The Baxter Trust

know it to be judgment proof and realize such suits would be futile.”
    Steve nodded. “I see. In that case, I might attack the will.”
    “The will!”
    “That’s right. Your father’s will.”
    Max was genuinely surprised. “But the will has been proven genuine. There’s no question about it.”
    “Oh no? Your brother was disinherited by that will. And I understand he’s your older brother. Now, any will that disinherits the firstborn son is particularly open to attack. You just might find yourself out in the cold with Uncle Teddy in the driver’s seat.”
    Max smiled, back in control again. “Mr. Winslow, once again you are speaking in ignorance of the facts. Before you get yourself out on a limb, let me try to explain this to you.”
    “For my own good, of course,” Steve said sarcastically. Maxwell Baxter was one of those people he instinctively disliked.
    Max took no notice. “My father was an eccentric man in many respects,” he began. “But he was a good man, a kind man and a very honest man. He had very high scruples and a great sense of right and wrong.”
    “All right, all right, he was a saint. So what?”
    “Alice, Sheila’s mother, was his eldest child. The proverbial apple of his eye. In his original will, the bulk of his estate went to her. Alice was killed in a car accident when Sheila was four. Teddy, being the next eldest, should have become the principal heir. But Teddy was rather wild in those days. It happened that the day Alice was killed, Teddy was in New York promoting a fraudulent business deal. He was arrested the following day. Father was outraged, of course, and so, when he changed his will, Teddy was left out in the cold.”
    “And, wishing to provide for Sheila, he set up the trust fund, with you as trustee.”
    “Exactly. He set up a similar fund for Teddy’s son, Phillip. And to make sure that Teddy couldn’t get his hands on the money, he made me trustee and provided that Phillip couldn’t touch the money until he turned thirty-five.”
    “And the same is true of Sheila.”
    “Exactly. So if you have the patience to wait eleven years for your retainer, feel free to take the case.”
    “Sheila gets the entire principal when she turns thirty-five?”
    “Not necessarily. My father put a provision in the trust that if Sheila is involved in any serious scandal that would bring discredit on the family name, the money is to go to charity.”
    “Terrific. An open invitation for blackmail. That’s all the police will need to give them an airtight case.”
    “That’s why I’ve hired the best lawyers in town to represent her.”
    “Who?”
    “Marston, Marston, and Cramden.”
    Steve shook his head. “Corporation lawyers. Have they ever handled a murder trial?”
    “They’ll handle it so there is no trial.”
    Steve stood up. “Don’t kid yourself. Within twenty-four hours your niece will be in jail charged with first-degree murder. The only reason she isn’t there right now is because the police haven’t identified the body yet so they don’t know just who the hell to charge her with killing.”
    “And when she is,” Max said calmly, “Marston, Marston, and Cramden will represent her.”
    “We’ll see about that,” Steve said grimly. He headed for the door.
    “Going so soon, Mr. Winslow?” Max said as he passed.
    “I have work to do, Mr. Baxter.”
    As Steve rang for the elevator, Max followed as far as the foyer door for a parting shot.
    “So glad you can afford to work for nothing, Mr. Winslow,” he said. “So few people can.”

16.
    S TEVE W INSLOW CAME OUT THE front door of Maxwell Baxter’s building onto Park Avenue, and looked up and down the block. Christ. There were never any phones on the damn street.
    Steve shook his head and chuckled. Hell, what could you do but laugh? After all, it was kind of funny. Here it was. Just what he’d always wanted. A real murder case. Why should he get a fee for it too?
    He headed over to Lexington and spotted a phone on the corner. A woman with a huge load of fancy shopping bags was making for it. Steve Winslow cut in ahead of her. He knew from experience she would take forever, and he was in no mood to be a gentleman.
    Steve punched in 411, and asked for the listing. The operator said, “Certainly,” he heard the click and the recording began. Oh hell, the worst of these recording information services, where the hell was a pencil?
    He dug in his pockets, pulled out a whole bunch of junk, and