“Oh,” Gramps said with disappointment evident in his voice. “I thought perhaps it was someone you was givin’ a third degree to.”
“We don’t give third degrees,” Duryea smiled.
“Perhaps I could be of some help,” Gramp Wiggins said. “Do you want somebody to take notes? Sort of a witness to what’s said, in case this chap should make some slip?”
“No,” Duryea told him, smiling. “There’s nothing you can do except go on home and keep Milred company.”
“Milred’s all right. Suppose I sit here and sorta wait? Maybe somethin’ll turn up.”
“Wait for what?” Duryea said.
“To take you home.”
Duryea smiled. “All right, Gramps. Sit down there and amuse yourself.”
Gramps took the chair which was closest to the door of the private office. When Duryea returned to the inner room, Gramp Wiggins leaned forward in the chair. Unashamedly he craned his neck to see what was going on in the other room. He had a brief glimpse of the sheriff’s profile, of the rather white, set features of Harvey Stanwood. Then the door closed, and a latch clicked impressively.
Gramps sat back in the chair, pulled a villainous pipe from the side pocket of his coat, stuffed in plug tobacco, lit a match, and started puffing.
The pipe was just well under way when the outer door opened, and a young woman, apparently somewhat frightened, said timidly: “Is this the district attorney’s office?”
“That’s right,” Gramps said. “Come right in. Did you want to see the district attorney? He’s busy now. Perhaps there was some message I could deliver.”
She said: “I’m Eva Raymond of Los Angeles. The district attorney asked me to come up here this evening.”
The door from the private office opened once more. Duryea stood on the threshold, scowled at Gramp Wiggins, said: “Did you work the buzzer on that door, Gramps?”
Gramps pointed to the opposite end of the office. “This young lady just came in.”
Duryea opened the door wider so that he could see Eva Raymond, smiled, said: “Good evening. You’re Miss Raymond?”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to ask you a few questions. Would you mind waiting a few minutes, Miss Raymond?”
“Will it be long?”
“Not over ten or fifteen minutes, I think.”
“Very well.”
Duryea hesitated, looked at Gramps, said: “You might go out and walk around, Gramps, if you have anything you want to do around town, and come back in, say, fifteen minutes.”
“No, thank you. I’ll sit here. Just don’t feel much like walkin’ tonight. Got a bunion that’s botherin’ me.”
“You don’t need to wait, Gramps,” Duryea said. “The sheriff will drive me home.”
“That’s all right,” Gramps told him. “I’ll sit here for a while. Gotta go out to your house anyway. Ain’t no use wastin’ rubber.”
Duryea hesitated as though finding the situation hardly to his liking, then, apparently reaching a decision, said, “Very well,” and popped back into the private office, pulling the door shut behind him.
Gramps grinned across at the girl. “Mind my pipe?” he said.
“Not at all.”
“It’s kinda strong.”
“I like pipe tobacco.” She beamed at him. “It’s strong — and masculine.”
She moved over to the table in the centre of the room, picked up a magazine, and selected a seat across from Gramp Wiggins.
Gramps appreciatively surveyed the scenery.
She looked up abruptly, caught his eye, and adjusted her skirt.
Gramps puffed placidly away at his pipe, said: “Did you know Pressman?”
She met his eyes. “No.”
Gramps said: “Funny thing the district attorney wanting to see you, then.”
“That’s what I can’t understand.”
“Well, you can’t ever tell these days just what’s going to happen.”
“Just what’s your connection with the case? Are you a witness?”
Gramps said: “No, I’m just sorta investigatin’. Of course, I don’t want to pry into your business none, but sometimes when a person talks things over with somebody else, it sorta gets things clear in their own minds, and they can answer questions better.”
She thought that over, said abruptly: “The district attorney is a very young man, isn’t he?”
“Uh huh.”
“I expected to find a much older man.”
“He’s young, but he’s tough,” Gramps said. “Don’t make no mistake about that. He’s tough.”
“Just who are you?”
“Well, I’m kinda related to him. Sort of a member of the family by marriage, you might say.”
“Related to his wife?”
“Yes.”
“Her father?”
“Father, hell! I’m her grandfather.”
Eva Raymond showed genuine surprise. “You don’t look it.”
“Don’t feel it,” Gramps announced pertly. “I been here an’ there, an’ seen quite a few birthdays; but I don’t feel old. Liquor and birthdays never seem to affect me much. Some people can’t take too much of either one without havin’ trouble. Me, I ain’t like that.”
She looked him over appreciatively, said: “Some people just don’t seem to get old. You’re just in the prime of life. You’re waiting to see him after he gets finished?”
“To take him home.”
“Perhaps you can tell me who’s in there now?”
“Yep,” Gramps said. “I could.”
“Well?” she asked.
Gramps grinned at her. “Perhaps you could tell me what he really wants to see you about.”
“Why should I?”
“Why should I tell you who’s in there?”
“I really don’t know what he wants to see me about, but I’m very anxious to know whether — well, whether a certain party is in there.”
“Who?”
She studied him for a moment, said: “Harvey Stanwood.”
“You know Stanwood?”
“Yes.”
“Know him well?”
“Yes.”
Gramps puffed on his pipe. “Perhaps that’s what he wants to see you about.”
“Perhaps it is. It won’t do him any good. I’m free, white, and twenty-one. I can do anything I please. There’s no law against a girl having boyfriends or having a good time.”
“That’s right,” Gramps said.
“Is Harvey in there?”
Gramps said: “Come over here, sister. Sit down beside me where I can talk to you without my voice carryin’ into the other office.”
She moved over to sit down beside him.
Gramps said: “Yep. Harvey Stanwood’s in there. Lookin’ kinda green around the gills, too, if you ask me.”
Eva Raymond’s quick intake of breath was almost a gasp. She said: “I’m going right on in there, then.”
“I’d advise you not to.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Looks kind of as though you was afraid to have your boyfriend face the music,” Gramps said. “Ain’t no reason why he can’t take care o” himself. He ain’t got nothin’ to conceal, has he?”
“No, of course not.”
“What’s the district attorney want to see him about?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’d like to find out.”
“Perhaps just gettin’ some financial details ’n’ stuff,” Gramps said.
“Perhaps.” Her tone showed that she didn’t place much credence in that theory.
Gramps said abruptly: “What was Stanwood’s motive for murdering him?”
She jumped as though he had slipped a piece of ice down her neck. “What in the world are you talking about?”