The Westing Game

your wife doesn’t understand English, I mean, after living here so long?”
“That’s my second wife. She came over from Hong Kong two years ago.”
“She does look young, but it’s so hard to tell ages of people of the Oriental persuasion,” Grace said. Why was he glaring at her like that? “Your wife is quite lovely, you know, so doll-like and inscrutable.”
Hoo bit off half a chocolate bar. He had enough problems with the empty restaurant, a lazy son, and his nagging ulcer; now he had to put up with this bigot.
Grace lit another cigarette and rearranged the clues to read: purple waves. “You heard that doorman say ‘purple waves’; it must mean something. And that ghastly secretary was wearing a dress with purple waves last night, not to mention her crutch.”
“You should not speak unkindly of those less fortunate than you,” Hoo said.
“You’re quite right,” Grace replied. “I thought the poor thing handled her infirmity with great courage—traveling mimosa, my future son-in-law says; he’s a doctor, you know. Anyhow, Pulaski couldn’t possibly be the murderer, not the way she gimps around. Besides, how could my Uncle Sam know she’d wear purple waves to his funeral?”
Hoo waved the cigarette smoke from his face. “The murderer had to have a motive. How about this: A niece murders her rich uncle to inherit his money?”
Good sport that she was, Grace tossed back her head and uttered an amused “Ha-ha-ha.”
“Not that I care,” Hoo said. “That cheating moneybags got what he deserved. What’s the matter?”
“Look!” Grace pointed to the clues.
FRUITED   PURPLE   WAVES   FOR   SEA
“For sea! The murderer lives in apartment 4C!”
“I live in 4C,” Hoo barked. “If Sam Westing wanted to say 4C he would have written number 4, letter C. S-e-a means sea, like what a turtle swims in.”
“Come now, Mr. Hoo, we are both being silly. Have you spoken to your son about his clues?”
“Some son. If you can catch him, you can ask him.” Hoo stuffed the rest of the candy bar in his mouth. “And some business I’ve got here. Everybody orders up, nobody orders down. That coffee shop is sending me to the poorhouse. And your Angela and that Pulaski woman, they didn’t show us the will, they didn’t give us their clues, they didn’t pay for three cups of jasmine tea and six almond cookies, and you smoke too much.”
“And you eat too much.” Grace threw her coin purse on the table and stormed out of the restaurant. Change, that’s all he’ll get from her; he’d have to beg on his knees before she’d sign Grace Windsor Wexler on the ten-thousand-dollar check, that madman. Some pair they made: Attila the Hun and Gracie the useless. Gracie Windkloppel Wexler, heir pretender, pretentious heir.
FIRST, THE MONEY. They signed their names to the check; half would go into Doug Hoo’s savings account; half would go to Theo’s parents. Next, the clues:
HIS   N   ON   TO   THEE   FOR
“Maybe they’re numbers: one, two, three, four,” Theo guessed.
“I still say on is no,” the bored track star said. He clasped his hands behind his head, leaned back in the coffee shop booth and stretched his long legs under the opposite bench. “And no is what we got: no real clues, no leads, no will.”
After three cups of coffee, two pastries and a bowl of rice pudding with cream, Sydelle Pulaski had offered nothing in return.
Theo refused to give up. “Are you sure you didn’t see anything unusual at the Westing house that night?”
“I didn’t kill Westing, if that’s what you mean, and the only unusual thing I saw was Turtle Wexler. I think the pest is madly in love with me; how’s that for luck?”
“Get serious, Doug. One of the heirs is a murderer; we could all get killed.”
“Just because somebody zapped the old man doesn’t mean he’s going to kill again. Dad says . . .” Doug paused. His father’s comment about awarding a medal to the murderer might be incriminating.
Theo tried another tack. “I was playing chess with somebody in the game room last night.”
“Who?”
“That’s what’s strange; I don’t know who. We’ll have to find out which one of the heirs plays chess.”
“Since when is chess-playing evidence for murder?”
“Well, it’s something to go on,” Theo replied. “And another thing: The will said no two sets of clues are alike. Maybe all the clues put together make one message, a message that points to the murderer. Somehow or other we’ll have to get the heirs to pool the clues.”
“Oh, sure. The killer can’t wait to hand over the clues that will hang him.” Doug rose. Snowbound or not, he had to stay in shape for the track meet. For the rest of the day he jogged through the hallways and up and down stairs, scaring the nervous tenants half out of their wits.
JUDGE J. J. FORD had no doubt that the clues she shared with the doorman were meant for her, but Sam Westing could toss off sharper insults than:
SKIES   AM   SHINING   BROTHER
His choice of words must have been limited; therefore, these clues were part of a longer statement. A statement that named a name. The name of the murderer.
No. Westing could not have been murdered. If his life had been threatened, if he had been in danger of any kind, he would have insisted on police protection. He owned the police; he owned the whole town. Sam Westing was not the type to let himself get killed. Not unless he was insane.
The judge opened the envelope given her by the incompetent Plum. A certificate of sanity, dated last week: “Having thoroughly examined . . . keen mind and memory . . . excellent physical condition . . . (signed) Sidney Sikes, M.D.”
Sikes. That sounded familiar. The judge scanned the obituary she had cut from Saturday’s newspaper.
. . . Samuel Westing and his friend, Dr. Sidney Sikes, were involved in a near-fatal automobile accident. Both men were hospitalized with severe injuries. Sikes resumed his Westingtown medical practice and the post of county coroner, but Westing disappeared from sight.
Sikes was Westing’s friend (and, she remembered,