Codicil of Death

CODICIL OF DEATH

“Another $5,000?” Martin Dreyfus exclaimed, with a mixture of astonishment and exasperation. “What happened Charles; did your latest girlfriend throw you out, again, or was it the racetrack that did you in?” Martin slumped back in his leather desk chair, signaling both his defiance and incredulity, as he awaited his nephew's response.

After a tense silence Charles Dreyfus got the courage to meet his uncle's stare. “Yes, Uncle, Stefanie did kick me out,” he admitted. What he did not admit was that it was Stefanie, plus heavy losses at the track and money owed to bookies all over town, that did him in. “But it's only temporary, Uncle Martin, until I can get back on my feet. I have several promising deals in the works and can pay you back when they come through. That's why I need the money. This isn't a gift, it's a...loan, an...an investment. Please consider it that.”

With a quick smile of amusement, along with a dismissive chuckle, Martin responded, “An investment...in what? This so-called temporary situation of yours has been going on for years.” Martin's tone grew angry. “I have advanced you well over $100,000 during that time, and I am under no misconception that I will ever see any of it repaid.” With a raised hand and icy glare he cut his nephew off as Charles turned in protest. “And don't try to tell me otherwise; you know very well you have no intention – nor the ability – to even begin to pay me back.”

“But – “

Martin again cut Charles off; his tone softened as walked over to his nephew and put his hand on Charles' shoulder. “My boy, your mother was my younger sister, and I loved her dearly, you know that. I promised her before she died that I would help take care of you.

“Not take care of you – help take care of you,” Martin continued, slowly emphasizing each word. “Help, as in, 'assist.' Not provide for you, forever. You are certainly old enough to stand on your own two feet. You need to grow up; start to earn a living and provide for yourself. I believe if your mother were alive today, she would agree. She did not intend for you to become totally dependent on me in perpetuity.”

Martin walked to the office door, signaling that the meeting was over. “As my only living heir, you already know that you will inherit all I have after my passing – assuming,” he added sarcastically – “that there is anything left to inherit.”

Charles stared in anger but said nothing. What could he say? He knew his uncle well enough to know that nothing was going to change his mind.

“Oh, and thank you, Charles, for the brandy. My favorite, too. That was quite considerate of you.”

“You're most welcome, Uncle. Join me in a drink?” Charles removed the seal from the bottle and poured them each a glass. He handed a glass to Martin, then said, “Here's to a brighter future – for both of us.”

After finishing their drinks, Martin strode to the office door and called to Henry, his valet. “Henry, Charles is leaving now. Fetch his coat.” Turning to his nephew he said, “Good to see you again. Now, good night, Charles.”

Henry, Martin's valet, appeared at the entrance to the office, holding Charles' coat.

“Excuse me, Mr. Dreyfus,” the elderly man said. “Was there anything else you needed before I retire, sir?”

“No, Henry, that will be all for this evening, thank you. My nephew was just on his way out.”

Henry cast a disparaging leer at Charles, which was returned in kind. The two men had never gotten along. “Goodnight, Uncle,” Charles said, snatching his coat from Henry. He brusquely brushed against the valet as Martin accompanied him to the front door.

---

“This is where we found him,” Henry told the medics the next morning, but they were too late to help. Martin's lifeless body was slumped in the chair behind his desk. He was still dressed in the lounging jacket and slacks he was wearing the previous evening.

There was a clamor at the front door; Charles came rushing into the office. “I came over as soon as I heard,” he said, breathless, ignoring Henry's icy glare. He stood dumbfounded in front of the desk, staring blankly at his dead uncle. There was a long silence, then Charles said, “I'll call the funeral home to come get the body.”

---

Five people sat for the reading of Martin Dreyfus's will. Charles Dreyfus, Henry Johnson, Martin Dreyfus's valet, and Henry's wife Martha, sat apart from each other in the lawyer's office. Thomas Hart, Martin Dreyfus's long-time attorney, sat at his desk. Hart's secretary was seated on one side of the desk with a memo pad to record the proceedings.

As was his custom, Attorney Hart, a short, bald man with a hawk nose and thick glasses, was curt and to the point.

“You have all been invited for the reading of Martin Dreyfus's will. As Martin's long-time lawyer, as well as his friend, he entrusted this duty to me. I know that we are all shocked, and deeply saddened, by his sudden and untimely death.”

“Martin's will is simple and quite clear,” Hart continued. “I drafted it for him years ago.” He picked the document up from his desk and read:

“I, Martin Dreyfus, being of sound mind, at the time of my death do hereby bequeath my entire estate, including my house and all tangible personal property, cash, financial instruments and real estate, to my nephew, Charles Dreyfus.”

