Powers of Attorney by Louis Auchincloss Page A

wills?” the Colonel asked.
    â€œThat is my claim.”
    â€œGood. Then I want you to make me one.”
    There was a pause while the Colonel stared at him expectantly. Rutherford wondered if he was supposed to make the will up then and there, like a sandwich.
    â€œWell, I guess I’d better ask a few questions,” he said with a small professional smile. “Do you have a will now, sir?”
    â€œTore it up,” the Colonel said. “Tore them all up. I’m changing my counsel, young man. That's why I’m here.”
    Rutherford decided not to press the point. “We might start with your family, then. Do you have a wife, sir? Or children?”
    â€œMy wife is dead, God bless her. No children. She had a couple of nieces, but they’re provided for.”
    â€œAnd you, sir?”
    â€œOh, I have some grandnephews.” He shrugged. “Nice young chaps. You know the sort—married, live in the suburbs, have two children, television. No point in leaving them any money. Real money, I mean. Scare them to death. Prevent their keeping down to the Joneses. Fifty thousand apiece will be plenty.”
    Rutherford’s mouth began to feel pleasantly dry as he leaned forward to pick up a pencil. He quite agreed with the Colonel about the suburbs. “And what did you have in mind, sir, as to the main disposition of your estate?”
    â€œI don’t care so much as long as it’s spent,” the Colonel exclaimed, slapping the desk. “Money should be spent, damn it! When I was a young man, I knew Ward McAllister. I was a friend of Harry Lehr’s, too. Newport. It was something then! Mrs. Fish. The Vanderbilts. Oh, I know, people sneer at them now. They say they were vulgar, aping Europe, playing at being dukes and duchesses, but, by God, they had something to show for their money! Why, do you know, I can remember a ball at the Breakers when they had a footman in livery on every step of the grand stairway. Every step!”
    â€œI guess you wouldn’t see that today,” Rutherford said, impressed. “Not even in Texas.”
    â€œToday!” The Colonel gave a snort. “Today they eat creamed chicken and peas at charity dinners at the Waldorf and listen to do-gooders. No, no, the color’s quite gone, young man. The color’s entirely gone.”
    At this, the Colonel sank into a reverie so profound that Rutherford began to worry that he had already lost interest in his will. “Perhaps some charity might interest you?” he suggested cautiously. “Or a foundation? I understand they do considerable spending.”
    The Colonel shrugged. “Only way to keep the money out of the hands of those rascals in Washington, I suppose. Republicans, Democrats—they’re all alike. Grab, grab.” He nodded decisively. “All right, young man. Make me a foundation.”
    Rutherford scratched his head. “What sort of a foundation, sir?”
    â€œWhat sort? Don’t they have to be for world peace or some damn-fool thing? Isn’t that the tax angle?”
    â€œWell, not altogether,” Rutherford said, repressing a smile. “Your foundation could be a medical one, for example. Research. Grants to hospitals. That sort of thing.”
    â€œGood. Make me a medical foundation. But, mind you, I’m no Rockefeller or Carnegie. We’re not talking about more than twelve or fifteen million.”
    Rutherford’s head swam. “What—what about your board?” he stammered. “The board of this foundation. Who would you want on that?”
    The Colonel looked down at the floor a moment, his lips pursed. When he looked up, he smiled charmingly. “Well, what about you, young man? You seem like a competent fellow. I’d be glad to have you as chairman.”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œWhy not? And pick your own board. If I want a man to do a job, I believe in letting him do it his own