Bats Fly at Dusk

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  Bertha had just finished dictating a long letter when Christopher Milbers entered the office.

  “Hello,” Bertha said, “come on in,” and to Elsie, “Be sure we get that out tonight, Elsie. It’s air mail, special delivery.”

  Elsie Brand nodded, sat down at the typewriter desk, flipped back the pages of her shorthand notebook, and turned the keyboard of her machine into a pneumatic riveter.

  Christopher Milbers adjusted himself in the client’s seat, placed his fingertips together, and beamed across at Bertha Cool. “I came in,” he said, “to settle up.”

  “You mean you’re all finished?” Bertha asked. “You’ve reached a compromise with them?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Compromise? On what?”

  “On the will.”

  He said, “I haven’t as yet made up my mind what to do about the will.”

  “Well,” Bertha asked him, “why not wait until you get the thing straightened up?”

  “But,” Milbers expostulated, “that wouldn’t affect your compensation in any way. I employed you to help me locate the missing ten thousand dollars. We found the will while we were searching, but that is what we might call a side issue.”

  “Oh, I see,” Bertha said dryly.

  “I believe,” Milbers announced, pressing his hands so firmly together that the fingers arched backward, “you put in something less than half a day on the matter. However, I’m willing to be generous. If you don’t divide your days, I’m willing to pay for a full day.”

  He beamed across at Bertha.

  Bertha said, “A hundred dollars.”

  “But, my dear Mrs. Cool, that’s definitely outrageous!”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “The charges made by other firms engaged in a similar line of business—and which, incidentally, determine legally the reasonable basic rate. I hadn’t anticipated anything like that. I had thought that your charges would not exceed ten dollars, and I had prepared a little surprise for you.”

  He took from his pocket a cheque payable to Bertha Cool to the amount of twenty-five dollars. On the back of it had been typed, “This cheque is offered and accepted in full settlement of any and all claims which the payee may have against the payor of any sort, nature, or description, up to and including the date of the endorsement of this cheque, and the payee, by endorsement hereof, releases the payor from any and all claims of any sort, nature, or description from the beginning of the world to the date of said endorsement.”

  “Done by a lawyer,” Bertha grunted.

  “Well,” Milbers said, “naturally I had to consult an attorney to protect my interests in connection with the estate.”

  Bertha knew when she was licked. She sighed, took the cheque, and said, “All right, then, I’ll deposit it.”

  Milbers got to his feet, bowed, and extended his hand. “It was a pleasure to have met you, Mrs. Cool.”

  Bertha clasped her pudgy, competent fingers around Milbers’ long, tapering hand. “All right,” she said, and then added grimly, “Better luck next time.”

  When Milbers had left the office Bertha strode out to the outer office, and slammed the cheque down on Elsie’s Brand’s desk. “Put a P.S. on that letter to Donald, Elsie. Tell him that so far I’ve broken even in the damn case. Twenty-five dollars paid out. Twenty-five dollars taken in. Thank God, I’m holding my own.”

  Chapter XIII

  1942 AUG 29 VALLEJO, CALIFORNIA

  (DAY LETTER COLLECT) BERTHA COOL, CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIONS

  DREXEL BUILDING

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  MORE I THINK OF IT, MORE I AM IMPRESSED WITH POSSIBLE SIGNIFICANCE OF CHANGE IN LITERARY STYLE OF THAT WILL.

  ANOTHER THING I CAN’T UNDERSTAND IS WHY INSURANCE COMPANY SHOULD APPROACH YOU WITH OFFER OF SETTLEMENT INASMUCH AS COMPANY SHOULD KNOW IDENTITY AND LOCATION OF INJURED PARTY. AS YOU ARE NOT AN ATTORNEY THERE IS NO REASON WHY INSURANCE COMPANY SHOULDN’T HAVE APPROACHED INJURED PARTY DIRECT UNLESS FOR SOME REASON INSURANCE COMPANY SHOULDN’T KNOW THE IDENTITY OF THE VICTIM. THE DRIVER OF THE CAR SHOULD HAVE TOLD THEM THIS. IF HE DIDN’T IT INDICATES SOME COMPLICATION WORTHY OF INVESTIGATION. REGARDS.

