On the Run (16 page)

“I had to tell you now,” she said. “So you … couldn’t do any terrible thing. So we’d hold onto every chance we have. I’m greedy, and I’m a coward. If I lose you, I have part of you.”

“Don’t be defiant about it. I’m glad, Paula. I’m a little scared, but I’m glad.”

She sighed. “I guess I cheated you, sort of. By not letting you know. It makes it different. I mean when you know it’s for that, and when it happens, it makes it sort of … eternal. Tonight, when you know, you’ll see how it’s different. It’s making something. It’s making something to love, out of love.”

She sighed again and sat up and dug a tissue out of her skirt pocket and blew her nose. She made a wry face
at him. “Nothing but emotional turmoil, dear. We’ll be old before our time.” She sobered. “What about him?” She gestured toward George’s room across the hallway.

“The key is on my bureau, by the door. I locked him in. I can’t take a chance of his getting to the phone. I went out and took the rotor out of the distributor on that convertible of his. He hasn’t any money or keys or credit cards.”

“I think it would be very nice if he didn’t have any clothes either. Slippers and a robe, maybe. After all, he is an invalid. He’s quite a terrible man, isn’t he?”

“Mean and weak and greedy. And sad, I guess. He took a lot of thumping. He passed it along to me. You have to realize one thing, Paula. I’m not as safe here as I thought I was. They may wonder why they haven’t heard from him. I don’t think he’s the sort of person anybody is going to trust. I’m being very careful as of right now. I may have to leave in a hurry. I might not have time to make arrangements with you.”

“Take me with you.”

“You’d leave Tom?”

“No. Of course not. So I have to be able to find you when … Tom dies.”

“I’ve never been in Minneapolis. I’ll set myself up there. Give me a name, Paula?”

She frowned. “One we can’t possibly forget. Let me think. And one I won’t mind getting used to. Or having my baby wear. Because if we have to hide, darling, we are going to hide so well we’ll never be found. Let me see. That first morning. That lovely cold water. Brook? Brooks. When I was a little girl I had an imaginary hero and I called him Morgan. He was very romantic. Morgan Brooks?”

“On the first of every month mail a letter to Morgan Brooks, care of General Delivery, Minneapolis. Don’t mail it from this town. Don’t let anyone know about it. After Tom dies, get rid of your car and anything else you can’t carry in a big purse. Bring what money you have. Go as roundabout as you can. Buses, trains. Make the trip last a week. When you arrive in Minneapolis, take a room in a small hotel, write your address to me at general delivery, and sit and wait. I’ll be established, and
it will be known that my wife is going to join me sooner or later.”

“Say it again.”

“Wife.”

“Yes. Mrs. Morgan Brooks. And can we get married really?”

“Of course.”

“It’s sort of adventurous.”

“Not after several years of it, it isn’t.”

“We’ll be safe. I’ll keep us safe.”

“I … I think I can stay at least until your husband, your ex-husband shows up. I want to be handy when you go through that.”

“I want you to stay, but not for that.” She stood up. “I’m neglecting my patient. We should tell him about George. Not all of it. But what you found out, at least. So he’ll know why you feel you have to leave.”

“I think you’re right.”

“And Dr. Marriner gave his permission for Tom to talk to his lawyer in a little while. Randolph Ward. He’s bringing out the new will …” She looked at her watch. “… in about forty minutes.”

“Before talking to George?”

“Mr. Fergasson learned quite a lot about George.”

In the late afternoon, Randolph Ward, Paula Lettinger and Sidney Shanley sat on the enclosed porch on the shady side of the house. Ward had a tall russet pompadour with such a pronounced wave, such glossy health that it made the rest of his face look vague, like a photograph blurred just enough to be unrecognizable. His voice had an equivalent lifelessness. It induced yawns.

“When my father was still alive, he handled personal matters for Mr. Brower. Neither of us ever handled business law for him … corporate matters … attorneys in Syracuse … not enough of the other for a regular retainer … but with the will … the arrangements with Fergasson … not much like the other clients I have … he seems weaker, Miss Lettinger.”

