It was old William Bardon the DA had sent us up to see; but we never got far with the old man. Emory Kent took us to the bedside.
“Mr. Bardon,” he said. “These are the gentlemen from the DA’s office.”
The old man looked annoyed. Dr. George Bardon made a try.
“Uncle William,” he said, pitching his voice several notches higher than the lawyer’s discreet tone. “You can hear me, Uncle William. These are the DA’s men you wanted.”
The old man looked more annoyed. Hepburn Bardon came forward.
“Papa,” he bellowed. “We got you the murder men you wanted. You remember, Papa. It was about Sara.”
“You don’t have to remind me,” the old man panted. “Nothing wrong with my head.”
“Yes, Papa. Will you talk to them, Papa?”
Papa wasn’t up to it. Just those few words he’d spoken had used up his ration of strength for that day. Dr. George took over and we were ushered out.
“Cardiac?” I asked when the door had been shut behind us.
“Yes,” Kent said. “Ninety-four his last birthday. Dr. Bardon is doing everything possible but it can happen any time. There’s really nothing left.”
“I could see that,” Gibby muttered, “but still, the old man thinks he’s being murdered and he wants us to prevent it.”
They set us straight on that. It wasn’t for himself the old man was concerned. It was for his granddaughter, a Mrs. Sara Frail. Promising us a full explanation, Kent ushered us into an upstairs sitting room. Like all of the rest of William Bardon’s house, this was an imposing sitting room. Already ensconced in it we found an imposing pair of dames, one of middle years and very grand, the other young and brassily blond. At first sight, the older woman was every inch a Bardon and the younger one every inch one of Uncle Hep’s showy babes. When we came on them, they were in the process of discussing Hepburn Bardon.
We hadn’t been with them more than a matter of moments before it became evident that they could never have found any other topic in common. The lady was Agatha Bardon, Hep’s sister and the old man’s only daughter. The babe was one Dorinda Gibbs, familiarly known as Dolly. To Uncle Hep she seemed to be most familiarly known. In any event, he became so much engrossed with her that we had little out of him for the rest of that session. He did suggest that any explanations might better wait till we would have his nephew Everett with us, but Agatha swept that suggestion aside.
“I,” she said, “can speak for Everett.”
We couldn’t see why anyone should speak for the young man. Gibby said as much.
“The DA sent us up here about a matter of murder,” he said. “He wants us to do what we can toward reassuring Mr. Bardon. I hope you understand we are here about the old gentleman’s problem and about nothing else. There’s certainly nothing we could do for his grandson.”
Agatha sighed. “You can’t start out with a prejudice against the boy,” she said. “Do you know him?”
“We know of him.”
“You have to know him. He’s charming. When he was arrested and all that, the people down at The Tombs and later at Sing Sing, everybody was enchanted with Everett. And what’s more, Papa wouldn’t let us use influence or anything like that, but Everett served only the absolute minimum and you know that can be done only on good behavior and since he’s come out, he’s been a complete lamb.”
“He’s still on parole,” Gibby growled.
“Yes, indeed,” said Agatha, smiling happily. “You should know his parole officer. A delightful man and devoted to Everett.”
“That,” Gibby said firmly, “was a matter of larceny. What’s the story on the homicide?”
Emory Kent and Agatha gave us the story. Old William had made his will and he was convinced that it contained provisions that were an invitation to murder. He was most concerned that this murder should be averted. He had complete faith in the DA and his office. Once he knew we’d been alerted, he wouldn’t give the matter another thought.
There had never been anything secret about the old man’s will. His heirs had always been aware of its terms. The major part of the estate was to go to his children and their issue. There had been four children — Agatha and Hepburn by his first wife; and by his second wife, two sons, now deceased. The shares of these two sons would be going to their issue, in one case a son — Everett Bardon — in the other a daughter — Sara Frail.
“And Mrs. Frail may be murdered?” Gibby asked.
“The problem,” Kent said, “is her husband.”
2.
And that was the nub of it. On that they were all agreed. Franklin Frail was a bad sort, a man capable of anything as long as it was evil. The old man had been providing Sara, as he had been the others, with an allowance, and on his death these allowances would, of course, stop. Each would then be having his individual share of the estate instead The Bardons were accepting it as axiomatic that Sara’s husband had been kept safe only by the expectation of the continuing allowance. Once the capital sum would be in the man’s hands, there would be for him no further hope of gain from not murdering his wife. At that point he would murder her. It was as simple as that and as preposterous.
“The bequests,” Kent said, “are unconditional and outright. I’ve suggested that Mrs. Frail’s portion be set up as a trust fund paying her a lifetime income, but Mr. Bardon says he gives money or he doesn’t. He ties no strings to it. It’s a matter of conviction.”
“Conviction strong enough to make him endanger this young woman’s life?” Gibby asked.
“That,” Hep Bardon offered, “is where you gentlemen come in.”
Agatha didn’t disagree but she recognized that it might take some leading up to. She provided a history. None of the family knew Sara Frail. With the exception of the old man, none of them had ever seen the girl. Sara’s father had gone West as a young man, evidently to escape the family; and he had lived out what remained of his life without ever coming home again. He had married and he had fathered Sara.
“When Sara first married the man,” Agatha said, “Papa went out to see them. He told her she’d made a horrible mistake but Sara wouldn’t listen. Papa told her she’d go on receiving her allowance. Since he didn’t like her husband, he was not increasing it and they would both have to make out on what she’d been receiving for herself alone. Then he came back to New York. His last word to her was that as long as she remained married to Frail, he didn’t want to see her again. If she wanted to divorce the man, Papa would be glad to hear from her. Otherwise, the bank could handle all necessary communications.”
“So he hasn’t seen or heard from her since?” Gibby asked.
He hadn’t. Agatha explained that they weren’t a close family. Old William had seen this granddaughter of his three times all told. He had gone out to California when the girl was born. He had seen her the second time when he attended her father’s funeral. The third time was when he went out to pass judgment on her husband.
I could think of nothing more nicely designed to exasperate Gibby and to outrage that precise mind of his. Gibby’s is a mind that feeds on facts. It is impatient of vague suspicion, conjecture, and notions born out of emotion or prejudice.
“You’ve never seen the girl,” he said. “You’ve never communicated with her, but you know all about her and you know all about her husband. You know that once a capital sum has been paid out and there are to be no further payments and nothing that could be stopped or revoked, at that moment, Sara Frail is going to need us to keep her husband from murdering her.”
They knew more than we thought. They knew that the Frails were no longer in California. They had moved to Chicago about three years back. At the time of that move, Franklin Frail had come East without his wife and he had had the effrontery to come and call on his wife’s relatives.