Read Online Powers of Attorney by Louis Auchincloss - Free Book Online

him on the telephone, but this, it turned out, was far from easy. The atmosphere of the great house, as conveyed to him over the line, was, to say the least, confused. Three times he called, and three times a mild, patient, uncooperative voice, surely that of an ancient butler, discreetly answered. Rutherford was obliged to spell and respell his name. He was then switched to an extension and to a maid who evidently regarded the ring of the telephone as a personal affront. While they argued, a third voice, far away and faintly querulous, was intermittently heard, and finally, on the third attempt, an old man called into the telephone “What? What?” very loudly. Then, abruptly, someone hung up, and Rutherford heard again the baffling dial tone. He decided to go up to the house.
    When he got out of the cab, he took in with renewed pleasure the great façade. He knew it, of course. Everyone who ever walked on the east side of Central Park knew the eclectic architecture of the old Tyson house, rising from a Medicean basement through stories of solemnified French Renaissance to its distinguishing feature, a top-floor balcony in the form of the Porch of the Maidens. To Rutherford, it was simply the kind of house that one built if one was rich. He would have been only too happy to be able to do the same.
    Fortunately, it proved as easy to see Colonel Hubert as it was difficult to get him on the telephone. The old butler who opened the massive grilled door, and whose voice Rutherford immediately recognized, led him without further questions, when he heard he was actually dealing with the Colonel’s lawyer, up the grey marble stairway that glimmered in the dark hall and down a long corridor to the Colonel’s study. This was Italian; Rutherford had a vague impression of red damask and tapestry as he went up to the long black table at which an old man was sitting, reading a typewritten sheet. He sighed in relief. It
was
the right colonel.
    â€œGood morning, Colonel. I’m Tower. Rutherford Tower. Do you remember me? About your will?”
    The Colonel looked up with an expression of faint puzzlement, but smiled politely. “My dear fellow, of course. Pray be seated.”
    â€œI wanted to tell you that I’ve thought it over, and that I’m all set to start,” Rutherford went on quickly, taking a seat opposite the Colonel. “There are a few points, however, I’d like to straighten out.”
    The Colonel nodded several times. “Ah, yes, my will,” he said. “Exactly. Very good of you.”
    â€œI want to get the names of your grandnephews. I think it advisable to leave them more substantial legacies in view of the fact that the residue is going to your foundation. And then there’s the question of executors ...” He paused, wondering if the Colonel was following him. The old man was now playing with a large bronze turtle—the repository of stamps and paper clips—raising and lowering its shell. “That’s a handsome bronze you have there,” Rutherford said uncertainly.
    â€œIsn’t it?” the Colonel said, holding it up. “I’d like Sophie to have it. She always used to admire it. You might take her name down. Sophie Winters, my wife’s niece. Or did she take back her own name after her last divorce?” He looked blankly at Rutherford. “Anyway, she’s living in Biarritz. Unless she sold that house that Millie left her. Did she, do you know?”
    Rutherford took a deep breath. Whatever happened, he must not be impatient again. “If I might suggest, sir, we could take care of the specific items more easily in a letter. A letter to be left with your will.”
    The Colonel smiled his charming smile. “I’d like to do it the simple way myself, of course. But would it be binding? Isn’t that the point? Would it be binding?”
    â€œWell, not exactly,” Rutherford admitted, “but, after all,