Skulldoggery

by Fletcher Flora

“Olives? Did you say olives?“

  “Exactly. One or two of them, if you don’t mind.”

  “Do you mean that you take olives straight?“

  “Certainly. How else would I take them?”

  “Surely you realize that olives are deadly poison unless purified in a strong solution of gin and vermouth? I’d just as soon eat a spoonful of cyanide.”

  “You’ll change your tune, Homer, when your kidneys fetch you.”

  “Oh, well.” Uncle Homer shook his head a few times, as though to clear it, and shrugged his shoulders. “Help yourself, Brewster. Take all you want. I suppose you have the right to jeopardize your own health if you choose.”

  He was clearly not, however, going to be a party to a poisoning, even of a lawyer, and he cast an uneasy glance or two at Brewster while he was distributing glasses. He kept the sixth one for himself, draining it quickly and refilling it from the pitcher before finding a chair near Aunt Madge.

  “All right, Brewster,” he said. “I see you have Father’s will there. Go ahead and read it.”

  “Not quite yet. Not quite.” Brewster spit an olive seed into the palm of his right hand and placed it neatly beside another on the tray. He removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket and patted his lips. “It will be necessary, I’m afraid, to wait for Mr. and Mrs. Crump.”

  “Why?” said Flo. “I simply can’t see why Father’s servants are essential.”

  “Because they participate in the will in a modest way. A modest way. It was to be expected, of course. Expected. After all, they served your father well for more than thirty years. Naturally, he remembered them. Naturally.”

  “Naturally or unnaturally,” Lester said, “I agree with Mother in being unable to see why they have to be here for the reading.”

  “You will see in good time. In good time. In the meanwhile, I must insist that we wait for them. I must insist.”

  “Well,” said Hester, “where in hell are they? Why haven’t they been around acting like servants? Someone go find them.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Brewster said. “They have retired to their quarters briefly, but I have already taken the liberty of requesting their attendance at this gathering. Taken the liberty. It chanced that they returned from the funeral at the same time as I, and I met them at the front door. The front door.”

  “Wherever they are, they are not here,” said Aunt Madge, “and I consider it intolerable to say the least. Waiting and waiting for a lawyer is bad enough, but waiting for servants is even worse.”

  “My advice is to have patience,” Brewster said. “Patience.”

  This would have been difficult advice to follow if much more patience had been required, but fortunately much more wasn’t. In fact, the advice had hardly been offered before there was a deferential knock at the door, and Mr. and Mrs. Crump, in response to Brewster’s bellowed invitation, slipped into the library and stood side by side, as if for their mutual comfort, if not for their mutual defense, against the wall. Mr. Crump was a dehydrated type, withered and tough as a dried apricot, and somehow gave the impression that he would, if soaked in a tub of water, blossom into full form and be filled with juices. Mrs. Crump, on the other hand, was ample and oily and sometimes amiable. At present, however, she folded her arms upon her impressive bosom and looked stern, apparently anticipating and reproving some piece of inappropriate levity. The Crumps constituted the entire staff of household servants, for Grandfather Hunter had lived alone and had long ago closed all his house except the ground floor.

  “Ah, there,” Brewster said. “Crump. Mrs. Crump. Be comfortable, please. Sit down if you wish.”

  The Crumps did not wish, and Uncle Homer, once these brief amenities were concluded, erupted in a minor frenzy of irritability.

  “Damn it, Brewster,” he said, “will you please, please, get on with reading the damn will!”

  “As to that,” said Brewster, “I am coming to it. I may say, indeed, that I have come to it. Come to it. First, however, I should like to offer a suggestion which you may or may not, of course, go along with. Artemus Hunter, as any fair-minded person will concede, was a man of both sterling virtue and egregious faults. He was, I may say, flawed. Flawed. Among his faults, the most trying, perhaps, was a tendency toward excessive gaseousness. He was, in brief, windy. As a talker, he was bad enough, but as a writer, he was even worse. Turn him loose with a pen, and he engaged immediately in a veritable orgy of verbosity. A veritable orgy.”

