Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

“That still isn’t telling me where he is.”

“Be patient, baby. I want you to get the picture. When it comes to a showdown, the ranchers up there will try to buy the boss out. Most of that land is citrus land, highly developed. Some of it is swell subdivision property — small irrigated ranches... Well, the boss is up there finding out just exactly how much they’re going to be able to pay him, what their top price will be.”

“But how can he expect to do that?”

Stanwood grinned. “No one up there knows Pressman personally. He’s just a name... Well, down at the lower end of the property affected there’s some land that isn’t quite so valuable, a few small ranches. A month ago one of those ranchers got an offer through a real estate man to sell out at a fancy price. He accepted. The buyer was Jack P. Reedley. Reedley is a dirty unkempt bachelor who’s planning on putting in some chickens and rabbits when he can raise the money.”

“But you were going to tell me where Pressman was,” she said impatiently. “That’s what I want to know. Just where he is tonight — now .”

“That’s it,” Stanwood said. “Pressman is Reedley.”

“You mean—”

“Exactly.”

“But what’s the idea?”

“Don’t you get it? The ranchers, led by a man named Howser, are levying secret assessments on all the property, getting a huge fund of cash. In the course of a few days they’ll call on Reedley. They’ll find a dirty, tight-fisted old bachelor, living in a shack. They’ll tell him how much they want him to put in the kitty and why. Because Reedley is a newcomer, he’ll ask questions.”

“But those ranchers won’t tell him anything.”

Stanwood laughed. “You don’t know Pressman.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Well, when Pressman gets done talking with those hicks, he’ll have the whole inside story. That leaves Pressman holding all the ace cards. If he should happen to strike oil in a test well, he’s sitting on top of the world. If he gets a dry hole, he’ll pretend that he’s got oil anyway. The ranchers won’t know the difference. They’ll squeeze every dollar they can possibly raise. They’ll start offering a hundred thousand or so, and then come up as they have to... By that time Pressman will know exactly how high they’ll go, exactly how much money they have.”

“And Mr. Pressman is up at Petrie now?”

“That’s right. With a day’s growth of whiskers and old dirty clothes, slouching around a little three-room shack... It’s a slick scheme.”

“You don’t think if anyone went to Mr. Pressman and tried to — well, intercede for you— After all, you’ve done a lot for him.”

“And I’ve been paid for what I’ve done. That’s the way Pressman would look at it.”

“And if Pressman doesn’t get back to his office in the morning?”

Stanwood said: “I’m safe until Pressman gets back. He may be up there four or five days. It’ll depend on things up there. If he doesn’t show up for a while — well, I could squeeze a little more cash out of the business and make one more fling — and that fling might pay off.”

“Is Mr. Pressman married?”

“Uh huh.”

“What’s she like?”

“She’s a beauty. But don’t let that fool you. She’s playing him for a sucker. She’s somewhere in the thirties. He’s in the fifties... Boy, she’s sure good-looking! But Pressman can have her. I wouldn’t want her.”

“Why not?”

“Too cold-blooded, too scheming, too selfish — but boy, oh, boy, she certainly has a figure.”

“Pressman likes — figures?”

“He did when he married her.”

“His first wife?”

“Don’t be silly. Pressman’s a millionaire... No, she saw him, decided she wanted to be Mrs. Ralph G. Pressman, and dispossessed the party in charge... Oh, she’s nobody’s fool.”

“How long have they been married?”

“Five years.”

“Perhaps Mr. Pressman is a little disillusioned and — well, deep down in his heart, a little lonely. Perhaps that’s why he’s so cold-blooded in business.”

“It may be,” Stanwood said, “but let’s quit talking about Pressman. Tonight is ours, darling — and perhaps tomorrow night. If Pressman only stays up there for a few days more and I can get my fingers on a little more cash — what the hell, baby! Perhaps we can pay out... Oh, waiter—”

Jane Graven opened all of Ralph G. Pressman’s mail. As his secretary, it was her duty to sort and arrange that mail in the order of its importance.

On the days when Pressman didn’t come in before twelve, she prepared a brief summary of the mail. Then, in case he telephoned in and wanted a report, she could either read this summary to him over the telephone, or send it to him by messenger. For that reason, he had repeatedly instructed her to open everything whether it was marked personal or not.

Toying with the envelope from the Dropwell Detective Service, Jane Graven wondered whether her instructions were supposed to include a letter such as this, so plainly marked “PERSONAL, PRIVATE, CONFIDENTIAL”. It had been sent to the office by special messenger, and Jane Graven had signed a receipt for it.

For thirty minutes the bulky envelope lay on her secretarial desk unopened.

The impression wormed its way into her mind that this might be something very, very important, something upon which Mr. Pressman should take immediate action. Twice before, when she had balked at opening an envelope addressed in a feminine hand and marked “PERSONAL” and “PRIVATE”, Pressman had been angry with her. He kept no secrets from her, he had said repeatedly. A man’s secretary was like his doctor. She must know his every contact, his every move, his every thought. Otherwise, she couldn’t be in a position to gauge the importance of matters which demanded attention.

Jane Graven tried to reach her employer on the telephone.

Daygard, the butler, answered the telephone.

“Hello, Arthur,” Jane said. “Can you tell me where Mr. Pressman is this morning? This is his office.”

“No, Miss Graven, he hasn’t been down to breakfast as yet. I’m not certain— Yes, ma’am. It’s the office... Very well, ma’am.”

Jane knew Mrs. Pressman was coming to the telephone, even before she heard the sound of steps and Mrs. Pressman’s cool voice. “Yes? Hello? What is it, Jane?”

“I wanted to reach Mr. Pressman. I was trying to find out where he is,” she said.

“Yes. What was it? Something in the mail, Jane?”

Mrs. Pressman’s voice was friendly, with that cooing, patronizing air of a wife who looks down upon her husband’s secretary from a great height. Jane’s status, so far as Mrs. Pressman’s treatment was concerned, was just a little bit above that of the servants.

“It was — wasn’t anything important. I just wanted to know about a—”

“A letter?” Mrs. Pressman prompted.

“Yes.”

“Who is it from?”

Jane caught her breath, said: “There isn’t any return address on the envelope. I— Well, I thought, Mr. Pressman might be interested in knowing about it.”

“Open it,” Mrs. Pressman commanded. “See who it’s from, dear.”

Driven to desperation, Jane held up the envelope in front of the telephone transmitter, ripped a paper knife across the sealed fold so that the sound would undoubtedly be transmitted, pulled out the enclosures — and sat staring at them dumbly. She didn’t have time to co-ordinate all the various factors in her mind. The typewritten words on the single sheet of paper conveyed their message to her brain, a message which, somehow, she had known all along was in that envelope. But the full implications didn’t register in her mind, wouldn’t blossom into complete fruit for several minutes.