The Westing Game

by Ellen Raskin

She said that if she knew what was going to happen in a book, she would be too bored to write it. The carrot for her was watching the plot unfold.

But I never even tried to edit her “for children.” She was too wise, too funny, too ingenious—and therefore unique—to tamper with in that way. She said that she wrote for the child in herself, but for once I think she was wrong. I think she wrote for the adult in children.

The delivery boy was sixty-two years old, and there was no such person as Barney Northrup.

OFFICE ☐ Dr. Wexler LOBBY ☐ Theodorakis Coffee Shop 2C ☐ F. Baumbach 2D ☐ Theodorakis 3C ☐ S. Pulaski 3D ☐ Wexler 4C ☐ Hoo 4D ☐ J. J. Ford 5 ☐ Shin Hoo’s Restaurant

A dressmaker, a secretary, an inventor, a doctor, a judge. And, oh yes, one was a bookie, one was a burglar, one was a bomber, and one was a mistake. Barney Northrup had rented one of the apartments to the wrong person.

ON SEPTEMBER FIRST, the chosen ones (and the mistake) moved in. A wire fence had been erected along the north side of the building; on it a sign warned: NO TRESPASSING—Property of the Westing estate.

The stocky, broad-shouldered man in the doorman’s uniform, standing with feet spread, fists on hips, was Sandy McSouthers. The two slim, trim high-school seniors, shielding their eyes against the stinging chill, were Theo Theodorakis and Doug Hoo. The small, wiry man pointing to the house on the hill was Otis Amber, the sixty-two-year-old delivery boy.

“Come to think of it, it happened exactly one year ago tonight. On Halloween.” “What happened?” Theo Theodorakis asked impatiently. He was late for work in the coffee shop. “Tell them, Otis,” Sandy urged. The delivery boy stroked the gray stubble on his pointed chin. “Seems it all started with a bet; somebody bet them a dollar they couldn’t stay in that spooky house five minutes. One measly buck! The poor kids hardly got through those French doors on this side of the Westing house when they came tearing out like they was being chased by a ghost. Chased by a ghost—or worse.”

Someone (he could not tell if the person was a man or a woman) came out of the shadows on the lawn, unlocked the French doors, and disappeared into the Westing house. Someone with a limp. Minutes later smoke began to rise from the chimney.

At least the never-there-when-you-need-him doorman had propped open the front door. Not that he ever helped her, or noticed her, for that matter. No one ever noticed. Sydelle Pulaski limped through the lobby. She could be carrying a high-powered rifle in that package and no one would notice. She had moved to Sunset Towers hoping to meet elegant people, but no one had invited her in for so much as a cup of tea. No one paid any attention to her, except that poor crippled boy whose smile could break your heart, and that bratty kid with the braid—she’ll be sorry she kicked her in the shin.

“No one ever notices Sydelle Pulaski,” she muttered, “but now they will. Now they will.”

She was pure of heart and deed; she only kicked shins in self-defense, so that couldn’t count against her.

SECOND • I, Samuel W. Westing, hereby swear that I did not die of natural causes. My life was taken from me—by one of you!

THIRD • Who among you is worthy to be the Westing heir? Help me. My soul shall roam restlessly until that one is found. The estate is at the crossroads. The heir who wins the windfall will be the one who finds the . . .

The rules are simple: Number of Players: 16, divided into 8 pairs. Each pair will receive $10,000. Each pair will receive one set of clues. Forfeits: If any player drops out, the partner must leave the game. The pair must return the money. Absent pairs forfeit the $10,000; their clues will be held until the next session. Players will be given two days’ notice of the next session. Each pair may then give one answer. Object of the game: to win.

NINTH • Money! Each pair in attendance will now receive a check for the sum of $10,000. The check cannot be cashed without the signatures of both partners. Spend it wisely or go for broke. May God thy gold refine.

TENTH • Each pair in attendance will now receive an envelope containing a set of clues. No two sets of clues are alike. It is not what you have, it’s what you don’t have that counts.

ELEVENTH • Senseless, you say? Death is senseless yet makes way for the living. Life, too, is senseless unless you know who you are, what you want, and which way the wind blows. So on with the game. The solution is simple if you know whom you are looking for. But heirs, beware! Be aware!

In his will Sam Westing implied (he did not state, he implied) that (1) he was murdered, (2) the murderer was one of the heirs, (3) he alone knew the name of the murderer, and (4) the name of the murderer was the answer to the game.

Someone in Sunset Towers had stolen the shorthand notebook.

“I’m fine.” She was not fine. Why did they ask about Denton all the time, as though she was nobody without him?

Long before becoming a judge, Josie-Jo Ford had decided to stop smiling. Smiling without good reason was demeaning. A serious face put the smiler on the defensive, a rare smile put a nervous witness at ease.

“Oh my, no. Angela reminds me of another young girl I made a wedding dress for: Violet Westing.”

But the Wexler apartment was exactly where the bomber planned to set the next bomb.

Angela could not be the bomber, not that sweet, pretty thing. Thing? Is that how she regarded that young woman, as a thing? And what had she ever said to her except ‘I hear you’re getting married, Angela’ or ‘How pretty you look, Angela.’ Had anyone asked about her ideas, her hopes, her plans? If I had been treated like that I’d have used dynamite, not fireworks; no, I would have just walked out and kept right on going.

She would never take them, not even the gold one, not even if it took her two more years to pay to go back to China. No, she would never take Doug’s medals, and she would never sell that wonderful clock with the mouse who wears gloves and points to the time.

Her partner, Sandy McSouthers, was the only heir she had not investigated. Her partner, Sandy McSouthers, was Sam Westing.