“I told you why Blythe and that gambler came up here,” replied the old man in a sulky voice. “I’ve got nothing more to say.”
“But my question has nothing to do with Blythe’s visit.”
“Eh? What d’ye mean?”
“I mean,” said Ellery calmly, “what were you doing last Sunday night outside this house in an aviator’s helmet?”
For a moment he thought the man would faint; the eyes rolled alarmingly, and the large bony nose twitched with a sort of nausea. “Eh?” said the old man feebly. “What did you say?”
And as he said it the faintness and alarm disappeared, and his gray beard came up belligerently. Game old cock, thought Ellery with a grudging admiration. For all his years he absorbed punishment very quickly.
“I saw you outside in the rain with a flying helmet on your head. At a time when Junius said you were up here behind a locked door.”
“Yes,” nodded the old man. “Yes, I was outside. Because I wanted to breathe God’s clean air. I was outside because there were strangers in my house.”
“In the rain?” Ellery smiled. “I thought you had certain fears about pneumonia and such.”
“I’m a sick man,” said the old man stolidly. “But I’d rather risk pneumonia than be mixed up with strangers.”
“You almost said ‘a murder,’ didn’t you? Why should you be so timid about being mixed up in this one, Mr. Stuart?”
“Any one.”
“Your own daughter’s? You don’t feel — I almost made the mistake of calling it ‘natural’ — you don’t feel a desire for vengeance?”
“I want only to be let alone.”
“And the helmet on your head — that had nothing to do with... let us say... airplanes, Mr. Stuart?”
“There are a few helmets about. They’re good protection against rain.”
“Ah, amiable now. I wonder why? People who have something to conceal generally are anxious to talk amiably, Mr. Stuart. Just what are you concealing?”
For answer the old man reached over and snatched the shotgun from its position beside the testered bed. Without speaking, he placed the shotgun in his lap. He looked at Ellery steadily.
Ellery smiled, shrugged, and strolled out.
He made a deliberate clatter as he went down the stairs, and he set one foot loudly after another on the floor of the living-room as he went to the front door. The door he banged.
But he remained inside, listening. There was no sound from above. Frowning, he looked about. That door... Tiptoeing, he crossed the living-room, opened the door carefully, glanced in, nodded, and slipped through, shutting the door behind him with the same caution.
He stood in a library, or study, vast and raftered and gloomy, like all the rooms in the house. This one, too, had a brooding atmosphere, as if it had stood too long untenanted. There was a thick layer of dust over everything, mute reflection on Dr. Junius’s housekeeping talents.
Ellery went without hesitation to the huge flat-topped desk in the center of the room, a piece of solid carved oak with an ancient patina. But he was not interested in the antiquity of Tolland Stuart’s desk; he was interested in its contents. A rapid glance about had convinced him there was no safe in the room; and the desk seemed the most likely repository for what he was seeking.
He found it in the second drawer he opened, sepultured in an unlocked green-painted steel box, although a lock with a key in it lay beside the box.
It was Tolland Stuart’s will.
Ellery read it avidly, one ear cocked for sounds from the old man’s room above.
The date on the will was nine and a half years old, and the paper was a sheet of heavy bond bearing the imprint of an old, solid banking house in Los Angeles. It was a holograph will, handwritten in ink by a crabbed fist — Ellery could visualize the old terrorist twisting his tongue in his withered cheek and refusing to allow any one at his bank to catch a glimpse of what he was writing. The will was signed with Tolland Stuart’s signature, which had been witnessed by names meaningless to Ellery, obviously employees of the bank.
The will said:
“I, Tolland Stuart, being this day sixty years of age and of sound mind, make my last will and testament.
“The sum of one hundred thousand dollars in cash or negotiable bonds is hereby left to Dr. Henry F. Junius, of my employ, but only on the following conditions:
“(1) That until my death Dr. Junius shall have been continuously in my employ for not less than ten years from the date of this will, except for periods of illness or other such interruptions in his service to me which shall be reasonable beyond his control; at all other times he is to act as my physician and exclusive guardian of my health; and
“(2) That I, Tolland Stuart, shall have survived this ten-year period; that is to say, that my death shall have occurred after my 70th birthday.
“In the event of my death before the age of 70 from any cause whatsoever, or in the event that Dr. Junius shall have left my employ either voluntarily or by dismissal before the expiration of the ten-year period noted above, my bequest to him of $100,000.00 shall be considered cancelled; and my estate shall then go free and clear of any participating bequest to my legal heirs.
“I direct also that my just debts be paid, also the expenses of my funeral.
“The residue of my estate I leave to be divided as follows: One-half (½) to go to my only child and daughter, Blythe, or in the event that she predeceases me, to her heirs. The other half (½) to go to my granddaughter Bonita, Blythe’s daughter, or in the event that Bonnie predeceases me, to Bonnie’s heirs.”
Except for an additional short paragraph in which the junior vice-president of the bank where the will had been drawn up and witnessed was named executor of the estate, there was nothing more.
Ellery replaced the document in its green box, shut the drawer, and stole out of the house.
As he stepped onto the landing-field he spied the stubby airplane which he had seen Sunday night in the nearby hangar. It was gliding down to a landing. It taxied to a stop beside the commercial plane which had flown Ellery and Bonnie up into the mountains. Dr. Junius jumped to the ground, looking like an elderly condor in the helmet which flapped about his ears.
He waved to Bonnie, who was waiting in the other plane, and hurried forward to greet Ellery.
“Paying us a visit, I see,” he said companionably. “I would be out shopping! What’s happening on the Hollywood front?”
“It’s all quiet.” Ellery paused. “We’ve just had the honor of an interview with your worthy benefactor.”
“Since your skin is still whole,” smiled the doctor, “it can’t have been so terrifying.” Then he said in quite a different tone: “Did you say ‘benefactor’?”
“Why, yes,” murmured Ellery. “Isn’t he?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” The doctor’s bright eyes retreated into their yellow sockets.
“Oh, come, Doctor.”
“No. Really.”
“Don’t tell me you’re unaware that the old crank has set aside a little something for your old age!”
Dr. Junius threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, that!” The laugh turned bitter. “Of course I’m aware of it. Why do you think I’ve buried myself up here?”
“I thought,” said Ellery dryly, “there must be a sound reason.”
“I assume he told you.”
“Mmm.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Dr. Junius, shrugging, “that I got the better of the bargain. It’s cheap at a hundred thousand, dirt cheap. Living with that old pirate and putting up with his tantrums and whims for ten years is worth closer to a million, even at a conservative estimate.”
“How did he ever come to make such an odd arrangement with you, Doctor?”