“Good Lord,” Milred said, “I’ve given up trying to keep track. He isn’t old. He’s experienced, that’s all. You have the feeling that he’s like a seasoned old saddle that never will wear out.”
“Reason I asked,” Duryea said, stuffing tobacco down into his pipe, “is that he wears me out, and yet never turns a hair. He was trotting around out there asking questions, getting everyone talking with him. I’ve never seen anyone with so darn much energy and enthusiasm.”
“Probably that’s why he keeps young,” she said, pulling up a stool and seating herself so that her hands were clasped on the arm of his chair, her chin resting on her interlaced fingers. “Gramps has always been a law unto himself. Heaven knows what he’ll do. I’m terribly afraid he’ll cut loose with something sometime that will make things difficult for you. However, there’s one consolation. He won’t stay long.”
“Why?” Duryea asked. “Has he said something about leaving, other than that crack he made yesterday?”
“Oh, no. But he never stays long in one place. You can’t keep him anywhere. He rattles around the country in that trailer of his — gets a kick out of people, but only certain types of people. Says he doesn’t like the ones who have been poured into a mould. He wants the tough, salty characters which means, in case you don’t know it, bootleggers, peddlers, streetwalkers, hobos, prize fighters, trappers — oh, the darndest assortment you could imagine. You know what I mean.
“If he ever should bring someone here with him, it’s like as not to be a bank robber, or a bootlegger, or some tough old miner who’ll get drunk and want to shoot up the town. You can imagine the complications of our living in this neighbourhood with your position and—”
“Forget it,” Duryea interrupted. “Gramps is wild over mysteries, but he appreciates my responsibilities.”
“He really does respect you,” Milred admitted, “but he’s wild and unconventional. You can’t do anything with Gramps. He— Well, he’s never been tamed. That’s all. He was the black sheep in the family. I know my father just never could understand him, no matter how hard he tried.”
“Did Gramps understand your father?” Duryea asked.
She laughed, and said: “Gramps said he took after his mother’s side of the family. Grandmother got a divorce, you know. That suited Gramps right down to the ground. He was never intended to live in a home.”
Duryea relaxed to the first fragrant puffs of tobacco, took possession of one of his wife’s hands, stroked the fingers gently.
“Gramps eating with us?” he asked.
“Probably not. He doesn’t like civilized cooking, and he hates tablecloths... As far as that’s concerned, he may be headed for Alaska by this time, or—” She broke off to listen, then said: “No, I’m wrong again.”
The bark of a noisy motor and a series of unmistakable rattles indicated that Gramps’ house on wheels had once more pulled into the Duryea driveway.
Quick steps sounded on the back porch. A door pushed open, slammed shut, then steps came across the kitchen and through the dining-room.
“Prepare for the worst,” Milred said. “He sounds as though he had a new idea. At any rate, he’s bursting with something.”
“Hello. Hello,” Gramps called. “Where’s Frank?”
Duryea grinned at his wife. “Here,” he called.
Gramps came bustling into the room. “Whatcha doing?”
“Relaxing,” Milred said.
“Thinking over the murder?” Gramps asked. “I’ve been—”
Milred got to her feet. “Now you listen to me, Gramp Wiggins. You leave Frank alone. He’s entitled to some home life. He wants to relax and forget about murders.”
“Forget about murders!” Gramps shrilled. “One of the nicest, most gore-filled murders we’ve had in years, and you want him to forget about it!”
“Let him go.” Duryea grinned at his wife through a blue haze of tobacco smoke.
Gramps came walking quickly over toward the chair, reached in his hip pocket, and jerked out a gun.
Duryea, suddenly losing his complacency, pushed Milred to one side. “Hey!” he shouted. “Look out what you’re doing with that gun!”
Gramp Wiggins might not have heard him. He pushed the butt end of the gun into the hand of the startled district attorney.
“Come on now, son,” he said. “You’re committing a murder. Point the gun at me and pull the trigger. There ain’t any shells in it.”
Duryea broke the gun open, made certain that the cylinder was empty.
“Oh, Gramps,” Milred protested, “leave him alone! He’s had a hard day and he wants to rest.”
“Rest!” Gramps snorted. “You can’t rest your mind, only give it something new to think about. Anyhow, who wants to rest when there’s a chance to solve a murder case? Come on now, son, point the gun at me and pull the trigger.”
Duryea grinned at his wife. “Perhaps the best way to get rid of him is to kill him, at that,” he said jokingly, and raised the gun.
“No, no! Not there,” Gramps said. “At my head. Blow my brains out.”
“What’s the idea?” Duryea asked. “Do you want to see what it feels like to be a corpse?”
Gramps said earnestly: “I want you to see what it feels like to be a murderer.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. We won’t gain anything by that, Gramps.”
“That’s what you think. You do what I say, Frank Duryea. You point that gun at my head and pull the trigger. Go ahead now.”
“Let him have it,” Milred urged. “He’s a Wiggins, and no true Wiggins ever died in bed.”
Duryea said: “Any speech go with this, Gramps, or do I just pull the trigger?”
“You’d oughta make it sound realistic,” Gramps said. “Try and get yourself worked up so you’re mad about something.”
“Marvellous opportunity,” Milred urged, sotto voce. “Give him the works!”
Duryea lowered his feet from the leather footstool, raised himself up out of the chair, holding the gun, his eyes fixed sternly on Gramp Wiggins. “Should I,” he asked, “have the gun in my hand, or had I better put it in my pocket and pull it out?”
“Put it in your pocket and pull it out after you get mad,” Gramps said. “Try and get yourself really mad. Try and have a fight with me. Ain’t there something we can quarrel about — politics or naval strategy, or—”
Duryea said: “All right, you asked for this.” He levelled his finger accusingly at Gramps. “I’m sick and tired of the way you bust in on me when I’m trying to relax. Just because you get a big thrill out of murder mysteries, you think everyone else should become addicts. You think being a district attorney is like reading a detective magazine... I get so damn tired of crimes and criminals that when I come home I want to forget about them. You... you don’t ever get tired of anything. You just don’t ever get tired... You make good cocktails and you cook good food; but you park a disreputable damn house trailer in my driveway, you disturb my slumbers early in the morning, when I like to do some of my best sleeping, you ply my wife and me with liquor and make us drunk, you... you damned old reprobate. Shooting’s too good for you!”
“Now you’re goin’ to town, son!” Gramps said. “By gosh, you act like you really mean it! You’re doin’ some good acting. Stay right with it. Lay it on. Let’s have some more.”
“You come to town and invariably bring some sort of bad luck with you,” Duryea went on. “The last time you were here there was a murder case. You show up this time and start another one... Although it may be a suicide for all we know. But you—”