Dead Broke.. A New Story Free For, Hopefully, Your Reading Pleasure

Well, last year did not go as I'd planned.  The book (The Mystery of the Shaman's Secret) did not make it through the publishing process, much less its prequel, a mystery of the Shang dynasty.  A couple of other works in progress were deferred, and I got a new knee for Christmas.

Thanks for your patience.  I am promised the book will be ready for a final look through by the end of this week with subsequent publication within a week or two, I am walking without a cane or a walker now and, am actually getting a little work done.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the following story; a kind of mystery about revenge from beyond the grave.

DEAD BROKE - by Jack Petree

He saw his grandson stalking towards him. He wondered at the hatred in the boy's eyes.  As the boy approached he reached up, with his left hand, and clasped the cross that hung from his neck.

There was no struggle. There was no point.  The old man was eighty-five and ill.  His grandson was twenty-two and comparatively strong.

He watched as the boy lifted the pillow, nearly panicking as the pillow was pressed to his face.  His instinct was to fight back but he drew himself together. He wanted to die with dignity. He'd made his peace with his maker. He was ready. 

He clasped the cross even tighter.

He died.

1

"We happen to think you're probably right, Mr. Weber," the lieutenant said.

The lieutenant stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray stationed on the desk in front of him then leaned back and regarded his visitor. "The problem is we can't prove it and aren't likely to."

"That's all I really needed to know."

The man sitting in front of the lieutenant's desk stood to go. "In addition to being Mr. Waggoner's attorney, I was his friend. Mr. Waggoner had loyal friends. We wanted to know for sure before we decided on a course of action."

"So now you know," the lieutenant said, lighting another of the noxious weeds he was so fond of.

The lieutenant paused for a moment then looked at the man in front of him with a steady gaze. "Now you know," he repeated.  “I hate it.  I hate it every time something like this happens.  I hate the thought that the grandson will probably get away with it and I hate the fact that I'm powerless to do anything about it but I tell you this in warning.  If you try to take revenge I'll come after you with every tool I have.  Don't try to take the law into your own hands."

Mr. Weber, one of the town's most prominent lawyers, stared back at the lieutenant without flinching. "I'd be disappointed at less," he replied. "Revenge will be taken though.  Mr. Waggoner arranged for it before his death.  I am simply the instrument he chose to use in exacting that revenge."

The lawyer gave the lieutenant a mocking half-smile, turned and left.  

The lieutenant sighed as he watched the attorney leave.  He liked the man, Weber seemed to be one of the few lawyers in town who seemed to be strictly on the up and up.  It would be a shame if the attorney did something overtly illegal.  The lieutenant wouldn't relish that arrest at all, he decided, though he knew that he would make it.

2

"What in hell do you mean!"

Alfred Waggoner IV slammed his fist down on the lawyer's desk.

"My grandfather was one of the richest men in the state. The newspapers estimated his wealth at over two hundred million dollars.  I want to know where that money went!"

Waggoner stood, quivering with rage. Money was his obsession in life.

Mr. Weber gazed at Waggoner, the trace of a smile evident though Weber’s distaste for the man was obvious in his stare.

Weber handed the man who'd killed his friend a sheaf of papers.

"A full audit of the estate," he said. "I'd suggest you look it over."

Waggoner was livid. He glanced at the papers then threw them back at the lawyer.

"You did it!" Waggoner screamed.  "I don't know how, but you did it but you'll pay for it.  I'll get that money if it's the last thing I do."

The furious man turned and stalked out of Weber's office.

Now Weber was sure; completely sure.  He picked up the phone.

"Lieutenant?" the attorney asked when the connection was made.  "Have you made any progress on the murder of Alfred Waggoner?"

The reply was in the negative.

"I was afraid of that," Weber sighed. "Would it help if I told you that Mr. Waggoner left a sign that he'd been murdered?"

"A sign?" the lieutenant exploded. "What do you mean?"

"I'm afraid Mr. Waggoner knew what sort of a man his grandson had become," came the answer. "He knew his life was in danger so he arranged a sign; many of Mr. Waggoner’s closest friends knew of it. His purpose was to tell us, from the grave, that he'd been murdered."

"Are you serious?" the lieutenant asked.

