The Case of the Smoking Chimney

Chapter 7

Jane Graven opened all of Ralph G. Pressman’s mail. As his secretary, it was her duty to sort and arrange that mail in the order of its importance.

On the days when Pressman didn’t come in before twelve, she prepared a brief summary of the mail. Then, in case he telephoned in and wanted a report, she could either read this summary to him over the telephone, or send it to him by messenger. For that reason, he had repeatedly instructed her to open everything whether it was marked personal or not.

Toying with the envelope from the Dropwell Detective Service, Jane Graven wondered whether her instructions were supposed to include a letter such as this, so plainly marked “PERSONAL, PRIVATE, CONFIDENTIAL”. It had been sent to the office by special messenger, and Jane Graven had signed a receipt for it.

For thirty minutes the bulky envelope lay on her secretarial desk unopened.

The impression wormed its way into her mind that this might be something very, very important, something upon which Mr. Pressman should take immediate action. Twice before, when she had balked at opening an envelope addressed in a feminine hand and marked “PERSONAL” and “PRIVATE”, Pressman had been angry with her. He kept no secrets from her, he had said repeatedly. A man’s secretary was like his doctor. She must know his every contact, his every move, his every thought. Otherwise, she couldn’t be in a position to gauge the importance of matters which demanded attention.

Jane Graven tried to reach her employer on the telephone.

Daygard, the butler, answered the telephone.

“Hello, Arthur,” Jane said. “Can you tell me where Mr. Pressman is this morning? This is his office.”

“No, Miss Graven, he hasn’t been down to breakfast as yet. I’m not certain— Yes, ma’am. It’s the office... Very well, ma’am.”

Jane knew Mrs. Pressman was coming to the telephone, even before she heard the sound of steps and Mrs. Pressman’s cool voice. “Yes? Hello? What is it, Jane?”

“I wanted to reach Mr. Pressman. I was trying to find out where he is,” she said.

“Yes. What was it? Something in the mail, Jane?”

Mrs. Pressman’s voice was friendly, with that cooing, patronizing air of a wife who looks down upon her husband’s secretary from a great height. Jane’s status, so far as Mrs. Pressman’s treatment was concerned, was just a little bit above that of the servants.

“It was — wasn’t anything important. I just wanted to know about a—”

“A letter?” Mrs. Pressman prompted.

“Yes.”

“Who is it from?”

Jane caught her breath, said: “There isn’t any return address on the envelope. I— Well, I thought, Mr. Pressman might be interested in knowing about it.”

“Open it,” Mrs. Pressman commanded. “See who it’s from, dear.”

Driven to desperation, Jane held up the envelope in front of the telephone transmitter, ripped a paper knife across the sealed fold so that the sound would undoubtedly be transmitted, pulled out the enclosures — and sat staring at them dumbly. She didn’t have time to co-ordinate all the various factors in her mind. The typewritten words on the single sheet of paper conveyed their message to her brain, a message which, somehow, she had known all along was in that envelope. But the full implications didn’t register in her mind, wouldn’t blossom into complete fruit for several minutes.

But that first quick glance told Jane Graven that the Dropwell Detective Service, acting upon instructions of Ralph Pressman, had been shadowing Sophie Pressman; that the name of Pellman Baxter, a young broker who was considered an intimate, if not a friend, of the family was mentioned. Photographic negatives, taken in the dark with the aid of an infra-red flashbulb which functioned so surreptitiously the parties were unaware of the photographs, were contained in the enclosed, sealed envelope. “In accordance with our custom,” a sentence read, “we deliver the negatives themselves to our clients — obviating, in this manner, any possibility of future annoyance.”

“Well?” Mrs. Pressman said over the telephone, her voice showing impatience.

Jane Graven’s laugh caught in her throat.

“What is it?” Mrs. Pressman asked, and her voice, Jane realized suddenly, was as sharp as a razor edge.

“I... It’s nothing,” Jane lied. “It turned out to be just some political literature sent out with the words ‘private’ and ‘confidential’ on the envelope, so that Mr. Pressman would be certain to see it. It’s nothing.”

“‘Private’ and ‘confidential’ were printed?” Mrs. Pressman asked with acid disbelief.

“Written,” Jane said hastily. “In pen and ink. That’s what fooled me.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Pressman said coolly, “I should think it would,” and hung up without saying goodbye or giving Jane the slightest information.

Jane knew that her hand was trembling as she dropped the receiver back into place and picked up the letter. She turned the sealed enclosure over and over in her fingers — flashlight photographs taken with an infra-red bulb, surreptitious shots of a man and a married woman in—

She heard the click of the door latch and started guiltily.

Harvey Stanwood stood in the doorway, smiling. His face looked tense and drawn.

“Hello,” he said, ostentatiously consulting his watch. “Didn’t mean to be so late, but I had to go by the courthouse and look up some records in connection with an estate matter Mr. Pressman wanted investigated. Haven’t heard anything from him, have you?”

At the moment, the unusual elaboration given the explanation and the fact that it seemed to have been rehearsed didn’t dawn on Jane Graven. She jerked open the upper drawer of her secretarial desk, pushed the envelope and letter in it, said, “Mr. Pressman hasn’t come in yet. I don’t know just when to expect him.”