The Case of the Smoking Chimney

Chapter 12

Frank Duryea, the district attorney of Santa Delbarra County, kicked his shoes off and lay back on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head, watching his wife with affectionate pride in his eyes.

Milred Duryea, some five years younger than her husband, tall, slender, tolerant, sat in front of the mirror at the dressing-table, rubbing creams into her face with the tips of long, pliable fingers.

“Don’t do that,” she said, over her shoulder.

“What?” her husband asked.

“Settle down there on the bed. You’ll go to sleep. Get up and take your clothes off.”

Duryea said amiably: “Some of them are already off. I have made a great concession to the bedroom conventions. I have removed my shoes.”

“You’ll go to sleep there, and I’ll have to undress you myself.”

The district attorney yawned. “A very interesting thought. Undressing seemed such a chore, I thought I’d rest for a minute. Now you suggest the delightful possibility that I might drift off to sleep and wake up to find myself neatly tucked into bed.”

“I’d skin your clothes off wrong side out,” she threatened.

“I know; but, being a dutiful wife, and a good housekeeper, you couldn’t bear to let them stay that way. You’d turn them back right side out again and put them on the hangers in the closet.”

“And your love letters would fall out of your coat pocket,” she said.

“How little you know of the legal mind,” he said. “I burn my love letters as fast as I get them.”

“Have you no sentiment?”

“Not in regard to love letters. When you’ve practised law as long as I have, and heard as many love letters read to juries in that patient, dreary monotone with which an opposing attorney discusses matters of sentiment— No, my darling, not love letters.”

“Not even mine?”

“You never wrote me any.”

“Well, you never wrote me any.”

“That legal training again.”

Milred removed the surplus cream on a soft towel, then wiped off her hands. “Come on. Get started,” she ordered.

“I can’t,” Duryea said, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m thinking of love letters — read in court. ‘My dear darling,’” he recited in a flat, expressionless voice, “‘you have no idea how much I miss you. My body cries out for the touch of your tender caress. The haunting memory of your lips pressed against mine makes my heart beat more quickly. When I first clasped your body, so soft and pliable, in my arms, and—’”

“Oh, I know!” his wife exclaimed triumphantly, pouncing upon him and depositing her weight so that his legs were imprisoned. She began tickling the bottoms of his feet.

The district attorney tried to continue declaiming his love letter, but his words became more rapid and higher-pitched. Abruptly he broke off in nervous laughter, doubling up his knees, trying to push her off his legs.

She clung to him, working on the bottoms of his feet.

“I surrender,” the district attorney of Santa Delbarra County yelled. “Absolute, unconditional surrender!”

She ceased her ministrations. “Off with them,” she ordered.

Duryea slid his legs over the bed, unbuttoned his vest. “A very dirty trick, I call it,” he said. “Distinctly unprofessional. With the ratio of divorces constantly on the increase—”

“What is it?” she asked, as he broke off to listen, his head held slightly on one side.

“I thought,” he said, “I heard a car come up the driveway and stop.”

“A car?”

“A car,” he insisted. “A very disreputable car with a decrepit motor.”

“Gramps!” she exclaimed.

“It is, of course, within the bounds of dire possibility. I have accustomed myself to earthquakes, have even geared myself to anticipate the possibility of an enemy invasion. Airplane bombings and gas attacks are part of the everyday hazards of life, but your grandfather, my dear, is a special calamity reserved for—”

A cracked, quavering horn, having some of the qualities of a phonograph record which is about half run down, made raucous noise.

“It is Gramps!” Milred Duryea exclaimed.

The district attorney buttoned his vest, reached down for his shoes.

Milred dashed to the closet for a robe.

“The time?” she asked.

“Ten-forty-eight,” her husband announced. “The advent of the calamity is now duly noted for posterity.”

She said, “You’re dressed. Go to the back door and get him to lay off that infernal horn. Tell him we know he’s here.”

“Wait a minute,” Duryea said. “I think I hear steps outside the window.”

A moment later a high-pitched voice called through the Venetian blinds. “Hello, folks. Guess who this is.”

Frank Duryea said sternly: “There is no necessity to guess. No friend would drive such a disreputable motor. You are, therefore, a relative. No Duryea ever sported such an out-of-tune, thoroughly raucous, run-down horn. That means it’s a Wiggins, one of my wife’s relatives.”

