Rex Stout - Where There's a Will

“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!”