The Case of the Smoking Chimney

Chapter 14

It was nearing nine o’clock as the county car slowed down for the main street of Petrie.

“Know where this Reedley cabin is?” Duryea asked the sheriff.

The sheriff said: “As I understand it, it’s the old Dingman place. Just a little chicken ranch affair. A couple of acres up on the edge of the mesa country. If it hadn’t been for this oil stuff, it wouldn’t be worth paying taxes on. A little shack about a hundred feet from the road back in some eucalyptus trees.”

The road wound through the last of the orchard land, marginal territory in which stunted trees with pale, anaemic leaves were in marked contrast to the rich full green of the lower lands. Then the soil gave way to rocks and sagebrush and bits of greasewood with here and there a cleared patch of hay land.

“Those eucalyptus trees over there,” the sheriff said.

They slowed for the turn-off where a dirt road took off from the pavement.

“That’s the place all right,” the sheriff said. “See the automobiles parked there in the trees?”

The dirt road widened into a yard surrounded by tall eucalyptus trees. The yard itself was completely and utterly disreputable. There were old piles of scrap lumber, chicken coops patched together out of odds and ends, several chicken houses made of old, unpainted lumber, roofed with rusted tin which had evidently been hammered out of five-gallon oil cans and tacked together to form an excuse for roofing. All around the yard were chicken droppings and chicken feathers, and that unmistakable odour associated with chicken coops.

Reedley’s house was in keeping with the rest of the place, a shack building which had evidently been built a bit at a time. Starting with one room, it had had two rooms added. The building was devoid of paint — old, weather-beaten and dilapidated.

A group of men gathered into a compact little knot were talking under the trees. The sheriff swung his car over toward them, saying to the district attorney: “Guess you know all these people. Deputy coroner. Deputy sheriff... That slim chap talking with Gentry is the editor of the Herald... Hello, folks.”

They crowded around the car, shaking hands, making comments.

“Well, boys,” the sheriff said at length, “what about it?”

Gentry, the constable, said: “I think you’d better hear Everett True’s story, Sheriff.”

True stepped importantly forward. As editor of the Petrie Herald, he had a certain position in the community, and he was, quite apparently, jealous of that position. He was a tall, middle-aged man with high forehead, burning, intense eyes, and a rapid manner of speech. Quick in his actions and accurate in his perceptions, he had quite evidently rehearsed his story in his mind, reducing it to the bare essentials.

“Hugh Sonders came into the office about four-thirty yesterday afternoon,” he told the sheriff. “He had a tip that Reedley was Pressman. Wouldn’t tell me where he’d got it... At first I was sceptical; then as I investigated, I began to think there might be something to it. The more I checked, the more plausible the whole thing seemed. I hadn’t been able to get a photograph of Pressman, but I did have a pretty fair description. I had written an editorial in the form of a question asking whether Pressman thought there was oil in the property and was making a good-faith attempt to develop it, or whether he was merely seeking legalized blackmail from the people who had built up this community by hard work and self-denial.

“We decided to go call on Reedley, and I thought it would be a good idea to pull a proof of this editorial, show it to Pressman — if that’s who Reedley turned out to be — and use his comments as the basis of a story.

“I showed Sonders the editorial. He thought it wasn’t nearly strong enough. The way he felt influenced me somewhat. I made some changes — interlineations, and the change of a word here and there, and gave it to Sonders to look over. Sonders read the proof of the editorial and talked it over with me while we were driving out. I intended to take a photograph if I could, and had a small candid camera concealed in my hip pocket. It was arranged that Sonders would hand him the proof-sheet of the editorial, and, while he was reading it, I’d get out my candid camera and try for a shot.

“Sonders and I arrived here about five o’clock. As I was driving into a parking place under the eucalyptus trees, Sonders saw a shade being jerked down. We noticed then that all the shades had been lowered. That made us believe Reedley really was Pressman, that he had an idea of what we wanted and why we were coming, and had jerked down the shades when he saw us turn in at the driveway.

“Naturally, I was somewhat excited. Sonders was, too. He pointed out that there were two doors to the house, that in order to keep our man from walking out on us, we’d each take a door. I went to the back door, Sonders went to the front. We knocked, then kicked at the doors and started calling out. We couldn’t get any answer.”

