The Red Book Magazine/Volume 7/Number 2/Hiram Tanker's Third Personality

A woman rarely retained Ezra Stackpole Butterworth as her attorney. The unusual methods of the Bureau of Abnormal Litigation had, I know from several years' observation, a strong interest for female litigants, but the chief distasted their patronage because he shrewdly realized the very oddity of his moves left him open to reproach and fault-finding should he lose. In all the several years I was his first assistant counselor at eccentric law, I can not remember of our representing in open court more than half a dozen women.

So, I shrugged my shoulders at Jethuel, the tall, thin, gloomy-faced clerk, in anticipation of a curt refusal and a polite reference to Smith, Durgin, & Blank, around the corner, when Miss Tanker paid her initial visit. But her first words struck his fancy, I believe.

“Lawyer Butterworth,” she panted, for the stairway was rather steep and narrow, and she had already seen the noon of life, “can a person, two-thirds crazy, make a will that will hold? And, if so, have I got to prove he made the will with the sane chunk of his mind?”

“Madam,” he replied, bowing gallantly over his old-fashioned, spindle-legged desk, “the courts have not, I regret, yet reduced to anything akin to exactness the question as to just what modicum of rationality a man must possess in order to execute a binding instrument. You are experiencing trouble with the will—”

“I'm his cousin—Hiram Tanker's cousin, and two other cousins are trying to cheat me out of the little property he left to me in the will that they say doesn't amount to anything,” she interrupted, shaking her bonnet until the tall sprays of beads trembled violently.

“They contest your cousin's will on the usual grounds, eh? I see. Now, if you will take your case to—” he began, when she stopped him by rapping his desk smartly with her umbrella, and as he gently brushed the mahogany with his handkerchief, she declared:

“No, I stop here. I've taken the case to a dozen different people, and just because I couldn't pay in advance what they thought they ought to have, no one would have anything to do with it. The last lawyer said I'd better come here, as you were just crazy enough to bother with it. There, now! I've said something that sounds homely.”

But Mr. Butterworth threw back his head and laughed silently. “Doubtless all my brother said is true. Who was it? Oh, Bilker, eh? I believe he owes me for several jolts. But seriously, madam, I seldom touch a case on a contingent fee. And unless the issues involved are in some way out of the ordinary, I do not care to touch it at any price. I have here before me, awaiting my most urgent attention, the papers in a bankruptcy proceeding against a man who incorporated himself into a 'Good Cheer Agency,' purposing to furnish cheery, optimistic letters of a semi-news nature to persons away from town on their vacations. A weekly budget of welcome items about town life, something bright and wholesome to make them think kindly of the city and incline them to return in the fall, gladly. A stupid office boy mixed the addresses so the married men received the single men's epistles, spinsters received the chatty nothings intended for several Casino girls, and so on, every customer receiving just what he would not have if it had not been for the blunder. Consequently all his patrons deserted him, and I must work overtime to rescue him from an undesirable position. I tell you all this that you may at least faintly appreciate how my time is taken up with untangling the eccentric skeins, and how it is impossible for me to handle any simple problems of life. Now, Smith—”

“Drat Smith, Durgin, & Blank, if you have them in mind,” she cried, arranging her worn-looking wraps preparatory to departing. “I guess I don't look prosperous—”

“Madam!” exploded the chief's gentle voice in protest. “You embarrass me. It is not a question of purse, but pride. I have never yet taken up a conventional issue.”

“Well, Hiram Tanker was doubly crazy,” she cried, “and usually wore his hat at the table when serving the boarders in my cousin's boarding house. I should say that was odd enough to begin with, if that's what you want.”

Mr. Butterworth laid aside his pen and looked a trifle interested. “It sounds promising—for the other side,” he murmured. “Be careful; if the contestants can prove he was crazy the will, probably, will be declared void. If you are convinced he was doubly insane, I should say that puts an end to your hopes.”

