Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

“What are you talking about?” Duryea asked.

“Pressman’s widow,” Gramps said. “Where the heck are those cocktail glasses, Milred?”

“Who said anything about Pressman’s widow?” Duryea asked sharply.

“You did.”

“I certainly did not.”

“Well, you might as well have said it. All blue about some duty you’ve got to perform. Looks like that had to do with pickin’ on a woman. You’re that type. A man you wouldn’t mind about, but a woman, yes... You’d get the idea you were tryin’ to trap her into a betrayal, that she was tryin’ to save her life an’ you were tryin’ to take it. All that sort of stuff. Lots of people wouldn’t feel that way, but you’re just the kind that would. Okay, it has to be either Mrs. Pressman or the secretary. If it isn’t the secretary, it’s got to be Mrs. Pressman. Personally, I’d give her the works. If you ask me, she’s a cold-blooded little—”

“That’s just the point, Gramps,” Milred said laughingly. “He hasn’t asked you. No one’s asked you. All we asked you for is a drink.”

Gramps, no whit abashed, poured the cocktail into the glasses. “That’s right,” he said. “I was just volunteerin’ a little advice, wasn’t I? Shouldn’t do that. No percentage in it. Wait until they ask for it. Then they appreciate it more... Well, try this; it’ll cheer you up.”

Gramps passed the glasses. “Now the way to drink this here cocktail,” he went on, “is to get the first one down fast, while it’s still got air bubbles in it from the shaking. Then the second one you take kinda medium, and the third one you take right slow to enjoy the flavour.”

Duryea glanced across the rim of his glass at his wife; then tossed off the cocktail. He made tasting sounds with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, said: “Milred, there’s no use talking. It’s the silver lining.”

She laughed and held out her glass for more.

“Taste all right?” Gramps asked.

“Like nectar,” Duryea said. “What’s in it? More of this Mexican liquor?”

“Nope. This here is all north of the Rio Grande, but there’s just a leetle touch of somethin’ in it to shake off the raw taste. You wouldn’t like it if I told you what that was, so just drink it and quit worryin’. What’s this about a silver linin’?”

“It’s the name Milred and I are giving this cocktail. You wouldn’t understand.”

“No,” Milred agreed, “not unless you’d read Emerson’s law of compensation.”

Duryea joined in her laugh at Gramps’ mystification.

“I don’t get that law of compensation business either. Silver linin’ — law of compensation... Oh, well, what do I care! Go ahead an’ drink her down.”

After the second cocktail, Milred felt a warm glow stealing through her veins. She felt a surge of friendship for the somewhat wistful old man, who seemed in some ways so anxious to keep their friendship, and yet in others to be so completely independent of it.

“You,” she told her husband, “can try sipping the third cocktail. I personally am going to lay off it.”

“What’s the matter?” Duryea asked.

“I feel it.”

“Can’t feel that,” Gramps insisted. “That’s as mild as coconut milk. Just got a little fruity tang to it that stings your throat and stimulates your digestive juices, that’s all. Ain’t enough alcohol in it to hurt a kitten.”

Milred said: “Nevertheless, I’m going into the kitchen while I can still get there under my own power. I’ve weighty responsibilities. And if you, Gramp Wiggins, knew what was cooking you’d be the last one to suggest that I betray my trust.”

Gramps pulled his black briar from his pocket. “Okay,” he announced. “I ain’t never one to argue with a person against his moral convictions.”

Milred went out into the kitchen, still feeling that great glow of physical and mental well-being. Once or twice during the next fifteen minutes she looked into the living-room, and, on the occasion of her last inspection, surreptitiously lifted the receiver from the telephone and left it dangling.

The district attorney of Santa Delbarra County was rapidly getting in no condition to answer the phone, and Milred was glad of it. Frank had been taking himself and his responsibilities altogether too seriously. That prosecutor’s job was going to make an old, cynical man out of him before he’d really had a chance to enjoy his youth. And he needed to let go more, to get out and relax. After all, Gramps was a pretty good influence for them... Look at Gramps. Somewhere around the seventies, and younger in many ways than any of them. Responsibilities had never weighed heavily on Gramps. He’d always been a man of wild enthusiasms, always chasing some particular mirage. It had always been a mirage. He’d never caught up with it, but he’d always been just as keen to start out chasing the next one. Perhaps that was the secret of it. Gramps never got discouraged over a failure. He enjoyed the chase as much as the goal itself... There was a moral there. She’d have to think it out sometime... Mildred realized that Gramps certainly had loaded those cocktails.

She poured herself a cup of black coffee.

From the living-room she heard the hilarious roar of Frank Duryea’s laughter.

“A good belly-laugh,” she muttered to herself. “Someone’s held out a story on me — and it’s been a long time since I’ve heard that roar from Frank.”

She got the dinner on the table, called the others.

Duryea was having a complete reaction from the blue mood which had gripped him earlier in the evening. Now, he was hilariously joyful. Gramps seemed to be completely unchanged, but from the twinkle in his eye and the continued chuckles from her husband, Milred knew that the men had been having a good time. The old man, she realized, was just about immune to alcohol. A case-hardened old sinner who lived his own life just as he damn pleased.

Milred was glad she’d had that coffee.

Gramps flashed her a shrewdly appraising glance, then said to Duryea: “How’d you like to talk over that murder a little bit, son?”

“I wouldn’t like it,” Duryea said.

“Definitely not,” Milred announced.

“Well,” Gramps said, “I got a clue that I think Frank should know about before he talks with Mrs. Pressman.”

“A clue or a theory?” Milred asked.

“A clue.”

Duryea had picked up his salad fork and was spearing the ice cube in his water glass, trying to hold it under water, laughing quietly every time it bobbed up.

“Consider the ice cube, my dear,” he said. “You can’t hold it down. Every time you think you’ve got it anchored, it bobs up again. Just goes to show what a little determination will do... Reminds me of someone we know.”

“Determination is right,” Milred said. “I have a very strong suspicion that Gramps has deliberately tried to soften the blow he’s about to land, with an alcoholic cushion.”

“Good old cushion,” Duryea said. “That’s the stuff, Gramps! Always cushion your blows. Hit me again sometime.”

“What,” Milred asked Gramps, “is your clue? Something seems to tell me this is going to be very, very serious.”

“Well,” Gramps said, “I’m going to tell you something. I’ve found the newspaper that the suicide message was cut from.”

Milred heard a clatter of silver against glassware and looked up to see Frank Duryea’s wet salad fork lying unnoticed in his plate. All of the hilarity had left him. He was coldly efficient, and, Milred realized, suddenly sober.

“You have what?” he asked.

“I got that newspaper,” Gramps said.

“ Where did you get it?”

Gramps said: “Well, now, that’s a funny story. You promise me you ain’t goin’ to be sore at me, Frank?”