The Golden Goose (16 page)

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Lieutenant Grundy, passing a hand over his forehead. “How do you know
that?”

“Because,” said Coley Collins simply, “Slater O'Shea himself told me.”

“Slater O'Shea himself told you.” Grundy got a grip on himself. “Collins, you're going to have to tell me a hell of a lot more than that before I stop suspecting you're an escaped psycho.
When
did O'Shea tell you this?
Where?
And
why
—why would he tell
you?”

“One at a time, Lawman,” said Coley, unruffled. “When? About ten days, maybe two weeks, before I even laid eyes on Princess O'Shea for the first time. Where? At the bar in the hotel taproom, one night when I was on duty. And why? Because old Slater was aslosh to the guards that night with bourbon Manhattans. It was a slow night and I had plenty of time to listen. And also he'd taken a shine to me, from hanging around my bar so much. And most of all because I was a bartender … None of it meant a thing to me at the time, because I'd never laid eyes on any of the O'Sheas except the old boy. All I knew about them was what he'd confided in me. Next question?”

Grundy had kept his ear tuned for a false note throughout Coley's explanation. He could not detect one. Still …

“Okay, Coley,” the lieutenant said. “Just what was it he told you?”

“First he told me about the phony will he'd had Fish draw up, the one he never signed. He said it was a kind of life insurance. He wouldn't put anything past an O'Shea, he said, even murder; but if the five relatives living with him thought that on his death they'd have to share his estate with seventeen other O'Sheas scattered to hell and gone, they'd sit up nights biting their nails trying to figure how to keep him alive forever.

“At the same time,” continued Coley, “he wanted his estate to go to the only relative he really liked and trusted, his niece Prin. So he told me he'd had Fish secretly draw up a valid will leaving everything to Prin, the secret will to be kept in Fish's safe; and he said that the only ones in the world who knew about that will were Fish and himself—he hadn't even let on to Prin.”

“So the way you see it,” said Grundy, “Fish must have suppressed the real will and drawn and signed the will you claim is fraudulent—the one leaving everything to Lallie O'Shea?”

“Who else could have drawn and signed it, me?” jeered Coley. “Who told you such a will exists, and that it's old Slater's last will and testament? Lawyer Fish. Who told you said will is in his possession? Lawyer Fish. Who's going to read that will to the family? Lawyer Fish. Who's going to file it for probate? Lawyer Fish. And who hasn't breathed a syllable about the will old Slater told
me
was his last will and testament, the one leaving everything to Princess O'Shea? Lawyer Fish!”

“Maybe some time between the night Slater told you about the Princess will and his death, he had a change of mind and decided to leave everything to his sister,” pointed out Grundy. “That would collapse your whole argument.”

“Then why didn't Fish mention that to you, Lieutenant? If that Lallie thing is valid and will stand up under examination, Fish wouldn't have any reason to conceal the existence of an earlier will, would he?” Coley shook his head disgustedly. “Anyway, this whole Lallie-inherits-all caper reeks, and you know it. And
I
know it because of the way old Slater talked about his kin,
including
his sister Lallie … all except Prin, whom the old scoundrel doted on.”

Grundy rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “So you figure that Fish and Lallie are in a conspiracy in this thing—Fish doing the mechanical dirty work so Lallie can fraudulently inherit, on some kind of split arrangement?”

“How else is there to figure?” said Coley. “Come on, Lieutenant, get with it. You can bet your shield they've got something going between them. And don't be surprised, when you dig into this midden heap, if you find more than a money arrangement between them. Lallie's a pretty sleek little old girl, except for those hands of hers, and who knows? Maybe Selwyn Fish has a hand fetish, or something else that would fit right in with the rest of him—revolting as the idea sounds to a normal person like me.”

And Coley stopped, regarding Lieutenant Grundy coolly. Grundy was drumming out a jazz beat on his desk with four fingers of his right hand.

“You don't buy it,” said Coley in a very flat voice. “By God, no wonder the United States has the highest crime rate in the world!”

