Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

“You knew something was wrong before you opened the door?” the sheriff asked.

“Sure. You can look through that window — the one on the porch to the right of the door. You can look right into the room and see the whole thing.”

Gentry put his hand in his pocket. “Here’s somethin’ I found on the porch. Don’t know as it means anything.” He handed the sheriff a compact.

Duryea and the sheriff studied it. “Sterling silver,” Duryea said, “initials ‘E. R.’ engraved on it... Where was it, Gentry?”

“Right there by the front door. Looked like it had been dropped hard, powder had spilled out on the boards of the porch, and the mirror’s broken... Lot of perfume in that powder.”

The sheriff put the compact in his pocket. “The young woman who dropped that is going to have bad luck for seven years,” he said, and then added grimly, “and that’s not just a gag.”

Duryea turned to True. “What did you and Sonders do after no one came to the door in response to your knocking? Did you leave the place, or did you keep trying to find out more about the person who was in there?”

“No. We didn’t stick around... Of course, Sheriff, this man may have committed suicide. There are plenty of things that point that way.”

Pete Lassen looked at Duryea, said: “How about it, Frank? Think we’d better go in now?”

Duryea nodded.

True said: “Sonders and I drove to Los Angeles right after we left here. We ascertained that Pressman hadn’t been in his office all day. I checked up on that description of Pressman I had, and we came back.”

“What time did you get back here?”

“Oh, I guess it was around midnight when we pulled in, wasn’t it, Hugh?”

“Right around there.”

“And decided to run the story?” Duryea asked.

“That’s right. I had picked up a little more corroborating evidence down in Los Angeles, and I was pretty well convinced there was foundation for this story... Of course, I was going to use it as an interview with Hugh, let him make the accusation, and merely report the interview. Ostensibly, I was going to keep the newspaper in the position of being a neutral party, willing to give equal space to both sides. But the headlines on this morning’s paper will really attract attention. They go clean across the front page... Biggest type I’ve got in the place.”

“Did you actually get an interview from Sonders, or did you just make up a story?”

“No. He got the interview,” Sonders said, “and believe me, he handled it just like an interview, asked me questions, took down my answers on the typewriter, read it all over to me, and finally had me sign it.”

“I knew this was going to be hotter than a stove lid, and I took the steps to protect myself,” True explained. “Naturally, I wasn’t going to get the paper involved in a libel suit if I could help it, and if I did have a libel suit, I was going to be in such a position I could publish a retraction and a statement that I’d been acting in good faith.”

“What time did you leave the newspaper office?” Duryea asked Sonders.

“I waited until the paper was put to bed, and then I went out with True, and we had a drink or two. After that, I went to bed.”

“What time?”

“What time do you put the paper to bed, True?” Sonders asked.

“It was right around three o’clock this morning.”

“And you,” Duryea asked Gentry, “what do you know?”

“Only that I came out here this morning, pounded on the door, got no answer, took a look through the window — just casually, the way a person will sometimes — and saw this body lying on the floor, the lamp still burning, although it had been broad daylight for an hour or more.”

“Well,” the sheriff said, “I guess we’d better go in. How about it, Frank?”

Frank nodded.

“I’ll show you around the place,” Gentry said importantly.

“Okay, the rest of you boys better keep out of the way,” the sheriff said. “We may want to do a little lookin’ around. We’ll want lots of elbow room.”

They walked up on the porch. The rest of the group trooped up behind them, and then stood at the window, watching the investigation being carried on by the officials.

Duryea had never quite accustomed himself to viewing the bodies of men who had met death by violence with that calm, professional detachment which is supposed to characterize enforcement officers.

This body lay sprawled on the floor, with the right arm far extended, the hand doubled into a fist. The other arm was bent at a peculiar angle, the fingers still clutching the butt of a heavy, long-barrelled revolver. On a table by the corpse, a mantle-type oil lamp burned dimly. One side of the chimney as well as of the incandescent mantle was badly smoked.

The interior of the house was in strange contrast to the slovenly exterior. Plainly furnished, the place was neat and clean. The body was clothed in dirty overalls, pull-on boots, an old coat very much the worse for wear, and a faded blue work shirt. A red and white check cloth which had evidently been used as a tablecloth had been placed over the head. Gentry drew back this cloth.

Duryea gave one look, then turned away in quick horror.

The sheriff bent down to examine the man more closely.

“Pretty hard to make much of an identification now,” he said. “The top of the head is just about blown off. What kind of a gun is that, Gentry?”

“A Colt. It’s labelled ‘New Service 44–40’. It has a seven and a half inch barrel, and shoots a steel-jacketed, soft-nosed bullet with high-velocity, smokeless powder. It sure does a lot of execution.”

The sheriff said: “Not only the bullet, but the powder gases, did a lot of damage... What’s this paper over here?”

The sheriff indicated a piece of paper suspended by a pin from the back of a chair.

“Read it,” Gentry said laconically.

They moved over to study the sheet of paper — a plain sheet of writing paper, eight and a half by eleven, on which had been pasted words cut from a newspaper. These words formed a rather ambiguous message which read:

SEEM HOPELESSLY DEADLOCKED. CAN’T GO FARTHER IN IMPOVERISHED CONDITION. NECESSITY OF TAKING DETERMINED STAND APPARENT.

The words were in different sized type, as though they had been cut from headlines where the type was of different sizes.

Sheriff Lassen said: “That’s a hell of a suicide note.”

Duryea, studying the paper, pointed out: “Notice that it’s been cut from three portions of a newspaper. The words ‘seem hopelessly deadlocked’ came apparently from one headline. The words ‘can’t go farther in impoverished condition’ were apparently cut from another headline, although that headline had, in turn, been cut in two. The words ‘necessity of taking determined stand apparent’ are evidently from an entirely different part of the paper, perhaps a heading which was over an editorial. It’s a different type altogether from that used in the headlines.”

“That’s right,” the sheriff agreed.

“That makes three pieces that were cut from the paper,” Duryea said, “and then the words ‘can’t go farther in impoverished condition’ were evidently divided so they would string out in a line to form the one message.”

“Well,” the sheriff grunted, “I still claim it’s a hell of a suicide note.”

“It is, for a fact,” Duryea agreed. “There’s one interesting point about it.”

“What’s that?”

“If that note is genuine, the man isn’t Pressman. It talks about an ‘impoverished condition’. From all I can gather about Pressman’s business affairs, they’re very much in order, and he’s highly solvent.”