The Case of the Smoking Chimney

Chapter 28

The big county car glided smoothly along the road. Sheriff Lassen, studying the speedometer, abruptly reached forward and dimmed the headlights. “We’re within a mile of the place now,” he said. “We’ll have to use our parking lights and crawl along for the rest of the way.”

The car slowed to but little more than fifteen miles an hour.

“Of course,” Milred pointed out, “Gramps may not be here.”

“I think so,” the sheriff said. “Borden reported from Petrie. He didn’t dare follow the old man too closely — said he’d get out to the cabin, and if your grandfather wasn’t there, he’d leave a signal for us.”

The car rolled along over the paved road. Ahead, they could see the tall forms of the eucalypti silhouetted against the starlit sky. “Getting close to the place,” the sheriff said. “Must have been a little closer than I thought when I switched off the headlights. I hope he didn’t see us, or—”

The sheriff broke off abruptly as a hand flashlight blinked ahead in the darkness.

“What’s that?” Milred asked.

“Probably Borden,” the sheriff announced, but he slid his hand under his coat and hitched his gun forward so that it would be in readiness.

“Better switch off the lights,” Duryea said in a low voice.

The sheriff clicked the car into darkness.

They waited a moment, then saw the vague outline of a figure. The beam of a spotlight stabbed through the darkness to illuminate the forward licence on the automobile; then the spotlight was extinguished, and a low whistle came from the darkness.

The sheriff rolled down the glass on his left, said in a low voice: “That you, Borden?”

“Okay, Sheriff,” the voice came from the darkness. A moment later, the huge figure of Harry Borden cat-footed up to the side of the car. “Had to make sure it was you,” he explained. “Don’t know just what’s going on.”

“What’s happened?”

“He’s down the road here about half a mile. Thought I’d come up and tip you off. I don’t know what he’s up to... Perhaps he knows you’re coming.”

“What’s he doing?”

“He drove the trailer up to the cabin. The girl got out. The old man has a key to the cabin, or else he has a passkey that works the lock... He’s evidently been in there before. He didn’t hesitate for a minute, just fitted the key in the lock and clicked the door back.”

“If he went in that cabin, we’ve got him right where we want him,” Duryea said.

“He didn’t go in. The girl did.”

“What’s the idea?” Lassen asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What did he do? Go back to the trailer?”

“No. That’s the funny part of it. He left the trailer parked there; then he walked up to the end of the driveway and took up a position right at the intersection of the driveway and the main road... He’s waiting for somebody.”

“An appointment he’s made with someone?”

Borden said: “I don’t think so. He’s got a gun.”

“You’re certain?” Duryea asked in surprise.

“Absolutely. I worked up close enough so I could see the starlight reflected from the metal.”

“It might have been a flashlight,” Duryea said. “I doubt if he’s got a gun.”

“I think it was a gun,” the giant deputy said with quiet confidence. “The way he was holding it and everything.”

“I’m taking Mr. Borden’s side of that argument,” Milred said. “Heavens knows what he wants it for, but I bet it’s a gun.”

Lassen turned to Duryea. “What do you want to do, Frank?”

The district attorney turned things over in his mind, then said abruptly: “We’ve got enough on him now. We’ll pick him up, and pick the girl up... Remember, so far as he knows, it’s a bona fide arrest.”

“All right, Harry,” the sheriff said to the deputy, “you’d better make the arrest, then.”

“We’ll drive up in the car,” Borden suggested. “You slow down within about fifty yards of the turn-off. I’ll be standing on the running board, and will jump off when you slow. He won’t know that I’m anywhere around. You bring the car to a dead stop just before you come to the driveway. Just a few feet. That’ll force him to show his hand. If he comes out to the car, I’ll be right behind him. If he doesn’t you can wait there in the car until you get a signal from me.”

“Sounds okay,” the sheriff said, “but if he’s got a gun, don’t take any chances.”

“I won’t,” Borden promised. “I’ll play it safe.”

Milred said to her husband: “Tell him to be particularly careful, Frank. If Gramps has a gun — well, I just don’t trust him, that’s all. You can’t tell what he’s up to.”

Duryea said to the sheriff: “As far as I’m concerned, Pete, when the old boy starts packing hardware around, taking into consideration his particular type of cussedness, I think we should throw him in the cooler and keep him there.”

“You can’t afford to,” the Sheriff said. “No matter which way the cat jumps, you’re licked. If he turns out to be a harmless old coot, a little on the barmy side, you’ve made yourself ridiculous. If there’s anything sinister about it, you’re licked. You can’t win.”

