“Why would he want to do that?”
“He said he read a book and now he doesn’t believe in individuals inheriting wealth. He’s going to give his money to various charities.”
“How much money does he have?”
“The last time he mentioned the subject, I think he said three million.”
“Aha, and you want me to find out who’s trying to kill him?”
“If you can, of course. But the main idea is for you to see that Uncle Hector is still alive when he sees his lawyer at nine tomorrow morning. After that, there won’t be any motive for any of us to kill him because we’ll be out of the will anyway.”
I drummed my fingers for a moment or two. “I’m afraid I can guarantee his safety only until approximately six A.M. tomorrow. After that I have another commitment.”
She thought about that. “Well, it’s better than nothing, I suppose. I don’t imagine I could get anybody else at this time of the night.” She got up. “I think we’d better get going right away. If anyone’s going to murder Uncle Hector, it’s got to happen tonight. I have a car and chauffeur waiting downstairs.”
It was still drizzling when we walked half a block and turned into a parking lot.
As we approached a Volkswagen minibus, the driver’s door burst open and a small uniformed chauffeur hopped out. He rushed forward and kissed the back of my hand.
It was Janos.
“Count,” he breathed fervently. “It is so wonderful to see you again.”
Olivia smiled. “It was Janos who recommended that I come to you. Did he call you Count?”
I shrugged. “That was yesterday and today is today.”
“His highness has fallen on bad times,” Janos said, “through no fault of his own.”
I sighed. “At one time the subject of money never disturbed my mind. I had extensive holdings in Cuba, the Belgian Congo, Lebanon, Angola, and Bangladesh. What wasn’t confiscated or nationalized was destroyed.”
Janos slid back the side door of the minibus. “In the old country the people’s government has made his castle a state shrine. Busloads of school children and tourists stop there every day, and the grounds are sprinkled with souvenir and food stands. The entire lower east gallery has been converted to public restrooms.”
As Olivia and I rode the minibus, she gave me some background on the members of Uncle Hector’s household. There was Cousin Albert, whose right arm was three inches longer than his left, and Cousin Maggie, who liked red port, and Cousin Wendy, who wrote the kindest rejection slips, and Cousin Fairbault, who detested crustaceans.
After some twenty miles of freeway travel, we took an off-ramp and continued on a two-lane road into the countryside, where only an occasional farmyard light broke the darkness.
It began to rain heavily again. Lightning flashed across the sky and thunder rolled—truly a splendid evening.
It was nearly ten thirty when we turned in at a pair of gateposts and followed the graveled and bumpy driveway through a cordon of grotesque, bare-branched trees. In the revelation of another bolt of lightning, I saw ahead the looming monster of a Victorian mansion. Here and there a light gleamed dully from behind pulled drapes.
Janos stopped the Volkswagen and Olivia and I rushed up the wide steps to the shelter of the porch. She opened a huge door and we stepped into a large, dimly lit vestibule.
I heard a muffled crash from somewhere deep inside the house followed most instantly by a brief series of splinterings. Strange, I thought, it sounded exactly like a bowling alley.
“I’ll introduce you all around,” Olivia said. “And we might just as well start with Albert.” She led me through a passageway and then down a flight of stairs to high-ceilinged cellars.
I looked about as we proceeded. Stone walls, stone floors, roomy, damp, musty-smelling, grimed by a century of dampened dust.
I heard the crashing noise again, this time much closer.
Olivia opened a door and we stepped into the bright lights of an elongated room containing a two-lane bowling alley.
A gangly man in his thirties, concentrating intensely, stood poised to bowl. He took a five-step approach and delivered the ball smoothly with a flawless follow-through. The ball hit the pins solidly and he had a strike.
The automatic pin-spotter scooped up the pins and returned the ball.
“Albert,” Olivia said, “this is Mr. Cardula. He’s a private detective and he’s spending the night with us to see that Uncle Hector doesn’t get killed.”
