Eric Ambler: The Schirmer Inheritance

It was, George thought, all too easy to understand the newspapers’ eagerness. They had scented another Garrett case. Old Mrs. Garrett had died in 1930, leaving seventeen million dollars and no will, and here was the case eight years later, still going strong, with three thousand lawyers still chiselling away, twenty-six thousand claimants to the money, and a fine smell of corruption over all. The Schneider Johnson thing could last as long. True, it was smaller, but size wasn’t everything. It had plenty of human angles-a fortune at stake, the romantic isolation of the old lady’s declining years (she had lost her only son in the Argonne), the lonely death without a relative at the bedside, the fruitless search for the will-there was no reason why it should not have staying-power, too. The name Schneider and its American modifications were widely distributed. The old girl must have had blood-relatives somewhere even if she hadn’t known them. Or him! Or her! Yes, there might even turn out to be a one hundred per cent non-sharing heir! All right, then, where was he? Or she? On a farm in Wisconsin? In a real-estate office in California? Behind the counter of a drugstore in Texas? Which of the thousands of Schneiders, Snyders, and Sniders in America was going to be the luck one? Who was the unsuspecting millionaire? Corn? Well, maybe, but always good for a follow-up, and of nation-wide interest.

And of nation-wide interest it had proved. By the beginning of 1939, the administrator of the estate had been notified of over eight thousand claims to be the missing heir, an army of disreputable lawyers had moved in to exploit the claimants, and the whole case had begun to soar rapidly into the cloud-cuckoo land of high fantasy, skullduggery, and courtroom farce in which it was to remain until, on the outbreak of war, it had fallen suddenly into oblivion.

What business Lavater, Powell and Sistrom could have with the resurrection of so unsavoury a corpse, George could not imagine.

It was Mr. Budd, one of the senior partners, who enlightened him.

The main burden of the Schneider Johnson estate had been borne by Messrs. Moreton, Greener and Cleek, an old-fashioned Philadelphia law firm of great respectability. They had been Miss Clothilde Johnson’s attorneys and had conducted the formal search for a will on her instructions. The intestacy duly established, the matter had come before the Orphans’ Court in Philadelphia, and the Register of Wills had appointed Robert L. Moreton as administrator of the estate. He had remained the administrator until the end of 1944.

“And very nice too,” said Mr. Budd. “If only he’d had the sense to leave it at that, I wouldn’t have blamed him. But no, the cockle-brained old coot retained his own firm as attorneys for the administrator. Jeepers, in a case like that it was suicidal!”

Mr. Budd was a pigeon-chested man with a long head, a neat, clipped moustache, and bifocal glasses. He had a ready smile, a habit of using out-of-date colloqualisms, and an air of careless good-humour of which George was deeply suspicious.

“The combined fees,” George said carefully, “must have been pretty big on an estate of that size.”

“No fees,” declared Mr Budd, “are big enough to make it worth while for a decent law office to get mixed up with a lot of ambulance-chasers and crooks. There are dozens of these inheritance cases hanging fire all over the world. Look at the Abdul Hamid estate! The British got tied up in that one and it’s been going on for thirty years or more. That’ll probably never be settled. Look at the Garrett case! Think how many reputations that’s damaged. Shucks! It’s always the same. Is A an imposter? Is B out of his mind? Who died before whom? Is the old photograph Aunt Sarah or Aunt Flossie? Has a forger been at work with faded ink?” He waved his arms disparagingly. “I tell you, George, in my opinion the Schneider Johnson case pretty well finished Moreton, Greener and Cleek as a regular law firm. And when Bob Moreton got sick in ’44 and had to retire, that was the end. They dissolved.”

“Couldn’t Greener or Cleek have taken over as administrator?”

Mr. Budd pretended to look shocked. “My dear George, you don’t take over an appointment like that. It’s a reward for good and faithful service. In this case, our learned, highly respected, and revered John J. Sistrom was the lucky man.”

“Oh. I see.”

“The investments do the work, George, our John J. takes the fees as administrator. However,” Mr. Budd continued with a trace of satisfaction in his voice, “it doesn’t look as if he’s going to do so much longer. You’ll see why in a moment. From what old Bob Moreton told me at the time, the position was originally this. Amelia’s father was named Hans Schneider. He was a German who’d immigrated in 1849. Bob Moreton and his partners were pretty well convinced in the end that, if there were anybody at all entitled to take the estate, it was one of the old man’s relatives back in Germany. But the whole thing was complicated by the representation question. Do you know anything about that, George?”

“Bregy, discussing the 1947 act, gives a very clear summary of the former rules.”

“That’s dandy.” Mr. Budd grinned. “Because, frankly, I don’t know a thing about it. Now, leaving out all the newspaper nonsense, here’s what happened to the case. In ’39 old Bob Moreton went off to Germany to check up on the other side of the Schneider family. Self-preservation, of course. He needed facts to go on if he was going to deal with all those phony claims. Then, when he got back, the damnedest thing happened. The damnedest things were always happening on that screwy case. It seemed that the Nazis had got wind of Bob’s inquiries. What they did was to take a quick look into the thing themselves and produce an old man named Rudolph Schneider. Then they claimed the whole estate on his behalf.”

“I remember that,” George said. “They hired McClure to act for them.”

“That’s right. This Rudolph was from Dresden or some such place and they said that he was a first cousin of Amelia Johnson. Moreton, Greener and Cleek fought the claim. Said the documents the Krauts produced were forged. Anyway, the case was still before the courts when we got into the war in ’41, and that finished it as far as they were concerned. The Alien Property Custodian in Washington moved in and filed a claim. Because of the German claim of course. The case froze. When he retired, Bob Moreton handed over all the documents to John J. There were over two tons of them and they’re down in our vaults right now, just where they were left when Moreton, Greener and Cleek delivered them in ’44. Nobody’s ever troubled to look them over. No reason to. Well, now there is a reason.”

George’s heart sank. “Oh, yes?”

By choosing this moment to fill his pipe Mr. Budd avoided George’s eyes as he went on. “This is the situation, George. It seems that with the appreciation of values and interest the estate is worth over four million now and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania has decided to exercise its rights under the act and claim the lot. However, they’ve asked John J., as administrator, if he proposes to fight them on it, and, just for form’s sake, he feels we ought to check through the documents to make sure that there’s no reasonable claim outstanding. So that’s what I want you to do, George. Just check through for him. Make sure he’s not overlooking anything. O.K.?”

“Yes, sir. O.K.”

But he did not quite succeed in keeping a note of resignation out of his voice. Mr. Budd looked up with a sympathetic chuckle. “And if it’ll make you feel any better about the job, George,” he said, “I can tell you that we’ve been getting short of vault space for some time now. If you can get that load of junk out of the way you’ll be earning the heartfelt thanks of the entire office.”