  “If you want my opinion,” said Lester, “you are no slouch yourself when it comes to verbosity.”

  “Yes,” Hester said. “If you have a suggestion to make, as you said, I would appreciate your making it immediately if not sooner.”

  Brewster, impervious to insult and cognizant of his legal position, laid a hand on the thick sheaf of papers on the table before him.

  “This,” he said, “is the last will and testament of Artemus Hunter. It is written by his hand. His hand. It contains, I should guess, at least ten thousand unnecessary words. To spare you the ordeal of hearing it through, I suggest that I simply extract the meat of it. Extract the meat. Any or all of you will, of course, be at liberty to read the document in detail later if you choose.”

  “For my part,” Uncle Homer said, “I have no desire to listen to ten thousand unnecessary words by Father post mortem. Having already listened to some ten million during his lifetime, I’ve had enough.”

  “I am in agreement,” Flo said. “Homer and I are experts on this question, having suffered the longest, and I am ready to testify that listening to ten thousand unnecessary words from Father, or even ten, is no pleasant experience.”

  “I have no objection to extracting the meat,” said Hester, “but I want to be sure that it’s all the meat.”

  “That worries me a little, too,” Junior said. “Brewster, are you sure you’re not up to some kind of trick?”

  “Young man,” said Brewster, “I do not engage in trickery. I am an attorney of the highest repute. The highest repute. I have already assured you that you have the right to read the document yourself if you are not satisfied. I shall, indeed, be happy to read it aloud. Aloud.”

  “I’m against that,” said Uncle Homer. “Damn it, Junior, you don’t realize what kind of torture you’re inviting.”

  “Oh, go ahead and extract the meat,” Hester said.

  “Yes, Brewster,” Uncle Homer said, “extract it, please.”

  “And try,” said Lester, “not to repeat yourself seventeen times in extracting it.”

  Given license to extract, Brewster abandoned the document on the desk and consulted a sheet of paper that he took from a pocket of his coat.

  “To settle the major matter at once,” he said, “Artemus Hunter has left his entire estate, divided into five parts, to his son Homer in the amount of thirty percent, his daughter Flo in the amount of twenty-five percent, and his grand-children, Junior, Lester and Hester, in the amount of fifteen percent each.”

  “Dear old Father,” Uncle Homer said.

  “Rest his soul,” said Flo.

  “There must be a joker,” said Junior.

  “The same notion has struck me,” said Lester.

  “What I would like to know,” said Hester, “is how much the estate is.”

  “According to my best estimate,” Brewster said, “it amounts, in round figures, to ten million dollars.”

  “An appreciable amount,” Uncle Homer said.

  “In my opinion,” said Flo, “there is nothing lovelier than round figures.”

  “Especially,” said Lester, “when they have been extracted.”

  “Wait a minute,” Hester said. “What happened to the Crumps?”

  “That’s right,” Uncle Homer said. “Brewster, you said specifically that old Crump and his wife were remembered. What kind of hellish deception are you up to?”

  “So they were,” Brewster said. “That brings us to a certain condition. A proviso, so to speak.”


  “What the devil do you mean, proviso? Brewster, I become damn uneasy when you start talking like a shyster. Permit me to remind you that you have already said that the family will inherit the entire estate.”

  “So you will. In good time.”

  “In good time? What do you mean by good time? By God, Brewster, you are driving me to distraction. Explain yourself immediately.”

  “If not sooner,” said Hester.

  “Yes.” Lester said. “Time is a proviso that my creditors have not counted on and may not be willing to wait for.”

  “It is quite clear and quite legal. Oh, legal, I assure you. Quite.” Brewster waved his extraction with one hand and patted the document with the other. “It is provided that the family shall inherit the estate after, I repeat after, it has been held intact during the lifetime of Senorita Fogarty, and that during her lifetime it shall be used solely to provide for her comfort and welfare. The Crumps are appointed guardians. They are specifically admonished to spare no expense and to take all necessary precautions to assure Senorita Fogarty a long life and a happy one. They will, of course, remain in residence in this house.”

  “Are you saying,” said Flo, “that Father was keeping a woman? At his age?”

