Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

“Well,” Gentry observed, “you can’t ever tell about that. Lots of times those big men fall pretty hard. Sometimes the bigger you think they are, the harder they’ll crash.”

“That’s right,” the sheriff agreed.

“Somehow, I don’t place Pressman in that category,” Duryea said. “I suppose it’s occurred to you, Gentry, that these words might all have been cut from one newspaper?”

Gentry said: “We figured that out, Mr. Duryea, and we searched every inch of this cabin, trying to find the newspaper they were cut from. We can’t do it. That’s what makes it look like murder instead of suicide. What’s more, that’s a sheet of pretty good bond paper, regular typewriter size... Now, there ain’t a single sheet of that kind of paper anywhere in the house. We found a writing tablet and some stamped envelopes, but not a single sheet of that bond paper. That paper cost money.”

“You’ve gone through the place thoroughly?”

“Yes. We haven’t moved the body, and we haven’t touched that paper or anything you’ll want to fingerprint; but we’ve gone through the house, covering almost every inch of the place.”

“That lamp burning when you came in?” Duryea asked.

“Yes. We haven’t touched it.”

Duryea noticed that the men standing on the porch peering in through the window were shutting out a good part of the light. He turned somewhat impatiently, then checked his impatience with the realization that these were not mere curiosity seekers but men of some importance in the community, men such as Everett True, the editor of the Petrie Herald . He saw that he could raise the shade a few inches more at the top, and this would help the light situation. He moved toward the window, then stopped as he realized that one of the men who was standing with his face all but pressed against the window was none other than Gramp Wiggins.

Duryea pretended he hadn’t recognized Gramps, and let him hastily shuffle himself into a less prominent position.

The sheriff, noticing Duryea’s glance at the window, said: “How about pushing those shades up a few more inches, Gentry? It’ll improve the light situation.”

The constable raised the shades.

“How about identifying this body?” Duryea asked.

“I telephoned Pressman’s office. It wasn’t open, but long distance had a record of a night number to call in the event any important call should come in. I explained this was very important, and got a connexion with this number. It turned out to be that of a man named Stanwood who is the auditor and treasurer of the Pressman businesses. I told him I didn’t want to make any commotion,” Gentry said, somewhat apologetically. “I told him that the Petrie Herald was carrying the story that Reedley was Pressman, and that if that was true, he’d better send someone up here at once, because the man we knew as Reedley had been killed.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, Stanwood seemed very nice. He thanked me, but he certainly didn’t give me any information, just listened to what I said. But he did say he would get up here just as soon as he could possibly make it.”

“How long ago did you telephone him?”

“Same time I telephoned the sheriff.”

“He should be here now, then,” Duryea said, looking at his watch. “Let’s see. If you telephoned him—”

“I think he’s coming right now,” Gentry said as they heard the sound of a car coming to a stop outside the house. “I just got a glimpse of that automobile through the window,” Gentry went on. “It’s a high-powered outfit.”

Quick steps sounded on the porch. One of the spectators outside said: “Yep. They’re all in there. Go on in if they sent for you.”

Stanwood pushed open the door, stood looking about the place with an air of defiance, “Well,” he said. “What is it? Who wanted me?”

“You’re Stanwood?” Gentry asked.

“Yes,” Stanwood said. He looked at the body on the floor, then hastily turned his eyes back to Gentry. “Is this some sort of trap?” he asked. “Are you trying to get me to make some statement about Mr. Pressman’s business? If so, you’re wasting your time.”

“Did Pressman own this cabin?” the sheriff asked.

“You can search me. I’m paid to keep the books.”

“You mean even if he had owned it, you wouldn’t tell us?”

“I mean I’m paid to keep the books. Exactly what did you want?”

Pete Lassen indicated the body. “You’d better take a look at the features,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” Stanwood said. “I want to do that... Good heavens, is a shooting always as messy as this?”

“This was a pretty powerful revolver,” the sheriff said. “All right, Gentry, turn back that tablecloth.”

The constable turned back the tablecloth.

Stanwood tried to say something, but, for the moment, words wouldn’t come. He made a peculiar, inarticulate sound, cleared his throat, nodded his head, his face set in harsh lines of self-discipline.

“Yes, that’s Pressman... Let me out of here. I’m going to be ill.”

Milred Duryea brought out her husband’s slippers, his pipe, and the sporting section of the afternoon newspaper.

“Hard day?” she asked.

Duryea settled down in the easy chair, slipped off his shoes, put on his slippers, unbuttoned coat and vest, and stretched his legs out on a cushioned stool.

“With service like this,” he announced, “even the really hard days seem like nothing at all.”

“Around here,” Milred told him, handing him his pipe and the humidor, “you rate.”

“Apparently I do.”

“How,” Milred asked, “did my grandfather get along? Did he behave himself?”

“Your grandfather,” Duryea admitted, “did very nicely. He confined his activities to peeping in windows and pumping witnesses. I never have seen his equal when it comes to getting information out of people. He’s so darn human. He breezes up to people, starts talking, and inside of a few minutes has them turned inside out. I’m willing to bet he knows as much or more about this killing than I do, right now... How old is he?”

“Good Lord,” Milred said, “I’ve given up trying to keep track. He isn’t old . He’s experienced, that’s all. You have the feeling that he’s like a seasoned old saddle that never will wear out.”

“Reason I asked,” Duryea said, stuffing tobacco down into his pipe, “is that he wears me out, and yet never turns a hair. He was trotting around out there asking questions, getting everyone talking with him. I’ve never seen anyone with so darn much energy and enthusiasm.”

“Probably that’s why he keeps young,” she said, pulling up a stool and seating herself so that her hands were clasped on the arm of his chair, her chin resting on her interlaced fingers. “Gramps has always been a law unto himself. Heaven knows what he’ll do. I’m terribly afraid he’ll cut loose with something sometime that will make things difficult for you. However, there’s one consolation. He won’t stay long.”

“Why?” Duryea asked. “Has he said something about leaving, other than that crack he made yesterday?”

“Oh, no. But he never stays long in one place. You can’t keep him anywhere. He rattles around the country in that trailer of his — gets a kick out of people, but only certain types of people. Says he doesn’t like the ones who have been poured into a mould. He wants the tough, salty characters which means, in case you don’t know it, bootleggers, peddlers, streetwalkers, hobos, prize fighters, trappers — oh, the darndest assortment you could imagine. You know what I mean.

“If he ever should bring someone here with him, it’s like as not to be a bank robber, or a bootlegger, or some tough old miner who’ll get drunk and want to shoot up the town. You can imagine the complications of our living in this neighbourhood with your position and—”