The car swayed slightly on its springs as Harry Borden climbed on the running-board. “It’s all right,” he said with calm confidence, “I can handle this. No one will know anything about it.”

Borden’s hand reached in through the open window to hold the top of the car for support. The sheriff eased in the clutch, and the car rolled ahead.

“Better turn your headlights on to the bright,” Borden said. “That’ll dazzle him, and keep him from seeing me jump off.”

The sheriff switched the lights on to the high beam. The brilliant illumination blazed the road ahead into brilliance, a gleaming tunnel of light in the centre of which stretched the white ribbon of pavement.

After a few seconds Borden said in a low voice: “Okay, Sheriff. Slow her down. I’ll hop off. Go about a hundred feet and then stop... Better switch out your lights when you stop, so be can’t recognize you.”

“Okay,” the sheriff said, slowing the car.

Borden swung out from the running-board, balanced himself for a moment over the flowing ribbon of cement, and then, with hardly a sound, dropped back into the darkness. The sheriff ran on for a few seconds, stopped the car, and switched off the lights.

Dark silence enveloped the little group waiting in tense expectancy in the automobile.

Thirty seconds became a minute. The minute stretched on towards two minutes. The little noises of the night which had been frightened into silence by the automobile once more chirped into existence; then suddenly stopped in an ominous silence which indicated something was moving in the night.

The sheriff, scowling in concentration, peered out into the darkness. Milred, leaning toward Frank, had just started to whisper, when suddenly there was the sound of a commotion from the darkness beside the road not over twenty feet from the automobile.

They heard Borden’s voice in a gruff command; then Gramp Wiggins shrilling with excited indignation.

“Okay, Sheriff,” Borden called.

The sheriff’s spotlight cut through the darkness.

Borden had his left arm thrown around Gramps from behind, his forearm under Gramps’ chin. His right hand held Gramps’ right wrist. The beam of the spotlight showed the revolver clutched in Gramps’ hand.

“You handle it, Pete,” Duryea said. “I won’t come in it until the last minute.”

The sheriff opened the car door, got to the ground. “You got a licence to carry that gun?” he asked.

“Who is it?” Gramps asked.

“This is the sheriff.”

“Oh, that you, Lassen?” Gramps said, relief in his voice. “I didn’t know—”

There was no cordiality in Sheriff Lassen’s voice. “All right, Wiggins, what’s the gun for?”

“Well, I... I sorta thought—”

“You got a licence to carry that gun?”

“Well, not in this county, no—”

“Or in this state?”

“Well, not if you come right down to it, no.”

Lassen said: “I guess you’d better put the handcuffs on him, Borden.”

“Now, you look here,” Gramp Wiggins shrilled. “You’ve got no right to do that! You’re interfering with the cause of justice. You can’t put no handcuffs on me, like I was a common, ordinary criminal.”

“I don’t see why not,” the sheriff said. “You may be related to the district attorney, but so far as I’m concerned, you’re just the same as any other citizen. You’re hanging around by the side of the road with a drawn gun waiting to ambush automobiles — attempted highway robbery committed with a gun. You know what that means.”

“Attempted highway robbery nothin’,” Gramps retorted in a voice made high and reedy with anger. “You certainly can’t be as dumb as that!”

Borden still holding Gramps’ wrist in a firm grasp, said to Lassen: “You’ve seen the gun all right, Sheriff?”

“Yes. I’ve seen that he has it in his hand.”

“All right,” Borden said. “Drop it.”

He twisted the wrist until the gun dropped from Gramps’ fingers; then, shifting his hold suddenly so that he held both of Gramps’ hands imprisoned he slid handcuffs from his belt, and with a quick dextrous slapping motion fastened them around Gramps’ wrists.

“All right, Wiggins,” the sheriff announced, in the patient, weary voice of a man who is merely performing a duty, “you’re under arrest. Anything you say can be used against you. Get in. We’re going back to the county seat.”

“Wait a minute. You can’t take me away from here.”

“Why not?”

“Because... because it’d make trouble.”

“Not for you. You’re in plenty of trouble already.”

“Don’t you understand? I got—”

“What have you got?” the sheriff asked as Wiggins abruptly became silent.

“Nothin’,” Gramps said.

“You all alone out here?”

Gramps hesitated for two or three thoughtful seconds, then said sullenly: “Yes.”

“No one with you?” the sheriff asked.

“Don’t be a sap,” Gramps told him. “Do I look as though I had anyone with me?”

Duryea said to the sheriff: “Go ahead. Load him in. He’s got to find out that I’m here sooner or later, and we may as well get it over with.”

“All right, Borden,” Lassen said. “Bring him up to the car.”

