Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

“Well, suppose you try minding your own business for a while? It’ll be quite a change for you.”

“Okay,” Gramps said, and promptly walked over to the table which held the magazines, started pawing around through them, mumbling under his breath. He finally came back with one of the popular weeklies, sat down in his chair, said: “This is a hell of a district attorney’s office. Ain’t a detective magazine in the place.”

Eva Raymond maintained an aloof silence and Gramps started reading.

After three or four minutes’ cogitation Eva began to squirm. “How did you know anything about Karper?” she asked abruptly.

“I don’t know anything about him,” Gramps said.

“But you knew his name?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know that? You must have learned that from the district attorney.”

The only answer Gramps gave was an inarticulate grunt which might have meant anything. He devoted his attention once more to the magazine.

“Did Mr. Duryea say anything about George Karper?” she demanded abruptly.

“Thought you didn’t want to talk with me.”

“Well, I want to know the answer to that.”

“Why?”

“Because I... It means a lot.”

“Nothin’ else I asked you made very much impression on you,” Gramps observed shrewdly. “But I start talkin’ about Karper, an’ right away you get all excited. What’s the angle?”

She said indignantly: “There isn’t any.” She looked toward the door of Duryea’s private office, opened her purse, took out a compact, and put finishing touches on her face.

Gramps said casually: “Looks like a new compact.”

She said absently: “Just a cheap thing. I picked it up this afternoon in a drugstore.”

“Too bad the other one got broken,” Gramps observed.

She looked at him then, lowering the compact, her eyes staring into his with cold hatred. “I suppose you’re trying to make something out of the initials that were on that other compact the police— Well, it’s a lie.”

“What is?” Gramps asked.

“What you’re insinuating.”

“What was I...?”

The door of Duryea’s private office opened very abruptly. The district attorney bowed Harvey Stanwood out into the outer office, said: “Thank you very much, Mr. Stanwood. I—”

There was no mistaking the surprise on Stanwood’s face as he saw Eva Raymond sitting there. “Why, hello, Eva! Did you come up to get me?”

“Hello — dear. No. The district attorney sent for me.”

Duryea explained suavely: “Just a few routine questions I wanted to ask her, Mr. Stanwood.”

“Why,” Stanwood exclaimed, “this is a surprise! I didn’t know she was out here. I— Well, I’ll go on in with you, Eva, and then we’ll go back down to Los Angeles together.”

“I’d prefer that you waited out here,” Duryea said politely, but with crisp authority in his voice.

Stanwood frowned, started to say something, then thought better of it. His eyes turned to Gramps, dismissed him, then flashed back to give him the puzzled scrutiny of someone who is trying to place a face he has seen before.

“Evenin’,” Gramps said cordially.

Duryea said: “Just come right in, Miss Raymond.”

Eva said: “Can’t Harvey—”

Duryea bustled her on into the office as her words died away. The door clicked shut.

Stanwood walked over to the table which contained the periodicals, made a pretence of a selection, but kept looking at Gramp Wiggins, studying him furtively, quite evidently trying to place him.

Gramps beat him to it. “I seen you some place before,” he said, “not very long ago. Where’d I meet you?”

Harvey Stanwood laughed nervously. “I was just trying to place you ,” he admitted.

Gramps got up and pushed out a gnarled hand. “Wiggins is my name,” he said.

“I’m Harvey Stanwood.”

They shook hands.

“Hell of an assortment of magazines,” Gramps grumbled. “Ain’t a detective story in the outfit.”

Stanwood said: “I was looking for a financial journal or some serious reading. This is just popular fiction.”

“That’s right. Personally, I like detective stories or horse racing.”

“Horse racing,” Stanwood said with a laugh, “is a little outside my line. I—” His voice suddenly dried up in his throat. His eyes contained startled recognition.

“Looks like you’ve placed me,” Gramps said.

“Weren’t you in Los Angeles this morning?”

“Yep.”

“In a saloon on Grand Avenue figuring out some dope on the ponies from a newspaper?”

“By gum,” Gramps exclaimed. “That’s right! You was sittin’ over there in a booth right across from me. I remember now, seein’ you and the fellow with you.”

Harvey abruptly lost interest in the magazines. “By George,” he said, “one thing I forgot to mention to the district attorney.”

“Yes?” Gramps asked encouragingly.

“Well, in a way,” Harvey said, “I was... it was partially—”

He walked abruptly over to the door of the private office and knocked.

It was almost thirty seconds before Duryea opened the door. He was scowling, and the glance he flashed at Gramps indicated he thought Gramps had been the one who knocked. Then he saw Stanwood standing by the door and said: “Yes, what is it?”

Stanwood said: “One thing I didn’t get straight, Mr. Duryea, and I thought I’d better explain.”

Duryea continued to hold the door open. “What is it?”

“When you asked me about Karper, there was one thing I forgot, and... and another thing which I deliberately suppressed.”

“Why?” Duryea asked, snapping the question at him with the explosive force of a rifle shot.

“Well,” Stanwood said, “my position in the matter is not entirely clear. I’m still in the employ of the Pressman interests, and there are some matters of business which simply can’t come out at the present time.”

Duryea said: “If you impede the investigation in this case, or make any false statements because of business matters, you’ll be apt to find yourself in a very unenviable position.”

“I realize that,” Stanwood admitted. “It’s thinking that over which makes me want to correct my statement.”

“All right, what’s the correction?”

“You asked me if I had seen Karper lately, and I told you I hadn’t. As a matter of fact, I did have a brief discussion with Mr. Karper about some business matters.”

“When?”

“Today.”

“What were the matters?”

“Well... I don’t think I’m really free to go into those. They’re highly confidential, and I don’t see how they make any difference whatever in clarifying the situation you’re investigating.”

“Anything that would have given Karper a motive for murdering Pressman?”

“Good heavens, no! Mr. Karper is hardly the sort of man one would associate with murder, regardless of the motive.”

“I’m afraid,” Duryea said, “you’ll have to leave that to me. What I’m interested in learning from you is the general background, the interests of the various people, and the possibility of motivation... What did you and Karper talk about?”

“Generally, it was some highly confidential business transactions he’d had with Pressman.”

“What was their nature?”

“Ostensibly,” Stanwood said, “Karper and Pressman were at loggerheads. As a matter of fact their relationship wasn’t — well, it wasn’t exactly what it appeared on the surface.”

“You mean Karper was working for Pressman?”

“No, not exactly that, but there were certain things they were doing together, certain interests they had in common.”

“Did Mrs. Pressman know about that?”