The Westing Game

The Fourth Bomb

The door to apartment 2C opened. Flora Baumbach screamed, and Turtle flung herself on the pile of money they had been counting. It was Theo, not the thief. "Can I borrow your bike for a few hours? It's very important." Theo was not a runner like Doug, who was fuming about his being so late. He needed the bicycle to follow Otis Amber, right now. Turtle stared at him in stony silence. "I didn't make that sign in the elevator; besides, you already kicked me for it. Please, Turtle." She still wouldn't answer, punk kid. "I had a long talk with the police today, but I refused to tell them who the bomber was." "What's that supposed to mean?" What does she think it means? It means that he and everybody else knows that Turtle is the bomber. "Never mind. Can I have your bike or not?" "Why do you want it?" Theo ground his teeth. Take it easy; anger won't help any more than blackmail did. Try being a good guy. "I saw Angela in the hospital today. She sends her regards." "What's that supposed to mean?" "You let me have that bike, Turtle Wexler, or—or else!" Turtle did not have to ask what "or else" meant: police— bomber—Angela, but how did Theo find out? "Here!" She threw the padlock key across the room and waited for him to rush out before she let go of the money. "He's such a nice boy," Flora Baumbach remarked. "Sure," Turtle replied, dialing the telephone number of the hospital. "Angela Wexler, room 325." "Room 325 is not accepting any calls." Turtle hung up the phone. If Theo knew, others knew. Angela had set off those fireworks wanting to get caught, but it was different now. Now she was confused, now she was just plain scared. They could force a confession out of her in no time, the guilt was right there staring out of those big blue eyes. Maybe they're questioning her now. "Baba, I'm not feeling so good; I think I'll go home to bed." Weaving through rush hour traffic on Turtle's bike, Theo trailed the bus to a seamy downtown district across the railroad tracks where Crow and Otis got off. Skid Row. The pair wandered through the dimly lit, littered, and stinking street, bending over grimy bums asleep in doorways, raising them to their unsteady feet, and leading the ragtag procession into a decaying storefront. Paint was peeling off the letters on the window: Good Salvation Soup Kitchen. A drunken wreck of a man lurched into Theo, who put a quarter into the filthy outstretched hand, more out of fright than charity. Snatches of hymn-singing drifted toward him as the last of the stragglers staggered through the door. Theo crossed the narrow street and pressed his nose against the steamy soupkitchen window. Rows of wretched souls sat hunched on wooden benches. Crow stood before them in her neat black dress, her hands raised toward the crumbling ceiling. Behind her Otis Amber stirred a boiling mess in a big iron pot. Theo pedaled back to Sunset Towers at a furious pace. Whatever brought Crow and Otis Amber to these lower depths was none of his business. He hated himself for spying. He hated Sam Westing and his dirty money and his dirty game. Theo felt as dirty as the derelicts he spied on. Dirtier. * The judge thought they had finished with the heirs. "Not quite," the doorman said.