“No,” she retorted firmly, pursing up her thin lips with grim determination, “he was mildly insane for years, believing first one thing and then another. But through it all ran a rational streak, narrow, I'll admit, yet broad enough to write a will on.”

“Ah, you hold my attention. Only, it will require something tangible to impress the surrogate with your belief. However, give me the facts,” he invited, picking up his pencil.

She readily began a lengthy recital, which was punctuated with the unusual, and I could see he was much taken with the situation. “I will waive the retainer fee and take the case,” he decided, after she had finished. “Leave your papers and I will consult with the other side.”

Our client's name was Lydia Tanker, cousin of the testator, Hiram Tanker. The contestants were Mr. and Mrs. Roger Sumley. They conducted an apartment house and served dinner for nearly a score of their tenants. The testator had lived with them for years, paying a small sum for his keep, and always making himself useful about the house, especially at dinner time, when he presided at the head of the table and carved and passed the plates.

So far as I could see, the proponent's case was already lost. The mere fact that the testator had insisted through all the years in invariably wearing some kind of a head covering at the table was enough to convince the average court of his deep-seated incompetency. Then, there were many other little idiosyncrasies that tended to strengthen my belief he was unfit to execute a will.

“I can't anticipate,” I mumbled, “how you are going to dodge the hat and other fads. No use trying to contradict those bits of evidence.”

“My boy, I don't intend to,” smiled Mr. Butterworth. “I shall insist on every bit of evidence that goes to establish his eccentricities. For, as our client observed, the only course to pursue is to have him proven insane, subject to all these hallucinations, and yet at all times displaying a rational partiality toward her. A person may act and think in an abnormal manner and yet retain enough lucidity of purpose to know whom he wishes to name as his beneficiary. Even a clouded intellect retains the right to have some predilection when it comes to disposing of property.”

On the next day we were informed that Horatio Bilker had become identified with the other side, and my chief seemed hugely pleased over the information. It surprised me a bit, however, that he should direct that the matter be hurried to its first hearing without any delay, and despite the fact we had procured no witnesses to sustain our contentions.

“Jethuel has ascertained what witnesses the contestants will call, and I am satisfied they desire to be fair and impartial; and it's better to prove our case by them than by others,” explained Mr. Butterworth.

And thus it resulted that on the adjourned day we had the novel experience of attending court in the hope of winning the decision on the opponent's evidence alone. If it were only a hope with me, it was a firm expectation with Mr. Butterworth; and his quaint bearing of lively satisfaction caused Mr. Bilker and Mr. Friesman to hold a whispered conference.

When the clerk called the calendar Mr. Butterworth offered the will for probate and then calmly waited for Messrs. Bilker and Friesman to interpose their objections.

Mr. Friesman did so, and then quickly observing we had no witnesses, added, “We are anxious to submit our proofs at this time.”

“The proponent is as eager and ready,” softly informed Mr. Butterworth, smiling mildly on his pompous brother.

Opposing counsel then outlined the nature of the evidence to the surrogate, a tall, smug-faced man, whose ears stood out abnormally, as if forever on the qui vive to drink in the law.

“If the court please,” said Mr. Friesman, eyeing us with complacent pity, “our witnesses will show that for the last ten years Hiram Tanker was hopelessly insane. We will show him in a dual personality, and we shall claim that in either he was incompetent to execute this instrument, which by its terms robs his benefactors of their just due by diverting the entire estate to the proponent. We shall picture him wearing a skull cap at the dinner table on one day and shifting to a wide-brimmed hat on another day. The boarders in that household will take the stand and explain that they realized he was incurably insane, and that out of consideration for my client's tender feelings they did not remove their patronage because of his—ah—er—peculiar table manners.

“It will shortly become apparent to your honor that Hiram Tanker lived in the past. At times he was invested with the spirit of the days when he was a painstaking clerk in a drug store. It was then he wore the skull cap at the table and that his blindly groping, befuddled, and darkened intellect gave a faint reflex of the olden times as he mechanically performed his little services. At other times his mind dwelt on that period of his life when, as a dusty and jovial miller in wide-brimmed hat he filled the waiting farmer's order with hearty zest and abundant measure. And on these days his apportionment of the viands revealed the impress of his early calling. As a druggist, he was accustomed, if I may use the term, to stint his customers, and I will confess my clients suffered bitterly from the complaints of their boarders on these unwelcome occasions. As the miller, it was his inclination to give too generous a measure, and the first served fared best.

