“But,” objected Anthony, “his private
physician, being one of the beneficiaries, would testify
that he wasn’t feeble-minded. And he wasn’t.
As a matter of fact he probably did just what he intended
to with his money—it was perfectly consistent
with everything he’d ever done in his life—”
“Well, you see, feeble-mindedness is a great
deal like undue influence—it implies that
the property wasn’t disposed of as originally
intended. The most common ground is duress—physical
pressure.”
Anthony shook his head.
“Not much chance on that, I’m afraid.
Undue influence sounds best to me.”
After more discussion, so technical as to be largely
unintelligible to Anthony, he retained Mr. Haight
as counsel. The lawyer proposed an interview
with Shuttleworth, who, jointly with Wilson, Hiemer
and Hardy, was executor of the will. Anthony
was to come back later in the week.
It transpired that the estate consisted of approximately
forty million dollars. The largest bequest to
an individual was of one million, to Edward Shuttleworth,
who received in addition thirty thousand a year salary
as administrator of the thirty-million-dollar trust
fund, left to be doled out to various charities and
reform societies practically at his own discretion.
The remaining nine millions were proportioned among
the two cousins in Idaho and about twenty-five other
beneficiaries: friends, secretaries, servants,
and employees, who had, at one time or another, earned
the seal of Adam Patch’s approval.
At the end of another fortnight Mr. Haight, on a retainer’s
fee of fifteen thousand dollars, had begun preparations
for contesting the will.
Before they had been two months in the little apartment
on Fifty-seventh Street, it had assumed for both of
them the same indefinable but almost material taint
that had impregnated the gray house in Marietta.
There was the odor of tobacco always—both
of them smoked incessantly; it was in their clothes,
their blankets, the curtains, and the ash-littered
carpets. Added to this was the wretched aura of
stale wine, with its inevitable suggestion of beauty
gone foul and revelry remembered in disgust.
About a particular set of glass goblets on the sideboard
the odor was particularly noticeable, and in the main
room the mahogany table was ringed with white circles
where glasses had been set down upon it. There
had been many parties—people broke things;
people became sick in Gloria’s bathroom; people
spilled wine; people made unbelievable messes of the
kitchenette.
These things were a regular part of their existence.
Despite the resolutions of many Mondays it was tacitly
understood as the week end approached that it should
be observed with some sort of unholy excitement.
When Saturday came they would not discuss the matter,
but would call up this person or that from among their
circle of sufficiently irresponsible friends, and
suggest a rendezvous. Only after the friends
had gathered and Anthony had set out decanters, would
he murmur casually “I guess I’ll have
just one high-ball myself—”