  DONALD LAM.

  Chapter XIV

  BERTHA COOL STOOD at her desk, holding a heavy palm down on the open telegram as though afraid that it might get away from her. She pressed the buzzer which summoned Elsie Brand.

  “Take a letter to Donald, Elsie.

  ‘Dear Donald: You’ve been in the Navy so long you’re full of beans. Bertha had the best handwriting expert in the city go over that will and compare signatures. The signatures are genuine. It may not have occurred to you that the peculiar change in style comes on the SECOND page. That’s the page that has the signatures. Therefore, if there’s anything wrong with THAT page, the signatures must have been forged–all three of them.’ ”

  “You got that, Elsie?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Cool.”

  “All right, now we’ll give him the other barrel.

  ‘Apparently your experience in the Navy has let your brains get rusty. It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to Bertha whether the second page of that will is forged or not, and there isn’t any chance it could have been forged. I’ll admit that Paul Hanberry looks to me like something the cat dragged in. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could toss my income tax with my left hand, but Josephine Dell is all right. Sometime when you’re out on the ocean with nothing to think about except dive bombers, torpedoes, submarines, and mines, you may realize that Bertha’s client gets his slap in the face on the first page. It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to Bertha what happens in the rest of the will. The testator could give the rest of his dough to superannuated naval officers for all Bertha cares. If you’re going to keep on wiring me collect, at least try to get something constructive in your telegrams.

  ‘Bertha misses you, but the way you miss all the important points on a case, perhaps it’s just as well if we dissolve the partnership. Thank you, however, for trying to help. Don’t bother with it any more. Bertha will take care of it. You concentrate on the Japs. Best wishes.’

  Bertha crumpled the telegram, dropped it into a wastebasket, looked at the crumpled ball for a moment, then fished the telegram out, smoothed it out, and said to Elsie, “Put it in the file. It’s the first time the little runt ever got caught off first base, and having it in writing may not hurt anything.”

  As an afterthought she added, “Okay, it’s Saturday. We’ve had one hell of a week. Let’s close up shop until Monday.”

  Chapter XV

  1942 AUG 30 VALLEJO, CALIFORNIA

  (NIGHT LETTER COLLECT) BERTHA COOL, CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIONS

  DREXEL BUILDING

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  YOU HAVE MISSED POINT. THE RULE WORKS BOTH WAYS. CHANGE IN STYLE ONLY INDICATES ENTIRE CONTENTS OF WILL NOT WRITTEN BY SAME PERSON. IF SECOND PAGE OF WILL IS GENUINE THEN SOMEONE HAS SUBSTITUTED FRAUDULENT FIRST PAGE. AMOUNT OF CHRISTOPHER MILBERS’ BEQUEST IS QUITE PROBABLY CHANGED. TWO POSSIBILITIES TO CONSIDER.

  ONE IS THAT MILBERS HIMSELF, BEING CUT OFF WITH ONE DOLLAR, FORGED FIRST PAGE TO MAKE LEGACY TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. SECOND ALTERNATIVE IS THAT CHRISTOPHER MILBERS MIGHT HAVE BEEN LEFT MUCH GREATER AMOUNT THAN TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS ON FIRST PAGE, THEREFORE SUBSTITUTION MADE BY ONE OF RESIDUARY LEGATEES. IF SECOND PAGE OF WILL IS GENUINE THEN FIRST PAGE WAS FORGED BY SOME PERSON WITH READY GIFT OF EXPRESSION AND FACILE LITERARY STYLE. YOUR DESCRIPTION CHRISTOPHER MILBERS FITS THIS TYPE. HAVE YOU INVESTIGATED CAUSE OF DEATH HARLOW MILBERS? ASK PERSONS IN ATTENDANCE TO DESCRIBE SYMPTOMS. BEST WISHES FOR YOUR SUCCESS IN SOLVING CASE.

  DONALD LAM.

  Chapter XVI

  WALTON A. DOOLITTLE, Attorney at Law, regarded the photostat Bertha Cool had handed him.

  “As I understand it, Mrs. Cool, you want to know the legal effect of a partial forgery.”