“And it will all go to prove that the sane Hiram Tanker died many years ago. So far as his testamentary capacity was concerned, he passed away ten years before his physical body was consigned to the grave.” And counsel's voice was hushed and tinged with sorrow.

Then he continued: “To explain why the boarders endured the uncertainty of his addled whims, I should add he was satisfied in either of his cloudy, reminiscent moods with serving only the person seated at his immediate left in his two-fold, undesirable manner. As the diners occasionally shifted their seats their inconvenience was not so great after all; but each will swear the head covering was worn from soup to dessert. From all these circumstances we shall insist that Hiram Tanker, in his dual delusions, each factor of which was the disordered creation of a worn-out brain, retained no glimmering of reason which would warrant this court in adjudicating that that false, and as I believe, fraudulently obtained paper, to be a valid will. Mr. Brurr, take the stand.”

Mr. Brurr was a sour, dissatisfied looking man with an uncomfortable steel watch chain gracing a feeble waist line. He scowled at the stenographer and sniffed sarcastically before answering each query. Yes, he had boarded at the Sumley's. He should say he had (sniff). He not only knew the testator in his life-time, but he feared he could never forget him (with this, a decided sniff).

“You knew him best when he labored under what delusion?” suggested Mr. Friesman, archly.

“When he thought he was a druggist,” replied the witness gloomily. “That's why I had to leave there.”

“Ah, ha! 'Had to leave,' eh?” repeated Mr. Bilker loudly, approaching and leaning over the rail. “Did the stenographer get that?—'had to leave.'”

“Couldn't stand it, although I've stood lots,” volunteered the witness, smiling sourly and much pleased with himself.

The court looked for Mr. Butterworth to interpose an objection, and was surprised to find him beaming amiably on the witness with every symptom of good humor.

“It was your lot to sit next to the testator when he was in the druggist rôle?” continued Mr. Friesman.

“Always,” declared the witness. “I always got that seat when he lived over his apothecary days. Any boarder says I didn't, is a liar.”

“Tut, tut,” remonstrated Mr. Friesman gently. “We know, Mr. Brurr, you suffered much because of the decedent's whims, but the court will insist that we stick to the evidence. The shoemaker to his last, eh? Ha! ha!”

“May I inquire whether the witness spells his name with four 'r's,' or five?” asked Mr. Butterworth, gravely.

Mr. Brurr knit his brows in perplexity as he tried to recollect just how he did spell his name: then he reddened and lost much of his aplomb, while counsel for the contestants entered upon a long tirade against the evil propensity of some brutalized individuals to browbeat witnesses. But the court, conceded to be the only licensed exponent of irony in his department, gave a strained smile and commanded, “Proceed.”

“On those occasions when you were unfortunate enough to be served first by the decedent, did he, or did he not, serve you with minute portions?” asked Mr. Friesman next, looking very stern.

“I should style his helpings as minims,” replied the witness stoutly. “I know I never saw such small bits of food with the naked eye, either before or since.”

“I suggest,” blandly interrupted Mr. Butterworth, “that the witness desist from further characterizations and describe just how he was served.”

“Yes, tell what you saw him do,” directed the surrogate, making a double chin as he leaned over the bench before retreating to the depths of the morning paper.

The witness gloomily tucked up his cuffs as if standing gingerly behind a poison-laden counter with graduating glass in hand, and proceeded to give an excellent pantomime of placing the infinitesimally small portions on a plate. “First,” he explained, “he would carefully spoon out a modicum of mashed potato, look at it critically, shake his head slowly, and then replace a portion of it—if I may use the word 'portion' in connection with what already was reduced to the last degree of visuality.”

