The Westing Game

  “What does dastardly mean?”

  “Oh my!” Flora Baumbach was relieved to hear Jake Wexler define the word as “cowardly.”

  I, alone, know the name. Now it is up to you. Cast out the sinner, let the guilty rise and confess.

  THIRD. Who among you is worthy to be the Westing heir? Help me. My soul shall roam restlessly until that one is found.

  For the first time since Sandy died, Turtle smiled.

  Judge Ford sat in glassy-eyed thought, elbows propped on the desk top, her chin resting on her folded hands. Why, indeed, was Crow an heir? Sam Westing could have pointed his clues at the Sunset Towers cleaning woman without naming her an heir.

  “Crow’s not going to inherit anything, not if she’s in jail for murder,” Otis Amber complained bitterly. “All your talk about chess and sacrificing queens. Crow’s the one who’s been sacrificed.”

  “What did you say?” the judge asked.

  “I said Crow’s the one who’s been sacrificed.”

  Uttering a low groan, Judge Ford sank her head in her hands. The queen’s sacrifice! She had fallen for it again. Westing had sacrificed his queen (Crow), distracting the players from the real game. Sam Westing was dead, but somehow or other he would make his last move. She knew it; she felt it deep in her bones. Sam Westing had won the game. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

  The heirs stared in amazement. First they are told that Samuel W. Westing was married to their cleaning woman, now a judge is calling herself stupid. It couldn’t be true.

  “Sam Westing wasn’t stupid,” Denton Deere declared. “He was insane. The last part of the will was sheer lunacy. Happy Fourth of July, it said. This is November.”

  “It’s November fifteenth,” Otis Amber cried. “It’s poor Crow’s birthday.”

  Turtle looked up from the will. Crow’s birthday? Sandy had bought a striped candle for his wife’s birthday, a three-hour candle. The game is still on! Sam Westing came back to seek his heir. “You can still win. I hope you do,” he said. How? How? It is not what you have, it’s what you don’t have that counts. Whatever it was she didn’t have, she’d have to find it soon. Without letting the others know what she was looking for. “Judge Ford, I’d like to call my first witness.”

  26

  TURTLE’S TRIAL

  HOO WAS FURIOUS.“Haven’t we had enough game-playing,” he complained. “And led by a confessed bomber, no less.”

  Judge Ford rapped for silence with the walnut gavel presented to her by associates on her appointment to a higher court. Higher court? This was the lowest court she had ever presided at: a thirteen-year-old lawyer, a court stenographer who records in Polish, and the judge in African robes. Oh well, she had played Sam Westing’s game, now she would play Turtle’s game. The similarity was astounding; Turtle not only looked like her Uncle Sam, she acted like him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Turtle began, “I stand before this court to prove that Samuel W. Westing is dead and that Sandy McSouthers is dead, but Crow didn’t do it.”

  Pacing the floor, hands behind her back, she confronted each of the heirs in turn with a hard stare. The heirs stared back, not knowing if they were the jury or the accused.

  Grace Wexler blinked up at her daughter. “Who’s that?”

  “The district attorney,” Jake replied. “Go back to sleep.”

  Now frowning, now smiling a secret smile, Turtle acted the part of every brilliant lawyer she had seen on television who was about to win an impossible case. The only flaw in her imitation was an occasional rapid twist of her head. (She liked the grown-up feeling of shorter hair swishing around her face.)

  “Let me begin at the beginning,” she began. “On September first we moved into Sunset Towers. Two months later, on Halloween, smoke was seen rising from the chimney of the deserted Westing house.” Her first witness would be the person most likely to have watched the house that day. “I call Chris Theodorakis to the stand.”

  Chris lay a calm hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. What fun!

  “You are a birdwatcher, Mr. Theodorakis, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you birdwatching on October thirty-first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see anyone enter the Westing house?”

  “I s-saw s-somebody who limped.”

  Good, now she was getting somewhere. “Who was that limping person?”

  “It was D-doctor Sikes.”

