The Case of the Smoking Chimney

Chapter 15

Milred Duryea brought out her husband’s slippers, his pipe, and the sporting section of the afternoon newspaper.

“Hard day?” she asked.

Duryea settled down in the easy chair, slipped off his shoes, put on his slippers, unbuttoned coat and vest, and stretched his legs out on a cushioned stool.

“With service like this,” he announced, “even the really hard days seem like nothing at all.”

“Around here,” Milred told him, handing him his pipe and the humidor, “you rate.”

“Apparently I do.”

“How,” Milred asked, “did my grandfather get along? Did he behave himself?”

“Your grandfather,” Duryea admitted, “did very nicely. He confined his activities to peeping in windows and pumping witnesses. I never have seen his equal when it comes to getting information out of people. He’s so darn human. He breezes up to people, starts talking, and inside of a few minutes has them turned inside out. I’m willing to bet he knows as much or more about this killing than I do, right now... How old is he?”

“Good Lord,” Milred said, “I’ve given up trying to keep track. He isn’t old. He’s experienced, that’s all. You have the feeling that he’s like a seasoned old saddle that never will wear out.”

“Reason I asked,” Duryea said, stuffing tobacco down into his pipe, “is that he wears me out, and yet never turns a hair. He was trotting around out there asking questions, getting everyone talking with him. I’ve never seen anyone with so darn much energy and enthusiasm.”

“Probably that’s why he keeps young,” she said, pulling up a stool and seating herself so that her hands were clasped on the arm of his chair, her chin resting on her interlaced fingers. “Gramps has always been a law unto himself. Heaven knows what he’ll do. I’m terribly afraid he’ll cut loose with something sometime that will make things difficult for you. However, there’s one consolation. He won’t stay long.”

“Why?” Duryea asked. “Has he said something about leaving, other than that crack he made yesterday?”

“Oh, no. But he never stays long in one place. You can’t keep him anywhere. He rattles around the country in that trailer of his — gets a kick out of people, but only certain types of people. Says he doesn’t like the ones who have been poured into a mould. He wants the tough, salty characters which means, in case you don’t know it, bootleggers, peddlers, streetwalkers, hobos, prize fighters, trappers — oh, the darndest assortment you could imagine. You know what I mean.

“If he ever should bring someone here with him, it’s like as not to be a bank robber, or a bootlegger, or some tough old miner who’ll get drunk and want to shoot up the town. You can imagine the complications of our living in this neighbourhood with your position and—”

“Forget it,” Duryea interrupted. “Gramps is wild over mysteries, but he appreciates my responsibilities.”

“He really does respect you,” Milred admitted, “but he’s wild and unconventional. You can’t do anything with Gramps. He— Well, he’s never been tamed. That’s all. He was the black sheep in the family. I know my father just never could understand him, no matter how hard he tried.”

“Did Gramps understand your father?” Duryea asked.

She laughed, and said: “Gramps said he took after his mother’s side of the family. Grandmother got a divorce, you know. That suited Gramps right down to the ground. He was never intended to live in a home.”

Duryea relaxed to the first fragrant puffs of tobacco, took possession of one of his wife’s hands, stroked the fingers gently.

“Gramps eating with us?” he asked.

“Probably not. He doesn’t like civilized cooking, and he hates tablecloths... As far as that’s concerned, he may be headed for Alaska by this time, or—” She broke off to listen, then said: “No, I’m wrong again.”

The bark of a noisy motor and a series of unmistakable rattles indicated that Gramps’ house on wheels had once more pulled into the Duryea driveway.

Quick steps sounded on the back porch. A door pushed open, slammed shut, then steps came across the kitchen and through the dining-room.

“Prepare for the worst,” Milred said. “He sounds as though he had a new idea. At any rate, he’s bursting with something.”

“Hello. Hello,” Gramps called. “Where’s Frank?”

Duryea grinned at his wife. “Here,” he called.

Gramps came bustling into the room. “Whatcha doing?”

“Relaxing,” Milred said.

