“He's from what?” Actuality was so far removed from his fear that he felt winded. “You gone an' set up a printin' press in the bathroom?”
“Silly, he's from Internal Revenue. He's-”
“Oh, oh,” Johnny said softly. “I'll be right over.” He whistled a tuneless little air as he replaced the phone and resumed his interrupted progress to the street. Internal Revenue. Sure didn't let any grass grow under their feet…
“This is Mr. Quince, Johnny,” Sally said. “Mr. Killain, Mr. Quince.”
Johnny shook hands with a balding man in a conservative blue suit. “You heard correctly, Mr. Killain,” the man said drily. “The name is Quince. Malcolm. And it's not an alias. A name for the job, wouldn't you say?”
“I'd say,” Johnny agreed. He didn't even try to repress his smile, and Mr. Quince gave him a small, neat smile in return. Mr. Quince was small and neat in all departments, including his paunch. “You must be an authority on wisecracks on the name an' the job.”
“It has one advantage,” Mr. Quince remarked philosophically. “People don't forget me.” His examination of Johnny was quick and thorough. “You represent this young lady legally?”
“God forbid!” Johnny protested. “You wouldn't wish that on your worst enemy. I-advise her, let's say.”
“Then let's bring you up to date upon a matter concerning which she could use some advice,” Mr. Quince said briskly. He opened the briefcase at his feet and took out some papers, then removed his glasses from the case in his breast pocket and slipped them on. “I refer to the legacy which in the probate court's due process will be turned over to Miss Fontaine.” He straightened his glasses with one hand, his tone apologetic. “You understand that much of what I have to say is at the moment tentative, due to the lack of time for a more complete investigation on our part, but my superiors thought it best that I have this little talk with you before your hopes-or plans- crystallized.”
He had looked directly at Sally during this little speech, and she shifted restlessly. “You mean I'm not going to get it?” she asked.
“It's impossible in any event that you will receive it in its present form, of course,” Mr. Quince said carefully. “If there were no other considerations at all, the fact of an inheritance tax-double, in this case, since both the Gidlow and Roketenetz estates in turn would be affected-would materially reduce the amount of the legacy.”
“By how much?” Johnny broke in.
“In an estate inheritance situation there is an automatic exemption of sixty thousand dollars. The tax rate upon the passing of the property solely to Roketenetz would be in the neighborhood of twenty per cent. Upon its repassing to Miss Fontaine, the same exemption and tax rate would apply, but as an offset there would be a carry- back credit due to the successive deaths falling within a two-year period.”
“But the bundle gets nipped twice,” Johnny reflected. “Two twenty per cent chops, huh?”
“With the exemptions and the carry-back credit, not that severe in the aggregate,” Mr. Quince said cautiously. “But before either of you starts indulging in mental arithmetic, please remember I said that would be the case if there were no other considerations. Unfortunately, there are.”
Johnny winced. “I can feel it comin'. Uncle wants to know where the bundle came from.”
The tax man nodded. “Exactly. Neither Gidlow nor Roketenetz ever paid taxes upon any earned sums that could normally lead to the accumulation of such an amount.”
Sally appealed to Johnny. “I told him Charlie never had any money like that!”
“On the basis of a hurried preliminary investigation,” Mr. Quince pronounced majestically, “we're prepared to accept that statement.” He paused to smile briefly at Sally. “But that simply takes us back to Gidlow, and there we have complications. He had been to the tax wars before and, from our point of view, unfavorably. He had never paid taxes upon any part of such a substantial sum of money, and in view of his past tax record we feel that this is undeclared income. Consequently, pending some subsequent development that would prove the money had been acquired over a period of years, we're prepared to go into court and maintain that the entire amount is taxable as one-year income.” He paused for breath.
“What's the damage on that deal?” Johnny inquired.
“At a hundred fifty thousand and over, the rates are eighty-nine per cent,” Mr. Quince said. “First twenty-five exempt.”
“Ow!” Johnny breathed. He looked at Sally. “Back to pauperism, Ma. At least I can say I knew you when you had it.”
Mr. Quince snapped his briefcase shut, his eyes upon Johnny. “Are you prepared to say at this time, Mr. Killain, what the young lady's attitude is to be in the matter?”
“You mean is she goin' to fight it? The board of directors has to have a little meetin' on that one, Mr. Quince. Maybe we'll arbitrate. If we said we wouldn't fight it, maybe the razor wouldn't cut as deep?”
“Arrangements of one sort or another are not unknown,” Mr. Quince agreed. He permitted himself the small, neat smile. “Let me hear from you when you decide.”
“But I don't want their old money!” Sally exclaimed when the apartment door had closed upon Mr. Quince's conservative blue suit. “I think-”
“Stop thinkin', Ma. Relax. You got to provide for my old age. An', if this guy has his way, you aren't goin' to wind up with enough to keep you from sleepin' nights. Let's roll up the rug on it for now. We'll have the board meetin' later.”
“Board meeting!” she snorted, and squealed as the big hands tipped her into his arms. “Johnny! Stop it!”
“Contrary to the laws of nature, Ma,” he told her placidly. “Hold tight. Here comes the brass ring on the merry-go-round.”
Johnny, finishing off the last forkful of pie and the final swallow of coffee, eased himself back cautiously in his spindle-legged chair. “I take it all back, kid,” he informed Stacy Bartlett, who was busily stacking dishes across the table from him. “You can cook. I could need a little help up outta here.”
“I haven't seen anyone eat like that since I left the farm,” she said, smiling.
“I do that boa constrictor bit to carry me over the lean times whenever I run into grub like yours.” He looked at the tall girl, trim and efficient in her postage-stamp apron, busy on round trips to the kitchenette. “You didn't do so bad yourself,” he accused her. “I'd hate to pay your board bill.”
“You go on inside,” she told him. “I won't be five minutes.”
“Hell with the dishes,” Johnny said lazily, and pointed a finger at her. “You come inside with me an' entertain your company, girl.” He glanced around the tiny dining room, which was actually a niche carved from the living-room floor space. “That couch in there any more solid than these silly-lookin' chairs? With a runnin' start I might make it in there. I might.”
“My furniture is Danish modern,” she said, reprovingly. “You don't furnish a girl's apartment in ax-hewn oak, you know.”
“Oh, I like it fine,” he said hastily. “It's just that with all these sharp edges I don't see how you keep from scarrin' up the nice upholstery-yours, not the furniture's-”
She ignored the remark. “I like it here,” she said defensively. “It's the first time I've had a place of my own. I can't afford it, of course, the place and the furniture, too. I've been looking for someone congenial to move in and share expenses. The bedroom's large enough, thank goodness.” She colored brightly at his look. “Another girl!”
“Now you went an' spoiled it,” he said sadly. “I was right in step till you pulled that switch on me. Didn't any one ever tell you girls are hard to get along with? If you're a girl?”
“I doubt that I'll have any difficulty,” she said drily. “Shall we go inside?”
Johnny groaned eloquently as he eased himself erect. “How about the loan of a shoulder or two to assist in transportin' the body?”
“You're doing all right,” the girl retorted.
“I like that apron,” he said as she removed it.
“Leftover from the curtain material,” she said briskly.
“Sews, too,” he murmured aloud, and surveyed another tide of color rising from beneath the primly necklined dress. “Any money in the bank?”
“I have a job and a mortgage on the furniture,” she replied with dignity, leading the way into the living room. “Does that answer your question?”