  “Thank you, you are excused.” Turtle turned to her audience. “Doctor Sikes was Sam Westing’s friend, a witness to the will, and his accomplice in this game. On the day in question he limped into the Westing house to build a fire in the fireplace. Why?” Her next witness might answer that.

  Judge Ford instructed the witness to remove his aviator’s helmet. His gray hair was tousled but barbered. “And place your gun in the custody of the court.”

  “Oh my!” Flora Baumbach gasped as Otis Amber unzipped his plastic jacket, pulled a revolver from his shoulder holster, and handed it to the judge, who locked the gun in her desk drawer.

  Turtle was as startled as the other tenants. “Mr. Amber,” she began bravely, “it seems that we are not all who we say we are. In other words, who exactly are you?”

  “I am a licensed private investigator.”

  “Then why were you disguised as an idiot delivery boy?”

  “It was my disguise.”

  Turtle was dealing with a practiced witness. “Mr. Amber, who employed you?”

  “That’s privileged information.”

  The judge interceded. “It would be best to cooperate, Mr. Amber. For Crow’s sake.”

  “I had three clients: Samuel W. Westing, Barney Northrup, and Judge J. J. Ford.”

  Turtle stumbled over her next question. “What were you hired to do and when and what did you find out? Tell us everything you know.” It was unsettling to see Otis Amber act like a normal human being.

  “Twenty years ago, after his wife left him, Samuel W. Westing hired me to find Crow, keep her out of trouble, and make sure she never used the Westing name. I assumed this disguise for that purpose. I mailed in my reports and received a monthly check from the Westingtown bank until last week, when I was notified that my services were no longer needed. But Crow still needs me, and I’ll stick by her, no matter what. I’ve grown fond of the woman; we’ve been together such a long time.”

  “How and why did Barney Northrup hire you?”

  “Amber is second in the phone book under Private Investigators; maybe Joe Aaron’s phone was busy that day. Anyhow, Barney Northrup wanted me to investigate six people.”

  “What six?”

  “Judge J. J. Ford, George Theodorakis, James Hoo, Gracie Windkloppel, Flora Baumbach, and Sybil Pulaski. I made a mistake on the last one; I wasn’t aware of the mix-up until I looked into Crow’s early life for the judge. It seems I confused a Sybil Pulaski with a Sydelle Pulaski.”

  “Would you please repeat that,” the court stenographer asked.

  “Sydelle Pulaski,” Otis Amber repeated, then turned to the judge. “I couldn’t tell you about Crow’s relationship to Sam Westing—conflict of interest, you understand.”

  Judge Ford understood very well. Sam Westing had predicted every move she would make. That’s why Otis Amber, with his privileged information, was one of the heirs; that and to convince Crow (the queen) to play the game.

  Turtle had more questions. “Are you saying that Barney Northrup didn’t ask you to investigate Denton Deere or Crow or Sandy?”

  “That’s right. Denton Deere turned up in my report on Gracie Windkloppel—the Wexlers. Barney Northrup said he was looking to hire a cleaning woman for Sunset Towers, good pay and a small apartment, so I recommended Crow. I don’t know how Sandy got the doorman’s job.”

  “Mr. Amber, you were also hired by Judge Ford, I assume to find out who everybody really was. Did you investigate all sixteen heirs for the judge?” r />
  “I didn’t investigate the judge or her partner.”

  The judge bristled at the reminder of her stupidity.

  “Therefore,” Turtle continued, “you have never investigated the man we knew as Sandy McSouthers for any of your clients?”

  “Never.”

  “One more question.” It was the question she had planned to ask before learning that Otis Amber was not who he seemed to be. “On the afternoon of Halloween, when we were watching the smoke in the Westing house chimney, you told a story about a corpse on an Oriental rug.”

  “I saw it,” Grace Wexler cried, “I saw him.”

  Turtle forgot the rules of the court and hurried to her mother. “Who did you see, Mom? Who? Who?”

  (Terrified by the who’s, Madame Hoo slipped away.)

  “The doorman,” Grace replied, lifting her dazed face to her husband. “He was dead. On an Oriental rug, Jake. It was awful.”

