Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

But that first quick glance told Jane Graven that the Dropwell Detective Service, acting upon instructions of Ralph Pressman, had been shadowing Sophie Pressman; that the name of Pellman Baxter, a young broker who was considered an intimate, if not a friend, of the family was mentioned. Photographic negatives, taken in the dark with the aid of an infra-red flashbulb which functioned so surreptitiously the parties were unaware of the photographs, were contained in the enclosed, sealed envelope. “In accordance with our custom,” a sentence read, “we deliver the negatives themselves to our clients — obviating, in this manner, any possibility of future annoyance.”

“ Well ?” Mrs. Pressman said over the telephone, her voice showing impatience.

Jane Graven’s laugh caught in her throat.

“What is it?” Mrs. Pressman asked, and her voice, Jane realized suddenly, was as sharp as a razor edge.

“I... It’s nothing,” Jane lied. “It turned out to be just some political literature sent out with the words ‘private’ and ‘confidential’ on the envelope, so that Mr. Pressman would be certain to see it. It’s nothing.”

“‘Private’ and ‘confidential’ were printed?” Mrs. Pressman asked with acid disbelief.

“Written,” Jane said hastily. “In pen and ink. That’s what fooled me.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Pressman said coolly, “I should think it would,” and hung up without saying goodbye or giving Jane the slightest information.

Jane knew that her hand was trembling as she dropped the receiver back into place and picked up the letter. She turned the sealed enclosure over and over in her fingers — flashlight photographs taken with an infra-red bulb, surreptitious shots of a man and a married woman in—

She heard the click of the door latch and started guiltily.

Harvey Stanwood stood in the doorway, smiling. His face looked tense and drawn.

“Hello,” he said, ostentatiously consulting his watch. “Didn’t mean to be so late, but I had to go by the courthouse and look up some records in connection with an estate matter Mr. Pressman wanted investigated. Haven’t heard anything from him, have you?”

At the moment, the unusual elaboration given the explanation and the fact that it seemed to have been rehearsed didn’t dawn on Jane Graven. She jerked open the upper drawer of her secretarial desk, pushed the envelope and letter in it, said, “Mr. Pressman hasn’t come in yet. I don’t know just when to expect him.”

Harvey Stanwood crossed over to the big vault, spun the knobs of the combination, pulled the huge doors open, and went inside.

The air smelled like that of a tomb.

As the walls closed about Stanwood, it was necessary for him to summon every bit of will-power he could command to hold himself steady.

That was the way a cell would feel. He would undoubtedly get ten years, perhaps twenty. Last night, with a few drinks under his belt, with the tingle of gambling in his blood, a pretty girl at his side, he had felt that he could take it — that he could take anything.

Now, with a thick feeling in his head, with nerves jumpy from too much to drink and not enough sleep, he felt that he couldn’t take anything. He would have tried flight, if it hadn’t been for one desperate last chance — that Pressman might not show up at all today.

There was the Hillhurst cheque for five thousand dollars in the vault. That cheque was as a guarantee of good faith. It wasn’t to be cashed unless certain conditions developed. But if Stanwood cashed that cheque, he could ring up Hillhurst and tell him it had been an error, and rebate the five thousand — if he was lucky.

Right at the present moment, Stanwood was short exactly $17,395.58. An extra five thousand now wouldn’t make much difference. And if he should have a winning streak—

He heard the telephone ring. Corliss Ramsay at the switchboard said: “He’s busy at the moment — in the vault. Could I have him call you back?”

Stanwood heard the musical cadences of her voice. She was blonde, twenty-two, languorous, and seductive. He knew that she was piqued because he had not paid her more personal attention.

He heard her coming toward the vault, and hastily pulled down a ledger and started examining it, hoping she would not detect his nervousness.

She said: “You’re wanted on the telephone. Do you want to take the call? He says it’s important.”

“Who is it?”

“He wouldn’t tell me his name.”

“I’ll go to my desk and take the call,” Stanwood said. “It will be just a moment. Explain that I’m in the vault.”

“I’ve done that already.”

Stanwood hurried to his desk, paused, took a deep breath. Stanwood picked up the receiver. A man’s voice inquired, “Harvey Stanwood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When I tell you my name, don’t mention it over the telephone. I don’t want anyone to know who is talking.”

“Who is this?” Stanwood asked.

“Can anyone in the office hear what you’re saying?”

“No.”

The voice said conversationally: “Happened to run into an old friend of mine yesterday. This friend has an interest in the Three-Twenty-Two Club... You may know him. Chap by the name of Baines. He says he’s seen you up there quite a bit lately... Nice chap, Baines.”

Stanwood waited a second before he could trust himself to speak. When he finally said, “Who is this talking?” he realized that his voice lacked the assurance he wanted to put punch into a demand. He had merely asked a question, and his voice had all but quavered.

“I’m going to lunch with you today,” the voice asserted. “We have some things to talk over. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going or about this call.”

The man waited, but Stanwood could think of nothing to say.

“The Purple Cow,” the man went on. “I’ve reserved the next to the last booth on the right-hand side. Be there at twelve-fifteen. The curtain will be drawn. Walk right in.”

“Who... who is this talking?” Stanwood asked.

“You’ve got that all straight now,” the voice went on, “the Purple Cow, twelve-fifteen sharp, next to the last booth on the right-hand side?”

“I heard you, but I want to know who this is talking.”

The voice over the telephone said: “George Karper.”

Stanwood’s ears heard the sharp, unmistakable click of the receiver being hung up at the other end of the line; but it was a full three seconds before Stanwood could summon the strength to hang up his own receiver. His legs felt as limp as pieces of cotton string.

George Karper had just turned fifty. His face was smooth and unwrinkled. His hair, although touched here and there with silver, remained dark, wavy, and abundant. His eyes were grey and studious, his smile delightful, and he had the figure which wears clothes to advantage, neither too thin nor too fat, long of arm and leg, slender of waist, with a well-built chest.

Only about the mouth was there a suggestion of tight-lipped ruthlessness, and at times his eyes seemed studiously thoughtful, as though translating some conversational opening into terms of his own advantage.

Karper was waiting in the booth when Stanwood came in. His eyes flicked in a quick appraisal of Stanwood’s face. It was only a brief glance, but Stanwood felt that the one glance had been sufficient to suit Karper’s purpose. He had been appraised, ticketed, and a price tag placed on him.

“Sit down, Stanwood. I wanted to talk with you.”

Stanwood took a seat, looked across at Karper, and felt his eyes shift suddenly away from the other’s face.

The one thing meant more to Stanwood than anything that had previously happened in connexion with his defalcation. He knew that Karper knew, or at least suspected, and Stanwood couldn’t look the other man in the eyes to save his life. It was the first time he had ever flinched from meeting another man’s eyes.