Something the Cat Dragged In by Charlotte MacLeod

by no means an intriguing man to look at.
    He had a strangely blank face for a man of his years, as though he’d trained himself so rigorously in the discretion required by his profession that he’d ended by shutting out expression entirely. Yet he wasn’t beyond feeling. He was being deliberately rude to Svenson and Shandy, unless he was either blind or close to it. Even Ottermole noticed the slight, and did his clumsy best to smooth it over.
    “You know President Svenson from the college? And this is Professor Shandy.”
    Hodger didn’t even turn his head in their direction. “What do you want out of me, Fred? A statement about last night?”
    “Yeah, that’s right. About last night. You had a meeting of the Balaclavian Society?”
    “We did.”
    “And Professor Ungley gave you a talk about penknives?”
    “He did.”
    “Was he okay during the talk?”
    “That would depend on what you mean by okay. If you refer to his physical condition, I suppose I’d have to say that to the best of my knowledge, not being a registered physician and not having examined Ungley more closely than one member of a fraternal organization might reasonably be expected to observe another during the course of a meeting, he appeared to be neither better nor worse than usual. If you’re asking whether he presented an interesting topic in an organized and informative manner, I prefer to reserve any statement on the grounds of de mortuis nil nisi bonum.”
    “Huh?”
    “No doubt your learned companions can translate for you. What else do you want to ask me?”
    “Well, uh, did Professor Ungley leave with you, or did he stay behind?”
    “It is my impression that we all left more or less in a group. I recall that I held open the door for Mrs. Pommell, then said good night and came directly across the street to my own quarters here. Ungley would have stayed on the museum side of the street, which is to say the opposite side from this to make myself perfectly clear. Assuming he meant to go back to his own dwelling place, he would then have walked right as far as the corner, then turned left.”
    “You didn’t turn around to watch him?”
    “No. Why should I have? It was late, and I wanted to get to bed.”
    “Can you think of any reason why Professor Ungley might have gone around behind the museum?”
    “I’m not in the habit of thinking up reasons, Ottermole. The law concerns itself with facts.”
    “Yeah, well, uh—”
    “I believe,” Shandy prompted, “you meant to ask Mr. Hodger about Professor Ungley’s will.”
    Ottermole brightened. “That’s right. I was just going to mention it. We figured you’d be the one to know.”
    “To know what?” asked that infuriating old man.
    “Whether Ungley made a will, like Professor Shandy just said. Did he?”
    “He did.”
    “Then how about giving us a gander at it?”
    “Whom do you mean by us?”
    “He means himself, President Svenson, and me,” said Shandy, who’d decided Hodger had been allowed to play cute long enough. “We’re assisting Ottermole in his investigation of Ungley’s death. Unless you have some reason to continue being obstructive, we assume you’ll wish to do the same.”
    “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
    “I don’t see how it can be construed as one, unless you know of some reason why you ought to feel threatened.”
    The lawyer’s face was, after all, capable of expression. Hodger performed a superb dramatic rendering of malignancy before he reached into his top desk drawer and fished out a document covered in faded blue paper.
    “Ungley’s will is a very simple one and will be filed for probate as soon as the necessary formalities are completed. Since it will then become available to the public, I see no reason why I cannot with propriety give you a summary of its contents now. Myself and Henry Pommell, president of the First Balaclava County Guaranteed National Trust, Savings and Loan, are the executors. One-third of whatever assets