“Thinking over the murder?” Gramps asked. “I’ve been—”

Milred got to her feet. “Now you listen to me, Gramp Wiggins. You leave Frank alone. He’s entitled to some home life. He wants to relax and forget about murders.”

“Forget about murders!” Gramps shrilled. “One of the nicest, most gore-filled murders we’ve had in years, and you want him to forget about it!”

“Let him go.” Duryea grinned at his wife through a blue haze of tobacco smoke.

Gramps came walking quickly over toward the chair, reached in his hip pocket, and jerked out a gun.

Duryea, suddenly losing his complacency, pushed Milred to one side. “Hey!” he shouted. “Look out what you’re doing with that gun!”

Gramp Wiggins might not have heard him. He pushed the butt end of the gun into the hand of the startled district attorney.

“Come on now, son,” he said. “You’re committing a murder. Point the gun at me and pull the trigger. There ain’t any shells in it.”

Duryea broke the gun open, made certain that the cylinder was empty.

“Oh, Gramps,” Milred protested, “leave him alone! He’s had a hard day and he wants to rest.”

“Rest!” Gramps snorted. “You can’t rest your mind, only give it something new to think about. Anyhow, who wants to rest when there’s a chance to solve a murder case? Come on now, son, point the gun at me and pull the trigger.”

Duryea grinned at his wife. “Perhaps the best way to get rid of him is to kill him, at that,” he said jokingly, and raised the gun.

“No, no! Not there,” Gramps said. “At my head. Blow my brains out.”

“What’s the idea?” Duryea asked. “Do you want to see what it feels like to be a corpse?”

Gramps said earnestly: “I want you to see what it feels like to be a murderer.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. We won’t gain anything by that, Gramps.”

“That’s what you think. You do what I say, Frank Duryea. You point that gun at my head and pull the trigger. Go ahead now.”

“Let him have it,” Milred urged. “He’s a Wiggins, and no true Wiggins ever died in bed.”

Duryea said: “Any speech go with this, Gramps, or do I just pull the trigger?”

“You’d oughta make it sound realistic,” Gramps said. “Try and get yourself worked up so you’re mad about something.”

“Marvellous opportunity,” Milred urged, sotto voce. “Give him the works!”

Duryea lowered his feet from the leather footstool, raised himself up out of the chair, holding the gun, his eyes fixed sternly on Gramp Wiggins. “Should I,” he asked, “have the gun in my hand, or had I better put it in my pocket and pull it out?”

“Put it in your pocket and pull it out after you get mad,” Gramps said. “Try and get yourself really mad. Try and have a fight with me. Ain’t there something we can quarrel about — politics or naval strategy, or—”

Duryea said: “All right, you asked for this.” He levelled his finger accusingly at Gramps. “I’m sick and tired of the way you bust in on me when I’m trying to relax. Just because you get a big thrill out of murder mysteries, you think everyone else should become addicts. You think being a district attorney is like reading a detective magazine... I get so damn tired of crimes and criminals that when I come home I want to forget about them. You... you don’t ever get tired of anything. You just don’t ever get tired... You make good cocktails and you cook good food; but you park a disreputable damn house trailer in my driveway, you disturb my slumbers early in the morning, when I like to do some of my best sleeping, you ply my wife and me with liquor and make us drunk, you... you damned old reprobate. Shooting’s too good for you!”

“Now you’re goin’ to town, son!” Gramps said. “By gosh, you act like you really mean it! You’re doin’ some good acting. Stay right with it. Lay it on. Let’s have some more.”

“You come to town and invariably bring some sort of bad luck with you,” Duryea went on. “The last time you were here there was a murder case. You show up this time and start another one... Although it may be a suicide for all we know. But you—”

“Suicide, hell!” Gramps interrupted. “That’s what I’m tryin’ to show you. Go ahead. You’re mad enough now. Start shooting. Come on. Let me have it right in the head.”

Duryea said: “All right, you asked for this. I’m going to get rid of you once and for all.”

Duryea whipped his hand to his hip pocket, pulled out the revolver, levelled it at Gramp Wiggins’ head, said, “This will put you out of the way,” and pulled the trigger of the empty revolver.

