Where There's a Will

Chapter 18

In the south bedroom, a hot south wind fluttered the curtains at the windows. The dick put on his coat, wiped his face and neck with his handkerchief, and smoothed his hair back with his hands. Glenn Prescott sat on a chair and groaned.

“I’m perfectly willing to talk to Wolfe,” he said in a hurt tone. “But why can’t he come up here? I can’t even bend over to put my shoes on.”

Having got him off of the bed and his clothes more or less arranged on him, I was tired of fooling with him. I got a shoe horn from the dresser, went over and kneeled down by him, got him shod and the strings tied, stood up and told him:

“One, two, three, go. For God’s sake, do you want us to carry you?”

The dick said irritably, “There’s an elevator ain’t they? What more do you want?”

Prescott gritted his teeth, pushed himself upright with his hands, groaned, and took a step.

Downstairs, just inside the door of the office, he stopped short, evidently surprised at the size of the party. The room was full, extra chairs having been brought from the front. Sara Dunn had come down from the roof and was in the corner of the bookshelves with Andy and Celia. Wolfe was at his desk and Cramer and District Attorney Skinner were at the far end of it, with Eugene Davis between them. April, May and June, between us and the desk, had their backs to us as we entered. Stauffer was on a chair next to April’s, still protecting her. John Charles Dunn got up and approached, starting at Prescott’s face.

“Glenn! What happened to you? Good heavens, what—”

Prescott vaguely shook his head. I doubt if he heard Dunn or even saw him. His eyes, one of them puffed half shut, were aimed straight past him, in the direction of Eugene Davis. He stood there, with me behind him. The dick had posted himself at the door.

Skinner barked, “Well?”

Wolfe said, “There’s a chair for Mr. Prescott there by yours, Archie.”

I nudged Prescott’s elbow and he moved across to it and lowered himself. Johnny Keems got out of my chair and moved to one in the rear alongside Saul Panzer. He knew damn well I didn’t like anyone sitting in my chair.

May Hawthorne said sarcastically, “This is impressive, Mr. Wolfe.”

Wolfe’s eyes moved to her. “You don’t like me, do you, Miss Hawthorne? I understand that. You’re a realist and I’m a romantic. But all this isn’t for effect. I shall need some of you and I may need all of you. It’s a job. I’m out after a murderer and he’s here.” He looked at the district attorney. “It may be slippery going, Mr. Skinner. I expect you to stick to our bargain.”

“As stated,” said Skinner sharply. “I’m not gagged and I won’t be.”

“Yes, sir, as stated.” Wolfe’s eyes circled around the faces and settled on the one least presentable of all. “Mr. Prescott, I know you can’t talk without discomfort, so I’ll try to do most of it myself. Being a lawyer, you understand of course that you are under no compulsion to answer questions, but I warn you I’m going to be pretty stubborn and disagreeable. First I’ll ask you to verify a few facts I’ve collected. In March, 1938, your private secretary was a young woman named — what’s that name, Saul?”

Saul spoke up from the rear: “Lucille Adams.”

“And when did she die?”

“Two months ago, in May, of tuberculosis, at her home at 2419—”

“Thanks. Is that correct, Mr. Prescott?”

“Why — yes,” Prescott mumbled.

“It was Miss Adams to whom you dictated Noel Hawthorne’s will, following instructions he gave you?”

“I don’t remember.” The mumble cleared up a little. “I suppose it was.”

“She was your private secretary at that time, and took all your confidential dictation?”

“Yes.”

A voice said gruffly, “If this is a joke it’s a bad one.” It was Eugene Davis. “Is this an official investigation? The district attorney is here. Are you on his staff, Mr. Wolfe?”

“No, sir. I’m a private detective — Are you represented by counsel, Mr. Prescott? Or do you want to be?”

“Certainly not.”

“Do you want Mr. Davis, as your counsel, interfering in our conversation?”

“No.”

“Then to go on. Regarding the routine in your office. The notebooks used by the confidential secretaries are numbered. As soon as one is filled and the contents transcribed, the notebooks are turned in and destroyed. Is that correct?”

Prescott carefully shifted in his chair, but he didn’t groan. “Yes,” he said. “I’m answering the question, yes. Now I’d like to ask one. I’d like to know who has been investigating the affairs of my office, and why.”

“I have.” Wolfe’s tone got a little crisper. “My agents have. Mr. Panzer and Mr. Keems, there behind you. I assure you they have done nothing actionable, and if you start pumping up indignation it will only rush blood to your head and make you more uncomfortable than you already are. You’d better keep your brain as cool as possible.”