"Very," came the answer.

"What kind of a sign?" the lieutenant asked.

"Mr. Waggoner wore a cross," Weber said. "If you will consult your file on the murder you'll see that Mr. Waggoner was clasping the cross in his left hand when he died."

"So what?"

"Mr. Waggoner was right handed," Weber said. "He arranged a sign based on that fact. If he thought his grandson had something to do with his death, the cross would be clenched in his left hand. If not, the cross would either be in his right hand or, simply hanging free.  Several friends knew of the plan and could testify to its existence if necessary."

"Why are you telling me this?" the lieutenant asked. "You know something that flimsy would never hold up in court."

"True," Weber said, sounding a little sad. "I wanted you to know about the clue.  I thought it might make you work a little harder on the case. I still have some hope Mr. Waggoner's grandson could be brought to court for the deed. It would allow me to avoid doing my duty to a dead friend."

"I'll go over things again,” the lieutenant responded.  “Not because of what you’ve told me but because it is both my job and, it is the right thing to do.”

"Thank you," Weber replied.  "I could ask no more."

Four weeks later, Weber appeared at the door of the old mansion that now belonged to Alfred Waggoner IV.  At first Waggoner refused to see him but changed his mind-when informed that the visit concerned the missing funds.

"Well," he sneered as the lawyer was ushered into the room. "Did you decide to come clean and return the money you stole from me?"

Weber said nothing for a moment; he simply leveled a calm gaze at the man in front of him, examining the youth with interest.

Alfred Waggoner IV did not look well at all. His face was gaunt and flushed. He trembled as he spoke. "You don't look well Mr. Waggoner," Weber said at last, a very slight smile tracing across his face.

"You wouldn't look well either if someone had cheated you out of two hundred million dollars. I can't sleep. I can't eat."

Waggoner stood, shaking, whether out of anger of because of a physical malady was unclear, then moved over to Weber.  "Enough of that," he spat out.  "What is it you have to say about my money?"

"Does it mean so much?" Weber asked.

"What do you mean?" Waggoner exploded. "Of course it means so much!  Wouldn't it be important to you?"

Waggoner cut off the lawyer's answer.

"Let's get on with it," he roared, managing to draw strength from his anger. The lawyer reached into his coat pocket and removed an envelope.  He handed it to the man who’d killed his friend. 

The envelope was heavy and had a waxy feel to it.

"What's this?" Waggoner asked, suspicious at the unusual feel of the document.

"Read the document inside,” came the reply. "It will tell you what happened to the money.  It is written in your grandfather’s own hand.  I have a duplicate, replicating the document down to the especially treated envelope containing the missive. “

"At that, a look of greed swept across the younger man's face.  Waggoner ripped the envelope open and eagerly began to read. 

“My dear grandson,” the piece began.  “If you are reading this I feel sorry for you.  I want you to know I forgive you for what you have done but I cannot allow you to profit from your actions. Had you waited for my natural death, Mr. Weber, my good friend and the executor of my estate, would have been delivering a check for some fifteen million dollars to you at this moment.  It would have been but a part of my legacy to you. Over the course of the next few years, millions more would have been delivered as other friends would have come forward with monies I've entrusted to them.”

Waggoner blanched as he read on; “You just couldn’t wait.  Because of that, your bequest is as follows…”

“What is this?” Waggoner hissed.

“I suggest you read on,” Weber replied.

“I've left you two hundred thousand dollars and the family mansion. If you sell the mansion - I know it's tough to sell a drafty old relic of the past but I’ve arranged to assure you get a fair price - and invest the money you should be able to live in a moderate style for some time.  Unfortunately, I know many men like the man you’ve become.  I've dealt with them all my life. Your greed will torment you. You won't sleep. You won't eat. The desire to get back what could have been, should have been, yours, will consume you.  Life for you will be a self created hell and I will have had my revenge. I'm so sorry for you."

Waggoner had scarcely finished reading when the paper he held burst into flame. The young man dropped the burning document then stared at Weber, a look of horror on his face; the veins on his forehead pulsing as though they might burst at any moment.  "My money," the young man stammered. "I want my money."