Albert shook hands, but he seemed eager to get back to his bowling.
I glanced at his score sheet. He had a string of seven strikes. I nodded approvingly. “What is your average?”
He brightened. “I have a 257 over the last one thousand games.”
Was he pulling my leg? A 257 average? I smiled slightly. “Magnificent bowling.”
He agreed. “I practice ten hours a day. I would make it more, but that’s about all the bowling the human body can take.”
I glanced down. Yes, his right arm did seem to be several inches longer than his left.
“When I’m not bowling,” Albert said, “I do all of the maintenance work down here. I can even take the pin-spotters apart and put them back together blindfolded.” He smiled. “I have 983 perfect games so far.”
Nine hundred and eighty-three perfect games? Oh, come now, I thought.
But he nodded earnestly. “And the alleys aren’t grooved or anything like that. They could pass inspection anytime by the American Bowling Congress.”
When we left him, Olivia said, “Albert’s father was something of a local bowling celebrity in his hometown. He and Albert’s mother were killed in an automobile accident when Albert was ten. He spent six years in an orphanage before Uncle Hector heard about him and got him out. But by then . . .” She sighed. “Uncle Hector had the alleys built because bowling seemed to be the only thing that interested Albert.”
I followed her through an archway. “Albert shouldn’t have to brood about being cut out of the will. If what he says about his bowling is true, he is the greatest bowler this world has ever seen or is likely to. He would sweep any tournament he entered, and what with endorsements and such, he could easily become a millionaire in a relatively short time.”
Olivia shook her head. “No. Albert has never left these grounds since the day he came here. He doesn’t want to see any other part of the world, no matter what it has to offer.”
She led me to another door and switched on a light.
I found myself gazing upon bushel baskets and boxes of apples, potatoes, beets, rutabagas, squashes, and bins of sand which I surmised contained carrots and other root vegetables. One side of the room was totally shelved and occupied by an array of glass jars containing preserved tomatoes, green and wax beans, and dozens of other fruits and vegetables. Two large top-loading freezers stood at one end of the room.
“Cousin Fairbault does all this himself,” Olivia said. “The seeding, the cultivating, the harvesting. Then he cans and freezes and preserves. He’s converted the carriage house into a barn and he raises all our beef, and pork, and chickens. He also makes sausages and hams and even cheeses.”
She closed the door. “Fairbault was a navy pilot. He got shot down and was washed ashore onto a tiny uninhabited island not more than an acre in size. It had three palm trees and all kinds of miscellaneous vegetation, but none of it edible. He couldn’t even fish, because he had nothing to fish with. But there were spider crabs and slugs and all kinds of things that crawled and scuttled and came out mostly at night. Fairbault was on that island for seven years before he was rescued—he was down to eighty pounds. He spent another five years in an asylum where he tried to hoard food under his mattress.”
We took the stairs up. “When Fairbault first came here, he kept that room locked at all times. We had to ask his permission whenever we wanted anything for the kitchen and he would watch over us while we got it. But he’s been here eleven years now and he t
rusts us so much that he leaves the room unlocked and we are free to take anything we want at any time, just as long as we don’t waste it.”
We returned to the first floor and entered a large, well-ordered kitchen. In one corner, a heavyset woman in her fifties sat at a table working a jigsaw puzzle. A half-empty bottle of red wine and a glass were at her elbow.
Olivia introduced me to Cousin Maggie. “She does the cooking for us and she’s really the best cook in the world.”
Maggie beamed. “I try to do the best I can and I don’t touch a drop until seven. Are you hungry, Mr. Cardula? Could I fix you a snack?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “I had something last week.”
She blinked. “Last week?”
I cleared my throat. “I mean I have taken nourishment lately enough to not be hungry. How do you feel about your Uncle Hector changing his will and leaving you all out of it?”
Maggie shrugged. “Well, it’s his money and I wasn’t really counting on any part of it, even assuming that I would outlive him.” Her eyes clouded with worry. “Just as long as I have my job here. That’s all that really counts.”
