Robert Alter - 101 Mystery Stories

We went into the living room and I motioned at the sofa, saying, “Do sit down.”

“Thank you.” But he didn’t seem to like the sofa when he sat on it, possibly because of the clear plastic cover it had over it.

“My nieces come by from time to time,” I said, “that’s why I have those plastic covers on all the furniture. You know how children can be.”

“Of course,” he said. He looked around, and I think the entire living room depressed him, not just the plastic cover on the sofa.

Well, it was understandable. The living room was a natural consequence of Miss Diane Wilson’s personality, with its plastic slipcovers, the doilies on all the tiny tables, the little plants in ceramic frogs, the windows with Venetian blinds and curtains and drapes, the general air of overcrowded neatness. Something like the house Mrs. Muskrat has in all those children’s stories.

I pretended not to notice his discomfort. I sat down on the chair that matched the sofa, adjusted my apron and skirt over my knees, and said, “Very well, Mr. Fraser. I’m ready to listen.”

He opened his briefcase on his lap, looked at me over it, and said, “This may come as something of a shock to you, Miss Wilson. I don’t know if you were aware of the extent of Mr. Cunningham’s policy holdings with us.”

“I already told you, Mr. Fraser, that I—”

“Yes, of course,” he said hastily. “I wasn’t asking, I was getting ready to tell you myself. Mr. Cunningham had three policies with us of various types, all of which automatically became due when he died.”

“Bless his memory,” I said.

“Yes. Naturally. At any rate, the total on these three policies comes to one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Gracious!”

“With double indemnity for accidental death, of course,” he went on, “the total payable is two hundred fifty thousand dollars. That is, one quarter of a million dollars.”

“Dear me!” I said. “I would never have guessed.”

Fraser looked carefully at me. “And you are the sole beneficiary,” he said.

I smiled blankly at him, as though waiting for him to go on, then permitted my expression to show that the import of his words was gradually coming home to me. Slowly I sank back into the chair. My hand went to my throat, to the bit of lace around the collar of my dress.

“Me?” I whispered. “Oh, Mr. Fraser, you must be joking!”

“Not a bit,” he said. “Mr. Cunningham changed his beneficiary just one month ago, switching from his wife to you.”

“I can’t believe it,” I whispered.

“Nevertheless, it is true. And since Mr. Cunningham did die an accidental death, burning up in his real estate office, and since such a large amount of money was involved, the routine is to send an investigator around, just to be sure everything’s all right.”

“Oh,” I said. I was allowing myself to recover. I said, “That’s why you were so surprised when you saw me.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Frankly,” he said, “yes.”

“You had expected to find some sexy young thing, didn’t you? Someone Mr. Cunningham had been having an — a relationship with.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” he said, and made a boyish smile. “I do apologize,” he said.

“Accepted,” I said, and smiled back at him.

It was beautiful. He had come here with a strong preconception, and a belief based on that preconception that something was wrong. Knock the preconception away and he would be left with an embarrassed feeling of having made a fool of himself. From now on he would want nothing more than to be rid of this case, since it would serve only to remind him of his wrong guess and the foolish way he’d acted when I’d first opened the door.

As I had supposed he would, he began at once to speed things up, taking a pad and pen from his briefcase and saying, “Mr. Cunningham never told you he’d made you his beneficiary?”

“Oh, dear me, no. I only worked for the man three months.”

“Yes, I know,” he said. “It did seem odd to us.”

“Oh, his poor wife,” I said, “She may have neglected him but—”

“Neglected?”

“Well.” I allowed myself this time to show a pretty confusion. “I shouldn’t say anything against the woman,” I went on. “I’ve never so much as laid eyes on her. But I do know that not once in the three months I worked there did she ever come in to see Mr. Cunningham, or even call him on the phone. Also, from things he said—”

“What things. Miss Wilson?”

“I’d rather not say, Mr. Fraser. I don’t know the woman, and Mr. Cunningham is dead. I don’t believe we should sit here and talk about them behind their backs.”

“Still, Miss Wilson, he did leave his insurance money to you.”

“He was always the sweetest man,” I said. “Just the sweetest man in the world. But why he would—” I spread my hands, to show bewilderment.

Fraser said, “Do you suppose he had a fight with his wife? Such a bad one that he decided to change his beneficiary, looked around for somebody else, saw you, and that was that.”

“He was always very good to me,” I said. “In the short time I knew him I always found Mr. Cunningham a perfect gentleman and the most considerate of men.”

“I’m sure you did,” he said. He looked at the notes he’d been taking, and muttered to himself. “Well, that might explain it. It’s nutty, but—” He shrugged.

Yes, of course he shrugged. Kick away the preconception, leave him drifting and bewildered for just a second, and then quickly suggest another hypothesis to him. He clutched at it like a drowning man. Mr. Cunningham had had a big fight with Mrs. Cunningham. Mr. Cunningham had changed his beneficiary out of hate or revenge, and had chosen Miss Diane Wilson, the dear middle-aged lady he’d recently hired as his secretary. As Mr. Fraser had so succinctly phrased it, it was nutty, but—

I said, “Well, I really don’t know what to say. To tell the truth, Mr. Fraser, I’m overcome.”

“That’s understandable,” he said. “A quarter of a million dollars doesn’t come along every day.”

“It isn’t the amount,” I said. “It’s how it came to me. I have never been rich, Mr. Fraser, and because I never married I have always had to support myself. But I am a good secretary, a willing worker, and I have always handled my finances, if I say so myself, with wisdom and economy. A quarter of a million dollars is, as you say, a great deal of money, but I do not need a great deal of money. I would much rather have that sweet man Mr. Cunningham alive again than have all the money in the world.”

“Of course,” he nodded, and I could see he believed every word I had said.

I went further. “And particularly,” I said, “to be given money that should certainly have gone to his wife. I just wouldn’t have believed Mr. Cunningham capable of such a hateful or vindictive action.”

“He probably would have changed it back later on,” Fraser said. “After he had cooled down. He only made the change three weeks before — before he passed on.”

“Bless his soul,” I said.

“There’s one final matter, Miss Wilson,” he said, “and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“Anything at all, Mr. Fraser,” I said.

“About Mr. Roche,” he said. “Mr. Cunningham’s former partner. He seems to have moved from his old address, and we can’t find him. Would you have his current address?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Mr. Roche left the concern before I was hired. In fact, Mr. Cunningham hired me because, after Mr. Roche left, it was necessary to have a secretary in order to be sure there was always someone in the office.”

“I see,” he said. “Well—” He put the pad and pen back into the briefcase and started to his feet, just as the doorbell rang.