  “Not only a woman,” Hester said, “but apparently a half-breed. Spanish and Irish, from the sound of it They’re the very worst kind.”

  “I’ve always contended,” said Aunt Madge, “that he was a wicked old man.”

  “Who precisely,” said Lester, “is Senorita Fogarty?”

  The answer to this question was clearly the joker that Junior and Lester had suspected, and that Brewster had deliberately kept buried in the deck. Or buried, rather, in his extraction.

  “Senorita Fogarty,” he said with an angular gesture, “is there. On Madge’s lap. Fogarty is, it seems, Senorita’s surname. Apparently you were not aware of it.”

  Six pairs of eyes turned in various directions to stare at Grandfather’s Chihuahua with unanimous horror.

  “Are we seriously to understand,” said Uncle Homer, “that Father left an estate worth ten million dollars in trust for that? For a dog?“

  “Exactly and legally,” Brewster said. “During her lifetime.”

  Senorita Fogarty was swept with a startled yip from Aunt Madge’s lap.

  “Get down,” she said, “you nasty, naked little bitch.”

  3

  THUS SUMMARILY evicted, Senorita Fogarty fell into a fit of trembling that shook her violently from end to end. She looked back at Aunt Madge with confusion and terror in her soft little bulging eyes, and then, as if turning in trauma to the security of the law, she scurried over and stood near the feet of Willis Brewster. The lawyer looked down at her with active distaste, prepared to kick her if she came any closer. He considered Senorita a delight insofar as she was a bedevilment of Grandfather Hunter’s family, that was apparent, but it was equally apparent that he did not intend to tolerate intimacies even from her, however rich she was.

  It was Mrs. Crump, in the end, who emerged as Senorita’s protector. Heaving herself into motion, she plunged across the room and swept the little bitch into her arms, pinning her in an instant upon her broad bosom. Senorita let out one terrified yelp and then resigned herself limply to whatever horror might be pending. Mrs. Crump, without a word, favored each of the secondary heirs with a stony stare, showing not the slightest partiality in her formidable animus, and afterward made an exit that was a triumph of outsized disdain.

  “What’s the matter with her?” Uncle Homer said. “Where the hell is she going with that dog?”

  “I should say,” said Brewster, “that she is removing it from peril. From peril. After all, a dog worth ten million dollars cannot be abandoned to the hazards of ordinary associations. No, indeed. To be charged with the custody of such a dog is a heavy responsibility. One must be constantly on the alert for brigands of all sorts. Of all sorts.”

  “Brewster, you scoundrel, are you implying that we are brigands?”

  “Pish, Homer. Pish, pish. Permit me to remind you that I’m an attorney of long experience. Long experience. I have seen more than one person tempted to skuldoggery by a lesser motive. Skuldoggery of the most serious nature.”

  “Skuldoggery! By God, Brewster, this is simply too much! Do you actually have the effrontery to make jokes about our misfortune?”

  “A small pun. You will permit me, please, a small pun.”

  “What is the old devil talking about?” said Flo. “What pun?”

  “Never mind,” Lester said. “Brewster, you have been damned derelict in this business, and I don’t mind saying so. You’ve known the terms of Grandfather’s will right along, and you would never have been a party to it if you had any sense of honor whatever.”

  “Young Lester, I shall not tolerate such aspersions. Aspersions. Your grandfather was in full possession of his faculties, and had every legal right to leave his estate as he pleased. Every legal right.”

  “Well,” said Hester, “you should at least have warned us. It’s quite a shock to find yourself suddenly the victim of such a monstrous deception.”

  “I was charged with secrecy. It would have been unethical to divulge the terms. Unethical. My advice as an attorney is that you should all accept the situation as it is and resign yourselves to waiting for the demise of Senorita Fogarty as you waited for that of Artemus Hunter. Chihuahuas, I understand, do not live long.”

  “When this becomes known in certain quarters,” said Lester, “she may damn well live longer than I.”

  “Lester, darling,” Flo said, “I wish you wouldn’t get yourself involved with such unpleasant people. If you are going to gamble, why can’t you do it with nice men who won’t insist upon being paid constantly?”

