The Baxter Trust

size of your trust fund. In my mind it’s important. So tell me. Is it bigger than a breadbox?”
    Sheila smiled. “All right. My grandfather was very wealthy. The trust is quite large. I have no idea how much is actually in it. The only one who would know is Uncle Max. But I know it’s several millions.”
    Lieutenant Farron raised his eyebrows. “Several millions?”
    “Yes,” Sheila said, somewhat impatiently. “But I can’t touch it. You know what I get? Two hundred a week. That’s eight hundred a month, ten thousand, four hundred a year. Try and live on that in New York. The only reason I get by is I have a dingy, one-room apartment on the Upper West Side that’s rent-controlled and costs me three hundred a month. Which I know I shouldn’t complain about, because there are people who would kill for it. But that’s it. I have nothing. I own nothing. I have no money.”
    “Except for the trust.”
    “Which I can’t touch.”
    “Who is your trustee?”
    “Uncle Max.”
    “And who is Uncle Max?”
    “Uncle Max. Maxwell Baxter.”
    And suddenly Lieutenant Farron understood. Maxwell Baxter. One of the richest men in New York, in the United States for that matter. A wealthy man. A powerful man. A man with political connections. A man, perhaps, with connections to the commissioner.
    Farron looked at Stams. Without changing expression, Stams seemed to be saying, “I told you so.”
    So he had. Stams’ judgment was vindicated. This was why he’d brought him the girl. This was why he’d brought him this unlikely and unimportant case. The girl was Maxwell Baxter’s niece, and therefore merited attention. There was no way to fault Stams on it. He’d done right.
    But he’d done more than that. And both he and Farron knew it. Yes, he’d informed Farron, so Farron wouldn’t be caught flat-footed if this developed into something. But more important, he’d covered his ass. He protected himself, by not turning the girl down. By not taking the responsibility. By leaving it up to Lieutenant Farron to turn the girl down.
    He’d passed the buck.
    “So,” Farron said. “Maxwell Baxter is your trustee?”
    “Yes.”
    “Is he your sole trustee?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And he gives you two hundred dollars a week?”
    “Actually I get a check once a month. Sometimes it’s eight hundred, sometimes it’s a thousand, depending on how the weeks fall. It all adds up to ten thousand, four hundred a year.”
    “What about inflation?”
    Sheila made a face. “What about it? That’s with inflation. I started at fifty a week. It’s up to two hundred.”
    “Is the amount a provision of the trust?”
    “Yes. Carefully worked out by Grandpa to keep me poor for as long as possible.”
    “And your uncle can’t increase that amount.”
    She hesitated. “No.”
    “You hesitated.”
    “Did I? The answer is no, he can’t.”
    “But he can give you money at his discretion?”
    “In an emergency, yes.”
    “And blackmail would be considered an emergency.”
    Sheila was getting annoyed. This was not going the way she had hoped. “Look, let’s get something straight. If someone were blackmailing me, the threat would be that if I didn’t pay them, they would tell my uncle. Can you really see me going to my uncle to get money to pay to a blackmailer to keep him from telling my uncle something?”
    Farron smiled. “No. Which brings me to the second part of my question. What would this man tell your uncle? What is it you have to hide?”
    Sheila looked at him with wide-eyed innocence. “Nothing.”
    “Nothing?”
    “Nothing that I’d pay a dime for, even if I had it.”
    “Publish and be damned, eh?” Farron nodded. “Quite proper attitude.”
    Farron had had enough. He got up to indicate the interview was over.
    “Well, Miss Benton, we’ll do what we can.”
    “What do you mean by that?”
    “If you get any more calls or letters, get in touch with us immediately.”
    Sheila stood up. “You sound as if you’re washing your hands of the whole thing.”
    Lieutenant Farron came around the desk. He smiled at her, but he also took her arm and guided her to the door.
    “Well, Miss Benton,” he said. “You must admit it sounds rather unpromising. You have no money to pay blackmail. You’ve done nothing to be blackmailed about. And so far, no one’s made any demands on you.”
    “Some people want other things besides money,” Sheila protested.
    “That they do, Miss Benton. That they