Robert Adams - The Memories of Milo Morai

Milo opened the briefcase that Brigadier General Jethro Stiles had been carrying on the day he had died, removed the crushed and crackly envelope and slid it across the desk, wordlessly.

Even armed with a sharp desk knife, getting the thoroughly sealed envelope open took some time. But finally, the thick sheaf of papers was spread out before the attorney. Lifting two smaller, sealed envelopes from among the papers, he held them where Milo could see the faces of them.

“To be opened only by John T. Bannister, Esquire, Attorney-at-law and friend,” Milo silently read on each of them.

While he was reading the two enclosures, Bannister frequently glanced up at Milo, and at one point he hissed between his teeth. At last, he laid them down atop the other papers, leaned back in his leather swivel chair and gazed at Milo for a moment before he began to speak.

“Mr. Moray . . . no, I think we’d better start calling each other Milo and John, all things considered. Milo, Jethro was a very old-fashioned gentleman, in many ways; as such, he simply could not believe women to be at all capable of properly handling money, and the way his younger sister terribly mishandled her own inheritance did nothing to change his mind.

“Early in 1945”—he tapped one of the folded letters—“he got together with a JAG type and changed his will; this is an original of that new will—all properly executed and witnessed and signed, and so fully legal and binding. You and Martine were legally married, the marriage has been recorded? Yes. Now, have you as yet instigated proceedings to adopt Jethro’s children?”

“Why, no,” answered Milo. “Frankly, I’d not thought of it.”

Bannister nodded. “Then you’d best start thinking of it, Milo, and getting it done, the sooner the better.”

“But why?” demanded Milo. “I can’t remember ever having any children. I don’t even know what kind of a father I’d make.”

“You’ll make a better father than no father at all, even I can tell you that. Hell, you’ll be the man who’s going to be raising them, anyway. So, if you have the game, you might as well have the name, too, is my way of thinking. Besides, you’ll stand to have a sight more than that, Milo. You see, according to the terms of this will, when Captain Milo Moray marries Martine Stiles and adopts her children by Brigadier General Jethro Stiles, he then inherits the entire Stiles fortune, outright—cash, accounts, stocks, bonds, securities, land, buildings, vehicles and equipment, animals, furnishings, boats, leases, the whole damned shooting match.”

Mind whirling madly, Milo just sat digesting the pronouncement for long minutes. Then he said, “But . . . but what if I’d been killed, too?”

Bannister held up the second folded letter between manicured fingers. “Had that occurred, there were contingency plans, but it did not; you’re here and married to the former Mrs. Jethro Stiles. Now, you just adopt Jethro’s kids, and, buddy, you’re in like Flynn. As for me, I’m already in; another of these documents authorizes me to take over the management of the estate, all of it, until such a time as you become eligible. I guess Jethro surmised that if I made it through the war I’d have staff enough to take on the estate management, and he was right about that.

“You’re living on that farm in Virginia, aren’t you? Yes. Well, Jethro had a local attorney on the outskirts of Washington to handle local affairs. His name is Dabney Randolph, I believe. I’ll have my girl out there jot down everything and I’ll give him a call myself later today. He can get the adoptions started ... if that’s what you want to do, of course.”

Milo regarded Bannister. “You just assume automatically that I intend to continue to retain you to run things?”

Bannister grinned. “I sure as hell hope that’s your intention, Milo. I won’t come cheap, but then neither does the firm that has been managing the estate for so long and neither would any other reputable firm you engaged. If one did offer to work for you for peanuts, you’d be wise to retain another firm to keep track of just what the first one was up to. You’ll of course get regular statements from me that won’t be written in legalese, either. But I can’t give you an exact cost until I have time to examine the records of the other firm, talk to the bankers, the brokers, the accountants, the Treasury people, some men in Europe, South America, South Africa, Australia and Canada. Give me thirty days, Milo, then I can give you a figure.”

With his two granddaughters snuggled on his lap and his grandson sitting on the arm of the overstuffed chair with his head on one bony shoulder, Etienne Duron looked to be truly at peace with the world that had used him and most of his family and possessions so cruelly in the last decade.

Grief and long privation had prematurely aged the retired army officer to a marked degree, so that he appeared ten to fifteen years older than his actual fifty-three. But despite his emaciation, his patched shirt and his worn-shiny, threadbare suit, he was most distinguished-looking, Milo thought upon his initial introduction by Martine to her widowed father.

Shortly, they sat down to a meal consisting of a boned and poached fish in aspic, a small bowl of beans, a loaf of cheap bread and a bare liter of sourvin ordinaire.

With a sad smile, Grandpere Duron apologized, saying, “As one ages, the appetite goes and one forgets to buy food.” It was a patently lame excuse and Milo was quick to notice that the older man ate only a bit of bread and drank one glass of the terrible wine.

To little Per’s loud plaint of being still hungry when no more food remained upon the table, Milo said, “It’s time for you and your sisters to go upstairs with Mathilde and have your nap. When you wake up, there will surely be some chocolates and marzipan waiting for you. Now all of you kiss your mother and go.”

While Martine and her father were clearing the table, Milo went out and walked until he found a taxi. The prewar Austin looked to be held together only by rust, friction tape and prayer, but it did get him to one of the addresses given him by John Bannister. A brief conversation and the handing over of a letter of international credit and Milo was again being accorded the by now familiar royal treatment by the fawning bank staff.

He stepped from the bank through the open rear door of a Rolls-Royce, but before he would allow the uniformed chauffeur to start the engine, he explained certain of his needs to the slim, handsome man.

Wide-eyed, amazement tinged with something else in his voice, the driver turned to face Milo, saying, “You are the new son-in-law of Colonel Etienne Duron? Please pardon my impertinence, monsieur, but the order was for only one Monsieur Moray. Is monsieur by any chance a former capitaine of infantrie of the American Army, and is his Christian name Milo?”

Puzzled, Milo just nodded. “Yes, my full name is Milo Moray, and yes, I was a captain of infantry for a while, though I retired in the rank of major. I’m just another civilian now.”

The chauffeur stared at him, something approaching awe shining from his dark eyes. Then he turned, started the car, put it into gear and smoothly pulled out into the busy traffic, blithely, cutting off a huge, lumbering van with a body of corrugated metal, a battered taxi and a bus in his acceleration across three lanes of fast-moving vehicles.

The man handled the car with flawless perfection, but drove at a breakneck pace and with gut-wrenching abandon, rounding traffic circles with a careless dis-regard of other vehicles of any size, somehow managing to avoid stationary obstacles when he zipped through right-angle turns into narrow side streets. Every so often, he would come to a full stop, apply the brake and get out with a murmured “Moment, s’il vous plait, M’sieu Moray. “