The Case of the Turning Tide

Chapter 17

Milred was in the shower when Frank Duryea awoke. He had that peculiarly lifeless feeling which always enveloped him when he had worked too late at night. He knew that it was late; but lacked the energy to pick up his watch from the dresser. He knew he should be getting up, but postponed doing anything about it.

Milred emerged from the shower, fresh and glowing, a rose-colored robe thrown over her shoulders. She saw that he was awake, and said, “ ’Lo, Sherlock.”

“ ’Lo, Watson.”

“Sleep?”

“Uh huh. How about you?”

“Fine, after I once got quieted down. What time did you get in?”

“Nearly two.”

“Good heavens, what were you doing?”

“Oh, a lot of gruesome things,” he said with a little grimace of distaste. “Post mortems, trying to fix the time of death.”

“Were you there?”

“I talked with the doctors, and they insisted on showing exhibits A and B. Doctors are a cold kettle of fish. Haven’t ever seen a post mortem, have you, Millie?”

“No.”

“Don’t.”

“What did you find out about the time of death?”

“You can’t be positive,” he said, “but apparently they died around five o’clock Saturday afternoon. Say between four and six. One thing’s certain. They didn’t eat dinner Saturday night.”

Milred vanished into her dressing closet to emerge presently, pulling a housedress down over her head.

“What time is it?” Duryea asked lazily.

“Eight-thirty.”

“Oh, my gosh!”

“What’s the matter?”

He struggled up out of bed. “Have an appointment with these oil lease men, Elwell & Fielding, for this morning.”

The unmistakable sound of a spoon banging against the bottom of a frying pan came through the open window.

“That,” she said, “will be Gramps calling us to breakfast. I heard him chasing the maid out of the kitchen. That’s what woke me up.”

Duryea grinned. “Boy, I could go for some of his scrambled eggs, and that special brand of coffee he makes. Go tell him to hold it for a minute, and I’ll be there. Just going to jump into the shower, then come over and eat breakfast in my robe.”

“You’ll shock the neighbors.”

“To hell with the neighbors.”

She laughed. “After all, if they’ve stood Gramps this long — I’d better go keep him from beating a hole through that frying pan.”

Duryea jumped into the shower, needled off with cold water, rubbed with a coarse towel, put on underwear, wrapped a heavy robe around him, and shuffled slippered feet to the trailer, where Gramps Wiggins was turning hotcakes by the simple expedient of tossing them up in the air and catching them in the frying pan as they came down. He had both burners on the gasoline stove going, and was working two frying pans, flipping the hotcakes over with his left hand as easily as with his right.

“Come on, sit down, and hop to it,” he said. “This is the kinda grub that really sticks to your ribs. These here are sour-dough hotcakes. Just sink your teeth into ’em — an’ put on lots o’ that maple syrup. Met a chap in a trailer camp in Florida last winter that has a grove o’ sap trees on his place up in Vermont. He sends the syrup to me by mail. Hundred per cent pure, smooth as oil. Them there hotcakes ain’t gonna hurt you, folks; eat all you want.”

Duryea slid into the cushioned seat. Milred poured coffee into a big agateware cup.

“That brandy bottle’s over there...”

“Just about half a dose,” Duryea said. “I have an appointment.”

“Heard you uncovered some new evidence last night.”

“Who told you?”

“It was up and down the street.”

“News travels fast. Those hotcakes certainly melt in your mouth.”

“Uh huh. Those sourdough hotcakes certainly are good, put lots o* butter on ’em, son, an’ then sop on a lot o’ maple syrup.”

“I’m following instructions.”

“Find out anything more about the typewriter?” Milred asked.

“No. The photograph shows that the typewriter was where he could reach it...” The district attorney speared his fork into the hotcakes, and paused with the dripping morsel halfway to his mouth. “The photographs show that typewriter certainly was in a peculiar position — as though it had just been used.”

Gramps glanced at Milred, said, “I’d like to see one o’ those pictures.”

Duryea winked at Milred and said, “No, you wouldn’t, Gramps. They’re pretty gruesome.”

Gramps snorted. “Say, I’ve seen things that would turn your blood into sour milk. I simply gotta see them pictures.”

“Strange thing about that typewriter,” Duryea went on. “The pictures were taken by flashlight. Of course, they didn’t know the typewriter was going to be quite so important at the time. It doesn’t show in any of the photos clearly enough for an enlargement to show whether that message actually was on there at the time the picture was taken. Of course, someone could have done it later.”

From the stove, Gramps Wiggins said, “You know, a good expert can take a look at typewriting and tell you what model typewriter, what year, an’ all the rest of it.”

“I know,” Duryea said. “Be sure and give Milred the recipe for these hotcakes, Gramps. They’re better than any I’ve ever tasted.”

“More nourishment in ’em, an’ better for you,” Gramps announced. “Kind of a job keepin’ the sourdough to work ’em up from every day. That there carbon copy of the letter Stearne is s’posed to have sent them oil men — you could check it with that typewriter.”