Gramps grinned. “That’s the way, son. Now you’re whizzin’. Now you’re really goin’ places. I believe you really meant some of that... You missed me that time, son. Try again.”

“The hell I missed you,” Duryea said. “Here, get a load of this,” and clicked the trigger five times.

Gramp Wiggins lurched forward, swayed. His knees buckled. He fell down on the floor, groaned, rolled over on his back, and lay still.

“Gramps!” Milred said in alarm. “Gosh, Frank, it may be his heart. Perhaps the excitement—”

“Shut up,” Gramps said in his shrill, piping voice. “I’m acting a part. Don’t spoil it.”

“He’s a corpse,” the district attorney said.

“You’re dang right I’m a corpse,” Gramps announced. “Now then, you’re a murderer. How does it feel?”

“It feels swell,” Milred said. “Now we can take that trailer down to a parking lot... Or perhaps we aren’t the beneficiaries under his will. He wouldn’t have left any insurance—”

Gramps said: “Nope. Your husband’s goin’ to get convicted of first-degree murder. You’re goin’ to be a widow woman... Better try to make it look like suicide, son. Put the gun in my hand and make it look as though I’d shot myself. Come on now. Hurry up... Here’s somebody coming to the door! Make it snappy!”

Gramps lay flat on his back, his arms slightly outstretched, his eyes closed, simulating a corpse, giving rapid-fire directions, however, in his high-pitched, nervous voice.

“Nope, you ain’t quick enough,” Gramps said as Duryea hesitated. “You’ve got to be scared. Pretend you’re a police car, Milred, driving up in front. Scare him.”

Milred made a sound like a siren.

“Come on,” Cramps said to Duryea. “Get scared... Make heavy steps on the porch, Milred.”

Milred banged her feet on the floor. Grinning, Duryea leaned over Gramps, opened the fingers of the old man’s hand, shoved in the butt of the gun, and said: “There you are.”

Milred, making her voice sound gruff, said, in her best hardboiled manner to her husband: “Hey, you! What the hell’s coming off here?”

Duryea, almost whining, said: “Honest, officer, I didn’t do it! I didn’t have anything to do with it! I just came in here a few minutes ago and found the body lying on the floor, just the way you see it now. The poor old geezer wore himself out and committed suicide.”

“That’s what you say,” Milred gruffed, stamping her feet over to stand looking down at the supine Gramps. “How do I know you didn’t shoot him, and then stick the gun in his hand?

“No, no,” Duryea said. “He committed suicide, officer. He suddenly realized how much sleep he’d made people lose, and he killed himself.”

Milred said: “Gimme a cigarette, buddy.”

Duryea handed her one.

“Hell of a sounding story!” Milred went on. “Every time I bust in on a murder, I hear that same old gag. Why can’t you guys think up a new one?”

“Honestly, officer, this is the truth!”

“I’ll bet it is,” Milred said sarcastically. “You don’t look to me like an honest guy. You look like the sort that would cheat on your wife. I’ll bet you—”

Gramps abruptly sat up. “You’re a hell of an officer,” he said to Milred.

“Shut up,” she announced. “I’m giving him a third degree. I’m just about to find out if he’s true to me.”

Gramps said: “You’re cock-eyed. You’re both cock-eyed. Don’t you see what he did?”

“Sure. He murdered you,” Milred said.

“That’s right,” Gramps admitted, “and then leaned over me to stick the gun in my hand, to make it look like I committed suicide. And what did he do? Don’t you get it? Don’t you get the thing that is the absolute payoff?”

“What?” Duryea asked.

“You stuck the gun in my left hand,” Gramps shrilled excitedly.

Duryea said: “No, I didn’t I—” Abruptly, he checked himself.