“Get on with it,” the district attorney snapped. “We’re not here for a lecture.”

Wolfe didn’t even glance at him. He continued at Prescott: “Now, sir, if Mr. Skinner will stop interrupting me, I can make it pretty brief. I have been given, one after the other, three problems to solve: the will of Noel Hawthorne, the murder of Noel Hawthorne, and the murder of Naomi Karn. Whether my belief that I have solved them is sound, or whether it is merely my conceit bubbling over, rests on the validity of a series of hypotheses I have made — based, of course, on information received. If any one of them is wrong, I am wrong. I’m going to ask you — all of you — to listen closely to them.

“One. Eugene Davis was madly, desperately, in love with Naomi Karn, and was so filled with despair and jealousy when she abandoned him for Noel Hawthorne that he began drinking too much and, I suppose, did other foolish things. That went on for nearly three years. During that time, possibly, she let him have some crumbs — did she, Mr. Davis? It would help to understand her character.”

All eyes went to Davis. He made no answer. With his lips tight and his jaw locked, he gazed at Wolfe. A spasm contorted the muscles of his throat as he swallowed.

Wolfe shrugged. “Two. Davis understood Miss Karn’s character himself. He knew she was ambitious, greedy, and unscrupulous, and that he would never find relief from the agony he suffered through her intimacy with Noel Hawthorne as long as Hawthorne was alive and a millionaire. Also he knew the terms of Hawthorne’s will. It was in the vault of his firm, to which he had access.

“Three. Probably the death of Lucille Adams, two months ago, led to the formation of his scheme. A shrewd brain sees an opportunity where an ordinary one would miss it. Anyway, he made his scheme, and awaited an occasion to execute it. He knew of Hawthorne’s intended trip to Rockland County for Tuesday afternoon, and arranged to be with Miss Karn at that time. He says they drove to Connecticut; wherever they went, he absented himself long enough to go to Rockland County and back. Probably he had a detailed plan of action, and a weapon; but seeing, from the highway, Noel Hawthorne there at the edge of the woods carrying a shotgun, was a heaven-sent opportunity. He took advantage of it. I’m pretty sure Miss Karn didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. She didn’t need to, and he didn’t want her to.

“Four. Tuesday evening—”

“Wait a minute.” Eugene Davis had decided it was time to say something. He was regarding Wolfe with narrowed eyes. “Are you saying I killed Hawthorne?”

“I seem to be hinting at that as a possibility, Mr. Davis.”

“Then you’re a damned idiot. And it’s certainly actionable to accuse—”

“It may be. Or it may not. You’re a lawyer; why don’t you let me go on till I sink? Four. It is reasonable to assume that it was on Tuesday evening that Davis went to the office of his firm and, getting Hawthorne’s will from the vault, typed a new first page for it — the same paper, even the same machine — and of course wording it and ending it so it would fit the continuance on the second page, where the attestations and signatures were. He would hardly have proceeded with that until Hawthorne was actually dead, though he may have done the typing previously, since it was a delicate and difficult job.

“Five. It is probable that there was no bequest to Miss Karn in Hawthorne’s will. What gifts he may have made her we can only conjecture, but I doubt if her name was in his will. It isn’t commonly done that way. Even if it was, the legacy was certainly a comparatively modest one. So Davis, wanting to bind Miss Karn to him with a tie that would render unlikely further adventures with millionaires, made her a tempting offer. If she would pledge constancy to him, the will found in the vault would have the first page he had typed, and she would inherit seven million dollars.”

“Glenn Prescott drew the will,” May Hawthorne said acidly.

Wolfe nodded. “Yes. But six. Davis had calculated the risk. If there was a duplicate of the will anywhere, he knew where it was, and either destroyed it or gave it a new first page also. There were only three other sources of evidence of the contents of the will as originally drawn. The stenographer’s notebook. That, following routine, had been destroyed. The stenographer herself. She also had been destroyed, by death. Glenn Prescott, his partner, who had drawn the will. There was his risk, and he took it. He was shrewd, audacious, and desperate, and he took it. He knew Prescott; he knew that the dearest thing to his heart was the reputation and prosperity of that law firm. So he calculated: Prescott, getting the will from the vault and discovering the substitution that had taken place, would be shocked, horrified, stunned. He would suspect at once that Davis had done it. But would he expose him?”