♦ McSOUTHERS ALEXANDER McSOUTHERS. Called Sandy. Age: 65. Born: Edinburgh, Scotland. Immigrated to Wisconsin, age 3. Education: eighth grade. Jobs: mill worker, union organizer, prizefighter, doorman. Married, six children, two grandchildren. Westing connection: Worked in Westing Paper plant 20 years. Fired by Sam Westing himself for trying to organize the workers. No pension. Sandy turned to a blank page, pushed his taped glasses up the broken bridge of his nose and looked at the judge. "Name?" It had not seemed sporting to investigate one's own partner, but McSouthers was right, this was a Westing game. Of course, she had kept some facts from him about the other heirs, but only because she did not trust his blabbering. "Josie-Jo Ford, with a hyphen between Josie and Jo." "Age?" "Forty-two. Education: Columbia; law degree, Harvard." The judge waited for the doorman to enter the information in his slow, cramped lettering. He had to be meticulous in order to prove he was better than his eighth-grade education. It's a pity he had not gone further, he was quite a clever man. "Jobs?" "Assistant district attorney. Judge: family court, state supreme court, appellate division. Appellate has two Ps and two Ls. Never married, no children." "Westing connection?" The judge paused, then spoke so rapidly Sandy had to stop taking notes. "My mother was a servant in the Westing household, my father worked for the railroad and was the gardener on his days off." "You mean you lived in the Westing house?" Sandy asked with obvious surprise. "You knew the Westings?" "I barely saw Mrs. Westing. Violet was a few years younger than I, doll-like and delicate. She was not allowed to play with other children. Especially the skinny, long-legged, black daughter of the servants." "Gee, you must have been lonely, judge, having nobody to play with." "I played with Sam Westing—chess. Hour after hour I sat staring down at that chessboard. He lectured me, he insulted me, and he won every game." The judge thought of their last game: She had been so excited about taking his queen, only to have the master checkmate her in the next move. Sam Westing had deliberately sacrificed his queen and she had fallen for it. "Stupid child, you can't have a brain in that frizzy head to make a move like that." Those were the last words he ever said to her. The judge continued: "I was sent to boarding school when I was twelve. My parents visited me at school when they could, but I never set foot in the Westing house again, not until two weeks ago." "Your folks must have really worked hard," Sandy said. "An education like that costs a fortune." "Sam Westing paid for my education. He saw that I was accepted into the best schools, probably arranged for my first job, perhaps more, I don't know." "That's the first decent thing I've heard about the old man." "Hardly decent, Mr. McSouthers. It was to Sam Westing's advantage to have a judge in his debt. Needless to say, I have excused myself from every case remotely connected with Westing affairs." "You're awfully hard on yourself, judge. And on him. Maybe Westing paid for your education 'cause you were smart and needy, and you did all the rest by yourself." "This is getting us nowhere, Mr. McSouthers. Just write: Westing connection: Education financed by Sam Westing. Debt never repaid." Theo, upset over his Skid Row snooping, took out his anger on the UP button, poking it, jabbing it, until the elevator finally made its way down to the lobby. Slowly the door slid open. He stared down at the sparking, sputtering arsenal, yelled and belly-flopped to the carpet as rockets whizzed out of the elevator, inches above his head. Boom! Boom! A blinding flash of white fire streaked through the lobby, through the open entrance door, and burst into a chrysanthemum of color in the night sky. Then the elevator door closed. The bomber had made one mistake. The last rocket blasted off when the elevator returned to the third floor. Boom! By the time the bomb squad reached the scene (by way of the stairs), the smoke had cleared, but the young girl was still huddled on the hallway floor, tears streaming down her turtlelike face. "For heaven's sake, say something," her mother said. "Tell me where it hurts." The pain was too great to be put into words. Five inches of Turtle's braid were badly singed. Grace Wexler attacked the policeman. "Nothing but a childish prank, you said. Some childish prank; both my children cruelly injured, almost killed. Maybe now you'll do something, now that it's too late." Unshaken by the mother's anger, the policeman held up the sign that had been taped to the elevator wall: THE BOMBER STRIKES AGAIN!!! On the reverse side was a handwritten composition: "How I Spent My Summer Vacation" by Turtle Wexler. Grace grabbed the theme and shook it at her daughter, who was being rocked in Flora Baumbach's arms. "Somebody stole this from you, didn't they, Turtle? You couldn't have done such an awful thing, not to Angela, not to your own sister, could you, Turtle? Could you?" "I want to see a lawyer," Turtle replied. The bomb squad, faced with six hours' overtime filling out forms and delivering the delinquent to a juvenile detention facility, decided it was best for all concerned to escort the prisoner to apartment 4D and place her in the custody of Judge Ford. Judge Ford put on her black robe and seated herself behind the desk. Before her stood a downcast child looking very sad and very sorry. Not at all like the Turtle she knew. "You surprise me, Turtle Wexler. I thought you were too smart to commit such a dangerous, destructive, and stupid act." "Yes ma'am." "Why did you do it, Turtle? To hurt someone, to get even with someone?" "No ma'am." Of course not. Turtle kicked shins, she was not the type to bottle up her anger. "You do understand that a child would not receive as harsh a penalty as an adult would? That there would be no permanent criminal record?" "Yes ma'am. I mean, no ma'am." She was protecting someone. She had set off the fireworks in the elevator to divert suspicion from the real bomber. But who was the real bomber? Nothing to do but drag it out of her, name by name, starting with the least likely. "Are you protecting Angela?" "No!" The judge was astounded by the excited response. Angela could not be the bomber, not that sweet, pretty thing. Thing? Is that how she regarded that young woman, as a thing? And what had she ever said to her except 'I hear you're getting married, Angela' or 'How pretty you look, Angela.' Had anyone asked about her ideas, her hopes, her plans? If I had been treated like that I'd have used dynamite, not fireworks; no, I would have just walked out and kept right on going. But Angela was different. "What a senseless thing to do," the judge said aloud. "Yes ma'am." Turtle stared down at the carpet, wondering if she had given Angela away. Judge Ford rose and placed an arm around Turtle's bony shoulders. She had never wished for a sister until this moment. "Turtle, will you give me your word that you will never play with fireworks again?" "Yes ma'am." "While we're at it, do you have anything else to confess?" "Yes ma'am. I was in the Westing house the night Mr. Westing died." "Good lord, child, sit down and tell me." Turtle began with the purple-waves story, went on to the whisperings, the bedded-down corpse, the dropped peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and her mother's cross, and ended with the twenty-four dollars she had won. "Did either you or Doug Hoo call the police?" "No ma'am, we were too scared, we just ran. Is that a crime?" The judge said it was a criminal offense to conceal a murder. "But Mr. Westing didn't look murdered," Turtle argued. "He looked asleep, like he did in the coffin. He looked like a wax dummy." "A wax dummy?" Now Turtle was the one surprised by the excited response. The judge thinks it might have been a real wax dummy, not a corpse at all. Then what happened to Sam Westing? The judge regained her composure. "Not reporting a dead body is a violation of the health code, but I wouldn't worry about it. Is there anything else, Turtle?" "Yes ma'am," Turtle replied, glancing at the portable bar. "Could I have a little bourbon." "What?" "Just a little. On a piece of cotton to put in my cavity. My tooth hurts something awful." Relieved at not having a juvenile alcoholic on her hands, Judge Ford prepared the home remedy. "Is that better? Good. You may go home now." Home meant going to Baba. Baba loved her no matter what, and Turtle didn't care if the others thought she was the bomber—except Sandy. He was walking toward her right now, walking his bouncy walk, but not smiling. Sandy is disappointed in her, he thinks she hurt her own sister, he doesn't want to be friends anymore. "How's my girl?" Sandy said, cupping his hand under her chin and lifting her head. "Whew! Hitting the bottle again?" "It's just bourbon on cotton for my toothache." "Yeah, I've heard that one before." "Honest Saaan-eee." Turtle was pointing inside her wideopen mouth. The doorman peered in. "Wow, that's some cavity, it looks like the Grand Canyon. Tomorrow morning you're going to see my dentist—no back talk. He's very gentle, you won't feel a thing. Promise you'll go?" Turtle nodded. Sandy smiled. "Good, then down to business. My wife's having a birthday tomorrow. I thought one of your gorgeous striped candles would make a swell present." "There's only one candle left," Turtle replied. "It's the best of the lot. Six super colors. I spent a lot of time making it; that's why I wouldn't part with it. But since it's for your wife's birthday, Sandy, I'll let you have it for only five dollars. And I won't charge you sales tax." "Try not to stick your fanny out so far," Angela said from her chair. Now that Sydelle Pulaski depended on crutches, she lurched clumsily, hobbled by old habits. "Just keep reading those clues." The secretary straightened, shoulders back, stomach in, until her next step. With their telephone switched off and Contagious Disease added to the No Visitors sign, the bomb victims had privacy at last. Sydelle had twice read the entire will aloud. Now Angela, her hands unbandaged, was reshuffling the collected clues.