“You did so,” Gramps insisted, “and you’ll do it every time. When a man lies on his back, he’s facing you, just like you can see yourself in a mirror. A man gets accustomed to looking in a mirror and shaving and brushing his hair and tying his necktie, and the figure in the mirror is always left-handed... What I mean is that the hand that’s raised by the reflection in the mirror is always the hand that’s directly opposite the hand of the man who’s standing in front of the mirror... Well, that’s what happens. You get scared, and in a hurry, and go to push a gun in a man’s hand when he’s lying on the floor on his back, staring straight up, and nine times out of ten you’ll stick it in his left hand.”

Duryea was thoughtful. “It is,” he admitted, “an interesting experiment.”

“Interesting!” Gramps said. “Hell’s whiskers, it’s the pay cheque! It shows absolutely the guy was murdered! The corpse was holdin’ that there gun in his left hand. The gun was planted there by a murderer.”

“Well, we’ve about come to that conclusion, anyway,” Duryea said.

“Good thing you did,” Gramps told him. “I was afraid you might get thrown off on that suicide theory... But I still don’t think you got the point.”

Duryea said: “All right, tell me the point, and then let me settle back and enjoy my pipe.”

“The point,” Gramp Wiggins said, “is that a man only pulls a boner like that when he’s in a hurry, when he’s startled... I was crowdin’ you into movin’ fast. You weren’t exactly scared, but what with Milred and me talkin’, you were bein’ heckled so you moved faster an’ thought less than you would have otherwise.”

“All right,” Duryea said tolerantly, winking at his wife. “I was moving faster than I otherwise would have moved. So what?”

“Don’t you get it?” Gramps shrilled. “If you’d had time to stop and think things over, you’d have switched the gun over to my right hand. We were all kidding, but we made you hurry.”

“Go ahead,” Milred announced. “Get it over with, because I’ve got to supervise a cocktail and dinner.”

Gramps said: “The man that murdered Pressman was in a hurry. Something happened to scare him. It wasn’t all done on the spur of the moment. It was carefully planned. Then right when he was in the middle of puttin’ things into execution, something happened to frighten him.”

Duryea settled down in his chair, reached for his pipe, said: “You may have something there, Gramps.”

“You’re gol-derned right I got somethin’ there,” Gramp Wiggins said, “an’ I got something else, too.”

“What?”

“I can tell you the exact time the murder was committed — almost.”

“That,” Duryea conceded, “would be very very interesting,” but added dubiously: “—if you can do it.”

“There was a clock in that room that told the time of the murder,” Gramps said.

“What?”

“That oil lamp.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

Gramps said proudly: “I did a little snoopin’ around, son, lookin’ through the windows there. I don’t know whether you saw me or not, but I wasn’t missing a thing. I prowled around the house and peeked through all the windows... Well, I’m going to tell you something. The man that lived in that house may have wanted to look like some old hermit in case the people he wanted to see came to talk with him, but he was neat as a pin, neat and orderly.”

“It doesn’t need a detective to tell that, Gramps. If you’re going to—”

“Wait a minute,” Gramps interrupted, “let me finish this thing. I say he was neat as a pin. He was orderly and methodical in his habits... Now, he wouldn’t have filled one oil lamp without filling both oil lamps. There was an oil lamp in the kitchen and one in that room where the body was found. The one in the kitchen was chock-full of oil and the chimney cleaned up so it was sparkling.”

“I don’t get it,” Duryea said.

“You wouldn’t,” Gramps said, “because you’re too young to know anything about oil lamps. You never had to use ’em. I’ve used ’em. I know all about ’em. Filling lamps and trimming the wicks and keeping the chimneys clean is a chore. Don’t make any difference how you figure it, it’s a chore... When a man fills one lamp, he fills ’em all. Ask anybody that ever monkeyed around with oil lamps.

“Now then, I figure that lamp in the kitchen was filled yesterday, sometime during the day, because it hadn’t been used any — and all the cookin’ would have been done out there in the kitchen. That would mean the oil lamp in the other room was filled at the same time. So I went down and bought me a lamp of that exact make and model, filled her up with oil, put her in my trailer, started her burning, and watched her burn... A lamp uses up just about so much oil every hour, and I was pretty careful to mark right where the oil was in the bowl of that lamp at the house when you was lookin’ at the body... Bet you and the sheriff never even thought of that, did you now?”