  Jake stroked his wife’s hair. “I know, Gracie, I know.” Turtle returned to her witness. “Mr. Amber, did you tell that spooky story to dare one of us to go to the Westing house that night?”

  “Not really. Sandy told me the story that morning, and we decided to scare you kids with it, being Halloween.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Amber, you may step down.” (Step down was a term used in court; the floor was level here.) Turtle turned to her baffled audience. “A fire was started in the fireplace to call attention to the deserted house. Then a spooky story was told to dare someone to go into the house. That someone was me. I sneaked in the house, followed Dr. Sikes’ whispers, and found the corpse of Samuel W. Westing in bed. I now call D. Denton Deere to the stand.”

  Turtle stared at her most unfavorite heir. “Intern Deere, you saw the body of Samuel W. Westing in the coffin. Did he appear to have been poisoned?”

  “I could not say; he was embalmed.”

  “You are under oath, Intern Deere. Do you swear that the body of Samuel W. Westing was embalmed?”

  What kind of a trick question was that? “I cannot swear to it, no. I did not examine the body in the coffin.”

  “Could the body in the coffin, which you did not examine, have been no body at all? Could it have been a wax dummy dressed in the costume of Uncle Sam?”

  “I am not an expert on wax dummies.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes, it’s possible, anything is possible.” What’s the brat driving at? Or is she just trying to make a fool of me?

  “Intern Deere, you may not be an expert in wax dummies, but you are an expert in medical diagnosis, and you did examine the body of Sandy McSouthers. Correct?”

  “Yes to the first question, no to the second. I did not examine Sandy; I tried to make him comfortable until help arrived. He was still alive when Doctor Sikes took over.”

  Turtle turned quickly to conceal her smile. “But surely you saw enough symptoms to make one of your famous diagnosises.” She peered at the judge from the corner of her eye. That last word didn’t sound right.

  “Coronary thrombosis,” the intern diagnosed, “but that’s just an educated guess. In simple language: heart attack.”

  “Then Sandy could not have died of an overdose of lemon juice, which is what I saw Crow put in his flask?” Turtle could have called on Angela to testify to that, but she didn’t want her screwy sister confessing all over the place.

  “I never heard of anyone dying as a result of lemon juice consumption,” the expert replied.

  “One more question, Intern Deere. Do you swear that Sandy had a bruise on his shin resulting from a kick?”

  “Absolutely. I should know, having been the recipient of such a kick myself.”

  “You may step down.”

  “I call Sydelle Pulaski to the stand. SYDELLE PULASKI!”

  Overcome with excitement, the secretary had to be helped to her feet for the oath-taking.

  “Ms. Pulaski, I must compliment you on your good thinking in taking down the will in shorthand.”

  “Professional habit.”

  “This looks professional, all right. The typing is perfect—well, almost perfect. It seems you left out the last word in section three:The estate is at the crossroads. The heir who wins the windfall will be the one who finds the

  “Finds the what, Ms. Pulaski? Finds the what?”

  Sydelle squirmed under Turtle’s hard stare. Leave it to the brat to discover my one error. “There was so much talking I couldn’t hear the last word.”

  “Come now, Ms. Pulaski, you claim to be a professional.”

  Hounding the witness and doing it quite well, Judge Ford thought, coming to the secretary’s defense. “I don’t think anyone heard the word, Turtle. Mr. McSouthers made a joke about ashes at that point.”

  “You are excused, Ms. Pulaski,” Turtle said offhandedly, her eyes on the will. The judge was right. Sandy had joked about ashes scattered to the winds. Winds, Windy Windkloppel, no, it still didn’t make sense. It is not what you have, it’s what you don’t have that counts—maybe no word was ever there. She read on:FOURTH. Hail to thee, O land of opportunity! You have made me, the son of poor immigrants, rich, powerful, and respected.

  So take stock in America, my heirs, and sing in praise of this generous land. You, too, may strike it rich who dares play the Westing game.

  FIFTH. Sit down, Your Honor, and read the letter this brilliant young attorney will now hand over to you.

  “Judge Ford, could you introduce as evidence the letter that brilliant young attorney handed over to you?”

