Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

Duryea snatched at the newspaper, opened it, studied carefully the places where the sections had been cut out, then said to Gramps: “All right, Gramps, you’ve stuck your neck out. It happens that I have in my office the original newspaper of this date from which the phrases which composed that message were cut. Obviously then, this paper is spurious, a red herring designed to draw the police off the track. And the planting of such a red herring is a serious offence.

“Now, then, it probably hasn’t occurred to you, but it’s readily possible to prove that this clue has been planted and that this paper is a fraud, by a very simple method. I am having made a series of photographic copies of the so-called suicide note. These photographs are exactly the same size as the original. By using those photographs to check the edges of the cuts in the paper, I can prove my newspaper is genuine and that this is spurious... Get your hat. You’re going to my office, and you can consider yourself virtually in custody until this matter is clarified.”

Gramps said soothingly: “Tut, tut now, Frank. You’re getting yourself all worked up. You shouldn’t get nervous right after you eat.” He beamed at the district attorney paternally, said: “And don’t tell me to get my hat an’ come to your office as though that was some kind of punishment. You know darned good an’ well that’s more of a treat to me than takin’ a kid to a three-ring circus... Come on, son. Let’s get started for your office before you change your mind.”

Milred said: “Watch him, Frank. He’s pulled a fast one. Looks to me as though he might be protecting someone. And with a masculine Wiggins, of any age, the thing to remember is cherchez la femme . I’d consider the secretary, myself.”

Duryea said: “I’m quite certain he’s planned all this carefully — and the moment I demonstrate the strips which were cut from the newspaper and used in that message don’t fit in with this newspaper Gramps gave me, he’s going to jail, and unless he then gives a satisfactory explanation, he’s going to spend the night in a cell. So don’t look for him back.”

Gramps shook his head deprecatingly. “No wonder,” he announced dolefully, “so few people really try to help the law. Officials just don’t seem to want to co-operate... Come on, son. Let’s go.”

They went to the courthouse in Duryea’s car. Once in his office, Duryea called the sheriff, asked him to come at once. The sheriff brought with him freshly developed photographic, full-size copies of the message which had been found in the room with Pressman’s body.

“Now then, Gramps,” Duryea said grimly, “I’m going to show you something.”

He opened the newspaper Gramps had given him, laid the cut spaces over the photographic copy, comparing the edges which had been cut, and looked at Gramp Wiggins accusingly.

“What’s the matter?” Gramps asked innocently.

“This newspaper is a plant,” Duryea charged. “It doesn’t agree in the least with the edges of the words pasted on that message.”

“Well, now,” Gramps said, “ain’t that somethin’.”

“That very definitely is something,” Duryea told him coldly. “It means that you’ve tried to bamboozle this office with a spurious clue.”

Gramps raised his eyebrows. “Meanin’ me? Meanin’ that I have?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your proof of that?”

“You produced the newspaper,” Duryea said, “and that means you’re responsible for it.”

Gramps’ eyes were twinkling. “Well now, son,” he said, “let’s not go off half-cocked on this thing.”

“I’m not going off half-cocked on it,” Duryea said. “It happens that I have the original newspaper in my office safe, the one from which these phrases which make up the message had actually been cut.”

“Well, now,” Gramps said, “what I was gettin’ at is that before you go talkin’ about me cuttin’ up newspapers an’ drawin’ red herrings across the trail, you’d better be certain that it ain’t someone else who’s takin’ you for a ride.”

Duryea said: “One genuine clue and one spurious one. You have produced the spurious one. In view of your activities in the case, I think we’ll place the burden of proof on you.”

Gramps was not in the least ruffled. “Okay, son. Okay, that’s all right. But you keep talkin’ about this other newspaper bein’ the genuine one, the one from which the message was clipped. Don’t you think you’d sorta oughta compare that one with the message?”

Duryea started to say something, then with cold dignity opened his safe, took out a newspaper, opened it, and spread the cut places over the message.

For a moment there was a puzzled scowl on his face as he kept moving the newspaper around, trying to adjust its position; then the scowl gave way to an expression of incredulous surprise.

Gramp Wiggins, observing this expression, fished his pipe from his pocket. “There you are, son. Both of ’em are spurious — and, under those circumstances, it might not be such a good idea to stick your neck out by givin’ this here Mrs. Pressman a third degree tomorrow. It just goes to show you can’t trust evidence that turns up after a crime has been committed.”

Duryea glanced up at the sheriff, said wearily: “All right, Gramps. We won’t need you any more.”

“Then I ain’t under arrest?” Gramps asked with some surprise.

“You are not under arrest,” Duryea told him, “—not as yet. And the sheriff and I have some things to discuss in private... And it might be a good thing for you to keep this entire affair in strict confidence... And if I ever find out who is planting evidence in this case,” Duryea said with sudden savage anger in his voice, “I’ll put him in jail and keep him there.”

“Attaboy!” Gramps said. “Now you’re whizzin’! When you get him, give him the works... Now then, son, would you like to have my theory about that?”

“I would not,” Duryea said coldly.

Gramps looked as though he had been struck in the face. “You mean after I went to all the trouble of findin’ this an’—”

“Exactly,” Duryea said. “This isn’t a game. It isn’t a puzzle contest. It’s a murder case. Someone has been fabricating evidence in that murder case. Frankly, I’m just a little afraid that someone is you.”

Gramps registered an expression of wounded dignity.

“I don’t think you’re deliberately trying to shield a murderer,” Duryea said, “but I do think you’re trying to protect someone, probably a woman, who has enlisted your sympathies. Under the circumstances, the less you say the better. I’m going to handle this case my own way. You can’t give me any help, and I don’t want any hindrance.”

Gramps grinned. “I guess that means you’re wishin’ me good night.”

“That’s right.”

Gramps fumbled with his hat for a moment, walked to the door, paused with his hand on the knob as though about to say something, then grinned, said, “Goodnight,” and ducked out into the corridor.

When he had gone, Duryea looked up at the sheriff, reached wearily for the telephone. “Well,” he said, “I may as well call Mrs. Pressman and tell her she needn’t come up tomorrow.”

“You think he planted that newspaper?” Sheriff Lassen asked after Duryea had completed the call.

The district attorney nodded. “Probably both of them.”

“Somehow, he doesn’t seem to me like a man who’d do that.”

“You don’t know him,” Duryea said. “He wouldn’t do it to protect a murderer. He wouldn’t do it to hamper our investigations. He’d do it to aid them. But his idea of aid would be to have us concentrate on some particular person that he thought was guilty.”