“No, we didn’t,” Duryea admitted. “It’s interesting. What did you find out?”

“The murder,” Gramps said, “was committed right around six hours before you got out there.”

Suddenly Duryea smiled.

“What’s the matter with that?” Gramps asked.

“The only trouble with that,” Duryea said, “is that you’ve overlooked one very simple factor in the case.”

“What?”

“The lamp in the living-room would be used more frequently than the one in the kitchen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s suppose,” Duryea said, “that the lamps were filled two days ago, instead of yesterday. The one in the kitchen looks full because the man who was living there started cooking his dinner before it got dark. Probably used the lamp only for a few minutes in washing dishes and straightening the kitchen up. Then he went back and lit the lamp in the living-room, sat around reading until ten or eleven, turned out the lamp, and went to bed. That would account for both lamps having been filled at the same time, but there being considerably less oil in the lamp in the living-room than was in the kitchen.”

Gramps said positively: “That lamp in the kitchen hadn’t been used... At least, I don’t think it had. It looked nice and clean—”

“You’re making the same mistake all amateurs make,” Duryea told him. “You overlook the fact that the investigation of a murder is a cold, remorseless, logical routine. For instance, one of the first things we do is fix the time of death by an examination of the body. The autopsy surgeons have certain particular things they look for. Now, in this case, the autopsy surgeon says death occurred sometime after four o’clock in the afternoon and before eleven o’clock at night.”

“Don’t go thinking your autopsy surgeons are so darn infallible,” Gramps sputtered. “I can remember lots of cases where they got things all balled up. What did they do when it came to fixing the time of death in the Thelma Todd case? Tell me that.”

“I will admit it’s possible to make error under certain exceptional circumstances,” Duryea conceded, “but this particular autopsy surgeon is exceedingly careful. He fixes the time between four o’clock in the afternoon and eleven o’clock at night, and you can gamble on the accuracy of that... We know that the man was alive at five o’clock because that’s when True and Sonders called on him. They could hear him moving around in the house, and the fact that he wouldn’t come to the door and wouldn’t answer questions shows pretty conclusively that Pressman knew what they wanted and realized that his disguise had been penetrated... Now it got dark around seven o’clock war time. Perhaps not so dark a murderer couldn’t see what he was doing, until seven-thirty... The crime was committed after the lamp had been lit, which means after dark. We’ll fix the time the lamp was lit as somewhere between seven-thirty and ten o’clock. You’ll find the murder was committed somewhere within that two-and-a-half hour period.”

Gramps suddenly started chuckling.

“What is it?” Duryea asked.

“You talkin’ about those oil lamps,” Gramps said. “You don’t know anything about oil lamps. You’re reasonin’ right against yourself.”

“How do you mean?”

Gramps started to explain, then suddenly changed his mind. “Nope. I ain’t goin’ to tell you any more right now. Only remember this. Autopsy surgeons don’t know everything.”

Milred said, “Well, you men go ahead and thresh out your murders. I’m in between maids again, so I’m having to do the work myself. If you want a cocktail, that’s in the masculine department.”

Gramps said eagerly: “Say, I’ve got a new cocktail! How’d you folks like to try it?”

“No,” Milred said firmly. “I’m fully familiar with your cocktails, Gramps. I want my husband to be able to taste these steaks.”

“It ain’t got so much dynamite,” Gramps said.

“All right,” Milred surrendered with a sigh, “but make it mild. You’ll find the liquor closet in the pantry on the—”

“Won’t use your liquor,” Gramps said. “I’ll use my own. Give me a cocktail shaker. I’ll get some ice out of your refrigerator and fix the best cocktail—”

“It has to be mild,” Milred said. “Your cocktails are loaded with high explosive.”

“Sure, it’ll be mild,” Gramps told her. “That’s what I promised you, didn’t I? I got some new stuff to put in this, something you’ll really enjoy.”

Milred gave him a cocktail shaker, and Frank Duryea settled back with a sigh of complete contentment. Mildred moved over to sit on the arm of his chair.