“Yep,” Gramp Wiggins chuckled, “that’s me... Don’t aim to disturb you folks none. Got my house trailer outside. Going to roll in, but thought I’d have a hot toddy first. Didn’t intend to let you know I was here until morning, but I saw the light in the bedroom and thought you might like a snort.”

“The occasion,” Duryea proclaimed, “calls for stimulant — definitely. Your last visit all but ruined my chances of re-election. Heavens knows what will happen this time.”

“Now you look here, young fellow,” Gramps said. “I’m not going to interfere none this time. I know the way you feel about having me butt in on your office, so you just set your mind easy on that score. I’m pulling out before noon... Just dropped by to say hello... How about it, Frank? You want to join me in a snifter?”

“You’re darned right I want a snifter,” Frank said. “I need it. I had even craved it before I heard your coffee mill. But you should ask Milred first.”

Gramp Wiggins’ voice sounded hurt, and it was impossible for the district attorney to tell whether the old man was stringing him along or whether he really was insulted. “What are you talkin’ about? Ask Milred if she wants a toddy! She’s a Wiggins ain’t she? Nobody ever needs to ask a Wiggins when there’s a hot toddy bein’ brewed. You take the assent of a Wiggins for granted. It’s only these damn Yankees that have to be asked... All right, you folks be out in five minutes, and she’ll be ready.”

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.”

Milred gave him her hand, said: “Do come over here and sit down, Mr. Gentry. We’re just welcoming Gramps, and having a nightcap.”

Gentry cleared his throat nervously, seated himself by the side of Milred Duryea.

Gramps poured out hot toddies and said: “Now take it easy, folks. When I make a hot toddy, I mean she’s hot... Here’s regards.”

Three spoons dipped tentatively into the mixture. Three faces showed varying expressions. Milred registered surprise, Duryea downright satisfaction. The constable from Petrie seemed just a little less worried. The sharp lines of his face relaxed for a moment into a smile. “What’s in that?” he asked.

Duryea laughed. “Don’t ask him. It’s a secret.”

“Four kinds of liquor,” Gramps said, “blended in just the right proportions, and then a few leaves of a certain herb... That herb’s what gives it that little pungent flavour. Mix it with the lemon peel, and it tickles your palate at the same time it gives you a full-bodied taste of real satisfaction.”

Gentry said: “It certainly hits the spot. I’ve been worried about developments up my way tonight, and thought I’d better drive down and have a talk with you and the sheriff... Sort of a strain taking a drive all by yourself. At night, thataway. Got to feeling sorta jumpy. This just hits the spot!”

Gramps looked at him searchingly, said significantly: “When a man takes a drink of this, he can’t worry about nothin’ — jus’ don’t give a damn.”

“You don’t look as though you ever worried about much,” Gentry said enviously.

“Don’t,” Gramps announced laconically. “Used to, but quit. Only way for a man to go through life is to feel like a cat. Let ’em throw you up in the air and you’ll light on your feet. When you feel you can do that, you just don’t give a damn what happens.”

“You said this was your father?” Gentry asked Milred.

“Grandfather,” she said.

Gentry stared in surprise from Gramps to Mrs. Duryea.

“Careful now,” warned the district attorney, laughing.

Gentry scratched the greying hair over his left ear, said lamely: “Well, he doesn’t look like anybody’s grandfather.”

Duryea laughed.

Milred said: “You couldn’t have put it more tactfully.”

Gentry said to the district attorney: “Could I see you for a moment, Mr. Duryea?”

“Can’t you talk right here?” Duryea asked. “Or is it real private?”

“No, it’s not real private... That’s the trouble with it. It’s too darned public.”

“Well, go ahead. What is it?”

“You know something of the trouble we’ve been having up our way.”

“Over those oil rights?”

“Yes.”

“I thought the court had settled that,” Duryea said.

“Well, you know how it is. You take a farmer and start tramping down his crops, and you’re going to have a fight on your hands. I don’t care whether it’s the law, or whether it ain’t the law. If it is the law— Well, that’s what starts revolutions.

