“I don't Iike that in anyone.”
“Remarkable sentiment for an heiress. However. If Mr. Gebert should marry you, that would be a job for him. Let us abandon him to that slim hope for his redemption. It is getting on for four o'clock, when I must leave you. I need to ask you about a sentence you left unfinished yesterday, shortly after I made my unsuccessful appeal to you. You told me that your father died when you were only a few months old, and that therefore you had never had a father, and then you said, That is,' and stopped. I prodded you, but you said it was nothing, and we let it go at that. It may in fact be nothing, but I would like to have it-whatever was ready for your tongue. Do you remember?”
She nodded. “It really was nothing. Just something foolish.”
“Let me have it. I've told you, we're combing a meadow for a mustard seed.”
“But this was nothing at all. Just a dream, a childish dream I had once. Then I had it several times after that, always the same. A dream about myself…”
“Tell me.”
“Well…the first time I had it I was about six years old, in Bali. I've wondered since if anything had happened that day to make me have such a dream, but I couldn't remember anything. I dreamed I was a baby, not an infant but big enough to walk and run, around two I imagine, and on a chair, on a napkin, there was an orange that had been peeled and divided into sections. I took a section of the orange and ate it, then took another one and turned to a man sitting there on a bench, and handed it to him, and I said plainly, ‘For daddy.’ It was my voice, only it was a baby talking. Then I ate another section, and then took another one and said ‘For daddy’ again, and kept on that way till it was all gone. I woke up from the dream trembling and began to cry. Mother was sleeping in another bed-it was on a screened veranda-and she came to me and asked what was the matter, and I said, ‘I'm crying because I feel so good.’ I never did tell her what the dream was. I had it quite a few times after that-I think the last time was when I was about eleven years old, here in New York. I always cried when I had it.”
Wolfe asked, “What did the man look like?”
She shook her head. “That's why it was just foolish. It wasn't a man, it just looked like a man. There was one photograph of my father which mother had kept, but I couldn't tell if it looked like him in the dream. It just…I just simply called it daddy.”
“Indeed.” Wolfe's lips pushed out and in. At length he observed, “Possibly remarkable, on account of the specific picture. Did you eat sections of orange when you were young?”
“I suppose so. I've always liked oranges.”
“Well. No telling. Possibly, as you say, nothing at all. You mentioned a photograph of your father. Your mother had kept only one?”
“Yes. She kept that for me.”
“None for herself?”
“No.” A pause, then Helen said quietly, “There's no secret about it. And it was perfectly natural. Mother was bitterly offended at the terms of father's will, and I think she had a right to be. They had a serious misunderstanding of some sort, I never knew what, about the time I was born, but no matter how serious it was…anyway, he left her nothing. Nothing whatever, not even a small income.”
Wolfe nodded. “So I understand. It was left in trust for you, with your uncle-your father's brother Dudley-as trustee. Have you ever read the will?”
“Once, a long while ago. Not long after we came to New York my uncle had me read it.”
“At the age of nine. But you waded through it. Good for you. I also understand that your uncle was invested with sole power and authority, without any right of oversight by you or anyone else. I believe the usual legal phrase is ‘absolute and uncontrolled discretion.’ So that, as a matter of fact, you do not know how much you will be worth on your twenty-first birthday; it may be millions and it may be nothing. You may be in debt. If any-”
Lew Frost got in. “What are you trying to insinuate? If you mean that my father-”
Wolfe snapped, “Don't do that! I insinuate nothing; I merely state the fact of my client's ignorance regarding her property. It may be augmented; it may be depleted; she doesn't know. Do you, Miss Frost?”
“No.” She was frowning. “I don't know. I know that for over twenty years the income has been paid in full, promptly every quarter. Really, Mr. Wolfe, I think we're getting-”
“We shall soon be through; I must leave you shortly. As for irrelevance, I warned you that we might wander anywhere. Indulge me in two more questions about your father's wilclass="underline" do you enter into complete possession and control on May seventh?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And in case of your death before your twenty-first birthday, who inherits?”
“If I were married and had a child, the child. If not, half to my uncle and half to his son, my cousin Lew.”
“Indeed. Nothing to your mother even then?”
“Nothing.”
“So. Your father fancied his side of that controversy.” Wolfe turned to
Llewellyn. “Take good care of your cousin for another five weeks. Should harm befall her in that time, you will have a million dollars and the devil will have his horns on your pillow. Wills are noxious things. Frequently. It is astonishing, the amount of mischief a man's choler may do long after the brain-cells which nourished the choler have rotted away.” He wiggled a finger at our client. “Soon, of course, you yourself must make a will, to dispose of the pile in case you should die on-say-May eighth, or subsequently. I suppose you have a lawyer?”
“No. I've never needed one.”
“You will now. That's what a fortune is for, to support the lawyers who defend it for you against depredation.” Wolfe glanced at the clock. “I must leave you.
I trust the afternoon has not been wasted; I suppose you feel that it has. I don't think so. May I leave it that way for the present? I thank you for your indulgence. And while we continue to mark tune, waiting for that confounded box to be found, I have a little favor to ask. Could you take Mr. Goodwin home to tea with you?”
Llewellyn's scowl, which had been turned on for the past hour, deepened. Helen
Frost glanced at me and then back at Wolfe.
“Why,” she said, “I suppose…if you want…”
“I do want. I presume it would be possible to have Mr, Gebert there?”
She nodded. “He's there now. Or he was when I phoned mother. Of course…you know…mother doesn't approve…”
“I'm aware of that. She thinks you're poking a stick in a hornets nest. But the fact is the police are the hornets; you've avoided them, and she hasn't. Mr.
Goodwin is a discreet and wholesome man and not without acuity. I want him to talk with Mr. Gebert, and with your mother too if she will permit it. You will soon be of age, Miss Frost; you have chosen to attempt a difficult and possibly dangerous project; surely you can prevail on your family and close friends for some consideration. If they are ignorant of any circumstance regarding Mr.
McNair's death, all the more should they be ready to establish that point and help us to stumble on a path that will lead us away from ignorance. So if you would invite Mr, Goodwin for a cup of tea…”
Llewellyn said sourly, “I think Dad's there, too, he was going to stay till we got back. It'll just be a big stew-if it's Gebert you want, why can't we send him down here? He'll do anything Helen tells him to.”