“Of course,” said Lynn, who had not anticipated this problem and realized she would need a little time to find a way round it. “Shall we say next Thursday afternoon at five o’clock, Mr. Kullick?”
The lawyer checked his diary, crossed something out, and entered the name Sommerfield in its place. Lynn rose from her chair.
“I see that this will was originally drawn up by Haskins, Haskins and Purbright,” said Kullick.
“That is correct, Mr. Kullick,” Lynn said just before she reached the door. She turned back and smiled sweetly. “Mr. Sommerfield felt that Mr. Haskins’s charges had become . . . exorbitant, I think was the word he used.” She opened the door. “I do hope you don’t make the same mistake, Mr. Kullick, as we may be in need of your services at some time in the future.” She closed the door quietly behind her.
By four o’clock the following Thursday, Lynn felt confident that she had addressed all the problems posed by Mr. Kullick’s demands and that everything was in place. She knew if she made the slightest mistake she would have wasted almost a year of her life, and all she would have to show for it would be a cane with a silver handle and a photograph of a young man at Princeton whom she didn’t particularly like.
As she and Arthur sat and watched yet another episode in the life of Sergeant Bilko, Lynn went over the timing in her mind, trying to think of anything that might crop up at the last moment and derail her. Mr. Kullick would need to be on time if her plan was to work. She checked her watch every few minutes.
When the show finally came to an end, with Bilko somehow managing to outsmart Colonel John T. Hall once again, Lynn turned off the television, poured Arthur a generous measure of whiskey, and handed him a Havana cigar.
“What have I done to deserve this?” he asked, patting her on the bottom.
“Someone’s coming to see you, Arthur, so you mustn’t fall asleep.”
“Who?” demanded Arthur, but not before he’d taken a sip of his whiskey.
“A Mr. Kullick. He’s one of Mr. Haskins’s associates.”
“What does he want?” he asked as Lynn lit a match and held it up to the cigar.
“He’s bringing over the latest version of your will, so you can sign it. Then you won’t have to bother about it again.”
“Has he included my bequests to you this time?”
“He assured me that your wishes would be carried out to the letter, but he needed them confirmed in person,” said Lynn as the doorbell rang.
“Good,” said Arthur, taking another swig of whiskey before Lynn plumped up his pillows and helped him to sit up.
Moments later there was a gentle knock on the bedroom door and a maid entered, accompanied by Mr. Kullick. Arthur peered intently at the intruder through a cloud of smoke.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sommerfield,” said the lawyer as he walked toward the bed. He had intended to shake hands with the old man, but when he saw the look of disdain on his face, he decided against it. “My name is Kullick, sir,” he said, remaining at the foot of the bed.
“I know,” said Arthur. “And you’ve come about my will.”
“Yes, sir, I have, and—”
“And have you remembered to include the bequests for my nurse this time?”
“Yes, he has, Arthur,” interrupted Lynn. “I told you all about it after I’d returned from visiting Mr. Kullick last week.”
“Ah, yes, I remember,” said Arthur, draining his glass.
“You’ve given me everything—” she paused “—that I asked for.”
“Everything?” said Arthur.
“Yes,” she said, “which is so much more than I deserve. But if you want to change your mind . . .” she added as she refilled his glass.
“No, no, you’ve more than earned it.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” she said, taking him by the hand.
“Let’s get on with it,” said the old man wearily, turning his attention back to Kullick.
“Would you like me to take you through the will clause by clause, sir?”
“Certainly not. Haskins took long enough doing that last time.”
“As you wish, sir. Then all that remains to be done is for you to sign the document. But, as I explained to Ms. Beattie, that will require a witness.”
“I’m sure Mr. Sommerfield’s personal maid will be happy to act as witness,” said Lynn as the front doorbell rang again.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Kullick.
“But why not?” demanded Lynn, who had already given Paula twenty dollars to carry out the task.
“Because she’s a beneficiary of the will,” said Kullick, “and therefore ineligible to be a witness.”
“She is indeed,” said Arthur. Turning to Lynn he explained, “I’ve left her the silver-plated dinner service.” He leaned across and whispered, “But I can assure you, my dear, that the silver cane is, like you, sterling.”
Lynn smiled as she desperately tried to think who could take Paula’s place. Her first thought was the chauffeur, but then she remembered that he was also a beneficiary—Arthur’s ancient car. She didn’t want to risk going through the whole process again, but she couldn’t think of anyone suitable to take the maid’s place at such short notice.
“Could you come back this time tomorrow?” she asked, trying to remain calm. “By then I’m sure—” She was interrupted by a knock on the door and Dr. Grove strode into the room.
“How are you, Arthur?” he asked.
“Not too bad,” said Arthur. “I’d be even better if you felt able to witness my signature. Or is Grove also a beneficiary of my will?” he asked Kullick.
“Certainly not,” said Dr. Grove before the lawyer could speak. “It’s against company policy for any employee of Jackson Memorial to benefit from a bequest left by a patient.”
“Good, then you can earn your fee for a change, Grove. That is, assuming Kullick agrees you’re acceptable.”
