‘The Sweetest Man in the World’ 
DONALD E. WESTLAKE

CRIME: Fraud 
PLACE: New York 
YEAR: 1967

BRIEFING: Three men dominate the history of fraud in the twentieth century: Ivar Kreuger, the Swedish financier known as ‘The Match King’, who tried to gain a worldwide monopoly of match production using longterm dollar loans, and whose assets, after his suicide, were discovered to be largely fictitious; Horatio Bottomley, the English financier, journalist and politician whose Victory Bond scheme proved to be just one of many frauds that brought down his career; and the American tycoon Bernie Cornfield, whose IOS group based in Switzerland was also shown to be an international swindle. Organised crime groups such as the Mafia and Murder Incorporated have also been masters of the big fraud-with business conglomerates and banking institutions as their prime targets-while clever individuals have similarly worked swindles on ordinary men and women, with phoney business schemes, worthless investments and fake insurance policies as the tools of their trade.

AUTHOR: Donald E. Westlake (b. 1933), a former US Air Force pilot and onetime actor, has become the writer most associated with tales of organised crime. Indeed, in story after story, he has demonstrated his particular belief that crime is actually not very different from any other type of business enterprise-and the intelligent criminal is just, one more example of ‘Organisation Man’. In Westlake’s early novels like ‘Killing Time’ (1961), about the running of a corrupt upstate New York town, he dealt with organised crime from the inside with great objectivity; but over the years elements of humour and the absurd have crept into his work in the shape of bungled robberies and inept confidence tricks. In 1962, by way of contrast, he adopted the pen name Richard Stark and started a series of novels about Parker, a cold-blooded professional thief, who was later transferred to the screen in ‘Point Blank’ featuring Lee Marvin (1967). Not content with this, Westlake invented a second major character, Mitch Tobin, a guilt-ridden former New York cop turned private eye, whose adventures appear under the name Tucker Coe. More recently still, he has begun writing a number of capers about a group of inept thieves led by criminal manqué John Archibald Dortmunder. For this remarkable display of virtuosity, Donald Westlake has won numerous awards, including three Edgars and a Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America, as well as an Oscar nomination for his screenplay of Jim Thompson’s ‘The Grifters’. In ‘The Sweetest Man in the World’, written in 1967, he mixes his deadpan humour and fascination with organised crime in the tale of a clever fraud... and its even cleverer denouement.

THE STORY:

I adjusted my hair in the hall mirror before opening the door. My hair was grey, and piled neatly on top of my head. I smoothed my skirt, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
The man in the hallway was thirtyish, well dressed, quietly handsome, and carrying a briefcase. He was also somewhat taken aback to see me. He glanced again at the apartment number on the door, looked back at me, and said, ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Miss Diane Wilson.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘Do come in.’
He gazed past me uncertainly, hesitating on the doorstep, saying, ‘Is she in?’
‘I’m Diane Wilson,’ I said.
He blinked. ‘You’re Diane Wilson?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘The Diane Wilson who worked for Mr Edward Cunningham?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ I made a sad face. ‘Such a tragic thing,’ I said. ‘He was the sweetest man in the world, Mr Cunningham was.’
He cleared his throat, and I could see him struggling to regain his composure. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, uh-well, Miss Wilson, my name is Fraser, Kenneth Eraser. I represent Transcontinental Insurance Association.’
‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I have all the insurance I need, thank you.’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I beg your pardon, I’m not here to sell insurance. I’m an investigator for the company.’
‘Oh, they all say that,’ I said, ‘and then when they get inside they do want to sell something. I remember one young man from an encyclopaedia company-he swore up and down he was just taking a survey, and he no sooner-‘
‘Miss Wilson,’ Fraser said determinedly, ‘I am definitely not a salesman. I am not here to discuss your insurance with you; I am here to discuss Mr Cunningham’s insurance.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ I said. ‘I simply handled the paperwork in Mr Cunningham’s real estate office. His private business affairs he took care of himself.’
‘Miss Wilson, I-‘ He stopped, and looked up and down the hallway. ‘Do we have to speak out here?’ he asked.
‘Well, I don’t know that there’s anything for us to talk about,’ I said. I admit I was enjoying this.
‘Miss Wilson, there is something for us to talk about.’ He put down the briefcase and took out his wallet. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Here’s my identification.’
I looked at the laminated card. It was very official and very complex and included Fraser’s photograph, looking open-mouthed and stupid.