  “It is just the usual certification of sanity, signed by Doctor Sikes,” the judge replied as she removed the envelope from her files. But the letter was gone; the envelope now contained a receipt:

  “I’m afraid the original letter has been replaced by a personal message. It has no bearing on this case, and . . .”

  “Yes, please.” A trembling Madame Hoo stood before the judge. “For to go to China,” she said timidly, setting a scarf-tied bundle on the desk. Weeping softly, the thief shuffled back to her seat.

  The judge unknotted the scarf and let the flowered silk float down around the booty: her father’s railroad watch, a pearl necklace, cuff links, a pin and earrings set, a clock. (Grace Wexler’s silver cross never did turn up.)

  “My pearls,” Flora Baumbach exclaimed with delight. “Wherever did you find them, Madame Hoo? I’m so grateful.”

  Madame Hoo did not understand why the round little lady was smiling at her. Cautiously she peered through her fingers. Oh! The other people did not smile. They know she is bad. And Mr. Hoo, his anger is drowned in shame.

  “Perhaps stealing is not considered stealing in China,” Sydelle Pulaski said in a clumsy gesture of kindness.

  The judge rapped her gavel. “Let us continue with the case on hand. Are you ready, counselor?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, in a minute.” Turtle approached the frightened thief. “Here, you can keep it.”

  With shaking hands Madame Hoo took the Mickey Mouse clock from Turtle and clutched the priceless treasure to her bosom. “Thank you, good girl, thank you, thank you.”

  “That’s okay.”

  The heirs were anxious for the trial to continue. They pitied the poor woman, but the scene was embarrassing.

  One half hour to go. Turtle was so close to winning she could feel it, taste it, but still the answer eluded her. “Ladies and gentlemen, who was Sam Westing?” she began. “He was poor Windy Windkloppel, the son of immigrants. He was rich Sam Westing, the head of a huge paper company. He was a happy man who played games. He was a sad man whose daughter killed herself. He was a lonely man who moved to a faraway island. He was a sick man who returned home to see his friends and relatives before he died. And he did die, but not when we thought he did. Sam Westing was still alive when the will was read.”

  The judge rapped for order.

  Turtle continued. “The obituary, probably phoned in to the newspaper by Westing himself, mentioned two interesting facts. One: Sam
Westing was never seen after his car crashed. Two: Sam Westing acted in Fourth of July pageants, fooling everybody with his clever disguises. Therefore I submit that Sam Westing was not only alive, Sam Westing was disguised as one of his own heirs.

  “No one would recognize him. With that face bashed in from the car crash, his disguise could be simple: a baggy uniform, a chipped front tooth, broken eyeglasses.”

  Sandy?

  Does she mean Sandy?

  The judge had to pound her gavel several times.

  “Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” Turtle went on, “Sam Westing was none other than our dear friend Sandy, the doorman. But Sam Westing did not drink, you say. Neither did Sandy. I used his flask on Halloween and there was a funny aftertaste in my pop, but not of whiskey; I know how whiskey tastes, because I use it for toothaches. It was medicine. Sandy was a sick man, and the flask was part of his disguise, but it also contained the medicine that kept him alive.”

  Turtle surveyed her stupefied audience. Good, they bought her little fib. “As I said earlier, I saw Crow fill the flask with lemon juice in the kitchen, but I saw something even more interesting on my way back to the game room: I saw Sandy coming out of the library. Sam Westing, as Sandy, wrote the last part of the will after the answers were given, then locked it in the library desk with a duplicate key.

  “But what about the murder, you ask,” Turtle said, even though no one had asked. “There was no murder. The word murder was first mentioned by Sandy, to put us off the track. I did not die of natural causes, the will says. My life was taken from me—by one of you! Sam Westing’s life was taken from him when he became Sandy McSouthers. And Sandy died when his medicine ran out.” Turtle paused in a pretense of letting the heirs mull over her last words, trying to figure out what to do next.

  Why did Turtle leave out Barney Northrup, the judge wondered. She knows Northrup and McSouthers were the same man because of the bruised shin. Either she doesn’t want to confound the jury, or she has no more idea than I have why Sam Westing had to play two roles.