“Very good,” approved Mr. Butterworth, nodding his head genially.

Reassured, the witness continued: “Then would come just a hint of young onions, and at times I was of the opinion, I won't say I was positive, but I was of the opinion, he added a trace of squash. If I remember correctly I thought I detected a trace of that vegetable on two or three occasions. Possibly I was led to believe this on seeing his hand flutter over the squash dish. I want to say nothing but what is exact.”

“Admirable,” cooed Mr. Butterworth. “And can't you even draw it to a finer nicety if you could say you saw his hand 'hesitate,' rather than 'flutter' over the squash?”

“I fear, sir, I must adhere to 'flutter,'” replied the witness firmly.

“Witness says 'fluttered,'” repeated the court heavily, emerging briefly from the paper and as quickly diving back again.

Mr. Bilker smiled pityingly on Mr. Butterworth, while Mr. Friesman asked, “And what about the meat?”

“I can best describe my share of the meat,” explained the witness sorrowfully, by declaring that I can remember no occasion on one of those druggist days when he gave me enough to shape into a modestly-sized scarf pin.” And he glared defiantly at Mr. Butterworth.

But my chief seemed only pleased and repeated lovingly, “'Scarf pin.' Unusually good.” And Mr. Bilker looked surprised and froze his grin into a grimace and rubbed his fat nose dubiously.

“That's all,” cried Mr. Friesman triumphantly.

“The proponent concedes,” said Mr. Butterworth, rising to his feet and mechanically trying to take snuff from his watch, “that the testator labored under the delusion, at times, that squash was prussic acid, onions were vitriol, and potato was arsenic. But counsel forgot to to pursue the line of evidence to the end. Now, witness, did you ever see the testator serve more than one person at a meal in this eccentric fashion?”

“No,” replied the witness readily, “he always seemed satisfied with starving me. The rest were served in the ordinary fashion.”

“Possibly suggesting to you,” smiled Mr. Butterworth lightly, “that the impress of the drug store days was easily obliterated?”

“I object to what suggestions this witness may have received,” cried Mr. Friesman, while Mr. Bilker swaggered forward frowning.

“It's not material,” agreed the court, dodging from behind his paper. But Mr. Butterworth smiled in satisfaction as he observed the judge make a stealthy note in his book.

“At any rate,” persisted Mr. Butterworth, “the proponent, Miss Tanker, did not have to endure what you did?”

“We object!” shouted counsel in concert.

“The witness may tell what he observed,” ruled the court.

“I should say not,” said the witness, laboring under the conviction he was damaging Miss Tanker's case. “She always got just the same treatment every time she came. He'd roll back his sleeves a bit, tuck up his cuffs, and quietly and quickly serve her, neither stinting nor overloading her plate.”

“That's all,” said Mr. Butterworth.

“Jacob Finch,” called Mr. Friesman, and a short, ruddy-faced man, giving the impression of being perpetually devoured by inward laughter, rolled forward and nodded his head humorously to the surrogate, as if the two of them had a huge secret to chuckle over.

“Finch?” cried the court, assuming a frigid and friendship-discouraging mien. “Full name in this court, sir.”

“If the court please, the name is Jacob Finch,” informed Mr. Friesman with a deep bow.

“Very well,” said the court suspiciously, and plainly intimating it might not be so well another time, “you may proceed.”

In answer to the preliminary questions the witness explained that he boarded at the Sumley's and had often observed the decedent's eccentric method of serving the dinner.

“You were best acquainted with him in what rôle?” asked Mr. Friesman.

“When he was generous,” grinned the witness. “I guess you'd call it the 'miller' rôle.”

“What kind of a hat, if any, did he wear on those days?”

“A wide-brimmed, dusty-colored hat.”

“And he was almost lavish in his helpings?”

The witness puffed his fat face in an intensity of emotion and leaning well forward exclaimed, “Lavish? Why, he was rash! He simply dealt the grub out in slathers.”

