The blind man’s sensitive ears picked Bertha Cool’s steps out of a medley of other noises. He didn’t turn his head toward her, but a smile softened the man’s features. He said, “Hello, I was hoping you’d stop by here. Look what I have to show you.”
He opened a bag and brought out a wooden music box which he wound with a little crank. He opened the cover, and, with remarkable clarity and sweetness of tone, the music box began to play “Bluebells of Scotland.”
The face of the blind man was enraptured. “I told her once,” he said, “that I liked these old-fashioned music boxes, and that we used to have one that played ‘Bluebells of Scotland.’ I’ll bet this cost her something. They’re not so easy to find now, not those that are in good condition. There isn’t a single note missing, and I can feel how smooth the finish on the wood is. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Bertha Cool agreed that it was. “Josephine Dell sent it to you?”
“Of course. A messenger brought it and said that he’d been instructed to deliver it to me from a friend. But I know who the friend is all right. That isn’t all,” he said. “She sent me some flowers.”
“Flowers!”
“Yes.”
Bertha started to say something, then caught herself.
“I know,” the blind man went on. “It’s rather peculiar to send flowers to a blind man, but I can enjoy the fragrance anyway. I think she mainly wanted me to have the note that went with them, and she thought she could send it with flowers. The music-box is expensive, and she didn’t want me to know she’d done that for me.”
“What’s the note?” Bertha asked.
“I have it here,” he said, and took a folded note from his pocket. It read:
Dear Friend, Thanks so much for thinking of me, and even going to the expense of getting Mrs. Cool to find me. I’m sending you these flowers as a little token of appreciation and of my friendship.
The note was signed “Josephine Dell.”
Abruptly Bertha Cool reached a decision. She said to the blind man, “There’s one thing I want you to do for me.”
“What?”
“I want you to let me have this note.”
“It’s rather a keepsake. I can’t read it, of course, but I—”
“You can have it back,” Bertha said, “within a day or two, but I want to take it.”
“Oh, all right, just so you bring it back — as soon as you can, please. You could drive by the little place where I live — 1672 Fairmead Avenue — if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Sure thing,” Bertha promised affably. “I’ll get it back to you.”
Bertha tucked the note into her purse and went to a handwriting expert whom she knew.
“Look,” she said. “I don’t want to be played for a sucker. I don’t want you to take a lot of photographs and wrap your opinion up in a lot of hooey, but here’s a Photostat of a will. One of the subscribing witnesses is a Josephine Dell. Here’s a note actually signed by Josephine Dell. I know that’s her signature. Now this signature on the will may be a forgery. I want to find out. And you’ll notice the first part of the second page. The language seems different in some way from the rest of the will.”
The handwriting expert took the Photostat and studied it closely, apparently thinking out loud as he looked at it. “H’mmmm, all in typewriting — seems to have all been done on the same typewriter, all right. Signature on the note, peculiar spacing, unusual method of making a ‘D’. Same thing in the signature of the witness on the will. If it’s a forgery, it’s a good one. Looks okay — would much prefer to have the original will rather than this Photostat.”
“I can’t get the original,” Bertha told him. “You’ll have to work it out from this.”
“All right, I’ll call you up at your office and let you know. It’ll be just an opinion. If I were going to have to swear to it. I—”
“I know,” Bertha said. “This is just an opinion between you and me.”
“That’s right.”
“Call me at my office within an hour.”
“That’s too soon.”
“Call me, anyway,” Bertha said.
She went back to her office, and within an hour had the telephone call.
“The signatures were both written by the same person,” the expert said.
Bertha Cool thought that over.
“Are you still there?” the expert asked.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t hear you and thought you might have hung up.”
“I’m thinking,” Bertha said, getting an idea. “If that will is okay, I’m out on a limb.”
“It’s okay,” the expert said.
Bertha Cool hung up.
Bertha pressed the buzzer which summoned Elsie Brand.
“Take a letter, Elsie,” Bertha said. “It’s going to be to Donald. I’m going to tell him every single thing that’s happened. There’s something completely cockeyed about this whole business. It’s raining dollar bills, and, in place of being out there with a bushel basket, I’ve got a net deficit of twenty-five bucks.”
Bertha had just finished dictating a long letter when Christopher Milbers entered the office.
“Hello,” Bertha said, “come on in,” and to Elsie, “Be sure we get that out tonight, Elsie. It’s air mail, special delivery.”
Elsie Brand nodded, sat down at the typewriter desk, flipped back the pages of her shorthand notebook, and turned the keyboard of her machine into a pneumatic riveter.
Christopher Milbers adjusted himself in the client’s seat, placed his fingertips together, and beamed across at Bertha Cool. “I came in,” he said, “to settle up.”
“You mean you’re all finished?” Bertha asked. “You’ve reached a compromise with them?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Compromise? On what?”
“On the will.”
He said, “I haven’t as yet made up my mind what to do about the will.”
“Well,” Bertha asked him, “why not wait until you get the thing straightened up?”
“But,” Milbers expostulated, “that wouldn’t affect your compensation in any way. I employed you to help me locate the missing ten thousand dollars. We found the will while we were searching, but that is what we might call a side issue.”
“Oh, I see,” Bertha said dryly.
“I believe,” Milbers announced, pressing his hands so firmly together that the fingers arched backward, “you put in something less than half a day on the matter. However, I’m willing to be generous. If you don’t divide your days, I’m willing to pay for a full day.”
He beamed across at Bertha.
Bertha said, “A hundred dollars.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Cool, that’s definitely outrageous!”
“What makes you think so?”
“The charges made by other firms engaged in a similar line of business — and which, incidentally, determine legally the reasonable basic rate. I hadn’t anticipated anything like that. I had thought that your charges would not exceed ten dollars, and I had prepared a little surprise for you.”
He took from his pocket a cheque payable to Bertha Cool to the amount of twenty-five dollars. On the back of it had been typed: This cheque is offered and accepted in full settlement of any and all claims which the payee may have against the payor of any sort, nature, or description, up to and including the date of the endorsement of this cheque, and the payee, by endorsement hereof, releases the payor from any and all claims of any sort, nature, or description from the beginning of the world to the date of said endorsement.
“Done by a lawyer,” Bertha grunted.
“Well,” Milbers said, “naturally I had to consult an attorney to protect my interests in connection with the estate.”
Bertha knew when she was licked. She sighed, took the cheque, and said, “All right, then, I’ll deposit it.”
Milbers got to his feet, bowed, and extended his hand. “It was a pleasure to have met you, Mrs. Cool.”
Bertha clasped her pudgy, competent fingers around Milbers’s long, tapering hand. “All right,” she said, and then added grimly, “Better luck next time.”
When Milbers had left the office Bertha strode out to the outer office, and slammed the cheque down on Elsie’s Brand’s desk. “Put a P.S. on that letter to Donald, Elsie. Tell him that so far I’ve broken even in the damn case. Twenty-five dollars paid out. Twenty-five dollars taken in. Thank God, I’m holding my own.”