GRAINS SPACIOUS GRACE GOOD HOOD WITH BEAUTIFUL MAJESTIES FROM THY PURPLE WAVES ON(NO) MOUNTAIN "Again," Sydelle ordered. "Change them around and read either the word on or the word no; both together are confusing."

GOOD SPACIOUS GRAINS WITH GRACE ON THY PURPLE MOUNTAIN HOOD WAVES FROM MAJESTIES BEAUTIFUL

"Shh!" Someone was at the door. Angela picked up the note that was slipped underneath. My darling Angela: I guess the sign on the door means I should stay away, too. I understand. We both need time to think things over. I'll wait. I love you—Denton "What does it say, what does it say?" Sydelle pressed, but Angela read only the postscript aloud: P.S. You have another admirer. Chris wants to give you and Ms. Pulaski one of our clues. (Flora Baumbach has seen it, too.) The word is plain. "Like an airplane?" Sydelle asked. "No, plain, like ordinary. Like the wide open plains." "Plains, grains. Quick, Angela, read the clues again." GOOD HOOD FROM SPACIOUS PLAIN GRAINS ON WITH WITH BEAUTIFUL WAVES GRACE THY PURPLE MOUNTAIN MAJESTIES "That's it, Angela. We got it, we got it!" Sydelle could barely control her excitement. "The will said, Sing in praise of this generous land. The will said, May God thy gold refine. America, Angela, America! Purple mountain majesties, Angela. Whoopee!" Fortunately Sydelle Pulaski was close to the bed when she threw her crutches in the air.