  “That’s right.”

  Doolittle took up the first page of the wil
l. “Let us suppose that this is genuine,” he said, “and that the second page containing the purported signature and the attestation clause is a forgery.”

  “No chance of that,” Bertha said.

  “I understand but I am going to consider the problem in order. Now, a will may be revoked in any one of several ways. One of these ways is by destruction of the will on the part of the testator. But bear in mind, Mrs. Cool, that an unauthorized destruction by any other person does not invalidate the will. Therefore, let us assume that the first page of this will is genuine and that the second page is a forgery. In other words, the first page has been taken from a genuine will, the remaining portions of which have been destroyed; and a forged and fraudulent second page has been added.”

  “You’re going all the way around your elbow to get to your thumb,” Bertha said. “You’re taking the same thing I told you and wrapping it up in a lot of words.”

  “I want to be certain that you understand the situation,” Doolittle said.

  “I do.”

  “Under those circumstances,” Doolittle went on, “the will has been destroyed, but its destruction was not a revocation. Therefore, the entire contents of the will could be proved by independent, oral evidence if we could find such evidence. Now, if the first page of the will is genuine, it is the best proof of the contents of the first page of the destroyed will. We wouldn’t need to care what was in the rest of the will, once we prove the first page genuine,”

  “In other words, Christopher Milbers gets ten grand. Is that it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “All right, let’s get to the point. Suppose the first page is a forgery and the second page is genuine. That’s more apt to be the case.”

  “Under those circumstances, the same rule of law applies. The destruction of a portion of the will does not constitute a partial revocation. The contents of the first page of the will could then be proven by independent, oral evidence, or, as we say in the law, by parol evidence.”

  “And if, in the first page of that will Christopher Milbers got a hundred thousand dollars instead of ten thousand dollars, he could still collect it?”

  “If he could prove that that was the original will.”

  Bertha said, “Suppose we can prove that the first page has been submitted, but can’t prove what was on the original first page?”

  “Under those circumstances, in my opinion, the entire will would be refused probate, inasmuch as a court would have no way on earth of knowing what percentage of the testator’s property should be affected by the residuary clause. It is quite possible that the first page of the will might have contained a dozen specific bequests.”

  “And if the will wasn’t admitted to probate?” Bertha asked. “Then any prior will would be effective, unless it appeared that the testator had, by some positive action, endeavoured to revoke that will. It is quite possible that you could get sufficient proof of a revocation without getting sufficient proof of the contents of the genuine will which he made last.”

  “Then what?” Bertha asked.

  “Under those circumstances, inasmuch as there is no will admitted to probate, the effect would be the same as though Mr. Harlow Milbers had died intestate, except as to the ten thousand-dollar bequest to Josephine Dell—which is the only specific bequest for a fixed amount contained on the second page.”

  “And Christopher would get all the property except that ten thousand?”

  “If he is the sole surviving relative and, therefore, the only heir at law, yes.”

  “And Nettie Cranning, Eva Hanberry, and Paul Hanberry wouldn’t get a nickel?”

  “No.”

  “Not even if they can prove that that page of the will giving them everything is absolutely genuine?”

  “That isn’t the question, Mrs. Cool. By the second page of that will, they are given not a specific amount, but each is given an undivided one-third interest in the property passing by the residuary clause. It isn’t as though they were given, for example, ten thousand dollars apiece. They are given the residue of the estate. Unless the court can determine how much of the estate was specifically mentioned in other bequests on the first page, the court can’t determine the intention of the testator as to the amount of the residue. The testator might have given away half a million in the first page—or only one dollar.”

  Bertha Cool pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “That’s the law?” she asked.

  “That’s my opinion, or rather, it’s my interpretation of the law,” Doolittle said. “It’s an interesting point. There could be a very nice lawsuit over it.”

  “Well,” Bertha told him, “something may come of this. If it does, I’ll see that you get the business.”

  Doolittle’s smile was frosty. “So many of my clients tell me that,” he said, “that I have found it’s better to put it the other way, Mrs. Cool. My fee for consultation will be twenty-five dollars; then if, as you surmise, anything comes of it, that twenty-five dollars will be credited on whatever additional fee is charged.”