Duryea leaned forward. “Gramps, I warned you that you were on your own,” he said.

“Oh, so you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“Humph!” Gramps said. “I begin to smell a rat now.”

Bordon hustled him forward, opened the door in the rear of the car, bundled the old man in.

“And you’re here, too, Milred?”

“Yes.”

“Humph!” Gramps said again, and then added after a moment: “Helluva note, when us Wigginses can’t stand together.”

Duryea said: “You had your warning, Gramps. I told you not once but a dozen times.”

“Watcha goin’ to do with me?” Gramps asked.

“Take you in to the county seat,” Lassen announced promptly.

“You can’t hold me.”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t committed any crime.”

Lassen laughed. “Try telling that to a jury. You didn’t know who was in this automobile. We were law-abiding citizens, driving along a public highway. We stopped the car, and you came stalking us with a gun. The implication was plain. You were trying to hold up an automobile.”

Gramps thought for a moment, then suddenly began to laugh. “Got it all now,” he said. “It’s a damn, dirty frame-up.”

“That’s what they all say,” Lassen announced.

“How’d you know I was here?” Gramps asked. “Tell me that.”

“I didn’t have to know you were here. I simply stopped the car—”

“Stopped the car after you’d let this young cat-footed giant out to come sneakin’ up on me... Sort of thought I heard somethin’ movin’ behind me, but was so interested in findin’ out what was goin’ on in the car, I didn’t pay enough attention... You ain’t goin’ to make yourself ridiculous along about election time, by throwin’ an old man in the cooler for tryin’ to get evidence?”

“Evidence of what?” Lassen asked.

“Evidence of murder, of course.”

“And in order to get it, you arm yourself and go out on to the public highways ready to pounce on the first unsuspecting motorist who comes along,” Duryea announced sarcastically.

Gramps looked at him with piercing eyes. “You’re kinda overdoin’ it a little bit, son,” he said. “Guess the idea is to throw such a scare into me you’ll make a good dog out of me, huh?”

Duryea said: “Once and for all, I’m telling you that you’re on the same footing as any other citizen.”

“Yeah, I know, but you wouldn’t come pouncin’ down on any other citizen this way — not if you knew him an’ knew what he was workin’ for.”

“Just what are you working for?” Lassen asked.

“Tryin’ to get the murderer for you.”

“And you expected that he’d come along here and stop, so that you could have a little chat with him?” Duryea asked.

“No, I didn’t,” Gramps said. “But I expected he’d come along an’ try to go into that house, an’ when he did, I wanted to be right behind him.”

“Why should he go into the house?” Duryea asked. “What specific reason is there for him to show up at this time and go into the cabin?”

Gramps started to answer that question, then suddenly thought better of it and kept quiet.

“I’m afraid your little story won’t hold water,” Duryea observed.

That brought a torrent of speech from the old man. “Now you listen to me,” he said. “You’ve certainly overlooked all the important clues in this case... The first one is the time element.”

“Go ahead,” Duryea said. “Get it out of your system, but remember that anything you say can be used against you.”

“First rattle out of the box,” Gramps said. “You’ve got a regular clock, an’ you don’t pay any attention to it. That oil lamp uses up just so much oil every hour. I know somethin’ about oil lamps. Pressman knew somethin’ about oil lamps, because he’d lived out in a little cabin when he was a poor prospector. Now then,” Gramps said, suddenly turning to Pete Lassen, “what makes a lamp smoke?”

“I don’t know,” Lassen admitted.

“It smokes because it’s turned up too high,” Gramps said. “If the wick is trimmed even, about the only thing that’ll make a lamp smoke is bein’ turned up too high.”

“I suppose so,” the sheriff agreed.

“Now then,” Gramps went on, “you light an oil lamp an’ there’s some oil in the wick. The minute the match touches the wick, the lamp starts burnin,” but as it gets hotter an’ starts drawin’ more oil up through the wick, the lamp will begin to burn more brightly. A person that knows anythin’ about oil lamps turns the wick way down when he lights ’em. Then after four or five minutes, he’ll adjust the flame... You get me?

“Let’s suppose that it was dark when the murder was committed. Pressman was there in the house. When it got dark, he’d have lit the lamp. He would have known how to light a lamp, an’ he’d have had the wick down low, an’ it would have gradually come up to just about the right height. He knew oil lamps.

“Therefore, we have to figure that it was the murderer who lit the lamp. Now if it had been dark when the murder was committed, the lamp would already have been lit... Figure that one out.”

“Then the murderer must have lit the lamp in broad daylight,” Duryea said, smiling. “Your own reasoning is getting you all mixed up, Gramps.”

