Free Powers of Attorney by Louis Auchincloss Page A

“Though there’s a rumor that one did. Harrison & Lambert, someone said. Wouldn’t it be wonderful?” Tilney’s large jowls positively shook with pleasure. “What wouldn’t I give to see old Cy Lambert caught like a monkey with his fist in the bottle!”
    Rutherford spoke up suddenly. His voice was so high that everyone turned and looked at him. “But what about the man with the
last
will?” he called down the table to Mr. Tilney. “Why is it a joke on him?”
    â€œYou mean the man in Miami?” Tilney said, flashing at Rutherford the fixed smile of his dislike. “Because the old guy didn’t have that sort of money. Not foundation money. The big stuff was all in trust, of course, and goes to the Tysons, where it should go.”
    Rutherford concentrated on eating a single course. It would look odd, after his interruption, to leave at once. When he had emptied his plate, he wiped his mouth carefully, excused himself to his neighbors, and walked slowly from the room.
    Back at the office, however, he almost dashed to Baitsell’s room. Closing the door behind him, he faced the startled young man with wild eyes. “Look, Baitsell, about that will of Colonel Hubert’s—you remember.” Baitsell nodded quickly. “Well, he died, you see.”
    â€œYes, sir. I read about it.”
    â€œApparently, he’s written some subsequent wills. I think we’d better do nothing about filing ours for the time being. And if I were you I wouldn’t mention this around the office. It might—”
    â€œBut it’s already filed, sir!”
    â€œIt’s
what?”
    â€œYes, sir. I filed it.”
    â€œHow could you?” Rutherford’s voice was almost a scream. “You haven’t had time to prepare a petition, let alone get it signed!”
    â€œOh, I don’t mean that I filed it for probate, Mr. Tower. I mean I filed it for safekeeping in the Surrogate’s Court.
Before
he died. The same day he signed it.”
    Rutherford, looking into the young man’s clear, honest eyes, knew now that he faced the unwitting agent of his own devil. “Why did you do that?” he asked in a low, almost curious tone. “We never do that with wills. We keep them in our vault.”
    â€œOh, I know that, sir,” Baitsell answered proudly. “But you told me you didn’t know the relatives. I thought if the old gentleman died and you didn’t hear about it at once, they might rush in with another will. Now they’ll find ours sitting up there in the courthouse, staring them right in the face. Yes, sir, Mr. Tower, you’ll have to be given notice of every will that’s offered. Public notice!”
    Rutherford looked at the triumphant young man for a moment and then returned without a word to his own office. There he leaned against Uncle Reginald’s safe and thought in a stunned, stupid way of old Cy Lambert laughing, even shouting, at Clitus Tilney. Then he shook his head. It was too much—too much to take in. He wondered, in a sudden new mood of detachment, if it wasn’t rather distinguished to be hounded so personally by the furies. Orestes. Orestes Rutherford Tower. His telephone rang.
    â€œRutherford? Is it you?” a voice asked.
    â€œYes, Aunt Mildred,” he said quietly.
    â€œWell, I’m glad to get you at last. I don’t know what your uncle would have said about the hours young lawyers keep today. And people talk about the pressure of modern life! Talk is all it is. But look, Rutherford. That blackguard of a landlord of mine is acting up again. He now claims that my apartment lease doesn’t include an extra maid’s room in the basement. I want you to come right up and talk to him. This afternoon. You can, can’t you?”
    â€œYes, Aunt Mildred,” he said again. “I’m practically on my way.”

The Single Reader
    N ONE of his law partners or