Fraser said, ‘I will not try to sell you insurance, nor will I ask you any details about Mr Cunningham’s handling of his private business affairs. That’s a promise. Now, may I come in?’
It seemed time to stop playing games with him; after all, I didn’t want him getting mad at me. He might go poking around too far, just out of spite. So I stepped back and said, ‘Very well then, young man, you may come in. But I’ll hold you to that promise.’
We went into the living-room, and I motioned at the sofa, saying, ‘Do sit down.’
‘Thank you.’ But he didn’t seem to like the sofa when he sat on it, possibly because of the clear plastic cover it had over it.
‘My nieces come by from time to time,’ I said. ‘That’s why I have those plastic covers on all the furniture. You know how children can be.’
‘Of course.’ He said. He looked around, and I think the entire living-room depressed him, not just the plastic cover on the sofa.
Well, it was understandable. The living-room was a natural consequence of Miss Diane Wilson’s personality, with its plastic slipcovers, the doilies on all the tiny tables, the little plants in ceramic frogs, the windows with Venetian blinds and curtains and drapes, the general air of overcrowded neatness. Something like the house Mrs Muskrat has in all those children’s stories.
I pretended not to notice his discomfort. I sat down on the chair that matched the sofa, adjusted my apron and skirt over my knees, and said, ‘Very well, Mr Fraser. I’m ready to listen.’
He opened his briefcase on his lap, looked at me over it, and said, ‘This may come as something of a shock to you, Miss Wilson. I don’t know if you were aware of the extent of Mr Cunningham’s policy holdings with us.’
‘I already told you, Mr Fraser, that I-‘
‘Yes, of course,’ he said hastily. ‘I wasn’t asking, I was getting ready to tell you myself. Mr Cunningham had three policies with us of various types, all of which automatically became due when he died.’
‘Bless his memory,’ I said.
‘Yes. Naturally. At any rate, the total on these three policies comes to one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.’
‘Gracious!’
‘With double indemnity for accidental death, of course,’ he went on, ‘the total payable is two hundred fifty thousand dollars. That is, one quarter of a million dollars.’
‘Dear me!’ I said. ‘I would never have guessed.’
Fraser looked carefully at me. ‘And you are the sole beneficiary,’ he said.
I smiled blankly at him, as though waiting for him to go on, then permitted my expression to show that the import of his words was gradually coming home to me. Slowly I sank back into the chair. My hand went to my throat, to the bit of lace around the collar of my dress.
‘Me?’ I whispered. ‘Oh, Mr Fraser, you must be joking!’
‘Not a bit,’ he said. ‘Mr Cunningham changed his beneficiary just one month ago, switching from his wife to you.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I whispered.
‘Nevertheless, it is true. And since Mr Cunningham did die an accidental death, burning up in his real estate office, and since such a large amount of money was involved, the routine is to send an investigator around, just to be sure everything’s all right.’
‘Oh,’ I said. I was allowing myself to recover. I said, ‘That’s why you were so surprised when you saw me.’
He smiled sheepishly. ‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘yes.’
‘You had expected to find some sexy young thing, didn’t you? Someone Mr Cunningham had been having an-a relationship with.’
‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ he said, and made a boyish smile. ‘I do apologise,’ he said.
‘Accepted,’ I said, and smiled back at him.
It was beautiful. He had come here with a strong preconception, and a belief based on that preconception that something was wrong. Knock the preconception away and he would be left with an embarrassed feeling of having made a fool of himself. From now on he would want nothing more than to be rid of this case, since it would serve only to remind him of his wrong guess and the foolish way he’d acted when I’d first opened the door.
As I had supposed he would, he began at once to speed things up, taking a pad and pen from his briefcase and saying, ‘Mr Cunningham never told you he’d made you his beneficiary?’
‘Oh, dear me, no. I only worked for the man three months.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘It did seem odd to us.’
‘Oh, his poor wife,’ I said. ‘She may have neglected him but-‘
‘Neglected?’
‘Well.’ I allowed myself this time to show a pretty confusion. ‘I shouldn’t say anything against the woman,’ I went on. ‘I’ve never so much as laid eyes on her. But I do know that not once in the three months I worked there did she ever come in to see Mr Cunningham, or even call him on the phone. Also, from some things he said-‘
‘What things, Miss Wilson?’
‘I’d rather not say, Mr Fraser. I don’t know the woman, and Mr Cunningham is dead. I don’t believe we should sit here and talk about them behind their backs.’
