Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

“It’s the same way with a murder. When a murder has been committed, every crank in the country hypnotizes himself to attach some great significance to some trivial affair.”

“Such as what, in this particular case?” Milred asked.

“Oh, for one thing, Jane Graven, Mr. Pressman’s secretary.”

“What about her?”

“I had an anonymous tip over the telephone that she was having an affair with Pressman and trying to poison his mind against his wife; that she’d probably make some attempt to drag his wife into it; that if she did, I should go after her hammer and tongs.”

“Who gave you the tip — man or woman?”

“A man’s voice.”

“You have no idea who he was?”

“No. I didn’t get a chance to trace the call.”

“Anything else?”

“That woman’s compact that was found on the porch of the house.”

“Have you identified it?”

“I think so.”

“Whose is it?”

“A girl by the name of Eva Raymond. She’s a lady of leisure.”

“Professional?”

“Well, what you might call a gifted amateur with commercial tendencies.”

“I see. And how did her compact get there?”

“I’m not exactly certain,” Duryea said. “She denies it’s her compact. We’re pretty certain she’s lying, but we can account for her time up until midnight of the twenty-fourth. According to the autopsy surgeon, Pressman must have been dead by eleven o’clock. That leaves her out as having anything to do with the murder, but... well, I don’t like it.”

“Don’t like what?”

“All these women in Pressman’s life. It doesn’t sound right.”

“Why not?”

“He wasn’t that kind of a man.”

“Don’t be silly, Frank. All men are ‘that kind’ when they are tempted by good-looking women.”

“That’s the point,” Duryea said. “He wasn’t the type that good-looking women would tempt. He was cold, austere, selfish, undemonstrative, and he lived his life for only one purpose — the pursuit of wealth.”

“Perhaps he had another side to his nature which people didn’t see.”

“Quite possibly,” Duryea admitted, “but if so, it was a side which came out from hibernation only at rare intervals, and sneaked back as soon as it had accomplished its purpose.”

Milred said: “Frank, you’ve got to quit that job.”

“Why?”

“It’s making a dirty, nasty cynic out of you. You’re getting world-weary while you’re still a very young man.”

Duryea laughed. “Oh, it’s just that these things follow a pattern.”

“I’m going to make you get out of that job. I’ll... I’ll just turn Gramps loose — and then you won’t have any job.”

“We’d starve to death in private practice, the way things are now.”

“All right, we’ll starve then... And, in the meantime, what you need is a darn good stiff drink.”

Duryea grinned. “You haven’t any of that delightfully mild liquor from Mexico, have you?”

“I wish I did have. You just need something like that. You— Oh, oh! ”

“What’s the matter?” Duryea asked, looking up to see her staring out of the window.

She said: “I’m becoming psychic. Your path is about to be crossed by a little old man who’s unusually active for his years, a man who will ask you if you wouldn’t like a nice, mild drink, and—”

“Do you see that man now?” Duryea asked.

“I see a rattletrap car and a home-made trailer swinging around so that the trailer can be backed up into our driveway.”

Duryea said: “Doggoned if I’m not going to be glad to see the old reprobate. I could just go for one of his cocktails tonight, and I wouldn’t care whether he made it mild or not.”

They heard steps on the porch, and Gramps came in with just a little too much enthusiasm, like a small boy who has been in mischief and tries to overcome the tendency to sneak in quietly by making his feet deliberately loud.

Milred looked at her grandfather appraisingly. “You,” she announced, “have been up to something.”

Gramps’ eyes were as innocent and guileless as clear pools of mountain water. “Up to somethin’? Been sorta traipsin’ around, that’s all.”

Duryea said: “We were talking about one of your cocktails, Gramps.”

Gramps’ face lighted. “ Were you now!”

Milred said: “Don’t let him change the subject, Frank. He’s been up to something. I can tell it.”

Gramps grinned at her. “You’ve been associatin’ too much with district attorneys. Maybe a good cocktail will fix you up. How’s for havin’ dinner with me, folks?”

“No, you’re going to have dinner with us,” Milred said, “but go ahead and fix up that drink.”

When he had gone, Milred Duryea looked at her husband, said: “I’ll give you ten to one.”

“That he’s been up to something?” Duryea asked.

She nodded.

Duryea said: “Don’t try to worm it out of him, Milred. It might be better if I didn’t know — just find out whether he’s been in this county, or down in Los Angeles. If it’s here, I suppose I’ll have to do something about it. If it’s down in Los Angeles, we’ll let Nature take its course.”

She said: “You don’t know Gramps. He has all the capacity for destruction of a five-thousand-pound bomb.”

Duryea said positively: “I don’t care about that. If the thing that he’s done wasn’t done in this county, and if he didn’t use his connection with me to put it across, I don’t care a hoot what it is.”

“He wouldn’t use his connection with you,” Milred said. “I know that. He’s scrupulously careful on that score... But what would you do with him, if he got into trouble, Frank?”

“In Los Angeles County?”

“Yes.”

“That’s easy,” Duryea said. “I’d let him go to jail or get fined for contempt of court, or take whatever would happen to any ordinary person who interfered with the administration of justice. In other words, I’d wash my hands of him and let him learn not to interfere in the future.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. I feel better. That’s the only way we’re ever going to teach him a lesson.”

Duryea was filling his pipe when Gramps came in, agitating the shaker.

“Now this here cocktail,” Gramps said, “is just a leetle mite different from the one you had the other night. This won’t taste quite as smooth, but it ain’t got too much dynamite in it — not too much.”

Milred said: “We didn’t put any limitations on the dynamite, Gramps. Frank’s feeling low, and we need to cheer him up.”

Gramps stopped shaking the cocktail shaker as though someone had touched a button that switched off the current which was animating his activity. “What’s he low about?”

“Just the routine of things,” Duryea said.

“What kind of routine?”

“The routine of office.”

“You worried about that murder case?”

“I’m always worried about an unsolved murder case.”

“Ain’t solved it yet, eh?”

“Not entirely. I have a very disagreeable duty to perform tomorrow. I’m dreading it.”

“Careful,” Milred warned.

Gramps shook the shaker, very slowly, very deliberately. “Humph! Looks like you’ve uncovered some new evidence that points to an attractive woman... Ain’t that man’s secretary, is it?”

“Whose secretary?”

“Pressman’s.”

Milred said: “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Frank.”

Duryea said: “So far as I know, I have nothing to discuss with Pressman’s secretary. I don’t think she killed him.”

Gramps brought the tempo of his cocktail shaking back to its former gusto. “Okay,” he said, “that settles it, and as far as I’m concerned, I wouldn’t pull my punches none. I’d go after this here woman, whoever she is, hammer and tongs.”