Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

“What’s happened?”

“He’s down the road here about half a mile. Thought I’d come up and tip you off. I don’t know what he’s up to... Perhaps he knows you’re coming.”

“What’s he doing?”

“He drove the trailer up to the cabin. The girl got out. The old man has a key to the cabin, or else he has a passkey that works the lock... He’s evidently been in there before. He didn’t hesitate for a minute, just fitted the key in the lock and clicked the door back.”

“If he went in that cabin, we’ve got him right where we want him,” Duryea said.

“He didn’t go in. The girl did.”

“What’s the idea?” Lassen asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What did he do? Go back to the trailer?”

“No. That’s the funny part of it. He left the trailer parked there; then he walked up to the end of the driveway and took up a position right at the intersection of the driveway and the main road... He’s waiting for somebody.”

“An appointment he’s made with someone?”

Borden said: “I don’t think so. He’s got a gun.”

“You’re certain?” Duryea asked in surprise.

“Absolutely. I worked up close enough so I could see the starlight reflected from the metal.”

“It might have been a flashlight,” Duryea said. “I doubt if he’s got a gun.”

“I think it was a gun,” the giant deputy said with quiet confidence. “The way he was holding it and everything.”

“I’m taking Mr. Borden’s side of that argument,” Milred said. “Heavens knows what he wants it for, but I bet it’s a gun.”

Lassen turned to Duryea. “What do you want to do, Frank?”

The district attorney turned things over in his mind, then said abruptly: “We’ve got enough on him now. We’ll pick him up, and pick the girl up... Remember, so far as he knows, it’s a bona fide arrest.”

“All right, Harry,” the sheriff said to the deputy, “you’d better make the arrest, then.”

“We’ll drive up in the car,” Borden suggested. “You slow down within about fifty yards of the turn-off. I’ll be standing on the running board, and will jump off when you slow. He won’t know that I’m anywhere around. You bring the car to a dead stop just before you come to the driveway. Just a few feet. That’ll force him to show his hand. If he comes out to the car, I’ll be right behind him. If he doesn’t you can wait there in the car until you get a signal from me.”

“Sounds okay,” the sheriff said, “but if he’s got a gun, don’t take any chances.”

“I won’t,” Borden promised. “I’ll play it safe.”

Milred said to her husband: “Tell him to be particularly careful, Frank. If Gramps has a gun — well, I just don’t trust him, that’s all. You can’t tell what he’s up to.”

Duryea said to the sheriff: “As far as I’m concerned, Pete, when the old boy starts packing hardware around, taking into consideration his particular type of cussedness, I think we should throw him in the cooler and keep him there.”

“You can’t afford to,” the Sheriff said. “No matter which way the cat jumps, you’re licked. If he turns out to be a harmless old coot, a little on the barmy side, you’ve made yourself ridiculous. If there’s anything sinister about it, you’re licked. You can’t win.”

The car swayed slightly on its springs as Harry Borden climbed on the running-board. “It’s all right,” he said with calm confidence, “I can handle this. No one will know anything about it.”

Borden’s hand reached in through the open window to hold the top of the car for support. The sheriff eased in the clutch, and the car rolled ahead.

“Better turn your headlights on to the bright,” Borden said. “That’ll dazzle him, and keep him from seeing me jump off.”

The sheriff switched the lights on to the high beam. The brilliant illumination blazed the road ahead into brilliance, a gleaming tunnel of light in the centre of which stretched the white ribbon of pavement.

After a few seconds Borden said in a low voice: “Okay, Sheriff. Slow her down. I’ll hop off. Go about a hundred feet and then stop... Better switch out your lights when you stop, so be can’t recognize you.”

“Okay,” the sheriff said, slowing the car.

Borden swung out from the running-board, balanced himself for a moment over the flowing ribbon of cement, and then, with hardly a sound, dropped back into the darkness. The sheriff ran on for a few seconds, stopped the car, and switched off the lights.

Dark silence enveloped the little group waiting in tense expectancy in the automobile.

Thirty seconds became a minute. The minute stretched on towards two minutes. The little noises of the night which had been frightened into silence by the automobile once more chirped into existence; then suddenly stopped in an ominous silence which indicated something was moving in the night.

The sheriff, scowling in concentration, peered out into the darkness. Milred, leaning toward Frank, had just started to whisper, when suddenly there was the sound of a commotion from the darkness beside the road not over twenty feet from the automobile.

They heard Borden’s voice in a gruff command; then Gramp Wiggins shrilling with excited indignation.

“Okay, Sheriff,” Borden called.

The sheriff’s spotlight cut through the darkness.

Borden had his left arm thrown around Gramps from behind, his forearm under Gramps’ chin. His right hand held Gramps’ right wrist. The beam of the spotlight showed the revolver clutched in Gramps’ hand.

“You handle it, Pete,” Duryea said. “I won’t come in it until the last minute.”

The sheriff opened the car door, got to the ground. “You got a licence to carry that gun?” he asked.

“Who is it?” Gramps asked.

“This is the sheriff.”

“Oh, that you, Lassen?” Gramps said, relief in his voice. “I didn’t know—”

There was no cordiality in Sheriff Lassen’s voice. “All right, Wiggins, what’s the gun for?”

“Well, I... I sorta thought—”

“You got a licence to carry that gun?”

“Well, not in this county, no—”

“Or in this state?”

“Well, not if you come right down to it, no.”

Lassen said: “I guess you’d better put the handcuffs on him, Borden.”

“Now, you look here,” Gramp Wiggins shrilled. “You’ve got no right to do that! You’re interfering with the cause of justice. You can’t put no handcuffs on me, like I was a common, ordinary criminal.”

“I don’t see why not,” the sheriff said. “You may be related to the district attorney, but so far as I’m concerned, you’re just the same as any other citizen. You’re hanging around by the side of the road with a drawn gun waiting to ambush automobiles — attempted highway robbery committed with a gun. You know what that means.”

“Attempted highway robbery nothin’,” Gramps retorted in a voice made high and reedy with anger. “You certainly can’t be as dumb as that!”

Borden still holding Gramps’ wrist in a firm grasp, said to Lassen: “You’ve seen the gun all right, Sheriff?”

“Yes. I’ve seen that he has it in his hand.”

“All right,” Borden said. “Drop it.”

He twisted the wrist until the gun dropped from Gramps’ fingers; then, shifting his hold suddenly so that he held both of Gramps’ hands imprisoned he slid handcuffs from his belt, and with a quick dextrous slapping motion fastened them around Gramps’ wrists.

“All right, Wiggins,” the sheriff announced, in the patient, weary voice of a man who is merely performing a duty, “you’re under arrest. Anything you say can be used against you. Get in. We’re going back to the county seat.”