Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

They heard his steps on the cement walk, the quick steps of a spry old man filled with enthusiasm and a zest for life.

Duryea ran his fingers through his hair.

“There it is,” he said. “The complete calamity in one chapter. If there’s as much as a misdemeanour committed between now and when he leaves, the old bloodhound will be on the trail.”

Milred laughed. “It isn’t going to be so bad. He’s leaving by noon. You should be able to keep your county law-abiding until then.”

Duryea indicated his surroundings with a comprehensive wave of his hand. “Look about you, woman. Here we are with our income hocked for the next twenty years to pay for this fine house in an exclusive residential district. Notice the neighbourhood, surrounded by the swanky homes of the city’s aristocrats. We’ve moved into the rarefied atmosphere of the upper strata of local society for the purpose of securing prestige, contacts and a fuller and more abundant life socially.

“And what happens? At irregular intervals, an unwashed, rattletrap automobile with worn tyres, holes in the upholstery and cracks in the windshield, draws a thoroughly disreputable home-made trailer into our driveway. An old reprobate who happens to be your grandfather hops out of the vehicle with a due accompaniment of raucous noise in one form and another. He shouts out nocturnal invitations to make whoopee... Then he wants to be called into consultation on the crime problems of the county.”

Milred said: “You like him. You know you do.”

“My professional standing,” Frank Duryea complained, “bears to this day the half-healed scars resulting from previous contacts with your ancestral past.”

Milred gave herself a quick survey in the mirror. “Go ahead and sit there if you want to, you old crab. Gramp Wiggins can make the most marvellous hot toddy in the world, and if you think any Wiggins descendant worthy of the name is going to sit here and listen to you grouse while—”

Duryea straightened up.

“You have now,” he observed, “mentioned one of your grandfather’s outstanding virtues. He certainly can concoct drinks and food. Come on, sister, let’s go.”

Gramp Wiggins’ trailer was very definitely a bachelor affair. It was entirely bereft of those feminine touches which grace a home. On the other hand, it was scrupulously clean, and everything was in its place.

Frying pans and pots, in place of being kept out of sight in lockers, were suspended from nails driven in the walls. A series of small shelves with wooden guard rails had been placed on the wall just behind the table so that a person could swing up the folding table, lock it into position, and find all the spices and condiments, all the plates and saucers, readily available. Knives, forks, and spoons were held in circular containers. Cups hung on hooks from a wider shelf which was some three feet above the top of the table.

Gramp Wiggins had hot water and spices bubbling away on the gasoline stove. As Frank and Milred Duryea entered the trailer, Gramps was twisting bits of lemon peel and dropping them into the steaming liquid.

Gramps was a little man of indeterminate age. His eyes, twinkling at them over the tops of half-spectacles, were full of life, utterly devoid of film. Gramps was a creature of enthusiasms, and his eyes showed it. The man’s motions were as quick as those of some wild thing. He darted about the trailer, arranging seats for his guests, keeping up a running fire of conversation. “Well, well, great to see you! How are you? Been quite a spell since I’ve been through this way... Had quite a jaunt since I saw you last. Down Mexico way — clean down — way down below Mexico City. Great country. Then I was around up north for a while, and they got to rationing gasoline and tyres, so I decided I’d better sort of get myself located.”

Duryea exchanged glances with his wife.

Gramps’ body leaned across the table. His hands deftly unhooked three cups, plunged them bodily into a kettle of boiling water.

“Secret of hot toddy,” Gramps said, “is to have your cups piping hot. You don’t want to put your hooch in until just when you’re ready to serve. Alcohol has a lower boiling point than water. Lots of people boil half the alcohol out of their toddies without even knowing it... Now this here’s a special concoction of hottoddy liquor I’ve worked out. Four different kinds of liquor in it. Ain’t goin’ to tell you what they are, either. It’s a secret.”

Gramps fished out a quart bottle about two-thirds full of a villainous-looking dark liquid, gave it a tentative shake or two, and twisted the cork with his teeth.

He was thoroughly disreputable so far as externals were concerned. His white hair hung down almost to his shoulders. His clothes seemed utterly devoid of any acquaintance with the pressing machine. But the man’s animation, his astounding vitality, dwarfed his physical appearance into insignificance.

“Now the secret of this here concoction,” he went on, “aside from the liquor, is a few leaves of a certain herb I put in it. Herb grows right around here, too, but nobody never pays any attention to it... Gettin’ so we don’t monkey with herbs any more... Well, now, folks, get ready. She’s just about due to come off the fire. Ain’t goin’ to make it too sweet. You can put in more sugar if you want. An’ don’t worry about that sugar ever seein’ a ration book either. I smuggled it up from Mexico. Lots more where that came from... Not that I use so awfully much sugar myself, but I like to have it on hand, and I got an awful boot out of smugglin’ it in. There ain’t no use talkin’. There’s somethin’ about smugglin’ that’s downright attractive. Well, folks—”

He broke off as steps sounded outside, and then a tentative knock on the door of the trailer.

“Well, now,” Gramps grinned, “seems like the neighbours are coming over. Thought you said the neighbours didn’t approve of me, Milred. Well, let me get a cup or two of my hot toddy in ’em, and they’ll quit sneerin’ about the ‘disreputable old tramp’ that comes to call on you, and next time you see ’em, they’ll want to know when your ‘delightful grandfather’ is comin’ back to see you again.”

Gramp Wiggins flung open the door. “Come on in,” he said. “Come right on in. It’s a mite chilly out there, and I’ve got somethin’ in here to warm you up.”

The man who stood in the driveway looking into the trailer with dark, apprehensive eyes was somewhere in the fifties, a slight, nervous man who seemed obsessed by worries and responsibilities.

“I’m not certain I have the right place,” he said. “I’m looking for the district attorney.”

“Yep,” Gramps announced. “You got the right place for the district attorney, and for a hot toddy. Come on in. Come on in!”

The man seemed somewhat taken aback by Gramps’ breezy cordiality. “I don’t want to intrude,” he said apologetically. “Would you mind telling him that Carl Gentry, the constable at Petrie, would like to see him for a minute?”

The trailer springs swayed as Duryea got to his feet and came to the door. “Hello, Gentry,” he said, shaking hands. “Come on in. Come on in.”

“I just wanted to see you for a minute,” Gentry explained. “I didn’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, come on in,” Duryea invited. “I don’t get to see you very often anyway. This is just a family party. This is Mr. Wiggins, my wife’s grandfather. Come on in and meet my wife.”

Gentry climbed up on the steps to the trailer, shook hands with Gramp Wiggins, sniffed the fragrant aroma of the toddy; then his eyes focused on Milred.

“My wife,” Duryea said. “Milred, this is Mr. Gentry, the constable out at Petrie.”