The Westing Game (7 page)

“That’s my second wife. She came over from Hong Kong two years ago.”

“She does look young, but it’s so hard to tell ages of people of the Oriental persuasion,” Grace said. Why was he glaring at her like that? “Your wife is quite lovely, you know, so doll-like and inscrutable.”

Hoo bit off half a chocolate bar. He had enough problems with the empty restaurant, a lazy son, and his nagging ulcer; now he had to put up with this bigot.

Grace lit another cigarette and rearranged the clues to read:
purple waves.
“You heard that doorman say ‘purple waves’; it must mean something. And that ghastly secretary was wearing a dress with purple waves last night, not to mention her crutch.”

“You should not speak unkindly of those less fortunate than you,” Hoo said.

“You’re quite right,” Grace replied. “I thought the poor thing handled her infirmity with great courage—traveling mimosa, my future son-in-law says; he’s a doctor, you know. Anyhow, Pulaski couldn’t possibly be the murderer, not the way she gimps around. Besides, how could my Uncle Sam know she’d wear pur ple waves to his funeral?”

Hoo waved the cigarette smoke from his face. “The murderer had to have a motive. How about this: A niece murders her rich uncle to inherit his money?”

Good sport that she was, Grace tossed back her head and uttered an amused “Ha-ha-ha.”

“Not that I care,” Hoo said. “That cheating moneybags got what he deserved. What’s the matter?”

“Look!” Grace pointed to the clues.

“
For sea!
The murderer lives in apartment 4C!”

“I live in 4C,” Hoo barked. “If Sam Westing wanted to say 4C he would have written number 4, letter C. S-e-a means
sea,
like what a turtle swims in.”

“Come now, Mr. Hoo, we are both being silly. Have you spoken to your son about his clues?”

“Some son. If you can catch him, you can ask him.” Hoo stuffed the rest of the candy bar in his mouth. “And some business I’ve got here. Everybody orders up, nobody orders down. That coffee shop is sending me to the poorhouse. And your Angela and that Pulaski woman, they didn’t show us the will, they didn’t give us their clues, they didn’t pay for three cups of jasmine tea and six almond cookies, and you smoke too much.”

“And you eat too much.” Grace threw her coin purse on the table and stormed out of the restaurant. Change, that’s all he’ll get from her; he’d have to beg on his knees before she’d sign Grace Windsor Wexler on the ten-thousand-dollar check, that madman. Some pair they made: Attila the Hun and Gracie the useless. Gracie Windkloppel Wexler, heir pretender, pretentious heir.

 

 

First, the money. They signed their names to the check; half would go into Doug Hoo’s savings account; half would go to Theo’s parents. Next, the clues:

“Maybe they’re numbers: one, two, three, four,” Theo guessed.

“I still say
on
is
no,
” the bored track star said. He clasped his hands behind his head, leaned back in the coffee shop booth and stretched his long legs under the opposite bench. “And
no
is what we got:
no
real clues,
no
leads,
no
will.”

After three cups of coffee, two pastries and a bowl of rice pudding with cream, Sydelle Pulaski had offered nothing in return.

Theo refused to give up. “Are you sure you didn’t see anything unusual at the Westing house that night?”

“I didn’t kill Westing, if that’s what you mean, and the only unusual thing I saw was Turtle Wexler. I think the pest is madly in love with me; how’s that for luck?”

“Get serious, Doug. One of the heirs is a murderer; we could all get killed.”

“Just because somebody zapped the old man doesn’t mean he’s going to kill again. Dad says . . .” Doug paused. His father’s comment about awarding a medal to the murderer might be incriminating.

Theo tried another tack. “I was playing chess with somebody in the game room last night.”

“Who?”

“That’s what’s strange; I don’t know who. We’ll have to find out which one of the heirs plays chess.”

“Since when is chess-playing evidence for murder?”

“Well, it’s something to go on,” Theo replied. “And another thing: The will said no two sets of clues are alike. Maybe all the clues put together make one message, a message that points to the murderer. Somehow or other we’ll have to get the heirs to pool the clues.”

“Oh, sure. The killer can’t wait to hand over the clues that will hang him.” Doug rose. Snowbound or not, he had to stay in shape for the track meet. For the rest of the day he jogged through the hallways and up and down stairs, scaring the nervous tenants half out of their wits.

 

 

Judge J. J. Ford had no doubt that the clues she shared with the doorman were meant for her, but Sam Westing could toss off sharper insults than:

His choice of words must have been limited; therefore, these clues were part of a longer statement. A statement that named a name. The name of the murderer.

No. Westing could not have been murdered. If his life had been threatened, if he had been in danger of any kind, he would have insisted on police protection. He owned the police; he owned the whole town. Sam Westing was not the type to let himself get killed. Not unless he was insane.

The judge opened the envelope given her by the incompetent Plum. A certificate of sanity, dated last week: “Having thoroughly examined . . . keen mind and memory . . . excellent physical condition . . . (signed)
Sidney Sikes, M.D.
”

Sikes. That sounded familiar. The judge scanned the obituary she had cut from Saturday’s newspaper.