“But you’re certain he was home?” the sheriff asked.

“Yes. The man who was inside at one time approached the front door. Sonders could hear him plainly. He thought perhaps the man intended to shoot. He was rather frightened. I know exactly how he felt. I had a similar experience. I heard someone moving around on the inside of the house, heard cautious steps coming toward the back door where I was standing and knocking. Then there was a minute or two of tense silence. I could feel the man standing there on the other side of the door... I tell you it was a creepy feeling. Then the man walked away. I heard the boards creak, and the sound of his steps across the floor. I called out to him: ‘I am from the newspaper. I simply want to ask you a few questions.’ “

“Get any answer?” the sheriff asked.

“Not a word.”

“Hear him moving around any after that?”

“Once or twice in the front part of the house. That was when he was debating whether to open the door for Sonders, I guess. I suppose the man merely wanted to get out without being questioned or photographed. That’s the logical explanation, of course, but I had the feeling he was standing there with a gun, debating whether to shoot me through the door. The strange thing is that Sonders said he felt exactly the same way when the man walked toward the front door... Of course, if we hadn’t covered both exits, he’d have simply gone out the back door when we started pounding on the front door... You can imagine how he must have felt — if he was Pressman. He undoubtedly knew me by sight. When he saw Sonders and me drive up, he realized his deception wasn’t going to work, that he’d be held up to ridicule and censure as a cheap trickster. It wouldn’t help his case in the courts any. I almost believe he’d have killed us if he felt he could have got away with it.”

Duryea said: “A man wouldn’t kill you just to avoid publicity.”

“I know. It isn’t logical — but you should have heard the ominous steps, the slow creaking of the boards... It gave me the creeps.”

“Then what?” Duryea asked.

“After several minutes — I don’t know just how many minutes — I decided I’d better have a talk with Sonders. I saw we weren’t getting anywhere. Perhaps I was a little frightened. I walked back around the house. Sonders was still pounding on the front door. We tried the front door then, and it was locked. He wanted to know if I’d tried the back door, and I told him no, I’d simply pounded on it. He suggested that I go back and try it. I didn’t have nerve enough. I kept remembering the ominous way that man approached the back door and then paused.”

“Could you tell how far he was from the back door?” the sheriff asked.

“I’d say not over six or seven feet. You could hear him walking toward the door — just as though he intended to open it, or as though he was debating whether to start shooting. To tell you the truth, Sheriff, I was badly frightened. It was just a little more grim realism than I’d bargained for.”

The sheriff looked around the little knot of silent, interested spectators, spotted a bronzed, taciturn individual with steady blue eyes, a grimly determined mouth. “You’re Sonders, aren’t you?” he asked.

“That’s right, Sheriff.”

“Thought I recognized you. You were on a jury once.”

“That’s right.”

“You don’t know Pressman?”

“I’ve never met him. He’s only a name to me. I’ve never been able to meet him. I’ve tried repeatedly. He won’t see me.”

“You’ve never met this man Reedley?”

“No.”

“Where did you get the tip that Reedley was Pressman?” Sonders’ lips clamped shut even more definitely. He shook his head silently.

“Come on,” the sheriff said. “We should know that, Sonders.”

“I’m sorry,” Sonders said in a tone of complete finality. “It’s information that I can’t give you.”

“Why?”

Sonders started to say something, and once more shook his head. “I can’t even tell you that.”

“You came out here with True?”

“That’s right.”

“And you took the front door and True the back?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re certain someone was in the house?”

“Quite certain. In the first place, I saw the shades being lowered as we drove into the yard. The last shade came down just as True was driving his automobile into a parking place under the trees here. I took the front door, True the back. We pounded on the doors and raised all the commotion we could. You could hear a man moving around in there just like a caged animal... And I’d have bet all the tea in China that man had a gun and was debating whether or not to use it.”

“Why,” the sheriff asked, “should he have wanted to shoot? Suppose he was Pressman, and you were calling on him. He knew the jig was up, that his real identity was going to be revealed, and his little scheme wasn’t going to do him any good... But still that’s no reason why he should shoot.”