“Eminently so, Mr. Sommerfield,” said Kullick as he opened his briefcase and extracted three thick documents. He slowly turned the pages, pointing to the small pencil crosses at the bottom of each page indicating where both signatures should be placed.
Although Lynn had taken a step back so as not to appear too involved in the process, her heartbeat didn’t return to normal until the last page of all three copies had been signed and witnessed.
Once the ceremony had been completed, Kullick gathered up the documents, placed one copy in his briefcase and handed the other two to Mr. Sommerfield, who waved them away, so Lynn placed them in the drawer by his bed.
“I’ll take my leave, sir,” said Kullick, still not confident enough to shake hands with his latest client.
“Give Haskins my best wishes,” said Arthur as he screwed the top back on his fountain pen.
“But I no longer work for—”
“Just be sure to tell Mr. Haskins when you next see him,” Lynn said quickly, “that he obviously didn’t fully appreciate Mr. Sommerfield’s wishes when it came to the very generous bequest he had in mind for me. But at the same time, do assure him I am not someone who bears grudges.”
Dr. Grove frowned, but said nothing.
“Very magnanimous of you in the circumstances, my dear,” said Arthur.
“When I next see him,” Kullick repeated. Then he added, “I feel it’s my duty to point out to you, Mr. Sommerfield, that your children may feel they are entitled to—”
“Not you as well, Kullick. When will you all accept that I’ve made my decision, and nothing you can say will change my mind? Now please leave us.”
“As you wish, sir,” said Kullick, stepping back as Dr. Grove stuck a thermometer into his patient’s mouth.
Lynn accompanied the lawyer to the door. “Thank you, Mr. Kullick, the maid will show you out.”
Kullick left without another word and after Lynn had closed the door behind him she returned to Arthur’s bedside where Dr. Grove was studying the thermometer.
“Your temperatur
e is up a little, Arthur, but that’s hardly surprising, considering all the excitement you’ve just been put through.” Turning to Lynn, he added, “Perhaps we should leave him to have a little rest before supper.” Lynn nodded. “Good-bye, Arthur,” he said in a louder voice. “See you in a few days’ time.”
“Good day, Grove,” said Arthur, switching the television back on.
“He’s looking very frail,” said Dr. Grove as Lynn accompanied him down the stairs. “I’m going to advise his children to fly home in the next few days. I can’t believe it will be much longer.”
“I’ll make sure their rooms are ready,” said Lynn, “and that Mr. Sommerfield’s driver picks them up at the airport.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Dr. Grove as they walked across the hall. “I want you to know, Lynn, how much I appreciate all you’re doing for Arthur. When you come back to Jackson Memorial, I’m going to recommend to the medical director that you’re given a promotion and a rise in salary to go with it.”
“Only if you think I’m worth it,” said Lynn coyly.
“You’re more than worth it,” Grove said. “But you do realize,” he added, lowering his voice when he spotted the maid coming out of the kitchen, “that if Arthur left you anything in his will, however small, you would lose your job?”
“I would lose so much more than that,” said Lynn, squeezing his hand.
Grove smiled as the maid opened the door for him. “Good-bye, honey,” he whispered.
“Good-bye, Dr. Grove,” Lynn said, for the last time.
She ran back up the stairs and into the bedroom to find Arthur, cigar in one hand and an empty glass in the other, watching The Johnny Carson Show. Once she’d poured him a second whiskey, Lynn sat down by his side. Arthur had almost fallen asleep when Carson bade goodnight to his thirty million viewers with the familiar words, “See you all at the same time tomorrow.” Lynn turned off the TV, deftly removed the half-smoked cigar from Arthur’s fingers, and placed it in an ashtray on the side table, then switched off the light by his bed.
“I’m still awake,” said Arthur.
“I know you are,” said Lynn. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead before slipping an arm under the sheet. She didn’t comment when a stray hand moved slowly up the inside of her leg. She stopped when she heard the familiar sigh, that moments later was followed by steady breathing. She removed her hand from under the sheet and strolled into the bathroom, wondering how many more times she would have to . . .
Sadly, the children arrived home just a few hours after Arthur passed away peacefully in his sleep.
Mr. Haskins removed the half-moon spectacles from the end of his nose, put down the will and looked across his desk at his two clients.
“So all I get,” said Chester Sommerfield, not attempting to hide his anger, “is a silver-handled cane, while Joni ends up with just a picture of Dad taken when he was a freshman at Princeton?”
“While all his other worldly goods,” confirmed Mr. Haskins, “are bequeathed to a Miss Lynn Beattie.”
“And what the hell has she done to deserve that?” demanded Joni.
“To quote the will,” said Haskins, looking back down at it, “she has acted as ‘my devoted nurse and close companion.’”
“Are there no loopholes for us to exploit?” asked Chester.
“That’s most unlikely,” said Haskins, “because, with the exception of one paragraph, I drew up the will myself.”
“But that one paragraph changes the whole outcome of the will,” said Joni. “Surely we should take this woman to court. Any jury will see that she is nothing more than a fraudster who tricked my father into signing a new will only days after you had amended the old one for him.”
“You may well be right,” said Haskins, “but, given the circumstances, I couldn’t advise you to contest the validity of the will.”
