Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

“Forget it,” Duryea interrupted. “Gramps is wild over mysteries, but he appreciates my responsibilities.”

“He really does respect you,” Milred admitted, “but he’s wild and unconventional. You can’t do anything with Gramps. He— Well, he’s never been tamed. That’s all. He was the black sheep in the family. I know my father just never could understand him, no matter how hard he tried.”

“Did Gramps understand your father?” Duryea asked.

She laughed, and said: “Gramps said he took after his mother’s side of the family. Grandmother got a divorce, you know. That suited Gramps right down to the ground. He was never intended to live in a home.”

Duryea relaxed to the first fragrant puffs of tobacco, took possession of one of his wife’s hands, stroked the fingers gently.

“Gramps eating with us?” he asked.

“Probably not. He doesn’t like civilized cooking, and he hates tablecloths... As far as that’s concerned, he may be headed for Alaska by this time, or—” She broke off to listen, then said: “No, I’m wrong again.”

The bark of a noisy motor and a series of unmistakable rattles indicated that Gramps’ house on wheels had once more pulled into the Duryea driveway.

Quick steps sounded on the back porch. A door pushed open, slammed shut, then steps came across the kitchen and through the dining-room.

“Prepare for the worst,” Milred said. “He sounds as though he had a new idea. At any rate, he’s bursting with something.”

“Hello. Hello,” Gramps called. “Where’s Frank?”

Duryea grinned at his wife. “Here,” he called.

Gramps came bustling into the room. “Whatcha doing?”

“Relaxing,” Milred said.

“Thinking over the murder?” Gramps asked. “I’ve been—”

Milred got to her feet. “Now you listen to me, Gramp Wiggins. You leave Frank alone. He’s entitled to some home life. He wants to relax and forget about murders.”

“Forget about murders!” Gramps shrilled. “One of the nicest, most gore-filled murders we’ve had in years, and you want him to forget about it!”

“Let him go.” Duryea grinned at his wife through a blue haze of tobacco smoke.

Gramps came walking quickly over toward the chair, reached in his hip pocket, and jerked out a gun.

Duryea, suddenly losing his complacency, pushed Milred to one side. “Hey!” he shouted. “Look out what you’re doing with that gun!”

Gramp Wiggins might not have heard him. He pushed the butt end of the gun into the hand of the startled district attorney.

“Come on now, son,” he said. “You’re committing a murder. Point the gun at me and pull the trigger. There ain’t any shells in it.”

Duryea broke the gun open, made certain that the cylinder was empty.

“Oh, Gramps,” Milred protested, “leave him alone! He’s had a hard day and he wants to rest.”

“Rest!” Gramps snorted. “You can’t rest your mind, only give it something new to think about. Anyhow, who wants to rest when there’s a chance to solve a murder case? Come on now, son, point the gun at me and pull the trigger.”

Duryea grinned at his wife. “Perhaps the best way to get rid of him is to kill him, at that,” he said jokingly, and raised the gun.

“No, no! Not there,” Gramps said. “At my head. Blow my brains out.”

“What’s the idea?” Duryea asked. “Do you want to see what it feels like to be a corpse?”

Gramps said earnestly: “I want you to see what it feels like to be a murderer.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. We won’t gain anything by that, Gramps.”

“That’s what you think. You do what I say, Frank Duryea. You point that gun at my head and pull the trigger. Go ahead now.”

“Let him have it,” Milred urged. “He’s a Wiggins, and no true Wiggins ever died in bed.”

Duryea said: “Any speech go with this, Gramps, or do I just pull the trigger?”

“You’d oughta make it sound realistic,” Gramps said. “Try and get yourself worked up so you’re mad about something.”

“Marvellous opportunity,” Milred urged, sotto voce . “Give him the works!”

Duryea lowered his feet from the leather footstool, raised himself up out of the chair, holding the gun, his eyes fixed sternly on Gramp Wiggins. “Should I,” he asked, “have the gun in my hand, or had I better put it in my pocket and pull it out?”

“Put it in your pocket and pull it out after you get mad,” Gramps said. “Try and get yourself really mad. Try and have a fight with me. Ain’t there something we can quarrel about — politics or naval strategy, or—”

Duryea said: “All right, you asked for this.” He levelled his finger accusingly at Gramps. “I’m sick and tired of the way you bust in on me when I’m trying to relax. Just because you get a big thrill out of murder mysteries, you think everyone else should become addicts. You think being a district attorney is like reading a detective magazine... I get so damn tired of crimes and criminals that when I come home I want to forget about them. You... you don’t ever get tired of anything. You just don’t ever get tired... You make good cocktails and you cook good food; but you park a disreputable damn house trailer in my driveway, you disturb my slumbers early in the morning, when I like to do some of my best sleeping, you ply my wife and me with liquor and make us drunk, you... you damned old reprobate. Shooting’s too good for you!”

“Now you’re goin’ to town, son!” Gramps said. “By gosh, you act like you really mean it! You’re doin’ some good acting. Stay right with it. Lay it on. Let’s have some more.”

“You come to town and invariably bring some sort of bad luck with you,” Duryea went on. “The last time you were here there was a murder case. You show up this time and start another one... Although it may be a suicide for all we know. But you—”

“Suicide, hell!” Gramps interrupted. “That’s what I’m tryin’ to show you. Go ahead. You’re mad enough now. Start shooting. Come on. Let me have it right in the head.”

Duryea said: “All right, you asked for this. I’m going to get rid of you once and for all.”

Duryea whipped his hand to his hip pocket, pulled out the revolver, levelled it at Gramp Wiggins’ head, said, “This will put you out of the way,” and pulled the trigger of the empty revolver.

Gramps grinned. “That’s the way, son. Now you’re whizzin’. Now you’re really goin’ places. I believe you really meant some of that... You missed me that time, son. Try again.”

“The hell I missed you,” Duryea said. “Here, get a load of this,” and clicked the trigger five times.

Gramp Wiggins lurched forward, swayed. His knees buckled. He fell down on the floor, groaned, rolled over on his back, and lay still.

“Gramps!” Milred said in alarm. “Gosh, Frank, it may be his heart. Perhaps the excitement—”

“Shut up,” Gramps said in his shrill, piping voice. “I’m acting a part. Don’t spoil it.”

“He’s a corpse,” the district attorney said.

“You’re dang right I’m a corpse,” Gramps announced. “Now then, you’re a murderer. How does it feel?”

“It feels swell,” Milred said. “ Now we can take that trailer down to a parking lot... Or perhaps we aren’t the beneficiaries under his will. He wouldn’t have left any insurance—”

Gramps said: “Nope. Your husband’s goin’ to get convicted of first-degree murder. You’re goin’ to be a widow woman... Better try to make it look like suicide, son. Put the gun in my hand and make it look as though I’d shot myself. Come on now. Hurry up... Here’s somebody coming to the door! Make it snappy!”