“What does it do, boost him in and out of bed on mechanical arms?”
“It does away with a bed altogether.”
Ellery stared.
“That’s right. He sleeps in it, eats in it, does his work in it ― everything. A combination office, study, living room, dining room, bedroom and bathroom on wheels. It’s quite a production. From one of the arms of the chair hangs a small shelf which he can swing around to the front and raise; he eats on that, mixes drinks, and so on. Under the shelf are compartments for cutlery, napkins, cocktail things, and liquor. There’s a similar shelf on the other arm of the chair which holds his typewriter, screwed on, of course, so it won’t fall off when it’s swung aside. And under that shelf are places for paper, carbon, pencils and Lord knows what else. The chair is equipped with two phones of the plug-in type ― the regular line and a private wire to our house ― and with an intercom system to Wallace’s room.”
“Who’s Wallace?”
“Alfred Wallace, his secretary-companion. Then ― let’s see.” Laurel frowned. “Oh, he’s got compartments and cubbyholes all around the chair for just about everything imaginable ― magazines, cigars, his reading glasses, his toothbrush; everything he could possibly need. The chair’s built so that it can be lowered and the front raised, making a bed out of it for daytime napping or sleeping at night. Of course, he needs Alfred to help him sponge-bathe and dress and undress and so on, but he’s made himself as self-sufficient as possible ― hates help of any kind, even the most essential. When I was there yesterday his typewriter had just been sent into Hollywood to be repaired and he had to dictate business memoranda to Alfred instead of doing them himself, and he was in such a foul mood because of it that even Alfred got mad. Roger in a foul mood can be awfully foul... I’m sorry, I thought you wanted to know.”
“What?”
“You’re not listening.”
“I am, though not with both ears.” They were on Mulholland Drive now, and Ellery was clutching the side of the Austin to avoid being thrown clear as Laurel zoomed the little car around the hairpin curves. “Tell me, Laurel. Who inherits your father’s estate? I mean besides yourself?”
“Nobody. There isn’t anyone else.”