  Bertha Cool sighed and opened her purse. “Everybody seems to collect money in this case except me.”

  Chapter XVII

  THE 1600 BLOCK on Fairmead Avenue, the address the blind man had given Bertha, was sparsely settled, being well on the outskirts of current real-estate development.

  Conditions of the dim-out made it necessary for the cab driver to grope his way, pausing frequently to consult a map which he took from his pocket.

  “This should be close to it,” he said. “Somewhere on the other side of the street and a little past the middle of the block.”

  “Let me out here,” Bertha said. “I can find it better on foot than we can by prowling around.”

  “But it’s more convenient to look for it this way, ma’am.”

  “And more expensive,” Bertha snapped. “Let me out.”

  The cab driver slid the vehicle to a stop, jumped out, and held the door open for Bertha Cool.

  “Watch your step now, ma’am.”

  From her purse Bertha took a small flashlight which cast its beam through a deep purple lens. “I’m all right. Be sure to wait for me,” she said, switching on the flashlight. She walked down the block, peering at numbers, and found 1672 to be a typical bungalow, set well back from the road.

  The walk which led to the bungalow was of cement with a little iron guide rail on the right-hand side, and the inside of this rail was worn to a polish from being rubbed with the blind man’s cane as he journeyed back and forth to his little house.

  Bertha climbed the two wooden steps to the front porch and pressed the bell button. She heard the sharp clatter as the bell jangled on the inside of the house. The sound was unexpectedly loud.

  It was then Bertha noticed, for the first time, that the door was blocked partially open by rubber wedges which held it in. such a position there was a crack eight or ten inches wide. It was, she realized, because this door was partially open that the bell in the interior of the house had sounded so loud.

  Bertha stepped to the doorway, called, “Hello. Is anyone at home?”

  There was no answer.

  Bertha kicked out one of the door stops, groped inside for a light switch, found it, and clicked the switch on.

  Nothing happened. The room remained in absolute, utter darkness.

  Bertha Cool turned the dim, purple light from her flashlight toward the ceiling of the room. It showed a chandelier hanging down from the ceiling with a cluster of sockets for light globes. But there wasn’t so much as a single light globe in the place.

  Puzzled, Bertha swung the beam of her flashlight, and then suddenly the solution dawned upon her. A blind man had no need for electric lights.

  Bertha stepped inside the house, sending the beam of her flashlight around the room. She called once, “This is Mrs. Cool. Isn’t anybody home?”

  She sensed motion somewhere in the darkness. A huge, formless shadow appeared on the ceiling, slid silently across it and van
ished. Bertha jumped back. Something fluttered close to her face; then, without sound, an object settled against her neck.

  Bertha flung up her arm, kicked out viciously. In a rage that was born of terror, she screamed a lusty oath.

  Abruptly, the thing left her. For a moment it was caught in the unreal light in her flashlight—a bat with outstretched wings, a bat which sent its shadow projected against the far wall, making the animal seem monstrously big, bizarre, and wicked.

  “Pickle me for a herring!” Bertha exclaimed, and then struck viciously at the bat, which eluded her effortlessly and glided out into the darkness.

  It was a full ten seconds before Bertha could get her pulse under control and start examining the front room of the house.

  Satisfied that the room was empty, she turned back toward the porch, guided by the unreal faint illumination which sprayed out from her pocket flashlight.

  It was then she noticed for the first time a jet-black streak running across the floor. At first glance she thought this was merely a stain on the carpet. Then, with another pounding of her heart, she realized that it was some sort of liquid—a little pool of the liquid, then a smear, a zigzag path, another pool, a smear, a zigzag path. It was just as the nature of this sinister track dawned upon her that Bertha Cool discovered the body.

  It was sprawled face down over near a window on the far side of the room. Apparently, the man had been shot while standing near the door, and had crawled a few inches at a time, and with frequent stops trying to gather the strength which was oozing out of him even as he waited—until finally, a pause to gather strength just under the window had been long enough to let that last pool of red mark the end of the struggle with a grim period—a period which showed black as ink in the violet light thrown by Bertha Cool’s spotlight.