The Case of the Smoking Chimney

Chapter 4

Everett True, editor of the Petrie Herald, sat at his office desk, a green, celluloid eyeshade pulled down on his forehead. Sheets of flimsy gave him a running account of what was going on in the world... He’d have to crowd the headlines in somewhere. The residents of Petrie were interested in the war, of course.

But the big news, so far as the citizens of Petrie were concerned, lay in the decision of the district court of appeals which had been handed down that afternoon, affirming the decision of Santa Delbarra’s superior court. That old oil reservation actually had teeth in it.

By the court’s decision, the owner of those old rights had the right to enter on the property, to prospect for oil, to build the necessary roads, derricks, sumps, refineries, pipelines — destroying, if necessary, surface improvements.

That old oil reservation, which had been just “a cloud on the title” for years, was now a nightmare. For years no one had even bothered to find out who the owner was. The county assessor had placed only a nominal valuation on the “rights” — just to keep the records straight.

And now they had been bought up by someone who quite evidently meant business — a Ralph G. Pressman of Los Angeles... Strange how hard it was to get photographs of him. He’d always been camera-shy. Even the Los Angeles newspapers couldn’t help out.

Up until three or four months ago, the ranchers could have got together and bought out those oil rights for a song... Strange they hadn’t done it. They’d been sleeping on a legal volcano, and then along came Pressman to blow the lid off. The ranchers had their association now. They’d organized it after the decision of the superior court, after Pressman had put the derrick in on Sonders’ ranch.

Well, that wasn’t getting out a paper... Sometimes there wasn’t any news at all, and you had to make headlines out of bubbles. Now there was so much news you couldn’t get it in the paper. And True had an editorial to write — not for tomorrow’s paper. He’d have to let a lawyer look it over... But he’d have to write it out tonight.

Everett True pulled a movable stand containing a typewriter over to his desk. He ratcheted in a sheet of paper, wrote in capital letters “IS IT LEGALIZED BLACKMAIL?” He glanced mechanically at the clock to see how much time he had before starting the presses.

It was exactly eleven-fifteen.