“And the box?”
Ridge nodded. “We’ll get to that. I think you recognize it,remember where we found it. But first, you need to understand a few things.”
He waved one hand, a sweeping gesture that reached beyond theroom and house. “You probably don’t know it, but this property is encumbered. Ididn’t inherit clear title. To be specific, Major Ridge set up a trust in thatdocument and others that stated, if the house and land or any part of it wereever sold or transferred outside the blood lineage of the family, the wholeproperty would devolve to the International Red Cross for the purposes of warrelief. I think that you can see that breaking that restriction would beextremely valuable to his heirs and everyone else concerned.” He paused andlooked at me, no wink or nudge, just a look.
The lawyers and the cousins nodded. So they all were part ofwhatever scam was going down. And Ridge had just offered me a share. Offered mea bribe.
No wonder I hadn’t liked him from the first phone call. Inarrowed my eyes at him, just a minor editorial opinion. “And the box?”
“Open it.”
Well, first I felt it, “smelled” it. It carried the same feelas that hidden vault we’d found, a sign it was the same box I’d seen. I hadn’texamined it or opened it that time, wasn’t part of my job. Black enamel paintcovered tin-plate steel, gold and red striping bordered the lid, metal showedthrough at scratches here and there. The lid wasn’t locked. Green paint on theinside surfaces.
Papers. Okay, this would be the scam, whatever it was. Ilifted the first bundle out, yellowed lined paper, school-kid grade. Theycarried the same feel as the vault, as the box. I unfolded the sheets and reada few pages, an inventory of the booze — cases in, bottles out, whoever hadstocked that hidden room kept methodical records. The earliest handwritingresembled the major’s ledgers, later didn’t.
Second bundle seemed to be cost records of that inventory —receipts, shipping invoices — held in a thick folded sheaf by rusted staples.Last date was 1939. I noticed a conspicuous gap on the legal documentation forthe Prohibition years, although the inventory had marched straight through,looking neither left nor right.
Third paper was a single folded letter-sized sheet. The papermatched the will I’d seen, heavy linen bond rather than the cheap yellowedpaper of the inventory or the miscellany of those cost records and receipts. Iopened it and laid it flat on the table. It wanted to refold so I anchored ittop and bottom with cut-glass paperweights from the old desk.
Codicil, it claimed, handwritten, the writing looked like anold-man’s version of the writing in the ledgers. I’m not a graphologist, totestify in court. It was dated a few days after the typewritten will I’d seen.Witnessed.
I ran my fingers over it, not touching, just a fraction of airbetween it and me. It felt like the major. It did not feel like it had spent fifty or sixty years next to the otherpapers, in that cellar vault. Things affect other things. That’s physics, that’schemistry. That’s also magic.
I sensed a memory in the paper that extended beyond the sheetunder my fingers. This paper had spent decades with an inch or so beyond thecurrent top and bottom. Legal-sized paper cut down to letter size? Scribblednotes or another date removed?
And that date. The ink lookedthe same, but when I cocked my head to let light reflect from the surface, thetexture seemed coarser. Also less matte, more shine, as if one had been blottedbefore it dried and the other not.
I let my fingers drift over the date several times. Then Ilooked up at Malcolm Ridge. I shook my head.
His lips tightened. “As I said, breaking those deedrestrictions would mean a lot of money. Money for all concerned. Millions.”
So there it stood, right out in the open. Sign off on thecodicil, get a big fat check. I straightened up and nodded at the vulturescircling the work table, didn’t say a word. Just for curiosity, I detoured byMajor Ridge’s desk on my way out of the room. Yes, the old cut-glass inkwellhad ink in it. When I’d been here before, it had been dry, with a sludge ofcracked black pigment in the bottom. That’s one job requirement for what I do,noticing and remembering details. The ivory-quilled dip pen next to the inkwelllay pointing the opposite way from my memory.
I nodded at the inkwell. “I would imagine that the chemicalcontent would test out fine. Not the grain structure, though. You’ll be introuble if anyone submits that to a lab.”
Ridge didn’t show me out. I paused in the big hall, staring upat the portrait of the old major. Apparently he had loved this house and theestate, didn’t want it ever broken up. Judging by the biased view I’d gottenfrom his descendents, it might have been the only thing he ever loved. Peopleare strange.
The blonde ghosted up next to me and laid a hand on myforearm. “You know, this doesn’t hurt anyone.He’s been dead for more than fifty years. And the Red Cross has never even heard of this place, or the will.”
She paused and fiddled with one of those overloaded buttonsthat held her blouse closed across a truly impressive chest. “It isn’t justmoney, you know. You could have other rewards, if you help us out.”
The button popped loose, exposing more flesh.
I glanced from her to the portrait. “I think there’s a strongfamily resemblance.” And then I turned and walked out through the entry and theportico.
I’m sure they found some other way, some other expert, tobreak the will. No one ever asked me to testify. Money can move mountains. Afew traces of ink are easy.
When I got out to my car, I found a folded sheet of paperunder the driver’s-side wiper blade. I reached for it, felt Kratz there, andbacked off as fast as my fat shanks could carry me. I checked the car out froma distance, found nothing dangerous, and kept checking as I moved closer stepby step at a stalking pace. Unless I’d totally lost my touch, that paper