“What? Yes, I guess he is. He sleeps a great deal lately.”

“No pain?”

“Fortunately.”

“Because of his age and … the will is unusual … I want Dr. Marriner to have another doctor look at him … both sign a statement … question of senility …”

“He’s not senile!” Paula said.

“Unusual will.”

“But who would try to break it?” Paula asked.

“Just in case … anybody would think of it. Mr. Brower seems to be having quite a long talk with your brother, Mr. Shanley.”

“It’s the first time he’s seen him,” Paula said.

Randolph Ward looked at Sid with an expression of mild query which faded as the unspoken question went unanswered.

Paula went to see if Tom was through talking to
George. She came back and summoned Sid and the attorney to the study. The old man was propped high, papery eyelids closed. He opened his eyes and said, “I’ve learned no reason to change any part of it, Randolph. Tell them how it will be. Don’t, for the love of God, read the damn thing. It’s too heavily larded with legalisms. Just tell them.”

“Do you wish the other legatees here, sir?”

“If I did, I would request it.”

“Yes sir.”

Sid looked at George. George sat heavily in his raw silk robe, staring down at the floor. He looked as if the conversation had not gone well.

Randolph Ward cleared his throat. When he spoke his voice had a surprising resonance and precision. “This house and its contents and the acreage on which it stands shall be maintained by the executor, out of funds set aside for that purpose, as a home for Miss Jane Weese and Mr. David Wintergreen so long as either of them shall survive. They shall receive bequests sufficient to provide for their personal needs. Upon the death of the survivor, the house, contents and land shall be turned over to the Incorporated Village of Bolton without restriction as to use or disposition. Miss Lettinger is not mentioned in the document.”

“Tell why,” Tom Brower said, his voice strong.

“A substantial trust has been established for her, with quarterly payments of income indicated, the first due in a little less than three months. This will continue during her lifetime. Should she die without issue, the principal amount in trust will then be distributed in accordance with a list of charities which include …”

“Skip that.”

“Should she bear children, the principal amount in trust shall be evenly divided among them when the youngest reaches twenty-one, with Miss Lettinger, if she is surviving at that time, receiving an even share equivalent to that given to the surviving child or children.”

“Why?” Paula asked blankly. “Why, Tom?”

He gave her a small, dry smile. “Perhaps I am encouraging fertility. A new way to sire children. Maybe I think you can do better than I did.”

“But even if I don’t have children, I still …”

“You have a chance for freedom of choice in your life. You are a lady, my dear. You now have a chance to live like one.”

“But …”

“Get to the rest of it, Randolph. I’m very tired.”

“There are other small bequests.”

“Skip them.”

“The balance of the estate will not be divided until the second anniversary of the date of death. If Sidney and George Shanley are both living at that time, the balance of the estate will be divided equally between them. During the two year period they will receive in equal measure the income earned by the monies being held by the executor. Should George Shanley die during this two year interval, or should his death precede the death of the maker of the will, then Sidney Shanley will receive all income and will receive the balance of the estate at the end of the two year period. Should Sidney Shanley predecease the legator, or die during the two year period, all income and the principal amount will be distributed in accordance with a second list of charitable organizations appended to the document.”

“What’s that?” George demanded. “How does that go?”

“Weren’t you listening, George?” the old man said. “In your terms, if Sid dies, you’re out. If you die, Sid gets double.”

“So what’s involved?” George demanded.

Randolph Ward looked inquiringly at Tom Brower. Tom nodded.

“Assuming we’re reasonably close on all taxes and estate expenses, and deducting the other bequests, the income during the two year period should be about thirty-seven thousand. Apiece. Annually. The total residual portion of the estate will be approximately one million five.”

George jumped to his feet, his expression anguished. “What are you trying to do to me?”

“I’d think it was obvious,” the old man said in a barely audible voice. “I’m making you your brother’s keeper.”

“But what if he gets
me
killed?” George demanded.

“You have a naturally sordid mind, George,” Tom Brower said. “Paula, take the loving brothers out of here.
Randolph, I’m ready to sign the damned thing while I still have the strength. Should Paula be one of the witnesses?”