But Grundy refused to be ruffled. “Let's see what you've been trying to sell me,” he said. “For business and/or amorous reasons, Selwyn Fish, Slater O'Shea's lawyer, and Lallie O'Shea, his only sister and closest blood-relative, enter into a murder conspiracy. Fish draws up the phony will naming Lallie as sole heir. Fish either destroys or hides the real will naming
Princess
O'Shea as Slater's sole heir. Then Lallie O'Shea slips a lethal dose of that drug into her brother's bourbon, either having procured it herself or, more likely, got hold of some through Fish. And that's it. Very ingenious. There's only one thing wrong with it.”

“What's that?”

“I have only your word for it that any such conversation between you and Slater O'Shea took place. In other words, that any such will as the one you claim leaves everything to the niece exists or existed.”

“I knew you'd louse it up,” said Coley disgustedly. “Of course you've got only my word for it. How about you getting off your duff and proving I'm telling the truth?”

“Was there a witness to this conversation?”

“Of course not.”

“Why didn't you come forward with this information before?”

“Would you expect a priest to come running to you with something he had heard in the confessional?” asked Coley with dignity. “A bartender holds just as sacred the confidences told to him over his bar. The only reason I've come in with the story is that I can't stand by any longer, keeping this to myself. I'm not going to let my girl be cheated out of her rightful inheritance or those two fiends in human form get away with murder. By God, Lieutenant, you ought to be down on your knees thanking me for solving your case for you, instead of acting as if I were high man on the FBI's most wanted list.”

“Easy, kid,” said Grundy. “I'm only doing—”

“Your duty? The hell you are! You should be out right now getting a court order to take that phony Lallie will out of Fish's possession and having Slater O'Shea's and the other signatures on it expertized. Do I have to point out to you that therein lies the weakness in the plot?”

“What weakness?” asked the lieutenant feebly.

“Look. That slippery Fish monger must have a thousand smelly contacts—you can bet he knows more than one forger who'd do a job for a price and keep his mouth shut. Or he forged old Slater's name and the witnesses' signatures himself—all he had to do was trace the signatures from the valid Prin will to the phony Lallie one. Who'd know the difference? Slater O'Shea is dead. The witnesses to his genuine signature, whoever they are, probably have no idea what was in the will they witnessed—the law only requires, as I understand it, that the testator declare the document they sign to be his legal will—he doesn't have to let them read it or tell them what's in it. So Fish figured he and Lallie O'Shea would be absolutely safe. And this is my clincher:
Don't forget that Fish never expected the forged Lallie will to be subjected to expert examination
. He thought nobody knew about the genuine Prin will except old Slater and himself—how could he foresee that the old boy would spill it to me in his cups? So it's my considered opinion, Lieutenant, that those signatures on the Lallie will won't stand up for thirty seconds. Well?”

Grundy could not help shaking his head in admiration. “You're quite a lad. All right, Coley, I'll check your yarn out. By the way, have you told Princess O'Shea about this?”

“I didn't know if I should, but I finally decided she had a right to know. I told her this afternoon, right after the funeral.”

“Did you tell her you were coming to me with the story?”

“Well, no,” said Coley, looking a bit shamefaced. “She asked me to promise not to tell you till she could have a talk with her Aunt Lallie. I sort of evaded promising. I mean, I'm pretty good at evading commitments when I deem it necessary.”

“You may be good at evading commitments,” said Grundy grimly, “but you're not so good at using your head. How long ago was it that you left the girl?”

“Not long. An hour or so.” Coley looked puzzled. “Why?”

“Because the last thing that girl ought to do is talk to her aunt!”

“But what of it?”

“What of it? What do you suppose she means to talk to her aunt about? She'll spill the whole story as you told it to her, and Lallie O'Shea will know she and Fish are in hot water, and the first thing she'll do is contact Fish, to tell
him
. She may have done so already. And if she has, my young Sherlock Holmes, there won't
be
any will with forged signatures to expertize. The first thing Fish will do is burn it. Now do you see what you've done?”