“Of course, I can see the other side of the thing. Those oil rights were reserved, and everybody knew they were reserved. Nobody just paid any attention to ’em, that’s all. Everybody thought that if the folks that had the oil rights wanted to come on the land and prospect, they’d have to pay for the drilling and any crops they destroyed, have to buy roads and all that sort of thing... The farmers figured they’d stick ’em enough for right of way, derrick space, and crop damage, so it would amount to about the same thing in the long run as though they didn’t have any oil rights. And no one ever figured there was any oil in that part of the country, anyway.”

Duryea nodded.

“Well, feeling’s running pretty high,” Gentry said, “and it seems like this man, Pressman, may have tried to pull a fast one and got caught at it... That’s going to make trouble.”

“What did he do?” Duryea asked.

“Well, we ain’t absolutely plumb certain yet, but certain enough so Everett True, the editor of the Petrie Herald, is going to run a story about it in the morning, and when that paper hits the streets, there’s going to be hell to pay... Pardon me, ma’am, that slipped out.”

“It’s all right,” Milred said, smiling.

“What is it?” Duryea asked.

“Well, it seems like there’s some kind of a poker game going on out there. Some of that country that Pressman has the oil rights on is mighty good citrus land. Some of it is pretty well improved with buildings, orchards and all that... Now then, if he starts puttin’ in roads an’ derricks, it’s going to make things pretty bad. My idea is you’d just about have to call out the militia when he did it. But the people out there are law-abiding, and they’d buy him out if he’d make ’em any reasonable sort of an offer. Now it looks as though he’s dickering around and maybe getting ready to sell out. A lot depends on what he finds in that test well he’s putting down. The rumour is that the test well’s gone deep enough already, so he knows just about what he’s got; but you can’t find out one single thing about the well.”

Duryea nodded.

“Tom Howser,” Gentry went on, “is sort of organizing all the farmers out that way, getting ’em all together, and having secret sessions, figuring just how much each man is willing to pay to get rid of the cloud on his property; then putting the thing in a pool and doing a little horse trading.

“Some man that’s got a good orange orchard with maybe a fifteen- or twenty-thousand-dollar house on his property, barns, warehouses, and all that, might be willing to pay fifty or seventy-five dollars an acre to get the cloud removed. Some other fellow with a little place wouldn’t pay so much, but he might pay four or five dollars an acre... Well, suppose Howser gets the whole thing pooled together and finds he’s got three or four hundred thousand dollars. Well, then he goes to Pressman and starts playing poker, tells him the oil rights ain’t worth anything, didn’t cost him much, that he’s willing to pay seventy-five thousand to clear the whole thing up, and then they start working up.”

Duryea said: “And Pressman, on the other hand, is also doing horse-trading. He’s trying to make them believe he’s got a good showing of oil in that test well. No one will know whether he has or not.”

“That’s exactly it,” Gentry said. “Now then, nobody out our way knows Pressman. He’s just a name so far as our community is concerned. But a week or so ago, a man bought out one of the small chicken ranches here. This man was named Jack Reedley... This afternoon Hugh Sonders got a straight tip that Reedley was really Pressman who had bought the property just to see what the owners had in mind. What makes it look a little more reasonable that way is that when we looked it up, we found the sale never went through escrow. The man who owned the place just took his dough, signed a deed, and moved out all at once.”

“How did Sonders get the tip?” Duryea asked.

“Well, we’re not certain, but we think that George Karper picked it up somewhere. Karper’s in Los Angeles. He’s got big holdings near Petrie; seems like he was just ready to put on a subdivision. Had everything ready to go.”

“And Karper gave Sonders that tip?” Duryea asked.

“We don’t know. That’s just a guess, but, anyway, Sonders got that tip. He showed up at the Herald office, and Everett True clapped on his hat, and the two of them went sailing out to Reedley’s place.”

“What happened?” Duryea asked.

“Reedley wouldn’t let ’em in. He barricaded the doors and windows, and pulled the shades down, refused to see ’em, wouldn’t answer questions, just stayed in there and sulked... You can figure that out. Not only wouldn’t he let them see his face, but he wouldn’t let them hear his voice... Well, Everett True has been checking around getting all the information he could, and he came to the idea that it is true, that Reedley was really Pressman. He’s going to publish the thing in the morning. He isn’t going to stick his neck out too far, but he is going to state that the property owners, who have organized this protective and mutual association under Howser, are going to make the claim that Reedley is really Pressman.”

