The Impostor6
I
As the old man, after shoving the package into the safe, piled the money in on top of it, he was conscious of being watched. At the moment, you could have heard a lizard move. With a lizard’s rapidity, he turned. There was no one. Save for himself—for the safe, the chairs, the books, the immense table—the large, high-ceiled room was vacant.
For a moment he hesitated. Then, at once going to the table, he touched a button, sat down, and began to write.
898 West Eighty-ninth Street, New York,
I, George Gorgias Vulper, declare this to be my last will and testament.
I direct—
At the door came a knock, and a withered servant, his face inextricably wrinkled, appeared. Vulper looked up.
“Archibald, telephone to Doctor Dix. Ask him to come here at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
Before the servant could go, Vulper again was at it.
I give, devise, and bequeath to my son, Michael Vulper, the copyright of my work entitled “Commentaries on the Sutras of Patanjali.” I give, devise, and bequeath to my nephew, Arthur Glendenning, the sum of one dollar, free from inheritance tax and executors’ fees. I give, devise, and bequeath to the director and curators of the British Museum, London, my manuscript entitled “Alpha and Omega.” I give, devise, and bequeath to Shri Shankira my best wishes here and hereafter. The rest and residue of my property, of whatever kind, nature, and description, and wheresoever situated, of which I die seized and possessed, I give, devise, and bequeath to my ward, Camille Marcy, and to her heirs, executors, and assigns forever. I appoint the Amsterdam Trust Company—
The hurrying pen tripped and made a blot. Before Vulper could dry it, there was another knock, and a man with eyeglasses and a professional beard came in.
Vulper nodded at him.
“Dix, I want you to witness my will—you and Archibald. Will you look at it?”
The physician took the paper, glanced at it, and asked:
“Where is the manuscript?”
Vulper motioned at the safe.
“In that package under the junk.”
Dix moved over and looked in.
“There seems to be no end to that junk. You ought to—”
“Only ten thousand,” Vulper interrupted. “If it looks big, it’s because it’s all in twenty-dollar bills. I intended it for Mike, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“Yes, he told me. He was in my office today.”
“What about?”
“Several things. And you leave him a copyright!” Dix, examining the will again, exclaimed. “That’s very paternal. I doubt if it will stand.”
“Mike won’t contest it. Besides, he’s nobody’s fool. He’ll get along.”
Dix rattled the paper.
“It’s a pity, though, about his appearance. It would handicap anyone else. But really, now, this nonsense about Shri! If the facts were known, you’d be judged incompetent and the will thrown out.”
Vulper took it in.
“You’re probably right. I’ll do it over and omit that.”
“And you leave everything to Miss Marcy?”
“I can’t do otherwise. It came to me from her father.”
“Well, it’s none of my business. But that manuscript, now. If it were read in court, it would queer your will. It’s all like Shri—the result of auditory and ocular hallucinations.”
Vulper nodded.
“To you—yes. You’re a physician—therefore, a materialist. You believe, as brutes do, only in the reality of things. And yet, as a physician, you ought to recognize the potentialities of the pineal gland. They have taken me to strange places; they have shown me strange things. I can no more prove it to you than I can dazzle a blind man. But the fact that I can see things which to you are invisible should be as comprehensible as that a composer can hear combinations of sounds to which you are deaf.”
“Oh, as for that, if I wanted to, I could see things myself. With morphine, apparitions can be scientifically produced. Only we don’t call them apparitions; we call them manifestations of morbid activity in certain clusters of the brain cells.” The physician paused and added: “That reminds me. Are you still taking chloral? You are? I told you not to. It’s a stupid thing to take at any age, but at yours it’s fatal.”
Vulper smiled. He was old and he looked it, but his face displayed that strength which is possessed only by those who know neither greed nor envy, neither hope nor fear. In strength such as that, there is infinite indulgence, equal unconcern; and that his smile expressed.
“If you’re trying to alarm me, you’ll hardly succeed. Only the unevolved fear death. What they should fear is life.”
Dix, who had been standing, sat down.
“Mr. Vulper, you have nothing to complain of. Life has treated you very well.”
“Hasn’t it, now? It’s been a wonderful experience. I didn’t have a dollar. I haven’t earned one since, and yet I have a quarter of a million, for which, now that my manuscript is done, I have no longer the slightest need.”
“Yes, you told me. Miss Marcy’s father divided his property between you and his daughter and made you her guardian.”
“And in so doing, afforded me the leisure to write that manuscript. It was more than decent of him—particularly as he had no other reason