“But your firm’s investigators have come up with irrefutable evidence that Ms. Beattie was nothing more than a common prostitute,” said Chester, “and her nursing qualifications were almost certainly exaggerated. Once the court learns the truth, surely our claim will be upheld.”
“In normal circumstances I would agree with you, Chester, but these are not normal circumstances. As I have said, I could not advise you to take her on.”
“But why not?” came back Joni. “At the very least we could show that my father wasn’t in his right mind when he signed the will.”
“I’m afraid we’d be laughed out of court,” said Haskins, “when the other side points out that the will was witnessed by a highly respected doctor who was at your father’s bedside right up until the day he died.”
“I’d still be willing to risk it,” said Chester. “Just look at it from her perspective. She’s a penniless whore who has recently been dismissed from her job without a reference, and she sure won’t want her past activities aired in court and then reported on the early evening news followed by the front page of every morning paper.”
“You may well be right,” said Haskins. “But it’s still my duty as a lawyer to inform my clients when I believe their case cannot be won.”
“But you can’t be worried about taking on Kullick in court,” said Chester. “After all, you didn’t even think he was good enough to be a partner in your firm.”
Haskins raised an eyebrow. “That may well be the case, but it wouldn’t be Mr. Kullick I would be up against.” He replaced his half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and once again picked up the will, then turned over several pages before identifying the relevant clause. He looked solemnly at his clients before he began to read.
“ ‘I also bequeath ten million dollars to my alma mater, Princeton University; five million dollars to the Veterans Association of America; five million dollars to the Conference of Presidents, to assist their work in Israel; five million dollars to the Republican Party, which I have supported all my life; and finally five million dollars to the National Rifle Association, the aims of which I approve, and which I have always supported.’”
The old lawyer looked up. “I should point out to you both that none of these bequests was in your father’s original will,” he said, before adding, “and although I am in no doubt that we could beat Mr. Kullick if he was our only opponent, I can assure you that we would have little chance of defeating five of the largest and most prestigious law firms in the land. Between them they would have bled you dry long before the case came to court. I fear I can only recommend that you settle for a cane with a silver handle and a photograph of your father at Princeton.”
“While she walks away with a cool seventy million dollars,” said Joni.
“Having sacrificed thirty million to ensure she would never have to appear in court,” said Haskins as he placed the will back on his desk. “Clever woman, Ms. Lynn Beattie, and that wasn’t even her real name.”
DOUBLE-CROSS*
6
The Judge looked down at the defendant and frowned.
“Kevin Bryant, you have been found guilty of armed robbery. A crime you clearly planned with considerable skill and ingenuity. During your trial it has become clear that you knew exactly when to carry out the attack upon your chosen victim, Mr. Neville Abbott, a respected diamond merchant from Hatton Garden. You held up the security guard at his workshop with a shotgun, and forced him to open the strongroom where Mr. Abbott was showing a dealer from Holland a consignment of uncut diamonds he had recently purchased from South Africa for just over ten million pounds.
“Thanks to outstanding police work, you were arrested within days, although the diamonds have never been found. During the seven months you have spent in custody you have been given every opportunity to reveal the whereabouts of the diamonds, but you have chosen not to do so.
“Taking that fact, as well as your past record, into consideration, I am left with no choice but to sentence you to twelve years in prison. However, Mr. Bryant, I would consider a reduction to your sentence if at any time you shoul
d change your mind and decide to inform the police where the diamonds are. Take the prisoner down.”
Detective Inspector Matthews frowned as he watched Bryant being led down to the cells before being shipped off to Belmarsh prison. As a policeman, you’re meant to feel a certain professional pride, almost pleasure, when you’ve been responsible for banging up a career criminal, but this time Matthews felt no such pride, and wouldn’t until he got his hands on those diamonds. He was convinced Bryant hadn’t had enough time to sell them on and must have hidden them somewhere.
Detective Inspector Matthews had attempted to make a deal with Bryant on more than one occasion. He even offered to downgrade his charge to aggravated burglary, which carries a far shorter sentence, but only if he pleaded guilty and told him where the diamonds were. But Bryant always gave the same reply: “I’ll do my bird, guv.”
If Bryant wasn’t willing to make a deal with him, Matthews knew someone doing time in the same prison who was.
Benny Friedman, known to his fellow inmates as Benny the Fence, was serving a six-year sentence for handling stolen goods. A burglar would bring him the gear and Benny would pay him 20 percent of its value in cash, then sell it onto a middle man for about 50 percent, walking away with a handsome profit.
From time to time Benny got caught and had to spend some time in the nick. But as he didn’t pay a penny in tax, was rarely out of work, and had no fears of being made redundant, he considered the occasional spell in prison no more than part of the job description. But if the police ever offered him an alternative to going back inside, Benny was always willing to listen. After all, why would you want to spend more time behind bars than was necessary?
“Drugs check,” bellowed the wing officer as he pulled open the heavy door of Benny’s cell.
“I don’t do drugs, Mr. Chapman,” said Benny, not stirring from his bunk.
And Thereby Hangs a Tale Page 6