‘Seems to be,’ said Mitch. Drawing up the will had been a simple enough task. Mr Garibaldi and his wife had the dubious distinction of outliving both their children, and there wasn’t much to leave. ‘Would you like to sign it now?’ he asked, holding out his Mont Blanc. The old man clutched the pen the way a child holds a crayon and scribbled his illegible signature on the documents. ‘There . . . that’s done,’ said Mitch. He placed the papers in his briefcase. Mr Garibaldi nodded. The movement brought on a spasm and such a coughing fit that Mitch thought the old man was going to die right there and then. But he recovered. ‘Will you do me a favour?’ he croaked when he’d got his breath back. Mitch frowned. ‘If I can.’ With one bent, shrivelled finger, Mr Garibaldi pointed to the floor under the window.