The district attorney sipped coffee and brandy. “You’ve got something there,” he said, winking at Milred.

“It’s just sort o’ checkin’ up,” Gramps said, “but you can’t afford to overlook nothin’.”

Duryea looked at his watch. “Find anything of that stenographer whose initials are ‘A.R.,’ Gramps?”

“Nope. Couldn’t do much at night. I’ll find her today.”

Duryea said, “We have a diver coming up from Los Angeles around one o’clock. You might like to be there, Gramps.”

The old man’s eyes fairly sparkled. “Now that’s right considerate of you, son. Watcha lookin’ for — a gun?”

“Perhaps. Or we might find something else.”

Gramps thought that over while he poured more batter into the pans. “Sometimes,” he announced at length, “I’m right proud o’ you, son. You got what it takes. Here, take a leetle more o’ that tonic in your coffee.”

Duryea had two more hotcakes, then dashed out of the trailer, his robe trailing along behind. He shaved, dressed, and drove to the office. When he had gone, Gramps sat down, poured a big cup of coffee, and brandy, said, “A mighty smart lad, Milred. When he’s got more time, I’m goin’ to give him a tip about that there case.”

She smiled, her eyes indulgent. “I suppose you’re waiting for me to ask you what it is?”

“Yep. I got a theory. I want to try it out on you.”

“Well, try ahead.”

“What was that mysterious cruise this here Gypsy Queen yacht was leavin’ on at three o’clock?” Gramps asked, lowering his voice mysteriously. “An’ why did that Albatross yacht pull out just in time to take over the job?”

“But it didn’t.”

“The heck it didn’t! She pulled out the first part of the after-noon an’ didn’t get back until nearly midnight. This here Ted Shale was on it. He woke up about sunset. That was right around seven o’clock mebbe. The yacht was headin’ back then... mebbe a five-hour run... Well, where did it go? To keep an appointment those two dead men on the Gypsy Queen had made. That’s where.”

“But, Gramps, you haven’t any evidence. You haven’t any-thing to go on.”

“Shucks, I got me a pay-off hunch. My fingers itch, that hunch is so hot. We gotta sell Frank on that idea.”.

“But a district attorney can’t drag people in and question them and make insinuations unless he has some definite evidence.”

“How’s he goin’ to get evidence if he don’t question people?”

“Well — he has to build up a case — has to move slowly.”

Gramps Wiggins said, “You go talk that picture out o’ him. I want to look at it. Then we got work to do.”

“We?”

“Uh huh. I need somebody to help me.”

She laughed. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a detective.”

“Why not?”

“I got just a little squeamish last night.”

“Humph.” Gramps said. “You’re a Wiggins, ain’t you?”

She laughed. “After last night, I’m not so sure.”

“Don’t go tellin’ me you take after your grandmother’s side o’ the family. Your father did, but that don’t mean so much. You’ve got the Wiggins look. First time I took a look at you when you was a baby, I says right away, ‘She’s a Wiggins, thank God.’ ” He broke off to chuckle. “Your grandmother didn’t like that much, but we was divorced at the time, an’ there weren’t much she could do.”

“What was the trouble between you and Grandmother?” Milred asked.

Gramps slid into the seat Duryea had vacated. “You better have some more o’ these hotcakes, Millie.”

“No, thanks. I had plenty. I feel as though I’m full right up to my neck.”

“Can’t let good food go to waste.” Gramps said, pulling the platter of hotcakes over to him, spreading on plenty of butter, and emptying the syrup jug.

“Why did Grandmother get a divorce?”

“She had grounds.”

“I suppose,” she said, smiling, “you were just a plain heller.”

He put down his knife and fork to look across the table at her. “You’re gol-dern right. An’ I’m still dynamite when I get to snortin’.”

She laughed at him. “Just a naughty boy, trying to boast about how bad he was. The family gossip, as J got it. was that you were a model husband, that Grandmother was frightfully nervous, and got a lot of crazy notions about you, and filed suit for divorce, that when you read what she’d said in the suit, you came to the conclusion you’d been called a ‘heller,’ and you’ve been trying to live up to it ever since.”

Gramps jumped to his feet, his lips quivering with indignation. “Ain’t no such a damn thing! You got that from your father, didn’t you? He took after his mother’s side o’ the family!”

Milred contented herself with a smile. Later on, however, while Gramps was doing what he called his “chores” in the trailer, she slipped into the house to call her husband. “Frank, I know how to handle Gramps,” she said.

“How?”

“We can get rid of him whenever we want to. Just start telling him he’s a conservative, model citizen, and that Grandmother was suffering from nerves when she divorced him. He can’t take it.”

Duryea said, “You lay off Gramps. He just gave me a darn good idea.”

“What?”

“Checking the typewriting on the carbon copy of that letter to see if it really was written on the machine we found on the yacht.”

She sighed. “And here I thought I was doing you a favor. Well, I’ve planted the seed now and Heaven knows what Gramps will do to show that he really is what he calls a ‘heller.’ ”