Gramps shook his head. “Nope. Not unless the lamp had been filled durin’ the night. When the body was discovered, the level of the kerosene in the lamp indicated it had been burnin’ just about so long. The amount of kerosene used up by a lamp is a pretty good clock. I figure that lamp was lit about six hours before I first saw it — an’ I saw it about the time the sheriff got there — around nine o’clock.”

“Then the murder couldn’t have been committed then — that would have been at three in the morning,” Duryea objected.

“Yep,” Gramps said, “that’s right. The autopsy surgeon says that murder was committed between four o’clock an’ eleven o’clock on the twenty-fourth. Just because a light was burnin’ everyone thinks the murder was committed after dark... I’m tellin’ you that burnin’ lamp didn’t have anythin’ to do with the murder. The murderer made two trips to the cabin.”

“Then when was the murder committed?” Duryea asked, interested now in spite of himself.

“The murder was committed a little before five o’clock on the afternoon of the twenty-fourth,” Gramps said, his voice fairly crackling with positive assurance.

“It couldn’t have been. The evidence shows that Pressman was alive at that—”

“What evidence?” Gramps shrilled. “How does anyone know it was Pressman that was in that house? Sonders says he saw somebody pullin’ the curtains down the minute the car turned into the driveway. Both Sonders an’ True say they heard someone walkin’ around inside the house. Both of them admit the man in there wouldn’t say a word. Both of them say that there was somethin’ ominous about the way he come to the door — made ’em think that he had a gun an’ was figurin’ on shootin’... All right, just because they hear somebody movin’ around in the cabin an’ know Pressman’s in the cabin, they jump at the conclusion that it was Pressman they heard movin’ around... I’ll tell you somethin’ about the man that was movin’ around inside that cabin. That person was the murderer, an’ Ralph G. Pressman was lyin’ dead on the floor at that very moment.”

Lassen turned to Duryea. The look which he flashed him was filled with significance.

Duryea swung around, elevating one knee to the cushion of the seat so that he could see Gramps to better advantage. “By George,” he said, “you may have something there!”

“You’re ring-ding-tootin’ I’ve got somethin’ there,” Gramps said, “an’ remember that at that time the shades were all drawn. When the body was discovered, the shades were all up an’ the light was burnin’.”

“The murderer could have waited until Sonders and True drove off, then lit the lamp and raised the curtains.”

“Nope,” Gramps said. “The lamp shows that it was lit right around three o’clock. That lamp ain’t doin’ any lyin’... I tell you the murderer made two trips to that cabin... Now, take a look at that suicide note. The printin’ on it was cut from a newspaper that didn’t get to Petrie until after nine o’clock in the evenin’. That suicide note took a little thought to work out — an’ a little time... Not much thought an’ not too much time, but some.”

“What are you getting at?” Lassen asked.

“That there suicide note was planted when the murderer made the second trip to the cabin. An’ somethin’ happened to frighten the murderer, so that he never stayed long enough to make the lamp burn right, an’ keep the chimney from smokin’... That was right about three o’clock in the mornin’. Now I’ll tell you what that somethin’ was. It was that girl, Eva Raymond, came out to try an’ use a little soft soap on Pressman an’ put in a good word for her boyfriend — with maybe a couple of good words for herself. She came up on the porch, saw the body, screamed, and ran pell-mell. That’s when she dropped her compact... It had to be that way. An’ the murderer had to be in there, right at that time.”

Duryea said in a crisp, businesslike tone: “All right, Gramps, let’s quit stalling. Where’s Eva Raymond?”

“She’s in that cabin,” Gramps said sheepishly. “I was sorta makin’ a little test.”

Duryea said: “Take the handcuffs off of him, Borden. All right, Pete, let’s get going... It’s a crackpot theory, but it might hold water.”

“Crackpot nothin’,” Gramps sputtered. “It’s logic, cold, hard, remorseless logic. You can’t get away from it in a hundred years, not in a million years... And I tell you somethin’ else. The only way you’ve got of makin’ that murderer betray himself is through this Eva Raymond. He ain’t sure but what she saw him through the open window. That’s the thing that’s scaring him stiff. He’s got his tracks all covered except for that one thing.”

“It would have simplified matters a lot if Eva Raymond had told me the truth,” Duryea said dryly.

Gramps rushed to her rescue. “Now you can’t be too hard on that little girl,” he said. “She’s had to make her own way in the world ever since—”

It was Milred’s bell-like laughter that interrupted him. “Remember what I told you,” she said to her husband. “In dealing with a male Wiggins, cherchez la femme.”