“By God, oh, by God,” groaned Coley. “You're right, Lieutenant, I didn't give this enough thought. Wait! Maybe Prin hasn't talked to her yet! I'll call her right now—”

“If you don't mind,” said Lieutenant Grundy,
“I'll
call her.”

But all he could get out of the O'Shea residence phone was the peevish beep of the busy signal.

Grundy banged the receiver and began to jam on his shoes. “Ten to one Lallie O'Shea's talking to Fish right this minute! We'd better get over to Fish's office in a hurry!”

“Hello?” said Aunt Lallie agitatedly. “Is that you, Selwyn?”

“Whom would you expect to answer my phone,” Selwyn Fish said, “Cary Grant? What's up, Lallie? You sound excited.”

“Is it any wonder? Everything is going
all
wrong, and it's your fault!”

“If you're referring again to the drug in poor Slater's bourbon, it seems to me you're at fault there, old girl, not I. If you had waited—not been so greedy—and done the job under competent supervision nobody would have suspected, not even that old ferret Appleton.”

“Selwyn Fish, are you accusing me of—of disposing of my own dear brother Slater?”

“Come off it, Lallie. I confess I didn't think so at the start. I thought Slater had died a convenient natural death—I couldn't believe that even you could be so stupid as to have gone ahead without consulting me first. However, what's done is done. Stop worrying and leave everything to me.”

“I can see now why you have never succeeded in your profession,” said Aunt Lallie spitefully, “even with an utter lack of ethics to get in your way. You can't recognize the truth when you hear it, Selwyn Fish.”

He chuckled. “I can recognize a bird of a feather. That's why you and I are so compatible, old girl.”

“Please don't be any more offensive than you absolutely have to, Selwyn. I'm in no mood for it. Besides, I am no longer so sure we're compatible. In fact, you are proving a terrible disappointment to me. Not only have you caused me to be suspected of a murder, you have also made it impossible for me to receive any benefit from it.”

“What precisely are you babbling about?” asked the lawyer, a bit sharply. “Whatever it is, though, we had better not discuss it over the telephone. Come over to my office—I'm all alone here.”

“There's no time. My niece Princess has just told me that Coley Collins has probably already gone to tell Lieutenant Grundy about the will.”

“Will? Which will?” Fish sounded
very
sharp now. “Damn it, Lallie, try to be explicit!”

“Please do
not
swear at me, Selwyn Fish.”

“All right, I apologize and all that,” he said rapidly. “Now. Which will?”

“The one you forged, of course—the one making me sole heir. Why should I be concerned about any other will?”

“Will you
not
use words like forge? Who's Coley Collins? Wait. Isn't he the young wolf Princess O'Shea picked up in some bar?”

“She did not pick him up—my nieces do not do such vulgar things. He works there as a bartender, and it was a sad day for you and me when he got that job.”

“For the love of heaven, Lallie, is it necessary for you always to talk like the Delphian Sibyl?
Why
was it a sad day? What could a young imbecile of a bartender possibly have to do with us?”

“Coley Collins is not such an imbecile as you think.”

“Damn it, come to the point. Come to the point at once. What are you trying to tell me?”

“That Coley Collins knows Slater left everything to Princess, and not to me, because Slater told him so one night when he was intoxicated at Coley Collins's bar.”

“Oh,” said Selwyn Fish in a sort of moan. “Oh, that besotted
idiot
. Slater promised me—he
promised
me he wouldn't breathe a word about the Princess will—to anyone,
anyone!
” He was silent, and Aunt Lallie, hearing him breathe like a leaky steampipe, felt an obscure satisfaction. “We may be all right, though, Lallie. It would only be the word of a bartender against that of the testator's attorney—”

“Since when has the testator's attorney's word been taken by anybody for anything?” asked Aunt Lallie sadistically. “Anyway, you are not thinking clearly, Selwyn. Princess has told me that Coley Collins is going to demand that the signatures on the forged will be analyzed by an expert.”

“Will you
stop
using that word!”

“Do you want to risk that?” continued Aunt Lallie.

“Well … no. I don't. You're right. I had better do some thinking.”