“Witness, explain in the English language what you mean by 'slathers,'” and the court's command, hurled from over the top of the paper, was backed up by a judicial glare that caused Mr. Finch to cuddle spasmodically in his chair. Mr. Bilker half rose, as if to resent some violence.

Finally composing himself Mr. Finch explained, “He simply squandered the food, sir.”

“Tell what he did,” hurriedly requested Mr. Friesman, forestalling another rebuke from the bench.

“Well, I always, as a rule, happened to get the chair next to him when he was in a mellow, merry mood. The others said I was shrewd enough to guess when the streak was about to crop out.” And the witness could not restrain a self-congratulatory chuckle. “Anyway, there he'd sit, big hat and all, and he'd reach for my plate and usually tip over something in doing so.”

“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Butterworth. “Did you ever notice his hand to tremble or be awkward when serving Mr. Brurr on his druggist days?”

“No, he was always calm as ice; as dainty and precise as a hen picking up corn.”

“As what?” thundered the court.

“As any one could be, sir,” trembled the witness.

“Huh!” said the court.

“When wearing the miller's hat and waiting on you he was awkward, you say?” repeated Mr. Butterworth, pleasantly.

“Awfully so. Simply wasteful. If he broke anything he'd laugh good-naturedly. He impressed me in that mood as not caring a rap for quantity. Kind of a slap dash, here-have-some-more sort of a style.

“Tell what he did,” said Mr. Friesman.

“Why, he'd grab my plate just as if it was a two bushel bag, and he'd handle the spoon as if it was a scoop. And Lord! if you could only have seen Brurr's face when he'd slap in all the potato at one jolt. Ha! ha!”

“What's that?” cried the court.

“Hard. I said he'd slap it in hard, if it please you, your honor,” the witness attempted to mollify as he spun in his chair like a top.

“Go on,” commanded the court, holding his paper so one eye could be constantly focussed on the witness, “and cut out this slang, hereafter. The court won't stand for it.”

“Thank you, sir,” gulped the witness, wiping his face desperately. “Well, he'd take the spoon and rasp it into the squash and with one slap—I mean flop—he'd slap it all onto my plate. Then he'd jab the fork into about eight pounds of meat and whang—excuse me—bang it down on my plate—”

“Witness,” broke in the court's icy voice, “I fear I shall have to fine you for contempt. I believe you used the expression 'whang.'”

“If the court please,” grovelled Mr. Friesman, “I think he said 'bang.' Not an elegant expression, but better—”

“I said 'swang,'” cried Mr. Finch in terror.

“Well, don't do it again. Go on.”

“And after he'd helped me, of course, there wasn't much left to satisfy the cravings of the others,” labored the witness heavily. Then his face lost its look of fear as he, too, reverted to the past and added, “Mr. Tanker was a good old sort, but it was killing to see Brurr's face when I got it all.”

“Ahem!” coughed Mr. Bilker warningly.

“And then what happened?” inquired Mr. Friesman hurriedly.

“Why, I'd pass my plate around and the others would help themselves. The old fellow would never recant during the meal, you know. He'd always follow up his hand.”

“That's all,” and Mr. Friesman sighed in relief.

Mr. Butterworth had the witness repeat how the decedent's riot of generosity had given the impression he was living over the days when he was a miller and accustomed to shovel feed into boxes, bags, barrels, and freight cars. Then he asked:

“You have seen Miss Tanker there?”

“She used to come and take dinner once a week,” said the witness.

“Did you ever see the testator stint her in the matter of food?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever see him overload her plate?”

“No, sir.”

“Always served her rationally?”

“Yes, sir, I should say so.”

“Do you know what day in the week she used to come?”

“Yes, it was always a Thursday.”

“Did she ever sit next to him?”

“She always did.”

“One more question: Did you ever see him wear the skull cap, or the wide brimmed hat when she sat next to him and he served her first?”

“No; he'd tuck back his sleeves a bit, pull back his cuffs and act real natural.”