We left Maggie to her jigsaw puzzle and bottle and proceeded to the second floor.
“You employ a cousin to do the cooking?” I asked.
“Maggie likes to be useful.”
“Why is she worried about the possibility of losing her job here? If she’s as good a cook as you claim, she shouldn’t have any difficulty getting another job.”
“Unfortunately, whenever she worked anywhere else, she began drinking as soon as she woke in the morning and kept it up long as she was able to stand, or sit. She was continually getting fired without references and was in quite desperate straits when Uncle Hector found her.”
Olivia stopped at an open doorway.
I looked into an abundantly furnished room. A plump balding man sat comfortably ensconced in a deep easy chair, puffing a large curved pipe and engrossed in a book whose jacket read Secrets with Broccoli.
Olivia introduced me to Fairbault.
He offered me wine, but I declined.
He held his own glass to the light. “Six years in the cask. I call it Fairbault 71. Because of the climate here, I am forced to concentrate on the northern grapes. Not nearly as ideal for wine as the sweet California varieties, but one must make do.”
I glanced at the bookshelves. All of the volumes seemed concerned with vegetable and fruit gardening and animal husbandry. One entire shelf contained what was very likely eleven years of an organic gardening magazine. “Do you do any greenhousing?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. Greenhousing would expand the season to twelve months a year and too much is too much. Besides, half of the fun of gardening is to store and stock and preserve during the winter months and read gardening magazines and make plans for the spring.”
We left Fairbault and continued down the corridor. We turned a corner and found a somewhat hefty and firm-jawed lady in her forties, nearly supine in a window seat, her face deathly white with perhaps a few touches of green. A cigar, one inch smoked, dangled from her somewhat limp square hand.
Olivia sighed. “Why don’t you give up trying to smoke cigars, Wendy? You know you just can’t do it.”
Cousin Wendy opened her eyes. “One of these damn days I’ll find the right brand.”
“Cousin Wendy is the founder and editor of the Trempleau County Poetry Review. It has one hundred and ten subscribers from all over the country and one hundred and nine of them are also contributors.”
Cousin Wendy nodded. “Believe me, it makes for a twelve-hour day. Last month I had to plow through eight hundred manuscripts before I could make up the November issue. But I suppose nobody really appreciates all the work I put in and the correspondence and the free constructive criticism.”
“Now, Wendy,” Olivia said, “you know that every one of your readers is absolutely depending on you to sift and winnow, to separate the wheat from the chaff.” She turned to me. “Cousin Wendy is not only an editor, but she is also a top poetry person.”
Cousin Wendy shrugged modestly. “I try to keep my hand in when I have the time.”
When we left her, I said, “Trempleau County? Isn’t that about three hundred miles north?”
“Yes. That’s where Cousin Wendy used to live. She was a waitress in a roadside café and wrote poetry on the side. Then one day a trucker came on a batch of her poems and started reading them out loud to the customers. So she crushed his skull with a counter stool. She was still in prison when Uncle Hector heard about her and vouched for her at the parole hearing.”
“Just one moment,” I said. “Are you telling me that all of these people are really blood relatives of Uncle Hector?”
Olivia sighed and smiled faintly. “Well, to tell the truth, none of us really is. But we like to think of ourselves as cousins because it’s warmer.”
We went downstairs this time.
“Uncle Custis is our houseguest about once every six months or so,” Olivia said. “He came here after supper tonight and Uncle Hector insisted that none of us breathe a word about the murder attempt on his life. He doesn’t want Uncle Custis to worry. So I’ll just tell Uncle Custis that you are also a houseguest.”
We found Uncles Hector and Custis at a pool table in the game room.
Uncle Hector, a short man with soft white hair, had good nature stamped into his face.
Uncle Custis, on the other hand, was tall and gimlet-eyed. He regarded me sourly. “A houseguest? Or are you another one of those damn cousins Hector digs up now and then?”