Charles felt a warm rush come over him as this sentence was read. In his excitement he wanted to stand up, but he restrained himself. A smile slowly spread across his face; he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Finally,” he thought to himself, “finally...”

His reverie was interrupted as Mr. Hart continued. “However,” the lawyer reached for a separate document on his desk, “several years ago, Martin Dreyfus executed a codicil to his will. The codicil states that if he were to die other than from natural causes, and if his death appeared suspicious and warranted an investigation by the police, then the entirety of his estate should go to his trusted staff, Henry and Martha Johnson.”

Martha Johnson let out an audible gasp as she grasped Henry's hand. “Henry,” she said, but that was all she said, overcome with emotion. Henry sat motionless, saying nothing.

“What?!?” Charles could not believe what he had just heard. “His death...suspicious? But...but...how?”

“I can answer that,” came the voice from the doorway. “Murdered. Poisoned, to be exact.” Everyone turned toward the voice. Three men stood in the entrance to the lawyer's office: Two uniformed police officers and a man in plain clothes, who displayed a detective's badge . “Lieutenant Thomas, Homicide,” he said.

Charles felt faint; his head was spinning. He could not believe what was unfolding before him. Completely bewildered, all he could sputter was “But how...?”

“Because I called the police,” interjected Hart. “Your uncle always suspected that he would be the victim of foul play. That is why I called the police to be here for the reading. And that is why I directed the funeral home take a sample of your uncle's blood to be tested. And,” Hart said, “that was the intent of the codicil to Martin's will.”

Lieutenant Thomas walked over to Charles. “Charles Dreyfus, you are under arrest for the murder of Martin Dreyfus. Stand up.” Charles felt weak, barely able to lift himself from the chair. The detective handcuffed him and read him the Miranda statement.

“But this is insane,” Charles protested. “Sure, Uncle Martin and I had our disagreements, but I am innocent. I had no idea about this...this codicil, or whatever it's called.”

Charles turned angrily toward Henry. Filled with rage, he shouted, “There! It's him.” “He did it! He always hated me, knowing that I would inherit all of Uncle Martin's money. Why don't you arrest Johnson? He's the one who did it; if anyone is guilty, he is!”

Henry glowered at Charles, a palpable look of hatred and contempt deepened the lines on his face. “How dare you insinuate that, you worthless coward,” Henry said, rising to his feet, spitting out the last two words in utter contempt. “Martha and I loved Martin Dreyfus. We were in his employ for decades. He trusted us implicitly.” Martha's audible sobbing emphasized the point. “We were more of a family to him than you ever were.”

“Of course you didn't know about the codicil,” the detective said to Charles. “If you had, you would not have murdered your uncle, knowing that his estate would go to the servants. But what you did know is that you were his sole surviving heir and in line to inherit his entire estate. Your uncle told you that on several occasions. Isn't that right, Mr. Hart?”

Hart nodded his assent. “Yes,” Hart went on, “Charles was well aware that he was in line to inherit all of Martin Dreyfus's property. And until this meeting, no one, other than Martin Dreyfus and me, knew anything about this codicil. Martin instructed me in no uncertain terms that while he was alive, I was to keep its existence completely secret from everyone, and until now, I have complied with that request. Not even my secretary was aware of it. It was fully protected by attorney-client privilege. Martin Dreyfus and I were the only two people on Earth who knew about the existence of this codicil and its terms.”

Hart continued, “The Johnsons had absolutely no motive whatsoever to see Martin Dreyfus dead. In fact, exactly the opposite is true: The only thing that kept the Johnsons employed and residing at the Dreyfus estate was, indeed, Martin Dreyfus. Henry and Martha Johnson knew that the moment Martin Dreyfus died, with Charles feeling the way he does about Henry, that they would be immediately dismissed and lose their employment and the only home they have known for the last twenty-five years. They had no knowledge of this codicil and therefore no motive to murder Martin Dreyfus – none whatsoever.”

“But,” Lieutenant Thomas continued, facing Charles, “you needed the money now and couldn't wait for your uncle to die a natural death. The word on the street is that you owe a lot of money to a lot of people, some of them not too patient when it comes to getting repaid. So you hurried things along, so to speak.”

“We executed a search warrant and searched your apartment earlier. We found this.” The detective held up a plastic bag with a small paper envelope inside. “We found traces of cyanide in the brandy bottle you gave your uncle, and some on the tray by the glasses. It matches the cyanide in this packet.”

“But I drank the brandy at the same time as my uncle,” Charles said. “If the brandy was poisoned, why wasn't I poisoned, too?”

“Because at some point you slipped the poison into the open brandy bottle after you poured the drinks,” the detective responded. “Your fingerprints were all over it. And I suspect we'll find more evidence when we finish searching your apartment. The CSI unit is searching your uncle's office and your apartment as we speak.”

