“A... what?” she shrieked.
“Didn’t you know how rich he was?”
“Well, but I thought—”
“His estate is estimated at fifty million dollars.”
“Fifty mil—” Her tongue and lips grew stiff.
It was like watching a kid open a Christmas box. Her breath was coming in quick little gusts.
“Take another drink. Waiter! Rye, or Scotch?”
“Oh, Scotch, and lots of it! Tell me more. Did I hear you say fifty million? That’s not a slip of the tongue? You don’t mean fifty thousand? Fifty MILLION?”
“Whoa! Let’s go easy. You’re not getting any fifty million dollars.”
“But I thought you said— Oh, I don’t care! Nobody could spend that much money, anyway. How much is it?”
“Let’s figure it out.” Beau began scribbling on the cloth. “The estate comes to about fifty millions. Your uncle didn’t use the cute dodges by which rich men usually cheat the constituted authorities of their death-shares. So inheritance taxes are going to eat up about thirty-five millions.”
Kerrie closed her eyes. “Go on. What do I care how I spend money?”
“Fees and expenses will probably come to a half-million. That leaves fourteen million and a half. Invested in safe securities at, say, four percent — that makes an income annually of five hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
“What?” said Kerrie, opening her eyes.
“You don’t get the principal. I’ll explain why later. Now, there are two of you sharing this income — your cousin Margo and you.”
“How do you do, Margo,” said Kerrie with a wriggle of delight. “Will you buy a gold-lined tub with me?”
“You mean—? But sure, you never even saw her. Anyway, your half-share annually comes to two hundred and ninety thousand. Income taxes should take a hundred and sixty thousand of that, so you’ll have a hundred and thirty thousand a year.”
“How much does that come to per week?” murmured Kerrie. “That’s the figure I want. I was always rotten in arithmetic.”
“It comes,” said Beau, scribbling the last figure, “to twenty-five hundred smackers a week.”
“Twenty-five hun — Every week? Week in, week out?”
“Yes.”
“Why, that’s better than being a star!” cried Kerrie. “Twenty-five hundred a week clear! I suppose I’m dreaming. It’s a mean one, all right. Pinch me and wake me up.”
“It’s true. But—”
“Oh,” said Kerrie lightly. Then she sighed. “There’s a catch in it.”
“Well... certain conditions. By the way, I’m empowered to finance you — all you want — until you reach New York. Sort of drawing account against that twenty-five hundred per. That is, if you accept the conditions.”
“Let’s have them,” said Kerrie crisply. “I may as well know the worst.”
“First,” said Beau, “have you ever been married?”
“No, but I’m eligible. Were you considering snaring an heiress this season? What’s the point?”
“Never mind me.” Beau reddened. “Is there any chance of your being married in the near future? That is, are you engaged, or have you a boy-friend?”
“I’m free, white, and just twenty-one.”
“Then you’ve merely to accept your uncle’s conditions and at least half the estate is yours. Now, for the conditions. The first is this: that you agree to live with the other heiress — we’re sure now, from the evidence available, that there are only two of you — in your uncle’s Tarrytown mansion on the Hudson. The house will be maintained by the estate for one year. You must live there exclusively for that year; after that you’re free to live anywhere you like.”
“Wow,” said Kerrie. “I was really worried. Why, that’s not a condition — it’s a blessing! Beautiful house, cars, all the clothes in the world, a maid to do my hair, three squares a day and a couple of cooks to prepare them... Mister, that’s heaven. Bring on your other condition!”
Beau fished a paper out of his pocket. “Let me read you,” he said slowly, “a copy of a paragraph from your uncle’s will.” He read:
“In imposing this second condition upon my heirs, I feel it necessary to warn them against that insidious, degrading, and fatal institution in human relations known as marriage. I was married, and I know. At its best, it is a dull, confining prison. At its worst, it is hell. Since my divorce, I have lived, and I shall die, a bachelor. My only friend, Edmund De Carlos, to whom I have in this testament willed one million dollars and a home for life if he so wishes, is now and has always been a bachelor. We have discussed the subject many times and agree that most of the ills of the world can be traced to marriage, or rather to its effect upon individuals. It has caused men and women to become greedy, it has inspired horrible crimes, it has, historically, bred wars and international treacheries. I am an old man; my heirs, if they still live, will be young. I feel I must impose my experience of life upon them. They are free to reject my advice, of course, but only at the expense of the worldly goods I am in a position to bestow upon them...”
Beau put the paper back in his pocket. “There’s more of the same. But I think you get the idea.”
Kerrie looked astonished. “He was mad!”
“No,” said Beau dryly, “he was perfectly sane — in the legal sense, and we have reason to believe in the medical, too. He was just abnormally bitter and intense on this one subject. I suppose it all dates from the dirty deal his wife gave him ’way back in 1902 or so. Anyway, he felt so strongly about marriage that upon it depends your inheritance.”
“I don’t quite—”
“The will stipulates that the income payable to any heir shall cease automatically, and that heir from then on forfeits all claim to her share of the estate, if and when she marries.”
“You mean,” cried Kerrie, “if I accept this legacy I shan’t ever be able to get married?”
“Not if you want to keep pocketing twenty-five hundred a week.”
“And if I turn the whole thing down now, or accept and then marry?”
“Your cousin Margo, if she’s eligible, would become the sole heiress. Your share would go to her. Or if you both became ineligible, the will provides that the income from the estate be donated by the trustees to such organized charities as they may see fit to select, and they continue to be trustees for the estate. Or if the heirs remain eligible, then at the death of one the income goes to the survivor. At the death of the survivor, the income goes to the charities. You see, your uncle Cadmus considered death and marriage practically the same thing.”
Kerrie was silent for a long time. The orchestra was playing, and people were dancing under colored lights; her face lay in trombone shadows.
Beau waited for her decision with a curious eagerness. She couldn’t turn it down. She wouldn’t be human if she did. She was human, all right — he could testify to that, because he had held her in his arms when they danced.
Cole’s conditions might have been easy for another girl. But Kerrie wasn’t the sort who could take, and give, love except the right way. With her it would be one or the other — the money or her happiness.
He knew what she was thinking. She wasn’t in love with any one now. Perhaps she’d never been in love. With her figure, with her face, there must have been men, though — plenty of men, and all the wrong kind. She would be a little cynical about men. So what was she throwing away? Something that didn’t exist, probably, for something that you could turn instantly into the delicious good things of life, which she had never had.
Kerrie laughed — a funny, quaking little laugh. “All right, Uncle Cadmus, you win. I die a virgin. Other women have. Maybe I’ll become a saint. Wouldn’t that be a scream, Ellery? Saint Kerrie. And all the other virgins would put up candles for me, and pray at my shrine!”