The remaining witnesses gave practically the same testimony. They had seen the testator when he was laboring under the delusion he was a druggist, when he was all neatness and infinitely precise. They had seen him when he was the rollicking miller, when he was all jollity and served too generously. And each had also noticed him when he was neither one nor the other, and each admitted these last, ordinary moments were when Miss Tanker was present.

“And it would all tend to prove,” said Mr. Butterworth in the course of his summary of the evidence, “that this testator's love for his cousin, my client, recalled him to the realms of normality, and it clinches my argument that insane as he was at times, there was in his mind a strain of rationality that was sufficient, as this learned court well knows, to enable him to execute his last will and testament. It was sufficient to enable him to fully realize just how he wanted his small estate to be left, and once we decide that to be the fact it makes no difference to this court if he were as mad as the proverbial hatter at other times and on other topics.

“Therefore, I have omitted to call any witnesses. My belief was and, more strongly than ever, is, that Hiram Tanker, weakened in mind, assuming at times the delusion he was a drug clerk, or a miller, returned in the interim to a soundness of intellect and was competent to make a will. His hallucinations were harmless. In the interstices of his fickle fancy there always abided a sane desire and a competent inclination to leave his little all to this spinster, his poorly-to-do cousin. He did so, and I am confident this court, in view of all the circumstances and evidence, in remembering his vagaries never included her, will allow it to stand.”

Of course Messrs. Bilker and Friesman made long arguments to the contrary, but at the conclusion of it all the court pursed up a judicial lip and ruled the instrument should be probated. As the estate was not large enough to warrant a further fight in appeals, counsel for the contestants were much disgruntled.

“The more I think of it the more that case pleased me,” said Mr. Butterworth, a few days later, just after Bilker had surlily informed us that no appeal would be taken. “It was really interesting to allow their own witnesses to blaze a trail for us through the testator's mind. On either side was the morass and swamp of delusion and incompetency, and yet, through it all, ran a straight, firm highway of abiding reason.”

“Miss Tanker to see you, sir,” announced Jethuel, and our happy client burst in on us, laden with many expressions of lively good will for our services.

After she had exhausted her thanks and was preparing to depart, she stopped by the door and concluded, “Only, I wish I could have been a witness. There were so many things about Cousin Hiram that I know would have interested the court. They all told about his being a druggist and a miller, but not one of them seemed to remember that once he was a clerk in the county poor department.”

“Huh!” ejaculated my chief, advancing his spectacles to the end of his nose.

“No, not one of them seemed to recall it,” she repeated. “I suppose I should have forgotten it, but I can always see just how quiet and grave and kindly he looked as he sat behind his little counter on one day in the week, impartially giving to each county charge a fair and decent portion of food. There he'd sit, hair slicked back, sleeves tucked back a bit, cuffs pulled back, and I don't believe he ever varied an ounce in bread, onions, or potatoes, in all the allowances he made to the different families.”

“Dear! dear!” sighed the chief, gazing helplessly at me. “And what day was it he used to deal out the supplies?”

“Always on a Thursday,” she replied brightly.

“Hum! Miss Tanker—er—if I were you, I'd not talk any more about this cases or the decedent. I'm afraid if you do they'll decide to appeal. Simply don't mention it,” he groaned. Then he asked, “You were there at the boarding house on what day in the week?”

“Always on a Thursday. That's why I always think of Cousin Hiram as he used to look when in the poor department,” she explained.

“No! No! put up your pocket book,” said the chief firmly, as she began fumbling in a black bag. “I cannot take any fee for this. It is all right, madam. Glad to have been of service.”

And after he had gallantly bowed her out and answered her parting, radiant smile with a comical mixture of woe and amusement, he turned his whimsical gaze on me and observed:

“My boy, that straight and narrow highway of reason is fast becoming more narrow, and in places I see wash-outs. A man may possess a dual personality and retain a modicum of rationality, but it is drawing too fine a line when he triplicates his hallucinations. An equitable clerk on Thursdays! She sat next to him at the table and always received the same treatment—on Thursdays! Oh, if Bilker only knew!”