When his secretary, Miss Giveny, returned with the file, Harry rifled through it, searching for instructions. Nothing made sense. Turning the page, he caught his breath. The entire sheet was scrawled with intricate and detailed pen sketches of female genitalia, viewed from the most surprising angles. A neat border of rose petals edged the drawing.
Harry gasped, then choked with laughter. At the foot of the page was written: R. A. Crawford…secret trust/will instructions from Miss M. Deighton. Holding the page at arm’s length, Harry squinted, then turned it upside down.
There was absolutely no doubt about the subject matter. Harry was quite impressed with his partner’s skill. The prim Mr. Crawford must have hidden his lustful artistry as he diligently recorded Miss Deighton’s will instructions.
Richard Crawford always presented an image of elegance and refinement to the world, but his file revealed the dark cracks of derangement in the old man’s polished surface. Adjusting his reading glasses, Harry stole another look at the drawing.
Crawford strolled into the waiting room with a newspaper neatly tucked under his arm. He softly whistled to himself. Instead of going directly into his own office, he knocked and entered Harry’s office.
Harry hastily closed the file.
“My good man,” Crawford beamed, “I see you have the Deighton file. Be sure you get Marjorie’s secret trusts right. If you’ve any questions about technical aspects, just ask me.”
Harry was speechless. His face burned with embarrassment for the old man. Finally he asked, “But where are the written instructions?”
Crawford waved impatiently and spoke as if to a lowly student. “Everything you could possibly want is in the file, Harry. Study it carefully.” Crawford paused. His eyes glazed over. Apparently lost in pleasant recollection, he sighed, “Marjorie.” Suddenly, he turned on Harry, eyes hardened with the memory of lust.
Harry hastened to stand.
“That delectable woman!” Crawford seemed to be addressing someone over Harry’s shoulder, just outside the window. “She has the spirit of a saint, but, as God is my witness, the body of a…” A nasty purple flush rose from Crawford’s collar. “Do you understand how a woman can possess a man?” he demanded, teetering heel to toe. He whispered hoarsely, “Jenkins! Have you ever experienced the passion, the thrall?”
For an instant, Crawford’s left side sagged with the ravages of stroke. He sought to right himself. “If you have not, my good man, then you have not lived.” The old man’s eyes momentarily turned upward. Only the whites could be seen.
Harry panicked. “Richard, are you ill?” He rushed to his partner’s side, but Crawford did not answer. His face engorged with dark pleasure, he gave a lurid and distorted wink. The effect was horrific. Harry’s stomach heaved.
Crawford lurched forward. His chin struck the desk with such a crack that Miss Giveny came running.
Harry shouted, “Richard! Are you all right? Can you hear me?”
Dropping to all fours, Harry pressed his ear to Crawford’s chest and listened intently. He shook his shoulder, making Crawford’s head loll to one side. One glassy eye stared up at him. The ghastly wink had frozen the other eye shut. Ravenous demands of the flesh had consumed his body and soul. As the paramedics crowded in with the stretcher minutes later, Harry tore up the artwork.