“When’s that paper coming out?” Duryea inquired.

“Tomorrow morning. That’s what I wanted to see you about. I had a talk with the sheriff, and he said I’d better get in touch with you to see what the law is.”

“Law on what?”

“I want to get a good strong organization of deputies out there and be ready to do something. If Reedley is really Pressman — well, there’s going to be trouble, lots of trouble.”

“How many deputies do you want?” Duryea asked.

“I reckon as how I oughta have fifty of ’em.”

“Well, go ahead. Appoint them.”

“That there’s the trouble,” Gentry said. “Pressman, perhaps, is within his rights, but he’s from Los Angeles, and he’s a slicker. There ain’t nobody out our way wants to get deputized and then have to shoot at the home folks so this slicker will be safe to keep on trimming people... And one of these days I’ve got to get re-elected — an’ so have you.”

Duryea thought that over. At length he said: “I’ll tell you what you do. Get out there early in the morning before the paper is distributed, and before the property owners have a chance to organize. Go call on Reedley. If he turns out to be Pressman, tell him what he’s up against. Tell him that you’re willing to take him into protective custody on some minor traffic charge or something of that sort.”

“But s’pose he doesn’t want to?”

“Then,” Duryea said, “it’s up to him. We’ll do the best we can, but we won’t do anything until after a mob starts forming. We’ll try to stop any violence, but we won’t be placed in the position of giving Pressman a bodyguard... That would be my idea. How does it strike you?”

“It strikes me swell,” Gentry said. “I’ll just go out there in the morning and put it to him cold turkey. If he wants me to arrest him so he’ll be in technical custody for his own protection, I’ll bring him down to the county seat.”

“That’s all right,” Duryea said. “We can take care of the situation, and no Petrie mob will do anything once we get him down here.”

Gentry picked up his hat off his lap, got to his feet, bowed awkwardly to Mrs. Duryea and Gramps, said to the district attorney: “Well, thanks. That’s pretty good advice. I’ve got to be getting back to my job. Almost anything may happen out there, and I’ve got to be on the job.”

Duryea escorted him to the door. “Remember, according to the letter of the law, Pressman is right. The court has decided that injunction case in Pressman’s favour.”

“I know,” Gentry said, “but you just can’t take land away from a rancher. You can’t start pulling out fruit trees or trampling down crops. I’m telling you, Mr. Duryea, it can’t be done... Well, good night, everybody, and thanks, Mr. Wiggins, for that hot toddy. It certainly helped... Maybe you’ll be out my way one of these days.”

“Maybe,” Gramps agreed with staccato eagerness. “Can’t tell. I get around quite a bit... Gettin’ interested. Might be out there almost any time.”

Gentry closed the door.

Gramps turned to Duryea. “Ain’t that interesting?”

“It’s an interesting legal complication,” Duryea said.

“No, no. I mean the idea that Pressman is playin’ poker with ’em on this oil well. Wouldn’t it be a slick stunt to get hold of the log of that oil well and find out what she actually was doing? There’d be some information that’d be valuable. That’d be a nice piece of detective work.”

Duryea said sternly: “Now listen, you old reprobate. You’re filled to the gills with mystery and adventure. You don’t realize the temper of the people. In many ways you can’t blame them. In other ways they’re culpable. They took their own interpretation of that reservation in the deed, without ever taking the trouble to find out what it really did mean. Simply because there had never been any trouble over it, they considered it as meaning little more than though there’d been a reservation for a telephone or a power line across the property... They should have looked it up before they invested money in the property.”

Gramps might not have heard the district attorney. “Doggone me,” he said, “wouldn’t that be a swell piece of detective work!”

Duryea shook his head at Milred. “I’m afraid,” he said, “your grandfather is about to become a jailbird.”

Gramps grinned. “Now, you listen to me, Frank Duryea. No one ain’t ever caught me in anything yet.”

Duryea stretched and yawned. “We’re on our way to bed, Gramps. Make yourself comfortable. We’ll leave the back door unlocked... And don’t get up too all-fired early.”

Gramps said: “I won’t make no noise when I get up. Good night.”