Lt. Thomas gestured toward Henry and Martha, “We can get sworn statements that you and your uncle had numerous arguments over money, including one the night he was murdered.” Henry looked at the detective and nodded. “And Mr. Hart can verify that Martin Dreyfus confided to him on a number of occasions that he thought he might be the victim of foul play.” Hart just glared at Charles, a look that pierced Charles to the core.

“This is absurd,” Charles protested as the policemen led him out of the office. “I'm innocent; you have the wrong man! I'm being framed for a crime I didn't commit.”

“You better get yourself a good attorney,” Detective Thomas said as they led Charles away. ”You'll need one.”

With the police officers gone, Hart turned to Henry and Martha. “Congratulations to you both. I will take care of the necessary paperwork and have Mr. Dreyfus's assets transferred to you as soon as possible. This will take several days to prepare. When the documents are ready I will bring them to you to sign.”

“Thank you,” Henry said. “Martha and I are happy to do whatever is necessary. Thank you for all you have done.”

---

“Have another,” Henry said to Martha, as they sat on the veranda of the Dreyfus Mansion...now, their mansion. He poured her a drink. “Don't worry, my dear, he said, with a chuckle, ”No poison in this one.”

They sipped their drinks and sat in silence, relaxing in the glow of the late summer evening, looking out over the estate that was now theirs. “But tell me, Henry, how did you know about the codicil? Mr. Hart said that he told no one about it.”

“He didn't.” Henry said. “But I overheard Mr. Dreyfus talking to Mr. Hart one afternoon after I had served Mr. Dreyfus his lunch. He asked Mr. Hart to add something to his will about the estate going to us in the event his death appeared suspicious, and there were some written notes about it on Mr. Dreyfus's desk that I saw as I was straightening up one afternoon.”

“But Henry, how...?”

“I placed the envelope with the cyanide in it in Charles' overcoat pocket, after he gave it to me when he arrived,” Henry continued. “I knew the investigators would find it when they searched his apartment. Certainly deflects anyone suspecting us.”

“But how did you get the poison into the brandy bottle?”

“Easily enough. I poured the same poison I had slipped into Charles' pocket into the open brandy bottle after Mr. Dreyfus went to the front door with Charles.” Henry said. “I was wearing my gloves, as always, which raised no suspicion and why none of my fingerprints were left on the bottle. My guess was Martin was going to help himself to a few more glasses of that brandy. The old boy couldn't resist a nip or two before bedtime, and that was his favorite.”

Just then a car pulled into the estate entrance and made its way up the driveway to the house.

“That must be Mr. Hart,” Henry said. “He told me he was coming over this evening with some documents for us to sign. Come, dear, this will only take a few minutes.”

Henry and Martha met Hart at the front door, then walked with him to the office; the attorney laid out the papers and instructed the Johnsons where to sign.

“Thank you,” Hart said; “that looks like we've taken care of everything. I will take care of the rest in the morning.”

Henry said, “Please, Thomas, do you have time for a quick drink before you leave?”

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I do, thank you. That would be lovely.”

“Martha,” Henry said to his wife, “would you be a dear and go into the kitchen? You'll see the bottle of Amaretto I put there on the counter. Would you mind pouring us all a drink?”

“Of course not,” Martha replied as she went to the kitchen.

Henry watched Martha disappear down the long hallway and into the kitchen. He partially closed the office door. “Well Thomas,” he said, lowering his voice, “that worked even better than I expected.”

“So it did,” said Hart.

“Your announcement about the codicil to Dreyfus's will was quite convincing. Martha and that detective bought it without question. And we couldn't have asked for a better reaction from Charles. Added some... authenticity to the proceedings, don't you think?”

“Indeed,” Hart replied. The 'witnesses' to the codicil were old clients of mine, long dead. I certainly did enough business with them over the years to create a convincing replica of their signatures – and Martin Dreyfus's signature, as well.”

“I assume,” Hart continued, as he gathered up the papers and put them into his briefcase, “that I can expect the remainder of our transaction to be completed shortly?”

“Why of course,” Henry responded. “Now that the paperwork is all in order, I will have a check for your share of the inheritance to you within a day or so.”

“Good,” Hart said. “But not to the office. Best if you bring the check to my house. No reason to give my secretary anything to wonder about.”

“Done,” Henry said. “I will be over in a few days with the check. Shall we call it a...fee for your services?”

Martha entered with a tray with three glasses. “I propose a toast,” Henry said, “to our dear departed friend, Martin Dreyfus.”

“Here, here,” said Hart. “Here's to Martin. I shall miss that old boy.”

---

Submitted by:

Bob Canter

390 West High Street

Monticello, FL 32344

850-508-4725

Bob Canter7@yahoo.com