The Prodigal Son(64)

Abe saw Max Tunbull in his office at Tunbull Printing, a large and typically ugly factory-style building on the Boston Post Road not far from Davina’s firm, Imaginexa. A more attractive front had been tacked on to the printery, however, to tell people that it was too successful to take orders for wedding invitations or In Memoriams to commemorate funerals.

The office was fairly spacious and bore Davina’s hand in its color scheme of crimson and pale lemon yellow; Abe found the combination disquieting, but apparently Max did not, for he gazed around his premises with obvious pleasure.

In the few days since his sixtieth birthday dinner and its shocking events, Max had visibly aged. A tall man with a good body, he and it had subtly sagged, and the mass of waving, brass-gold hair had suddenly dimmed. Given the short time, Max had gone astonishingly grey. His features were Slav, the face broad and slightly flat, the cheekbones inclining to the oriental; his determined mouth had lost some of its firmness. Only the eyes, Abe sensed, remained as they had been: yellowish in color, they were well opened and fringed with very long lashes. Under ordinary circumstances he would be called an attractive man.

“I would like you to tell me everything you know about your son John,” Abe said, having declined coffee. “We’re experiencing trouble learning anything about him, and while I know that his adoptive father, Wendover Hall, is on his way to Connecticut, I would still like to hear what you know before I see him.”

Max looked at where his hands lay in his lap, frowned, and put them on his desk, not linked together, but holding on to the desk’s edge as if to a float in an angry sea. “Frankly, Lieutenant, I thought John was long dead. As God is my witness, I searched for him and his mother for years,” Max said, voice husky. “As time wore on, I guess I abandoned hope. So when he called me up and said who he was, I plain did not believe him. Until he produced the papers and the ring — the opal zebra ring, one of a kind. Then I had to accept him.”



“What did he tell you about himself?”

“That his mom had been taken in by Wendover Hall, who married her and adopted John. Martita was calling herself and John by an assumed name, Wilby. Wendover sent John to the best schools and encouraged him to make his career forestry, which he did. John said he loved the work. But the name on the many transactions was either John Hall or John Wilby. He knew nothing about the Tunbulls until, on his thirtieth birthday, long after his mother’s death, Wendover Hall gave him a box from her that she had stipulated wait until John was thirty. Even knowing, he took over two years to decide to contact me and, as he put it, open up old wounds.”

“Given the birth of your second son by your second wife, sir, did John’s advent create testamentary problems for you?”

Max laughed, it seemed with genuine amusement. “None at all, Lieutenant! He was obviously well off, it showed in his clothes. Wendover Hall, he told me, had already settled millions on him. He said he wanted no part of my estate, and I believed him. Certainly I’ve made no new will since he came back into my life.” Suddenly Max looked extremely uncomfortable. “I just wish I could say the same for John! Yesterday a lawyer named Harold Zucker called me from Portland, Oregon, to tell me that John made a new will on the last day of 1968. It leaves everything he has to be divided equally between my son Alexis and Val’s son, Ivan.”

Boy, thought Abe, winded, that sure came out of left field! “A shock, huh?” he asked.

“You can say that again!”



“Have you informed anyone in your family yet?”

“No. I knew you were coming this morning, and I thought it wiser to wait and tell you first. But I didn’t know — I swear I didn’t know!” Max cried. “How could I?”

“I’ll have to talk to Mr. Zucker myself,” said Abe, “but may I offer a word of advice? Don’t mention this bequest to anyone for the moment. Your family, including you, is suspect in a murder investigation.”

“I’ll try, but I won’t promise,” said Max wretchedly. “I lose my son, then I find my son, now I lose him again. It’s too cruel!”

“Just try. How did your family feel when the proof said John really was your son?”

“Davina was glad for me. That’s one wonderful woman! She was delighted to think Alexis had a brother, she really was. It wasn’t about inheritances to Vina, it was about having another strong arm to help. Val was glad for me too. He’s a true brother — the best brother.”

“What does Val do for Tunbull Printing?” Abe asked.