“Lord knows where he gets the energy,” Duryea said. “Personally, I’m tired.”

“You have a lot of things on your mind he doesn’t have, dear.”

“I don’t work as hard as Gramps does. He’s been on the go all day, and now he’s as full of pep and enthusiasm as a bird dog when he sees someone reach for a gun.”

Milred ran the tips of her fingers across her husband’s forehead, down over his eyes, patted his cheek, gave him a quick kiss, said: “Sit there and relax, and forget about Gramps. I’m going out and get the steaks started. The potatoes have been baking just long enough so that the steaks should go on.”

Duryea glanced up admiringly at his wife. “You certainly do take things in your stride. Can’t you get someone to come in at least temporarily?”

“Oh, I can, but it’s more bother than it’s worth. I’ll have another maid within two or three days. Just quit worrying about it.”

She went out to the kitchen, and Duryea heard the sound of the oven door opening and closing, the rattle of plates, and the clink of glasses; then there was the sound of ice being violently agitated in a cocktail shaker, and the quick, trotting steps of Gramp Wiggins.

“Okay, Milred, here we are, and this is mild... Bet you never tasted anything like this before.”

“What is it, Gramps, another one of your concoctions, or something you’ve picked up from some friend—”

“Well, about half and half,” Gramps said. “This has a new kind of liquor in it.”

“A new kind of liquor?”

Gramps shied away from the hostile suspicion of her voice. “Now don’t go gettin’ me wrong, Milred. This here is old liquor. I mean real old. It’s older than any liquor you got in the house.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Mexico.”

“Okay, let me taste it before you offer it to Frank.”

Duryea laughed and said: “Come on, Gramps. Don’t pay any attention to her. Bring in the cocktails.”

A few moments later Duryea heard his wife exclaim: “Why, Gramps, that’s good!”

“Course it’s good,” Gramps said. “I told you it was good.”

Milred brought in a tray with glasses. Gramps gave the cocktail shaker a final agitation, then poured out a pale concoction of foaming bubbles which presently settled into a clear drink with a very slight tint of golden yellow, as though glasses filled with crystal-clear liquid were reflecting a bit of sunlight.

Duryea sniffed the drink, pledged Milred with his eye over the rim of the glass, and tasted suspiciously.

It wasn’t until after the smooth tang had touched his tongue that he realized he had braced himself for something rather violent.

“Doggone it, it is good,” he announced.

Gramps said innocently: “I may have made it too mild.”

Duryea, tasting it, said: “Well, it’s innocuous all right, but it tastes good just the same.”

“Now it ain’t so damned innocuous,” Gramps said, rising indignantly to the defence of his drink. “You just swig down a couple of ’em and you’ll — well, you’ll get a good appetite.”

Milred left her second cocktail half finished to turn the steaks. Gramps managed to squeeze an additional dividend out of the shaker so that he and Duryea had a third cocktail while Milred’s share consisted in having her glass “freshened’.

It wasn’t until Milred announced that dinner was served and Duryea started to get up that he realized something was wrong with his knees. There was a peculiar buzzing in his head. His brain felt clear enough, but his legs were like rubber, and there was a sudden urge toward hilarity.

Startled, he glanced at his wife. One look at her eyes, and he knew that she was aware of exactly how he felt.

“Gramps,” Duryea said, looking at the enthusiastic little old man who seemed hardly to have turned a hair, “what the devil was in those drinks?”

Gramps said: “A drink they make from mescal down there in Mexico. After she gets so old, she turns a clear yellow. A darn nice drink. You mix that with—”

“You mean to say you’ve mixed tequila with gin?”

Gramps said soothingly, placatingly, “Now you just sit down and relax, buddy. Don’t get all steamed up about what you’ve taken. It’s just a nice tonic... Tasted good, didn’t it?”

Duryea dropped into his chair. Milred glanced across the table at him. “Who,” she asked, “is going to carve these steaks?”

Duryea grinned. “Gramps,” he said.

Silently Milred handed the carving knife and fork to her grandfather.