is a very generous compromise offer.”
He bowed to Bertha Cool, opened the door, started across the outer office, paused halfway to the door, and said, “It is not only our first offer but our last. The Intermutual Indemnity Company will not increase it by one red cent.”
Bertha’s irritation snapped the bonds of her self-restraint. She shouted at him, “All right, make any offer you damn please—but you don’t need to be so God-damned erudite about it!”
She jerked the door of her private office shut, stamped back to the swivel chair, then suddenly thought of the other visitor in the outer office. She got up, walked back to the door, and jerked it open just in time to see the door of the outer office close.
“Where’s Droopy Lids?” she asked Elsie Brand, motioning toward the chair where the lackadaisical young man had been seated.
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