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.”’