Davis blurted in a rasping sarcastic tone, “Good God, you were sunk long ago.”

“I’m going deeper yet,” said Wolfe imperturbably. “Davis answered that question, would Prescott expose him, with a no. Prescott regarded Davis as a rarely gifted lawyer, the kind that makes history. He knew he was being ruined by his infatuation for Miss Karn. With Hawthorne dead, and Miss Karn’s greediness so adequately satisfied, thanks to Davis, Davis might have her and be himself again, to the greater glory of the firm. On the other hand, if Prescott exposed the crime, if he disclosed the facts, whether Davis’s guilt was legally established or not, the thing would be a staggering blow to the prestige and standing of the firm. Dunwoodie is an old man, hardly more than a name. Prescott has ability but no brilliance, and knows it. With Davis out, and such a stink pervading that office, the firm would be ruined.

“Davis figured that was the way Prescott would react, and he was right. I don’t know how long Prescott struggled with himself about it, but finally he took the will up to the Hawthorne residence on Thursday evening and read it to the family gathered there. Then, of course, he was irrevocably committed. Davis was safe as far as Prescott was concerned. But he found himself confronted by another danger. Where and how and when it first showed itself, I don’t know, nor have I any proof that Naomi Karn became convinced that Davis had killed Hawthorne, and either threatened to expose him — which seems unlikely — or announced an invincible repugnance to intimate association with a murderer — which seems much more probable. At any rate, the result was that when Davis entered the Hawthorne living room yesterday afternoon and saw Miss Karn there, he knocked her on the head and strangled her and shoved her behind — Archie!”

I was out of my chair, but I wasn’t needed. Davis had jerked himself up, halfway to his feet, and Cramer had thrust out an arm to block him, but even that hadn’t been necessary. He had made an inarticulate noise of pain, no words, and dropped back again as if it was too much for him. He flopped there limp, staring at Wolfe.

Wolfe looked not at Davis, but at his partner, and went on: “Now, Mr. Prescott, it’s up to you. I have a couple of items of evidence, but before I present them I want an understanding with you. Your attempt to save your firm from ruin has failed. The murderer of Hawthorne and Miss Karn is going to pay for it. If you want to help us in that, this is your chance and your last one.” Wolfe’s eyes went to the right. “Mr. Skinner, I said I have evidence, and I have. But Mr. Prescott can help us if he feels like it. I suggest that if he gives valuable testimony for the state against a murderer, it would be appropriate not to prosecute him as an accomplice in a forgery.”

Skinner growled, “That’s in my discretion.”

“I know it is.”

“Well,” Skinner looked wary. “It depends on the testimony.” He eyed Prescott. “I’ll say this. If you help me, I’m likely to help you. If you don’t, and you concealed a forgery, God can help you.”

Everybody was looking at Prescott. His face was certainly a sight. Added to the fact that it was swollen and puffed and bruised, it was now a sickly purplish tinge all over, as if the traffic in the blood vessels had got into a jam that couldn’t be untangled. He wouldn’t look at Davis; he wouldn’t even look at Skinner because he was in Davis’s direction. With one fairly decent eye and one only a slit, he regarded Wolfe and stammered:

“What — what do you want me to say?”

“The truth, sir. About the will, what—”

Davis put in sharply, “Don’t be a fool, Glenn. Keep your mouth shut.”

“About the will,” Wolfe repeated. “Davis is done for anyway. What sum did Hawthorne will to Miss Karn?”

“He — I can’t—”

“Spill it!” Skinner barked.

Prescott squeezed it out. “He left her nothing. She wasn’t mentioned.”

“I see. And to his wife?”

“The residue. There was — a million to each of his sisters. Bequests to servants and employees, and his niece and nephew — they weren’t changed. A million to the science fund of Varney College. The residue would have been something over two million.”

“Good — Archie, make a note of that and take the rest — I could badger you with a string of questions, but I’d rather not. You tell me. You’re a lawyer, and you know what I want, if you’ve got it. What can you tell me?”

The purple tinge on Prescott’s face was coming and going. He was an object. But his voice was suddenly stronger: “I can tell you — when I saw Miss Karn on Thursday — she admitted that Davis had done it and she had conspired with him. She told me all—”

“You sniveling liar!”