‘Still, Miss Wilson, he did leave his insurance money to you.’
‘He was always the sweetest man,’ I said. ‘Just the sweetest man in the world. But why would-‘ I spread my hands to show bewilderment.
Fraser said, ‘Do you suppose he had a fight with his wife? Such a bad one that he decided to change his beneficiary, looked around for somebody else, saw you, and that was that.’
‘He was always very good to me,’ I said. ‘In the short time I knew him I always found Mr Cunningham a perfect gentleman and the most considerate of men.’
‘I’m sure you did,’ he said. He looked at the notes he’d been taking, and muttered to himself. ‘Well, that might explain it. It’s nutty, but-‘ He shrugged.
Yes, of course he shrugged. Kick away the preconception, leave him drifting and bewildered for just a second, and then quickly suggest another hypothesis to him. He clutched at it like a drowning man. Mr Cunningham had had a big fight with Mrs Cunningham. Mr Cunningham had changed his beneficiary out of hate or revenge, and had chosen Miss Diane Wilson, the dear middle-aged lady he’d recently hired as his secretary. As Mr Fraser had so succinctly phrased it, it was nutty, but-
I said, ‘Well, I really don’t know what to say. To tell the truth, Mr Fraser, I’m overcome.’
That’s understandable,’ he said. ‘A quarter of a million dollars doesn’t come along every day.’
‘It isn’t the amount,’ I said. ‘It’s how it came to me. I have never been rich, Mr Fraser, and because I never married I have always had to support myself. But I am a good secretary, a willing worker, and I have always handled my finances, if I say so myself, with wisdom and economy. A quarter of a million dollars is, as you say, a great deal of money, but I do not need a great deal of money. I would much rather have that sweet man Mr Cunningham alive again than have all the money in the world.’
‘Of course.’ He nodded, and I could see he believed every word I had said.
I went further. ‘And particularly,’ I said, ‘to be given money that should certainly have gone to his wife. I just wouldn’t have believed Mr Cunningham capable of such a hateful or vindictive action.’
‘He probably would have changed it back later on,’ Fraser said. ‘After he had cooled down. He only made the change three weeks before-before he passed on.’
‘Bless his soul,’ I said.
‘There’s one final matter, Miss Wilson,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll leave you alone.’
‘Anything at all, Mr Fraser,’ I said.
‘About Mr Roche,’ he said. ‘Mr Cunningham’s former partner. He seems to have moved from his old address, and we can’t find him. Would you have his current address?’
‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘Mr Roche left the concern before I was hired. In fact, Mr Cunningham hired me because, after Mr Roche left, it was necessary to have a secretary in order to be sure there was always someone in the office.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well-‘ He put the pad and pen back into the briefcase and started to his feet, just as the doorbell rang.
‘Excuse me,’ I said. I went out to the hallway and opened the door.
She came boiling in like a hurricane, pushing past me and shouting. ‘Where is she? Where is the hussy?’
I followed her into the living-room, where Fraser was standing and gaping at her in some astonishment as she continued to shout and to demand to know where she was.
I said, ‘Madam, please. This happens to be my home.’
‘Oh, does it?’ She stood in front of me, hands on hips. ‘Well then, you can tell me where I’ll find the Wilson woman.’
‘Who?’
‘Diane Wilson, the little tramp. I want to-‘
I said, ‘I am Diane Wilson.’
She stood there, open mouthed, gaping at me.
Fraser came over then, smiling a bit, saying, ‘Excuse me, Miss Wilson, I think I know what’s happened.’ He turned to the new visitor and said, ‘You’re Mrs Cunningham, aren’t you?’
Still open mouthed, she managed to nod her head.
Fraser identified himself and said, ‘I made the same mistake you did-I came here expecting to find some vamp. But as you can see-‘ And he gestured at me.
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Mrs Cunningham said to me. She was a striking woman in her late thirties. ‘I called the insurance company, and when they told me Ed had changed all his policies over to you, I naturally thought-well-you know.’
‘Oh, dear,’ I said. ‘I certainly hope you don’t think-‘
‘Oh, not at all,’ Mrs Cunningham said, and smiled a bit, and patted my hand. ‘I wouldn’t think that of you,’ she said.
Fraser said, ‘Mrs Cunningham, didn’t your husband tell you he was changing the beneficiary?’