Now Weber’s smile was open and frank.  "I'm sorry," he said. "It's my money now. I'll send you periodic reports on how I'm enjoying it.  I think I'll begin with a trip around the world.  After all, you’ve given me the means to retire from my practice.”

"Get out!" Waggoner screamed. "Get out!"  He picked up a paperweight from a nearby desk.  "Get out!" he screamed again, holding the weight as though ready to throw it.

Weber shook his head sadly and turned to go.

3

Almost three years to the day after Weber's meeting with Alfred Waggoner IV, the body of the young man was found, brains blown out as the result of a shotgun blast.

As Weber sadly read the newspaper account, there was a knock at the front door.

"Come in," he said, putting the paper down. The lieutenant appeared.   

"Yes?" Weber asked. "I’ve been expecting you; what can I do for you lieutenant?"

"I want to know you didn't do it," the lieutenant responded.  "I just want to hear you say you had nothing to do with Waggoner’s death."

Weber sat back in his seat, quietly regarding the lieutenant.  "Are you interviewing me to gather material for an arrest?" he finally asked.

"No," the lieutenant returned, "It's just that I've got to know. I told you last year that I'd track you down if you took the law into your own hands. When I heard he'd killed himself I got to wondering. I want to hear it from you in person, for I consider you to be a man of honor. I want to hear that you had nothing to do with the death of Alfred Waggoner IV."

"I'm sorry," Weber replied after composing himself.  "I'm afraid I had everything to do with his death.  With the help of a few friends loyal to the memory of Alfred’s grandfather,” he continued.

The lieutenant shifted in his seat, uncomfortable at such an admission.

"I don't suppose you'd tell me how you did it?" he said, finally. "We found no evidence at the scene to point the finger towards anything but a self-inflicted death."

"I'll tell you," Weber replied. "There's no reason you shouldn't know."

The lieutenant pulled a notebook from his pocket. "May I take notes?" he asked.

The lawyer spread his hands to show that it didn't matter.

"The weapon used on Mr. Waggoner was not a shotgun," Weber said when the lieutenant was ready. "The weapon used to drive Mr. Waggoner to his death was greed."

"Greed?"

"Greed," Weber responded. "Have you ever noticed that when a man becomes obsessed with money he loses all sense of proportion?"

The lieutenant nodded an affirmative.

Mr. Waggoner senior understood that kind of mind," Weber continued.  “In his will, Mr. Waggoner left his grandson enough money to live on in modest comfort for the rest of his days but also let him know, in a death letter, delivered by myself, that he could have had millions more had he exercised some patience."

"Is that why he sued you?" the lieutenant asked.

Weber nodded.

"Each month or two for the past three years, someone has gone to Alfred with the information that he had been given five, or ten, or more millions of dollars by his grandfather. That money would have been Alfred's had he waited but, now, because of what he'd done, title to the money would transfer to the man who'd been charged with its delivery had Alfred not been guilty of murder.”

The lawyer paused for a moment, a slight smile on his lips at the memory.  “Can you imagine the effect such announcements, coming one atop the other, would have on the mind of someone consumed by greed? Can you imagine the thoughts passing through young Alfred's mind as man after man told him how he'd lost millions for lack of a little patience?"

“It would be like the supposed Chinese water torture we all heard about when we were kids,” the lieutenant responded, a smile on his own face now.  “It must have infected and preyed on his mind."

"And on his pocketbook," the attorney continued.  "He spent most of the money he did receive from his grandfather's estate trying to recover what his grandfather had given away."

"Didn't he win some of those cases?”

"That he did," the attorney replied with a smile. "He was supposed to win them. Before the old man died we calculated the odds of his grandson's winning and set things up so that it cost him ten dollars for every five he recovered. With his compulsive greed ruling his mind Alfred never noticed what we were doing to him until, yesterday I suppose, he woke up and found himself penniless.”

"And that put him over the edge?" the lieutenant mused.

“And that put him over the edge,” came the reply.  "So you see, lieutenant, Mr. Waggoner senior’s friends have done exactly what we set out to do; we revenged our friend's murder.  So what do you plan to do next?"

"See that I never cross you, and your friends," the lieutenant replied, tearing the pages from his notebook and tossing them in a nearby wastebasket.  “I wouldn’t want to end up like Waggoner; ‘dead broke.”’