“How much has Uncle Custis won from you so far this evening?” Olivia asked.
Uncle Hector shrugged. “Fifteen dollars.”
“Uncle Custis is quite a pool player,” Olivia said. “Eight ball is his favorite game.”
“Eight ball?” I said. “Is that anything like billiards? I remember in my student years at the university I played the game a number of times.”
Uncle Custis eyed me pityingly for a moment. Then he allowed himself an economical smile and explained to me the simple rules of eight ball. “Would you care to try your hand at it? I like to make things a little more interesting. How does five dollars a game strike you?”
I lost the first game, and the second.
Uncle Custis checked his watch. “I’m just about ready for bed. What do you say about a final game? Let’s make it for fifty dollars?”
I agreed and then proceeded to win that game with the utmost skill and dispatch.
Uncle Custis watched as I bank shot the eight ball into the side pocket and then glared. “I’ve been hustled. I know when I’ve been hustled.” He flung five tens onto the table and stormed out of the room.”
Uncle Hector regarded me with approval. “Damn, I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”
I turned to business. “Sir, if you don’t mind my saying so, wouldn’t it have been wiser to change your will secretly and then inform your household that it had been disinherited? Do you realize how many people who boldly and blatantly announce that they are going to change their wills the first thing in the morning never get to see the sun rise?” I winced slightly at the last two words.
“Nonsense,” Uncle Hector said. “Ninety-nine percent of will changers survive to see their lawyers the next morning. The one percent who are murdered get all of the publicity and give the entire process a bad name.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Well, I suppose it’s bedtime for all of us too. I understand that you are going to keep watch outside of my bedroom door tonight?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I will be inside your bedroom. I do not intend to allow you out of my sight for one moment.”
We said goodnight to Olivia and went upstairs.
Hector’s bedroom was quite as large as my entire apartment and contained a huge canopy bed and a capacious fireplace.
While Hector changed into pajamas, I searched the room thoroughly. I then went to the windows an
d checked to make certain that they were all securely locked. I drew the drapes and sat down.
I frowned. There was something wrong here. Something I should have seen, but didn’t. My eyes went over the room again, but I simply couldn’t put my finger on it.
Hector sat on the bed and took off his slippers. “There’s really no need for you to stay up all night. Why not lie down on that couch? I could get you a pillow and some blankets.”
“No, thank you,” I said. I went to the bookshelves, found a volume on hematology, and sat down.
Hector climbed into bed and closed his eyes. After five minutes he turned restlessly. He repeated the turnings at fairly regular intervals. Finally he sighed and sat up. “I simply can’t go to sleep without my regular warm glass of milk and tonight I completely forgot about it. You wouldn’t care to slip down to the kitchen and see if Maggie is still up? If she isn’t, could you put a glass of milk into a saucepan and heat it slowly? Short of boiling, you know. And then add a teaspoon of sugar and a few dashes of cinnamon.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I am not leaving this room.”
He thought it over. “Then I think I’ll just hop down there myself.”
“Very well,” I said, “but I will accompany you. And we will make certain that the milk is taken from a fresh sealed bottle.”
Harold scratched the back of his neck. “Forget it. It’s too far to the kitchen anyway.” He brightened. “There’s a liquor cabinet over there. Why don’t you help yourself to something? There’s nothing like a good snort or two for relaxation.”
“I do not intend to relax,” I said. “And besides, I do not drink. At least not liquor.”
Hector sank back into his pillow and closed his eyes.
The hours passed. It was somewhat after five in the morning when I suddenly realized what it was that I should have seen earlier, but didn’t.
I looked in Hector’s direction. Was he really sleeping or was he faking it?
I allowed five minutes to pass, then yawned and let my eyelids droop and finally close, except for a calculated millimeter or two. I began breathing heavily and allowed the book to slip from my hands to the carpeted floor.
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