“I don’t know,” Sonders said. “You can’t prove it, by me, unless a theory I have accounts for it. All I know is that from the way that man inside the house was walking around, the way he came and stood in front of the door and paused, not close enough to the door to have reached the knob, yet close enough so that— Well, I just know darn well he was standing in there holding a gun pointing at the door, and trying to get up his nerve to pull the trigger. That’s just the way I felt.”

“And it’s just the way I felt,” True said. “There was something sinister about the way that man acted. I had counted on some blustering, some hostility, but not anything quite like that.”

“What’s this theory of yours?” the sheriff asked Sonders.

Sonders said: “We know Pressman was a crook, a legal sharper, but that was his moral calibre just the same. Now the man may have resorted to some trickery in connection with this oil business we know nothing about — and when he saw us come tearing up to the house, thought we’d discovered his secret... The old story of his conscience betraying him.”

“Where’s this editorial?” the sheriff asked.

True grinned. “We got so scared we—”

“No, True,” Sonders interrupted. “I found it this morning in my inside coat pocket. I’d have sworn I never put it there. Guess I was plenty excited — thought we’d lost it for a while. True had some stuff written in there... Well, you can see for yourself.”

The sheriff took the folded paper, a typical long narrow sheet of galley proof. “You had this in your hand when you came up to the house here, yesterday? I mean, could he have seen it looking out the window?”

“That’s right. I was holding it in my right hand. My idea was to push it right out at him, first thing, and then let True get his picture — as early in the game as we could... I didn’t know how long the interview would last.”

The sheriff glanced at the paper.

“If you don’t mind,” True said, “I’d like that back. It’s got some changes we worked out... Oh, well, I won’t use the editorial now, anyway. It doesn’t make any difference. Keep it.”

“Anything to indicate the time the shooting took place?” the sheriff asked Gentry, turning to the constable.

“Sometime after dark,” Gentry replied. “The oil lamp is burning and the shades are pulled all the way up — just the way things are now. I didn’t touch anything.”

“What time did you get here?” Duryea asked.

“Right around seven o’clock when we got here.”

“What did you find?”

“Things are exactly the way I found them. We haven’t touched a thing, except that I did use a pass-key to get the front door open — which was no trick at all. It’s just a simple mortise lock of the cheapest type.”

“You knew something was wrong before you opened the door?” the sheriff asked.

“Sure. You can look through that window — the one on the porch to the right of the door. You can look right into the room and see the whole thing.”

Gentry put his hand in his pocket. “Here’s somethin’ I found on the porch. Don’t know as it means anything.” He handed the sheriff a compact.

Duryea and the sheriff studied it. “Sterling silver,” Duryea said, “initials ‘E. R.’ engraved on it... Where was it, Gentry?”

“Right there by the front door. Looked like it had been dropped hard, powder had spilled out on the boards of the porch, and the mirror’s broken... Lot of perfume in that powder.”

The sheriff put the compact in his pocket. “The young woman who dropped that is going to have bad luck for seven years,” he said, and then added grimly, “and that’s not just a gag.”

Duryea turned to True. “What did you and Sonders do after no one came to the door in response to your knocking? Did you leave the place, or did you keep trying to find out more about the person who was in there?”

“No. We didn’t stick around... Of course, Sheriff, this man may have committed suicide. There are plenty of things that point that way.”

Pete Lassen looked at Duryea, said: “How about it, Frank? Think we’d better go in now?”

Duryea nodded.

True said: “Sonders and I drove to Los Angeles right after we left here. We ascertained that Pressman hadn’t been in his office all day. I checked up on that description of Pressman I had, and we came back.”

“What time did you get back here?”

“Oh, I guess it was around midnight when we pulled in, wasn’t it, Hugh?”

“Right around there.”

“And decided to run the story?” Duryea asked.

“That’s right. I had picked up a little more corroborating evidence down in Los Angeles, and I was pretty well convinced there was foundation for this story... Of course, I was going to use it as an interview with Hugh, let him make the accusation, and merely report the interview. Ostensibly, I was going to keep the newspaper in the position of being a neutral party, willing to give equal space to both sides. But the headlines on this morning’s paper will really attract attention. They go clean across the front page... Biggest type I’ve got in the place.”

“Did you actually get an interview from Sonders, or did you just make up a story?”

