Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

“Doggoned tooth,” Gramps said, pushing his plate well back on the table and raising his other hand up to his jaw. “Goldang, jumpin’ toothache! Shoulda had somethin’ done about it a while ago. It’s been giving me fits lately. Gee jumpin’ Jehoshaphat! That hurts!”

Gramps pushed back his chair, started stomping around.

Milred said: “Put some Campho-Phenique on a piece of cotton, shove it down into the cavity.”

“Ain’t got no Campho-Phenique,” Gramps said.

“I have some.”

Milred jumped up, hurried to the medicine chest in the bathroom, came back after a few moments with a bottle of Campho-Phenique and a bit of cotton on an applicator. “Here you are, Gramps. Let me put it in.”

“Nope. Better put it in myself,” Gramps said. “I know right where it is... Get awfully touchy about anyone foolin’ around my mouth, particularly when I’ve got a toothache.”

Gramps took the cotton and Campho-Phenique, went out to his trailer, returned presently to hand the bottle back to Milred.

“Make it feel any better?” she asked.

“Not much,” Gramps said. “Hang it all, I know some toothache drops that always do the job. Reckon I gotta go get some of ’em... I’ll be back after a while, but don’t wait up for me. I’ll just park the trailer out in front of the house.”

She said: “Park it right in the driveway. I’ll move Frank’s car out after you go. We’ll leave it out on the street, and then you can use the driveway. In case he should have to go out during the night, he’ll have his car where he can get at it.”

“Okay,” Gramps said. “Don’t look for me if you don’t see me. Remember I got my bed with me.”

Gramps scuttled across the kitchen, banged the door on the screen porch as he took the back stairs in one leap, and a few seconds later Milred heard the motor on the automobile rattle and bang into noise, and caught a glimpse of the trailer moving past the kitchen window.

With the calm resignation of a woman who has long since given up trying to reform masculine character, she went into the hallway, took the receiver from the telephone, and dialled her husband’s office.

“Hello,” Frank said, his voice sounding short and impatient.

“Hate to interrupt you, dear,” Milred said. “This is your ball and chain. My paternal grandfather showed up, heard you were at the office, and suddenly developed a jumping toothache. I think it was an excuse to get away and go up to see if he couldn’t horn in on proceedings.”

Duryea chuckled. “Have to hand it to him for being persistent... It didn’t look like the real thing, eh?”

“Quite a case of malingering, if you ask me. The acting was rather good but a trifle overdone.”

Duryea said: “Okay, I’ll have a reception committee for him.”

“Don’t know when you’ll be home?”

“No.”

“Working?”

“Yes.”

“Witnesses?”

“Yes.”

“Love me?”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay, I’ll be here when you get home.”

Milred hung up the telephone, and smilingly took the bottle of Campho-Phenique back into the bathroom.

There were lights on in the offices of the district attorney. Gramp Wiggins tried the entrance door and found that it was unlocked. He eased his way into the outer office.

A buzzer connected with the door sounded in the district attorney’s private office, and Frank Duryea promptly opened the door marked PRIVATE.

“Hello, Gramps,” he said without surprise. “How you feeling? Okay?”

“Who, me?” Gramps asked in surprise. “I’m all right. I’m always all right. Ain’t never had an ache or a pain in my life.”

“How about your tooth?”

Gramps seemed suddenly crestfallen. “Oh, that,” he said apologetically. “Nothing much. Just a little twinge of pain, little cavity I guess.”

“How’s it now?”

“All right... You been talkin’ with Milred?”

“Yes, she telephoned. She was a little worried about you.”

Gramps recovered his self-possession. “I’m all right. Got some drops that fixed me right up. She said you were workin’ up here, and thought I’d drop in and see if perhaps there was anything I can do to help you.”

“Not a thing,” Duryea said.

“Sorry about leavin’ that trailer parked in your driveway. I thought your car was out of the garage. Figured I’d drop in an’ apologize.”

“That’s all right,” Duryea said, smiling quietly, and closing the door to his private office behind him as he came out into the reception room.

“Got my jalopy an’ trailer parked down here,” Gramps said. “Thought you might like to ride home with me. Figured as how, since I’d froze your car in the garage, I might’s well give you a lift home.”

“Well, I’m working now. Can’t leave.”

“Somebody in there?” Gramps asked, in apparent surprise.

Duryea nodded.

“A witness?” Gramps asked eagerly.

“You might call him that.”

“In this Pressman case?”

Duryea said: “He’s a young man by the name of Stanwood. He was cashier and auditor for the Pressman interests. He’s giving me some purely routine information. I want to get something of Pressman’s financial background.”

“Oh,” Gramps said with disappointment evident in his voice. “I thought perhaps it was someone you was givin’ a third degree to.”

“We don’t give third degrees,” Duryea smiled.

“Perhaps I could be of some help,” Gramp Wiggins said. “Do you want somebody to take notes? Sort of a witness to what’s said, in case this chap should make some slip?”

“No,” Duryea told him, smiling. “There’s nothing you can do except go on home and keep Milred company.”

“Milred’s all right. Suppose I sit here and sorta wait? Maybe somethin’ll turn up.”

“Wait for what?” Duryea said.

“To take you home.”

Duryea smiled. “All right, Gramps. Sit down there and amuse yourself.”

Gramps took the chair which was closest to the door of the private office. When Duryea returned to the inner room, Gramp Wiggins leaned forward in the chair. Unashamedly he craned his neck to see what was going on in the other room. He had a brief glimpse of the sheriff’s profile, of the rather white, set features of Harvey Stanwood. Then the door closed, and a latch clicked impressively.

Gramps sat back in the chair, pulled a villainous pipe from the side pocket of his coat, stuffed in plug tobacco, lit a match, and started puffing.

The pipe was just well under way when the outer door opened, and a young woman, apparently somewhat frightened, said timidly: “Is this the district attorney’s office?”

“That’s right,” Gramps said. “Come right in. Did you want to see the district attorney? He’s busy now. Perhaps there was some message I could deliver.”

She said: “I’m Eva Raymond of Los Angeles. The district attorney asked me to come up here this evening.”

The door from the private office opened once more. Duryea stood on the threshold, scowled at Gramp Wiggins, said: “Did you work the buzzer on that door, Gramps?”

Gramps pointed to the opposite end of the office. “This young lady just came in.”

Duryea opened the door wider so that he could see Eva Raymond, smiled, said: “Good evening. You’re Miss Raymond?”

“Yes.”

“I wanted to ask you a few questions. Would you mind waiting a few minutes, Miss Raymond?”

“Will it be long?”

“Not over ten or fifteen minutes, I think.”

“Very well.”

Duryea hesitated, looked at Gramps, said: “You might go out and walk around, Gramps, if you have anything you want to do around town, and come back in, say, fifteen minutes.”