  “I’d be glad to do it,” Lester said, “if only I could find any.”

  “As for me, I am inclined to let Lester worry about his own problems,” Uncle Homer said, “for the rest of us clearly have all we can handle already. I hate to admit it, but I’m bound to say that Brewster is right. We must merely wait and hope for a short life for Senorita Fogarty. When she is dead, everything will turn out as we had hoped and had every reasonable right to expect.”

  “Unless,” Brewster said, “there is another unfortunate development.”

  “Unfortunate development? What kind of other unfortunate development could there possibly be?” Uncle Homer slapped a knee and glared angrily at the lawyer. “By God, Brewster, is there no end to your duplicity. You have no sooner pulled one dirty trick on us than you begin to hint immediately that there may be more to come. Do you have more extractions? If so, you will please inform us what they are at once.”

  “I will do so if you will only give me the chance,” Brewster said. “It is further provided by Artemus Hunter that his estate will continue in trust for the comfort and support of any and all issue of Senorita Fogarty, and of any and all issue of the issue of Senorita Fogarty, should there be such issue, and for the entire time, if so, that said issue shall live.”

  Everyone stared for some time at Brewster as if he had suddenly sprouted horns and a forked tail, expressions varying from sheer horror in Uncle Homer’s case to a kind of comic incredulity in Flo’s, and then Uncle Homer finally shuddered and rubbed his palms together and said quite calmly in a voice of dreadful restraint.

  “Permit me to restate that, Brewster. Permit me to restate it in my own words, and then kindly have the goodness to tell me that I misunderstood. You seemed to say, as I heard you, that Father’s estate will be held in trust, not only for Senorita Fogarty, but for all of her goddam pups, if any, and for all of the pups of her goddam pups, and so on to the end of the goddam line. This is, of course, an absurdity that even Father could hardly have imagined or perpetrated. I am right, am I not, Brewster, in this judgment?”

  “You may be right in thinking it’s an absurdity,” Brewster said, “but you are wrong in thinking that your father couldn’t have imagined it or perpetrated it
. He could and did.”

  “Well, by God,” said Uncle Homer. “I am absolutely appalled. It’s shameful to know that my own father was such an unmitigated monster.”

  “He was my father, too, I’m sorry to say,” Flo said, “and in my opinion he was a simple lunatic. What I would like to know, however, is what we can now do about it. Lester, darling, you have always been clever at getting around things. What on earth can we do?”

  “That’s easy,” said Lester. “We must have Senorita Fogarty spayed at once.”

  “You see?” Flo turned to Uncle Homer with an expression of amazement and delight. “Didn’t I tell you that he is clever in such matters? Lester, darling, it’s absolutely incredible how you think of exactly the right things on the spur of the moment.”

  “It would certainly be direct and effective,” said Uncle Homer. “I’ll hand him that.”

  “I can see why he thought of it,” Hester said. “After money, it is in his major field of interest.”

  “There is only one thing wrong with it that I can see,” said Junior. “It assumes a fact not in evidence. Ask Brewster if it doesn’t. As a lawyer he should know.”

  “What fact?” said Hester. “Damn it, Junior, must you spoil everything?”

  “It assumes that Senorita Fogarty is not already pregnant,” said Junior.

  “Good God!” Uncle Homer, who had been glaring at the lawyer all this time, continued to glare. “Brewster, is Senorita Fogarty pregnant?”

  “No, she is not. I can assure you that she is not. I can assure you.”

  “Do Chihuahuas actually get pregnant? Flo said. “I never heard of such a thing.”

  “Oh, don’t be absurd, Mother,” Hester said. “Where do you suppose all the Chihuahuas come from? Furthermore, as you can tell from her name, Senorita Fogarty is Spanish and Irish, and is surely subject to all sorts of illicit passions.”

  “I don’t doubt for a minute that the damn dog has round heels,” said Junior.

  “But she’s so small,” Flo said. “It sounds immoral.“

  Willis Brewster hawked loudly and lifted a hand soliciting silence.