The lawyer cleared his throat. “I must remind you again, June, that once it is made public—”
“Mr. Wolfe will take it in confidence. Won’t you?”
Wolfe nodded. “Certainly.”
“Well.” Prescott cleared his throat again. He looked at Wolfe. “Mr. Hawthorne left a number of small bequests to servants and employees, a total of one hundred and sixty-four thousand dollars. A hundred thousand to each of the two children of his sister, Mrs. John Charles Dunn, and a like amount to the science fund of Varney College. Five hundred thousand to his wife; he had no children. An apple to his sister June, a pear to his sister May, and a peach to his sister April.” The lawyer looked uncomfortable. “I assure you that Mr. Hawthorne, who was not only my client but my friend, was not a freak. There was a statement that his sisters needed nothing of this, that he made those bequests only as symbols of his regard.”
“Indeed. Does that cover the estate? Around a million?”
“No.” Prescott looked even more uncomfortable. “The residue will be roughly seven million, after the deduction of taxes. Probably a little less. It was left to a woman whose name is Naomi Karn.”
“La femme,” said April. It was neither a sneer nor a flippancy, merely a statement of fact.
Wolfe sighed.
Prescott said, “The will was drawn by me after instructions from Mr. Hawthorne. It is dated March 7, 1938, and replaced one which had been drawn three years previously. It was kept in a vault in the office of my firm. I mention this on account of intimations made last evening by Mrs. Dunn and Miss May Hawthorne that I should have notified them of its contents at the time it was drawn. As you know, Mr. Wolfe, that would have been—”
“Nonsense,” May said cuttingly. “You know very well we were upset. We were gasping.”