SEEM HOPELESSLY DEADLOCKED. CAN’T GO FARTHER IN IMPOVERISHED CONDITION. NECESSITY OF TAKING DETERMINED STAND APPARENT.
The words were in different sized type, as though they had been cut from headlines where the type was of different sizes.
Sheriff Lassen said: “That’s a hell of a suicide note.”
Duryea, studying the paper, pointed out: “Notice that it’s been cut from three portions of a newspaper. The words ‘seem hopelessly deadlocked’ came apparently from one headline. The words ‘can’t go farther in impoverished condition’ were apparently cut from another headline, although that headline had, in turn, been cut in two. The words ‘necessity of taking determined stand apparent’ are evidently from an entirely different part of the paper, perhaps a heading which was over an editorial. It’s a different type altogether from that used in the headlines.”
“That’s right,” the sheriff agreed.
“That makes three pieces that were cut from the paper,” Duryea said, “and then the words ‘can’t go farther in impoverished condition’ were evidently divided so they would string out in a line to form the one message.”
“Well,” the sheriff grunted, “I still claim it’s a hell of a suicide note.”
“It is, for a fact,” Duryea agreed. “There’s one interesting point about it.”
“What’s that?”
“If that note is genuine, the man isn’t Pressman. It talks about an ‘impoverished condition’. From all I can gather about Pressman’s business affairs, they’re very much in order, and he’s highly solvent.”
“Well,” Gentry observed, “you can’t ever tell about that. Lots of times those big men fall pretty hard. Sometimes the bigger you think they are, the harder they’ll crash.”
“That’s right,” the sheriff agreed.
“Somehow, I don’t place Pressman in that category,” Duryea said. “I suppose it’s occurred to you, Gentry, that these words might all have been cut from one newspaper?”
Gentry said: “We figured that out, Mr. Duryea, and we searched every inch of this cabin, trying to find the newspaper they were cut from. We can’t do it. That’s what makes it look like murder instead of suicide. What’s more, that’s a sheet of pretty good bond paper, regular typewriter size... Now, there ain’t a single sheet of that kind of paper anywhere in the house. We found a writing tablet and some stamped envelopes, but not a single sheet of that bond paper. That paper cost money.”
“You’ve gone through the place thoroughly?”
“Yes. We haven’t moved the body, and we haven’t touched that paper or anything you’ll want to fingerprint; but we’ve gone through the house, covering almost every inch of the place.”
“That lamp burning when you came in?” Duryea asked.
“Yes. We haven’t touched it.”
Duryea noticed that the men standing on the porch peering in through the window were shutting out a good part of the light. He turned somewhat impatiently, then checked his impatience with the realization that these were not mere curiosity seekers but men of some importance in the community, men such as Everett True, the editor of the Petrie Herald. He saw that he could raise the shade a few inches more at the top, and this would help the light situation. He moved toward the window, then stopped as he realized that one of the men who was standing with his face all but pressed against the window was none other than Gramp Wiggins.
Duryea pretended he hadn’t recognized Gramps, and let him hastily shuffle himself into a less prominent position.
The sheriff, noticing Duryea’s glance at the window, said: “How about pushing those shades up a few more inches, Gentry? It’ll improve the light situation.”
The constable raised the shades.
“How about identifying this body?” Duryea asked.
“I telephoned Pressman’s office. It wasn’t open, but long distance had a record of a night number to call in the event any important call should come in. I explained this was very important, and got a connexion with this number. It turned out to be that of a man named Stanwood who is the auditor and treasurer of the Pressman businesses. I told him I didn’t want to make any commotion,” Gentry said, somewhat apologetically. “I told him that the Petrie Herald was carrying the story that Reedley was Pressman, and that if that was true, he’d better send someone up here at once, because the man we knew as Reedley had been killed.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, Stanwood seemed very nice. He thanked me, but he certainly didn’t give me any information, just listened to what I said. But he did say he would get up here just as soon as he could possibly make it.”
“How long ago did you telephone him?”
“Same time I telephoned the sheriff.”
“He should be here now, then,” Duryea said, looking at his watch. “Let’s see. If you telephoned him—”
“I think he’s coming right now,” Gentry said as they heard the sound of a car coming to a stop outside the house. “I just got a glimpse of that automobile through the window,” Gentry went on. “It’s a high-powered outfit.”
Quick steps sounded on the porch. One of the spectators outside said: “Yep. They’re all in there. Go on in if they sent for you.”
Stanwood pushed open the door, stood looking about the place with an air of defiance, “Well,” he said. “What is it? Who wanted me?”
“You’re Stanwood?” Gentry asked.
“Yes,” Stanwood said. He looked at the body on the floor, then hastily turned his eyes back to Gentry. “Is this some sort of trap?” he asked. “Are you trying to get me to make some statement about Mr. Pressman’s business? If so, you’re wasting your time.”
“Did Pressman own this cabin?” the sheriff asked.
“You can search me. I’m paid to keep the books.”
“You mean even if he had owned it, you wouldn’t tell us?”
“I mean I’m paid to keep the books. Exactly what did you want?”
Pete Lassen indicated the body. “You’d better take a look at the features,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” Stanwood said. “I want to do that... Good heavens, is a shooting always as messy as this?”
“This was a pretty powerful revolver,” the sheriff said. “All right, Gentry, turn back that tablecloth.”
The constable turned back the tablecloth.
Stanwood tried to say something, but, for the moment, words wouldn’t come. He made a peculiar, inarticulate sound, cleared his throat, nodded his head, his face set in harsh lines of self-discipline.
“Yes, that’s Pressman... Let me out of here. I’m going to be ill.”
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?”