“No. He got the interview,” Sonders said, “and believe me, he handled it just like an interview, asked me questions, took down my answers on the typewriter, read it all over to me, and finally had me sign it.”

“I knew this was going to be hotter than a stove lid, and I took the steps to protect myself,” True explained. “Naturally, I wasn’t going to get the paper involved in a libel suit if I could help it, and if I did have a libel suit, I was going to be in such a position I could publish a retraction and a statement that I’d been acting in good faith.”

“What time did you leave the newspaper office?” Duryea asked Sonders.

“I waited until the paper was put to bed, and then I went out with True, and we had a drink or two. After that, I went to bed.”

“What time?”

“What time do you put the paper to bed, True?” Sonders asked.

“It was right around three o’clock this morning.”

“And you,” Duryea asked Gentry, “what do you know?”

“Only that I came out here this morning, pounded on the door, got no answer, took a look through the window — just casually, the way a person will sometimes — and saw this body lying on the floor, the lamp still burning, although it had been broad daylight for an hour or more.”

“Well,” the sheriff said, “I guess we’d better go in. How about it, Frank?”

Frank nodded.

“I’ll show you around the place,” Gentry said importantly.

“Okay, the rest of you boys better keep out of the way,” the sheriff said. “We may want to do a little lookin’ around. We’ll want lots of elbow room.”

They walked up on the porch. The rest of the group trooped up behind them, and then stood at the window, watching the investigation being carried on by the officials.

Duryea had never quite accustomed himself to viewing the bodies of men who had met death by violence with that calm, professional detachment which is supposed to characterize enforcement officers.

This body lay sprawled on the floor, with the right arm far extended, the hand doubled into a fist. The other arm was bent at a peculiar angle, the fingers still clutching the butt of a heavy, long-barrelled revolver. On a table by the corpse, a mantle-type oil lamp burned dimly. One side of the chimney as well as of the incandescent mantle was badly smoked.

The interior of the house was in strange contrast to the slovenly exterior. Plainly furnished, the place was neat and clean. The body was clothed in dirty overalls, pull-on boots, an old coat very much the worse for wear, and a faded blue work shirt. A red and white check cloth which had evidently been used as a tablecloth had been placed over the head. Gentry drew back this cloth.

Duryea gave one look, then turned away in quick horror.

The sheriff bent down to examine the man more closely.

“Pretty hard to make much of an identification now,” he said. “The top of the head is just about blown off. What kind of a gun is that, Gentry?”

“A Colt. It’s labelled ‘New Service 44–40’. It has a seven and a half inch barrel, and shoots a steel-jacketed, soft-nosed bullet with high-velocity, smokeless powder. It sure does a lot of execution.”

The sheriff said: “Not only the bullet, but the powder gases, did a lot of damage... What’s this paper over here?”

The sheriff indicated a piece of paper suspended by a pin from the back of a chair.

“Read it,” Gentry said laconically.

They moved over to study the sheet of paper — a plain sheet of writing paper, eight and a half by eleven, on which had been pasted words cut from a newspaper. These words formed a rather ambiguous message which read:

The words were in different sized type, as though they had been cut from headlines where the type was of different sizes.

Sheriff Lassen said: “That’s a hell of a suicide note.”

Duryea, studying the paper, pointed out: “Notice that it’s been cut from three portions of a newspaper. The words ‘seem hopelessly deadlocked’ came apparently from one headline. The words ‘can’t go farther in impoverished condition’ were apparently cut from another headline, although that headline had, in turn, been cut in two. The words ‘necessity of taking determined stand apparent’ are evidently from an entirely different part of the paper, perhaps a heading which was over an editorial. It’s a different type altogether from that used in the headlines.”

“That’s right,” the sheriff agreed.

“That makes three pieces that were cut from the paper,” Duryea said, “and then the words ‘can’t go farther in impoverished condition’ were evidently divided so they would string out in a line to form the one message.”

“Well,” the sheriff grunted, “I still claim it’s a hell of a suicide note.”

“It is, for a fact,” Duryea agreed. “There’s one interesting point about it.”

“What’s that?”

“If that note is genuine, the man isn’t Pressman. It talks about an ‘impoverished condition’. From all I can gather about Pressman’s business affairs, they’re very much in order, and he’s highly solvent.”

