Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Smoking Chimney

More frequently than they realize, authors are inspired by outstanding individuals whom they meet. Two years ago in New Orleans I met a little old chap who has as much bounce as a rubber ball, whose eyes sparkle with enthusiasm, whose white hair shaggles down around his shoulders. His name is Wood Whitesell.

Some men live for power, some live for money, some for social prestige. Whitesell lives to enjoy life in his own way and to make photographic studies which bring out the true character of his subjects.

He cares nothing for money, would cheerfully insult his best customer if that customer infringed upon the professional prerogatives of the photographer. He is always working on some new experiment upon which he will expatiate with bubbling enthusiasm. He trots around his studio, trying to crowd all of the things he wants to do in the twenty-four hours which are allotted to any one day. He has no regular mealtimes, is usually too busy to think of food. When he finally realizes he’s hungry, he’ll dash across the street to the Bourbon House, grab a piece of pie, gulp down a hurried cup of coffee, and rush back to his studio. When he needs a special light, he solders a piece of tin around an electric light, and makes exactly what he wants. His studio is filled with home-made contraptions that do the work just as well as would the most expensive equipment.

Whitesell and Gramp Wiggins are, of course, two distinct entities, although they have numerous points in common. To what extent Gramps was inspired by Whitesell even I don’t know. All I know is that after a winter in New Orleans during which I became well acquainted with Whitesell, Gramp Wiggins walked into my consciousness one day and demanded to be set down on paper. As I began to portray Gramps, I realized how very much in common he had with Wood Whitesell.

I don’t know how old Whitesell is, but he has an ageless enthusiasm, a zestful desire to crowd innumerable activities into his waking hours, and an individuality which bristles like a porcupine the minute you try to dictate to it.

Like Gramp Wiggins, his expectancy of life may not be as great as that of a younger man, but you can gamble one thing about both of them: as long as they live they’ll be very much alive, and they’ll keep on living until they die.

So with this book I make a bow to Wood Whitesell and an acknowledgement that — but no, Gramp Wiggins won’t let me say anything that will detract from his personality.

E. S. G.

Jane Graven — Efficient and long-suffering secretary to Ralph G. Pressman, she got herself in a situation not covered by the office rulebook.

George Karper — Ruthless and self-assured, the owner of the Independent Acres Subdivision Company was convinced that every man had his price.

Hugh Sonders — A taciturn, hard-working rancher, he suddenly discovered that he would have to fight for what was already his.

Everett True — Crusading editor of the Petrie Herald , he faced more than he’d bargained for, after the hottest story of the year broke in his county.

Sophie Pressman — Beautiful and calculating, Pressman’s wife had a way of getting just what she wanted and sometimes more than she deserved.

Harvey Stanwood — Bookkeeper and auditor for Pressman, his matinee-idol looks masked a brain that worked as smoothly as the keys on a cash register — and with the same results.

Eva Raymond — Woman-about-town who knew that life was a gamble, she was willing to wager everything she had.

Frank Duryea — District attorney for Santa Delbarra County, too often he found himself one jump behind a certain lively gentleman.

Milred Duryea — The good-humored, understanding wife of the district attorney, she was the go-between when relations between her husband and grandfather became strained.

Gramp Wiggins — World traveller, celebrated cook, cocktail-maker supreme, and amateur sleuth, he found one clue enough to unleash the bloodhound in him.

Pete Lassen — Sheriff of Santa Delbarra County, he knew that the outcome of the violent happenings in his county could mean defeat for him.

Pellman Baxter — Young broker and family friend of the Pressmans, he had trouble explaining just whose friend he was.

Harry Borden — A big, cat-footed deputy sheriff, he discovered that shadowing an elderly gentleman could lead to surprising consequences.

Richard Milton — Fiery and eloquent opposition candidate for district attorney, he pulled no punches in his efforts to defeat Frank Duryea.

Jane Graven, secretary to Ralph G. Pressman, sat at the dressing-table, surveying her reflection with a critical eye. It had been a hard day at the office. Ralph Pressman had disappeared abruptly in the middle of the afternoon, without telling anyone where he was going. He had been doing that quite frequently of late, and Jane Graven had been left with a hundred and one loose threads dangling, and no idea of where the boss was, when he was coming back, or how she might reach him.

But the boss, bad as he was, wasn’t as much of a problem as his wife. Sophie Pressman could make life very, very irritating for her husband’s employees, and Jane Graven saw in the reflected image of her face little lines of worry and nerve strain that shouldn’t have been there.

Her telephone rang.

Jane frowned, looked at the clock. It was almost eleven. She hesitated a moment before picking up the receiver, saying, “Hello.”

A woman’s voice said: “I have a long-distance call for Miss Jane Graven. Is this she?”

“Yes,” Jane said. “Who is calling, please?”

“It’s long-distance from Petrie, California. Hold the phone, please... Here’s your party. Deposit sixty cents, please.”

Jane heard the sound of two quarters and a dime tinkling the bells at the other end of the line, heard the girl say: “Go ahead, please.”

Jane said, “Hello.”

There was no answer. Abruptly, the line went dead. The operator said, “Just a minute, please.” A few moments later the operator’s voice, sounding very puzzled, said: “I’m sorry, but your party has hung up. He doesn’t answer the phone. It’s in a pay station at the Petrie Hotel.”

“Did he,” Jane asked, “give his name?”

“Yes. Ralph G. Pressman.”

Jane sat up for another hour, waiting for Mr. Pressman to call. Then she switched out the light, and finally got to sleep.

Up in Petrie, the man who was calling Jane left the telephone booth hurriedly as he saw a familiar face in the lobby. He dared not wait to talk on his call. Leaving the hotel, he drove several miles out of town to a disreputable, unpainted cabin, where he had one of the few really good night’s rests he had enjoyed in months.

George Karper believed that every man had his price, but Karper never paid the asking price. He always waited until the man he wanted could be had at a bargain.

Now at 11.15 P.M. George Karper sat at his desk. Before him was a file of confidential reports on Harvey L Stanwood, Ralph Pressman’s cashier, auditor, and general right-hand man.

Those reports covered a period of three months. They had been compiled at some expense and with infinite attention to detail.

Karper’s particular interest was not in Stanwood, but in a complicated oil-lease situation which the Pressman interests were pushing through to completion in the Petrie area in Santa Delbarra County, a hundred miles up the coast.