Sikes was Westing’s friend (and, she remembered, a witness to the will), but he was also a physician in good standing. She would accept his opinion on Westing’s sanity, for the time being at least.

Back to the clues. Look at her, the big-time judge, fussing over scraps of Westing Superstrength Paper Towels. “Forget the clues,” she said aloud, rising from her desk to putter about the room.

Nibbling on a macaroon, she stacked the used coffee cups on a tray. If only that Pulaski person had let her study the will. That’s where the real clues were buried, among the veiled threats and pompous promises, the slogans and silliness in that hodgepodge of a will.

In his will Sam Westing implied (he did not state, he implied) that (1) he was murdered, (2) the murderer was one of the heirs, (3) he alone knew the name of the murderer, and (4) the name of the murderer was the answer to the game.

The game: a tricky, divisive Westing game. No matter how much fear and suspicion he instilled in the players, Sam Westing knew that greed would keep them playing the game. Until the “murderer” was captured. And punished.

Sam Westing was not murdered, but one of his heirs was guilty—guilty of some offense against a relentless man. And that heir was in danger. From his grave Westing would stalk his enemy, and through his heirs he would wreak his revenge.

Which one? Which heir was the target of Westing’s vindictiveness? In the name of justice she would have to find Westing’s victim before the others did. She would have to learn everything she could about each one of the heirs. Who are they, and how did their lives touch Westing’s, these sixteen strangers whose only connection with one another was Sunset Towers? Sunset Towers—she’d start from there.

Good, the telephones are working again. The number she dialed was answered on the first ring. “Hi there, this is a recording of yours truly, Barney Northrup. I’m at your service—soon as I get back in my office, that is. Just sing out your problem to old Barney here when you hear the beep.” Beep.

J. J. Ford hung up without singing out her problem to old Barney. He, too, could be involved in Westing’s plot.

The newspaper, she would try the newspaper; surely someone was snowbound there. After eight rings, a live voice answered. “We usually don’t supply that kind of information over the phone, but since it’s you, Judge Ford, I’ll be happy to oblige. Just spell out the names and I’ll call back if I find anything.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.” It was a beginning. Sam Westing was dead, but maybe, just once, she could beat him at his own game. His last game.

 

 

Having found what she wanted in Turtle’s desk, Angela returned to her frilly bedroom where Sydelle Pulaski, glasses low on her nose, was perched on a ruffled stool at the vanity table, smearing blue shadow on her eyelids.

“First we tackle our own clues,” the secretary said, frowning at the result in the threefold mirror. Unlucky from the day she was born, she now had a beautiful and well-loved partner. There was always the chance that they alone had been given the answer. She unsealed the envelope and held it out to Angela. “Take one.”

Angela removed the first clue:
good.

Now it was Sydelle’s turn. “Glory be!” she exclaimed, thinking she had the name of the murderer. Her thumb was covering the letter
d.
The word was
hood.

Angela’s turn. The third clue was
from.

Sydelle’s turn. The fourth clue was
spacious.

The fifth and last clue was—Angela uttered a low moan. Her hand shook as she passed the paper to her partner. The fifth and last clue was
grace.

“Grace, that’s your mother’s name, isn’t it?” Sydelle said. “Well, don’t worry, that clue doesn’t mean your mother is the murderer. The will says:
It is not what you have, it’s what you don’t have that counts.
” The secretary had not yet transcribed the shorthand, but she had read it through several times before hiding the notebook in a safe place. “By the way, are you really related to Mr. Westing?”

Angela shrugged. Sydelle assumed that meant no and turned to the clues.

“The only thing I can figure from these clues is:
Good gracious from hood space.
As soon as the parking lot is shoveled out, we’ll peek under the hoods of all the cars. A map or more clues may be hidden there. Maybe even the murder weapon. Now, let’s hear about the other clues.”

Angela reported on the clues gathered in the game room and during the day’s comings and goings:

“
King, queen.
Otis Amber said, ‘King Otis and Queen Crow.’

“Purple waves.
Mother switched two clues around when Sandy mentioned those words.

“On
(or
no
)
.
Doug and Theo could not decide whether that clue was right side up or upside down.

“Grains.
Chris Theodorakis thinks that clue refers to Otis Amber. You know, grains—oats.

“MT.”
Angela showed her partner the crumpled scrap of paper she had picked up along with Sydelle’s dropped crutch during Flora Baumbach’s tea party.

“I checked Turtle’s diary. She is not following any stock with a symbol like
MT,
so it must be one of her clues.
MT
could stand for either
mountain
or
empty.
”

“Excellent,” Sydelle Pulaski remarked. Her partner was beautiful, but not dumb. “Read all the clues together now.”

Sydelle was disappointed. “
It is not what you have, it’s what you don’t have that counts.
And what we don’t have is a verb. Nothing makes sense without a verb. What about the judge?”

“Judge Ford thought her clues were an insult, and she said something about playing a pawn in Westing’s game. And she had a clipping of the obituary on her desk. This obituary.” Angela handed Sydelle the newspaper taken from Turtle’s drawer.