“Well,” Gentry observed, “you can’t ever tell about that. Lots of times those big men fall pretty hard. Sometimes the bigger you think they are, the harder they’ll crash.”

“That’s right,” the sheriff agreed.

“Somehow, I don’t place Pressman in that category,” Duryea said. “I suppose it’s occurred to you, Gentry, that these words might all have been cut from one newspaper?”

Gentry said: “We figured that out, Mr. Duryea, and we searched every inch of this cabin, trying to find the newspaper they were cut from. We can’t do it. That’s what makes it look like murder instead of suicide. What’s more, that’s a sheet of pretty good bond paper, regular typewriter size... Now, there ain’t a single sheet of that kind of paper anywhere in the house. We found a writing tablet and some stamped envelopes, but not a single sheet of that bond paper. That paper cost money.”

“You’ve gone through the place thoroughly?”

“Yes. We haven’t moved the body, and we haven’t touched that paper or anything you’ll want to fingerprint; but we’ve gone through the house, covering almost every inch of the place.”

“That lamp burning when you came in?” Duryea asked.

“Yes. We haven’t touched it.”

Duryea noticed that the men standing on the porch peering in through the window were shutting out a good part of the light. He turned somewhat impatiently, then checked his impatience with the realization that these were not mere curiosity seekers but men of some importance in the community, men such as Everett True, the editor of the Petrie Herald. He saw that he could raise the shade a few inches more at the top, and this would help the light situation. He moved toward the window, then stopped as he realized that one of the men who was standing with his face all but pressed against the window was none other than Gramp Wiggins.

Duryea pretended he hadn’t recognized Gramps, and let him hastily shuffle himself into a less prominent position.

The sheriff, noticing Duryea’s glance at the window, said: “How about pushing those shades up a few more inches, Gentry? It’ll improve the light situation.”

The constable raised the shades.

“How about identifying this body?” Duryea asked.

“I telephoned Pressman’s office. It wasn’t open, but long distance had a record of a night number to call in the event any important call should come in. I explained this was very important, and got a connexion with this number. It turned out to be that of a man named Stanwood who is the auditor and treasurer of the Pressman businesses. I told him I didn’t want to make any commotion,” Gentry said, somewhat apologetically. “I told him that the Petrie Herald was carrying the story that Reedley was Pressman, and that if that was true, he’d better send someone up here at once, because the man we knew as Reedley had been killed.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, Stanwood seemed very nice. He thanked me, but he certainly didn’t give me any information, just listened to what I said. But he did say he would get up here just as soon as he could possibly make it.”

“How long ago did you telephone him?”

“Same time I telephoned the sheriff.”

“He should be here now, then,” Duryea said, looking at his watch. “Let’s see. If you telephoned him—”

“I think he’s coming right now,” Gentry said as they heard the sound of a car coming to a stop outside the house. “I just got a glimpse of that automobile through the window,” Gentry went on. “It’s a high-powered outfit.”

Quick steps sounded on the porch. One of the spectators outside said: “Yep. They’re all in there. Go on in if they sent for you.”

Stanwood pushed open the door, stood looking about the place with an air of defiance, “Well,” he said. “What is it? Who wanted me?”

“You’re Stanwood?” Gentry asked.

“Yes,” Stanwood said. He looked at the body on the floor, then hastily turned his eyes back to Gentry. “Is this some sort of trap?” he asked. “Are you trying to get me to make some statement about Mr. Pressman’s business? If so, you’re wasting your time.”

“Did Pressman own this cabin?” the sheriff asked.

“You can search me. I’m paid to keep the books.”

“You mean even if he had owned it, you wouldn’t tell us?”

“I mean I’m paid to keep the books. Exactly what did you want?”

Pete Lassen indicated the body. “You’d better take a look at the features,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” Stanwood said. “I want to do that... Good heavens, is a shooting always as messy as this?”

“This was a pretty powerful revolver,” the sheriff said. “All right, Gentry, turn back that tablecloth.”

The constable turned back the tablecloth.

Stanwood tried to say something, but, for the moment, words wouldn’t come. He made a peculiar, inarticulate sound, cleared his throat, nodded his head, his face set in harsh lines of self-discipline.

“Yes, that’s Pressman... Let me out of here. I’m going to be ill.”