Jerry Simmons, a thin man with an enormous nose, reddened angrily, and started to get up, fists clenched; but his wife held him down. She was bigger and heavier than he, and had stronger features. Her eyes were grey, cold, and seemed able to pierce flesh like daggers. They met Talbott’s large blue ones in a clash of stares, and the old man gave her a wry twist of his lips by way of a left-handed compliment.
“You’re the best man in this whole bunch,” he said. “If you were of my own blood, damned if I wouldn’t leave all the money to you.”
“You can do that anyhow,” she said levelly. “Anything Jerry gets I’ll have to manage; you know that, and so does my husband.”
“Ah, knock it off, Lucy!” Jerry said uneasily. “I don’t get any of this jazz tonight. Just a lot of crazy talk.”
“So,” Hiram said, watching them, “again I have to credit a husband with his wife’s merits, so to speak. I should think you two come second.”
“Who’s first?” Lucy asked promptly.
“My wife,” Talbott answered without hesitation. “And that’s so not on her sterling qualities, but merely because I picked her. You others were wished on me. I picked her,” he added, brutally frank, “as a stepping-stone. Her father was President of National Electronics, and the marriage gave me a leg-up. None of you had as much sense, I’m afraid.” He let his eyes pass over the group again, and said: “That concludes the ratings. Now you will be free to change my mind, if you can.” He looked down at the table, and frowned. “Where the devil’s my comb-honey?”
“Oh, dear,” his wife twittered. “I forgot to have it brought in from the hive.” She jumped up. “I’ll go get it now.”
“You will not,” her husband said. “Since the servants have gone for this evening, I’ll just call on some of these ‘waiters’! Since they are waiting for my money, let them wait on us. Any volunteers? It might help somebody’s rating,” he added cynically.
“I’ll go,” Malcolm said. “Not that I’m trying to curry favor.”
“Ingenious,” his father said. “You figure that so obvious an attempt to curry favor will be taken as a frank disavowal of such an intention. Or did I lose you.”
“I’ll go, too; I haven’t seen the hives for a long time,” Davis said.
“Two will be enough,” Talbott said. “One comb isn’t very heavy. Put on the yard-lights. You know which hive, Malcolm — the one farthest from the patio. Matter of turn,” he explained.
It was hardly necessary to explain; they all knew of his fondness for fresh honey from the comb. There were a dozen hives on the estate, much to the annoyance of the help and Talbott’s visitors.
While Malcolm and William Davis were gone, Talbott drank more wine, and tried to stir up some general conversation, but his previous comments had not left his guests in a good mood. They fiddled with their dessert, and waited for the ordeal to end. The unexpected invitation, a few weeks after Talbott’s illness, had brought their hopes to new heights. Surely it was time for the old man to tell them where they stood. Maybe he might even relent and distribute some money now; after all, he had about fifteen million bucks, and didn’t live very high himself. Power, not money, was his staff of life.
Malcolm and Davis came in with a comb-of honey; Mrs. Talbott took it from them, put it on a saucer, and laid the dish before her husband. With an oddly greedy look, he began to gobble the golden sweet. After several large spoonfuls, he sighed with pleasure, and seemed about to say something. Then, they saw his face turn beet-red, and the cords of his neck swell monstrously. With bulging eyes he clawed at his throat, breath stertorous as he fought for air. He thrashed about like a wounded animal, finally rolling to the floor.
Mrs. Talbott screamed; the others milled about helplessly.
“Call a doctor!” Julie shrieked, and Lucy Simmons, grey eyes luminously steady, bent over the stricken man, and attempted to breathe into his mouth. But it was all over too fast; Hiram Talbott, his face blue and congested, coughed spasmodically for a few seconds, and was still.
“I think he’s dead,” Lucy announced, her voice flat and dull.
“No!” Mrs. Talbott whimpered. “God, no!” Morton just managed to catch her as she crumpled.
“It was his heart,” Julie said in a hushed voice.
“I doubt that,” Malcolm said. “That last attack was quite different. This is more like—” he hesitated.
“Like what?” Lucy demanded.
“Allergy — real bad allergy. He looked like this that time Doctor Wilson gave him penicillin. If the doctor hadn’t been right with him, he said Dad would’ve died for sure. They have a name for it — some kind of shock.”
“Shouldn’t we be calling a doctor, instead of jabbering?” Jerry Simmons asked querulously.
“It’s all happening so fast,” Julie said
“I’ll call Dr. Wilson,” Malcolm said.
Lucy was standing very straight, a half smile on her face. “Now we can stop worrying about his money,” she said coolly. “The pie will be cut up, and each of us will know his share — if any.”
“This is no time—” Malcolm began; and Morton, horrified, said: “Money? At a time like this. Really, Lucy.”
But Julie giggled.
“Twenty-six years he said we’d wait. It was nearer twenty-six minutes.”
The expressions of disapproval and shock faded; they looked at each other, faces suitably grave; but eyes were feverishly bright. A multi-million pie was about to be cut up and distributed to the hungry. Nobody remembered that Talbott’s death was still unexplained, and that society would not leave the matter like that.
“You gonna call a doctor or not?” Simmons demanded, looking at Malcolm. “Maybe the old guy’s not even dead.”
For a moment Malcolm seemed bewildered; then he went slowly to the phone and began to dial.
“How convenient that Talbott should die like this,” Lucy said cryptically. “It’s pretty clear he’s left a will, and that all of us will get something. I can use mine now a lot better than in twenty-six years. None of us is getting any younger. Very convenient,” she repeated.
“What’re you getting at?” Morton asked. “Dad must’ve worked himself into a apoplexy, he had such a hate on against us. As ye sow,” he added, “so shall ye reap.”
“Look who’s getting pious!” Julie said. “He hated all his relatives, but they hated him back. And he was your father, Morton.”
“He was their master — and jailer,” Lucy said, battering the younger woman with her grey eyes. On the couch, where she had been dumped rather unceremoniously, Martha Talbott stirred and moaned. Julie went to her, and murmured soothingly. Soon Martha was sobbing.
“When you said ‘convenient’,” Jerry said, “I got your drift, Lucy. You figure the cops might think he was killed — by one of us, maybe.”
“That’s what they’ll think,” Lucy said, “until they know different. Me, I’m betting it was no accident.”
“It looked just like a stroke to me,” Morton objected. “What do you think, Mal? The doctor coming?”
“Be right over,” Malcolm said. “He wouldn’t give any opinion on the phone — you know Wilson — but he seems pretty sure it was Dad’s heart. That bothers him, too, I could tell, because he told him the attack was mild and needn’t happen again. Still, Dad was pretty excited with all that rating stuff. He liked to see us squirm, all right,” Malcolm added bitterly.
“I wonder,” Lucy said in a sly voice, “if we hadn’t better clear the table — and give all the dishes a good washing.”