‘He certainly didn’t,’ she said with sudden anger. ‘And neither did that company of yours. They should have told me the minute Ed made that change.’
Fraser developed an icy chill. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘a client has the right to make anyone he chooses his beneficiary, and the company is under no obligation to inform anyone that-‘
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ I said. ‘I don’t need the money. I’m perfectly willing to share it with Mrs Cunningham.’
Fraser snapped around to me, saying, ‘Miss Wilson, you aren’t under any obligation at all to this woman. The money is legally and rightfully yours.’ As planned, he was now one hundred per cent on my side.
Now it was time to make him think more kindly of Mrs Cunningham. I said, ‘But this poor woman has been treated shabbily, Mr Fraser. Absolutely shabbily. She was married to Mr Cunningham for-how many years?’
‘Twelve,’ she said, ‘twelve years,’ and abruptly sat down on the sofa and began to sob.
‘There, there,’ I said, patting her shoulder.
‘What am I going to do!’ she wailed. ‘I have no money, nothing. He left me nothing but debts! I can’t even afford a decent burial for him!’
‘We’ll work it out,’ I assured her. ‘Don’t you worry, we’ll work it out.’ I looked at Fraser and said, ‘How long will it take to get the money?’
He said, ‘Well, we didn’t discuss whether you want it in instalments or in a lump sum. Monthly payments are usually-‘
‘Oh, a lump sum,’ I said. ‘There’s so much to do right away, and then my older brother is a banker in California. He’ll know what to do.’
‘If you’re sure-‘ He was looking at Mrs Cunningham, and didn’t yet entirely trust her.
I said, ‘Oh, I’m sure this poor woman won’t try to cheat me, Mr Fraser.’
Mrs Cunningham cried, ‘Oh, God!’ and wailed into her handkerchief.
‘Besides,’ I said, ‘I’ll phone my brother and have him fly east at once. He can handle everything for me.’
‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘if we expedite things, we could have your money for you in a few days.’
‘I’ll have my brother call you,’ I said.
‘Fine,’ he said. He hesitated, holdinf his briefcase. ‘mrs Cunningham, are you coming along? Is there anywhere I can drop you?’
‘Let the woman rest here awhile,’ I said. ‘I’ll make her some tea.’
‘Very well.’
He left reluctantly. I walked him to the front door, where he said to me, quietly, ‘Miss Wilson, do me a favour.’
‘Of course, Mr Fraser.’
‘Promise me you won’t sign anything until your brother gets here to advise you.’
‘I promise,’ I said, sighing.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘one more item and I’m done.’
‘Mr Roche, you mean?’
‘Right. I’ll talk to him, if I can find him. Not that it’s necessary.’ He smiled and said goodbye and walked away down the hall.
I closed the door, feeling glad he didn’t think it necessary to talk to Roche. He would have found it somewhat difficult to talk to Roche, since Roche was in the process of being buried under the name of Edward Cunningham, his charred remains in the burned-out real estate office having been identified under that name by Mrs Edward Cunningham.
Would Roche have actually pushed that charge of embezzlement he’d been shouting about? Well, the question was academic now, though three months ago it had seemed real enough to cause me to strangle the life out of him, real enough to cause me to set up this hasty and desperate-but, I think, rather ingenious-plan for getting myself out of the whole mess entirely. The only question had been whether or not our deep-freeze would preserve the body sufficiently over the three months of preparation, but the fire had settled that problem, too.
I went back into the living-room. She got up from the sofa and said, ‘What’s all this jazz about a brother in California?’
‘Change of plans,’ I said. ‘I was too much the innocent, and you were too much the wronged woman. Without a brother, Fraser might have insisted on hanging around, helping me with the finances himself. And the other Miss Wilson is due back from Greece in two weeks.’
‘That’s all well and good,’ she said. ‘But where is this brother going to come from? She doesn’t have one, you know-the real Miss Wilson, I mean.’
‘I know.’ That had been one of the major reasons I’d hired Miss Wilson in the first place-aside from our general similarity of build-the fact that she had no relatives, making it absolutely safe to take over her apartment during my impersonation.
My wife said, ‘Well? What are you going to do for a brother?’
I took off the grey wig and scratched my head, feeling great relief. ‘I’ll’ be the brother,’ I said. ‘A startling resemblance between us.’
She shook her head, grinning at me. ‘You are a one, Ed,’ she said. ‘You sure are a one.’
‘That’s me,’ I said. ‘The sweetest man in the world.’