Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

“When’s that paper coming out?” Duryea inquired.

“Tomorrow morning. That’s what I wanted to see you about. I had a talk with the sheriff, and he said I’d better get in touch with you to see what the law is.”

“Law on what?”

“I want to get a good strong organization of deputies out there and be ready to do something. If Reedley is really Pressman — well, there’s going to be trouble, lots of trouble.”

“How many deputies do you want?” Duryea asked.

“I reckon as how I oughta have fifty of ’em.”

“Well, go ahead. Appoint them.”

“That there’s the trouble,” Gentry said. “Pressman, perhaps, is within his rights, but he’s from Los Angeles, and he’s a slicker. There ain’t nobody out our way wants to get deputized and then have to shoot at the home folks so this slicker will be safe to keep on trimming people... And one of these days I’ve got to get re-elected — an’ so have you.”

Duryea thought that over. At length he said: “I’ll tell you what you do. Get out there early in the morning before the paper is distributed, and before the property owners have a chance to organize. Go call on Reedley. If he turns out to be Pressman, tell him what he’s up against. Tell him that you’re willing to take him into protective custody on some minor traffic charge or something of that sort.”

“But s’pose he doesn’t want to?”

“Then,” Duryea said, “it’s up to him. We’ll do the best we can, but we won’t do anything until after a mob starts forming. We’ll try to stop any violence, but we won’t be placed in the position of giving Pressman a bodyguard... That would be my idea. How does it strike you?”

“It strikes me swell,” Gentry said. “I’ll just go out there in the morning and put it to him cold turkey. If he wants me to arrest him so he’ll be in technical custody for his own protection, I’ll bring him down to the county seat.”

“That’s all right,” Duryea said. “We can take care of the situation, and no Petrie mob will do anything once we get him down here.”

Gentry picked up his hat off his lap, got to his feet, bowed awkwardly to Mrs. Duryea and Gramps, said to the district attorney: “Well, thanks. That’s pretty good advice. I’ve got to be getting back to my job. Almost anything may happen out there, and I’ve got to be on the job.”

Duryea escorted him to the door. “Remember, according to the letter of the law, Pressman is right. The court has decided that injunction case in Pressman’s favour.”

“I know,” Gentry said, “but you just can’t take land away from a rancher. You can’t start pulling out fruit trees or trampling down crops. I’m telling you, Mr. Duryea, it can’t be done... Well, good night, everybody, and thanks, Mr. Wiggins, for that hot toddy. It certainly helped... Maybe you’ll be out my way one of these days.”

“Maybe,” Gramps agreed with staccato eagerness. “Can’t tell. I get around quite a bit... Gettin’ interested. Might be out there almost any time.”

Gentry closed the door.

Gramps turned to Duryea. “Ain’t that interesting?”

“It’s an interesting legal complication,” Duryea said.

“No, no. I mean the idea that Pressman is playin’ poker with ’em on this oil well. Wouldn’t it be a slick stunt to get hold of the log of that oil well and find out what she actually was doing? There’d be some information that’d be valuable. That’d be a nice piece of detective work.”

Duryea said sternly: “Now listen, you old reprobate. You’re filled to the gills with mystery and adventure. You don’t realize the temper of the people. In many ways you can’t blame them. In other ways they’re culpable. They took their own interpretation of that reservation in the deed, without ever taking the trouble to find out what it really did mean. Simply because there had never been any trouble over it, they considered it as meaning little more than though there’d been a reservation for a telephone or a power line across the property... They should have looked it up before they invested money in the property.”

Gramps might not have heard the district attorney. “Doggone me,” he said, “wouldn’t that be a swell piece of detective work!”

Duryea shook his head at Milred. “I’m afraid,” he said, “your grandfather is about to become a jailbird.”

Gramps grinned. “Now, you listen to me, Frank Duryea. No one ain’t ever caught me in anything yet.”

Duryea stretched and yawned. “We’re on our way to bed, Gramps. Make yourself comfortable. We’ll leave the back door unlocked... And don’t get up too all-fired early.”

Gramps said: “I won’t make no noise when I get up. Good night.”

Frank Duryea opened his eyes and, drugged with sleep, regarded the half light in the bedroom.

Half asleep, half awake, he tried to determine what had wakened him. There had, he knew, been some strange, disturbing noise. It sounded like— There it was again. This time there could be no mistaking it, the sound of creaking hinges.

Duryea straightened up in bed. Through the open window he could see the green fingers of palm leaves, and behind them, in the distance, some eucalypti towering over red-tiled roofs. Early as it was, he could see there was no wind. The leaves of the trees were motionless against the riotous colour of the morning sky.

It had sounded like the back door on the screen porch. If it wasn’t the wind, then it must be—

Suddenly he remembered Gramp Wiggins, groaned inwardly, rolled over, and tried to go back to sleep.

He failed to recapture the drugged drowsiness he expected. Twice he rolled over to the other side, conscious of a growing sense of irritation at his inability to get back to sleep, conscious also that the light was momentarily getting stronger, and that, even if he did get to sleep now, it wouldn’t do him any good.

He had thought at first that Milred was sleeping, but, as he turned for the third time, her voice from the pillow beside him said: “Rolling and twisting and getting mad doesn’t do any good. You have to lie still, refrain from moving, breathe deeply and regularly, and entertain peaceful feelings toward all the world.”

“Oh, is that so,” Duryea said, “and is the recipe doing you any good?”

“Not a damn bit,” she admitted, and then added: “I can’t feel at peace with the world.”

They sat up in bed then, looking at each other, and grinning.

“Was it the door that wakened you?” Milred asked.

“Yes. That started it. But lately there’s been a peculiar pounding noise.”

“Not pounding, dear. Beating.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Gramps is beating up some of his famous hot-cake batter. He insists that it has to be beaten for ten minutes, then let rest for ten minutes, then beaten for ten minutes more.”

“Can you,” Duryea asked, “tell me why anyone should get up at this hour of the morning if he doesn’t have to?”

“He has to. He’s too restless to sleep long... I keep thinking of those hot cakes, and occasionally you get the very faint aroma of coffee.”

“Well,” Duryea asked, “what are we waiting for?”

Milred threw back the covers. “I’ll give you first whack at the bathroom, while I go and tell Gramps to prepare for visitors. We’ll eat in our dressing gowns.”

Gramps was delighted to see his guests. By the time Frank Duryea entered the trailer, the interior was filled with the delicious fragrance of fresh coffee and frying bacon. Gramps was giving the finishing touches to his final beating of the hot-cake batter.

“Hello, son. Walk right in and sit down. Going to have some breakfast in just a jiffy. Milred says you woke up kinda early, feelin’ a little hungry.”