The Westing Game

a game of chess?” he asked, leaning through the bedroom doorway.
“No, thank you,” Sydelle replied, looking very busy.
Theo smiled shyly at Angela and left.
Sydelle read the obituary in Turtle’s newspaper. The words two hundred million dollars were underlined, but she found a more interesting item. “Sam Westing was a master at chess; no wonder Theo’s so interested. Do you know anything about the game, Angela?”
“A little,” she replied slowly, putting the pieces in order. “The judge says she’s a pawn and Otis Amber says he’s the king, Crow’s the queen— Oh well, it’s probably just a coincidence.”
“We can’t leave any stone unturned,” Sydelle insisted. “As the will says, Object of the game: to win.”
“What did you say?”
“Object of the game: to win.”
“How about: object of the game: twin. Maybe the murderer is a twin.”
“Twin!” Sydelle liked that. The only problem would be getting the murderer to admit that he (or she) is a twin. “Let’s get back to my apartment. It’s time I transcribed those notes.”
Angela helped the invalid to her feet and nervously peered in both directions before stepping into the hallway.
Sydelle chuckled at her timidity. “There’s nothing to be scared of, Angela. Westing was murdered for his money, and we’re not rich yet. We won’t be rich enough to be murdered until we find the name, and by the time we get the money from the estate, the murderer will be locked up in jail.”
In spite of the impeccable logic, Angela looked back over her shoulder several times on the way to 3C.
“Strange.” Sydelle stood before her open apartment door. She had slammed it shut on leaving, but had not locked the dead bolt; after all, not even a burglar could get into a snowbound building. Unless . . .”
Angela, too frightened to notice that Sydelle ran through the apartment with her crutch in the air, found her partner in the bathroom frantically tossing soiled towels from the hamper.
Sydelle Pulaski stared at the bare wicker bottom, then sank to the rim of the bathtub, shaking her head in disbelief. Someone in Sunset Towers had stolen the shorthand notebook.
9 Lost and Found
EARLY THE NEXT morning a typed index card was tacked to the elevator’s back wall:
LOST: Important business papers of no value to anyone but the owner. Please return to Sydelle Pulaski, 3C. No questions asked.
THE SHORTHAND NOTEBOOK was not returned, but the idea of a bulletin board was an instant success. By late afternoon the elevator was papered with notices and filled with tenants facing sideways and backwards, reading as they rode up and down.
Lost: Silver cross on filigree chain, topaz pin and earrings, gold-filled cuff links. Return to Grace Windsor Wexler, 3D. REWARD!
All players willing to discuss sharing their clues come to the coffee shop tomorrow 10 a.m.
WHOEVER STOLE MY MICKEY MOUSE CLOCK BETTER GIVE IT BACK. JUST LEAVE IT IN THE HALL IN FRONT OF APARTMENT 3D WHEN NO ONE’S LOOKING.
TURTLE WEXLER
ORDER DOWN, NOT UP!
Or come on up to the fifth floor
and dine in elegance at
SHIN HOO’S RESTAURANT
Specializing in exquisite Chinese cuisine.
LOST: STRING OF PEARLS. SENTIMENTAL VALUE. IF FOUND, PLEASE BRING THEM TO APARTMENT 2c. THANK YOU. FLORA BAUMBACH (DRESSMAKING AND ALTERATIONS, REASONABLY PRICED)
FOUND: SIX CLUES
The following clues,
printed on squares of Westing Toilet Tissue,
were found in the third-floor hallway:
BRAIDED KICKING TORTOISE ‘SI A BRAT
I am having an informal party this evening from eight o’clock on. You are all invited. Please come.
J. J. Ford, apartment 4D
Turtle, wherever you are—
Be home at seven-thirty SHARP!!!
Your loving mother
“MOM, I’M HOME.” No one else was.
On reading Mrs. Wexler’s note in the elevator, Flora Baumbach had insisted, “You must do what your mother says.” When Turtle replied, “Like showing her our clues?” Flora Baumbach’s answer was “Perhaps so. After all, she is your mother.”
Flora Baumbach was sappy. Always smiling that dumb smile, always so polite to everybody. And so timid. When they had finally reached a snowbound broker, Flora Baumbach was so nervous she dropped the telephone. Turtle had to admit to some nervousness herself, but it was the first real order she had ever placed. For a minute there, she thought she might choke on the thumping heart that had jumped into her throat, but she had pulled off the transaction like a pro. Now if only the stock market would go up, she’d show Mr. Westing about refining gold. The next part of the will would read: “Whichsoever pair made the most money with the ten thousand dollars inherits the whole estate.” She was sure of it.
“Oh, there you are.” Grace Wexler acted as if Turtle was the tardy one, but she quickly sweetened. “Come, dear, let’s go to your room and I’ll fix your hair.”
Her mother sat behind her on the edge of the narrow bed, loosed the dark brown hair, and brushed it to a gloss. She had not done that with such care in a long, long time.
“Have you eaten?”
“Mrs. Baumbach made me a dinner.” Turtle felt the fingers dividing the hair into strands. Her mother was so warm, so close.
“Your poor father’s probably starving; he’s been so busy on the phone, changing appointments and all.”
“Daddy’s eating in the coffee shop; I just saw him there.” Turtle had dashed in shouting: “The braided tortoise strikes again!” and kicked a surprised Theo in the shin. (It was Doug Hoo, not Theo, who had made the sign.)
Her mother twisted the three strands into a braid. “I think you should wear your party dress tonight; you look so pretty in pink.”
Pretty? She had never used that word before, not about her. What’s going on?
“You know, sweetheart, I’m rather hurt that you won’t tell your own mother about your clues.”
So that was it. She should have known. “My lips are sealed,” Turtle said defiantly.
“Just one eensy-beensy clue?” Grace wheedled, winding a rubber band around the end