It was Eugene Davis, suddenly on his feet. Cramer was up too, grabbing his arm. So was I, but again I wasn’t needed. Davis, making no effort at further movement, his eyes on Prescott blazing with contempt and hate, was saying it with words:

“You throw me in! You skunk! I’m sorry I beat you up! I’m sorry I touched you! You killed her! You killed her, and for old Dunwoodie’s sake, for the sake of all of them down there, I smashed your face for you and that was all I was going to do! I wanted to kill you, I admit that, but I haven’t got it in me to kill. I just smashed your face. And you fall into the trap this man sets for you, and you offer to throw me in! You cowardly treacherous fool!”

Davis faced Wolfe. “You’re clever,” he said in a cold and bitter tone. “Damned clever. And of course you’re right. Prescott did it. You wanted to open me up, and you have. He wanted Naomi six years ago, but she preferred me. He has always wanted her. He’s sly and he’s secretive and it has gone on festering inside of him. I knew he never stopped wanting her, but I didn’t know how it had rotted his insides until she told me Friday evening what he had done about the will and the proposal he had made to her. And she had accepted it. She was going to marry him. You’re right about her too — she was ambitious, greedy and unscrupulous, but she — well, she’s dead. When she learned Friday that Hawthorne had been murdered, she knew Prescott had killed him. To get her. And she decided to ditch him. That’s why he killed her — that, and the fear that if it got hot she would squeal.”

Cramer rumbled, “Sit down.”

Skinner said, “Wait a minute.” He was scowling at Wolfe. “You said you had evidence that Davis did it.”

“No, sir. I said I had evidence. Archie, get that envelope from the safe.”

I threaded my way between customers, got it and returned with it, and handed it to him. He shook the contents onto the desk, selected a snapshot, and told me to give it to Prescott. I did so. I practically had to close his fist on it, and he made no effort to look at it. His one good eye was glassy.

“That,” said Wolfe, “is a picture of you, Mr. Prescott, taken at six o’clock Tuesday by Sara Dunn as you awaited her with your car in front of the shop where she works. The flower in your buttonhole is a rosa setigera. A wild rose. You remembered that yesterday and stole her camera, but you were too late. Where in the heart of New York City, where did you get that wild rose?”

He paused, but Prescott didn’t reply, and obviously wasn’t able to. All he could do was stare like an imbecile.

“You didn’t get it in New York,” Wolfe continued inexorably. “No New York florist ever has a wild rose. And when you left your office around one o’clock Tuesday, according to the observant young woman at the reception desk — what’s her name, Johnny?”

“Mabel Shanks,” said Johnny, louder than necessary. “But she isn’t young.”

“At any rate, a woman. What was Mr. Prescott wearing in his buttonhole when he left for lunch Tuesday?”

“A cornflower.”

“Just so — And, Mr. Prescott, a wilted cornflower was found by Andy Dunn not far from Hawthorne’s body, hanging on a rose briar. I have two proofs that that was a patch of rose briars, a picture of the scene taken by Sara Dunn Wednesday morning, and a plant in a vase upstairs, brought me by one of my men. I assume it was before you shot Hawthorne, while you were talking with him there, that, being as casual as possible until you got hold of the gun by some ruse, you discarded your cornflower and replaced it with a wild rose. Or possibly Hawthorne did that for you, seeing that your cornflower was wilted. That appears more likely. He laid the gun down to do that, and that was your chance to pick it up. Then, with him dead, in your frenzy to get away and return to New York as fast as possible so as to establish an alibi by calling for Miss Dunn, you forgot all about the rose, and you were still wearing it when you arrived and Miss Dunn took a picture of you. It was that picture that betrayed—”

“Hey!”

Cramer jumped a good eight feet, right over Skinner’s legs and seized Prescott’s throat with both hands. I never saw anything more pitiful, and don’t want to. The poor sap had suddenly stuffed the snapshot in his mouth and began chewing as fast as he could with his sore and swollen jaw, and was trying to gulp it down.

“Let him alone,” Wolfe said curtly. “I have the film. You can have him, Mr. Skinner. Please get him out of here.”

I felt the same way about it. Having looked at Prescott all I cared to, I surveyed the famous Hawthorne gals and their entourage. You might have thought we were running a matrimonial bureau, or even something not so genteel. Andy and Celia were wrapped around each other by the bookshelves. April was letting Ossie enfold her in his protecting arms. John Charles Dunn was leaning over June, kissing her, and she had her hands up clinging to him.

May leveled her eyes at Wolfe and demanded, “About the will. If he destroyed that first page, how are we going to establish—”

Wolfe merely glared at her.

The warrant for Wolfe’s arrest as a material witness is in a drawer of my desk where I keep souvenirs.