“I’d rather use the two people from the office I brought along. And the notary. They’re waiting in my car. I’ll go get them now.”

Eldon Bertold, alias K. Jones, drove into the village of Bolton on that warm windy Wednesday, just before noon. Summer people roamed the street. It was smaller than he had hoped, a deadend valley town with a single business block, churches, gas stations, a small park with a cannon and a defunct fountain, a frame building named the Bolton Inn, old houses, small yards, iron fences, big elms.

Yet he felt his cover was entirely suitable to the environment. He had bought a three hundred dollar black Buick sedan at a used car lot on the truck route in Utica. He wore a dark shabby suit. He’d brought the old Hasselblad along, and in a big photography store in Syracuse he had purchased the other props, while his cards were being printed. A sturdy, battered tripod, floods, flash equipment, filters and lenses—and a scarred old case to keep them in.

He was particularly pleased with the cards. Business cards. The main imprint was centered—NEW YORK STATE HISTORICAL COMMISSION. In the bottom left hand corner was his new name, for this mission. J. Wells Hefton—Photographic Field Agent. In the right corner he had added a Utica address to match the plates on the car he had bought there.

He found the ancient, arthritic town clerk in an upstairs office over a drugstore. Once the old man had convinced himself that Mr. Hefton was not peddling nostrums or photographs, he consented to phone a woman named Pettingill whom he thought would be of the most use to Mr. Hefton in his mission. He made a partial explanation and then turned the phone over to Bertold-Jones-Hefton who explained it in more detail. Mrs. Pettingill was the town’s unofficial historian, and she was hard put to conceal her delight.

He had lunch at the Inn, and arrived at Mrs. Pettingill’s small frame house at twenty after one. She was a small, withered, bright-eyed lady in her seventies, with
hair dyed a lustreless black. Her moccasins and summer skirt and blouse would have been more suitable for a Holyoke sophomore. They sat on her front porch while he explained his mission.

“I don’t really expect to find very much of interest here, perhaps three or four houses at the most. We are not interested in anything less than a hundred years old, of course.”

“Of course, Mr. Hefton.”

“You’ve seen the books we’ve published on other areas, of course. We’ve done about a third of the state so far. So you know the format.”

“I think I’ve seen them. Maybe you should refresh my memory.”

“The houses are selected for architectural and historical significance. I take more pictures than are used, of course. Generally they use one or two exterior shots and three or four interior shots. And one full page of text regarding the house, descriptive and with historical references. If I find anything usable, you can plan on doing five hundred words on each one.”

“You want
me
to write it!”

“Mr. Brildy said you’ve written up a lot of the local history.”

“But not for …”

“We have a very limited budget, Mrs. Pettingill. The very most I can promise you is twenty dollars apiece—if I find anything we can use. And it may be several weeks before your check comes through. So I’ll understand it if you decide not to …”

“Oh, I’d be
glad
to help out. The money isn’t important. There are some lovely, historical houses in Bolton, Mr. Hefton.”

“If I do find anything usable, with your help, I can assume you’ll help me get permission to photograph?”

“Of
course
!”

He smiled at her. “Well, if you’re ready, we can take our first little tour, Mrs. Pettingill. You’re being very kind.”

On the slow tour of the town and the area, she sat beside him with a clip board and pencils, bolt upright, as excited as a child. He stopped whenever she requested it, stared dutifully at the old houses she pointed
out, listened to her torrent of description and historical lore. He did not say yes or no to any of her suggestions. She showed him about seventeen houses, and seemed to grow more agitated as he showed no sign of enthusiasm for any of them.

As they drove back toward the center of town he said, “Is that all?”

“All the best ones. Don’t … you think any of them would do?”

He did not answer until he had parked by the square. “
Any
of them! Mrs. Pettingill, there are five well worth doing.”

“Hooray! I mean … how nice.”

He had memorized the names of the ones which looked and sounded most appropriate. “Write these names down, please. Stockham, Perndell, Kipp, Ormand and Brower. Far more than I expected, to tell the truth.” After she had scribbled the names, he said, “Would any of those present any special problems, Mrs. Pettingill?”