Jane Graven regarded Gramp Wiggins with the suspicion reserved for salesmen, reporters, and income tax auditors.
Gramps smiled back at her, and the twinkle in his eyes, the friendliness of manner, and that slight air of wistfulness which was at times so characteristic of him, softened the shell of her reserve.
“Just wanted to find out one or two things about Mr. Pressman,” Gramps said. “Just a question or two.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t answer questions about Mr. Pressman’s affairs... You aren’t connected with the police, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Ain’t exactly just snoopin,” either,” Gramps explained. “Sort of interested.”
“Just what did you want to know?”
“How long’s he been married?” Gramps asked.
“About five years.”
“Hmmm... Wife younger than he is?”
“Yes.”
“Much?”
“Quite a bit.”
“Got along all right, didn’t they?”
Jane Graven’s delicately arched eyebrows rose perceptibly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Just wanted to know if they got along all right,” Gramps said.
“I’m afraid, Mr.—”
“Wiggins.”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Wiggins, that I can’t help you at all. You’ll have to ask Mrs. Pressman anything you wish to know about her domestic affairs. I am merely Mr. Pressman’s secretary.”
“How long had he had that cabin up there at Petrie?”
“I can’t answer that question. Mr. Pressman didn’t see fit to confide in me. He merely gave me instructions about the matters he wanted handled.”
“Tell me somethin’ about Pressman. Had he ever been poor an’ lived in a cabin?”
“He was a prospector for several years — before he struck oil.”
“I sorta thought so. When you see a man take as good care of a cabin as that — bet he got kinda homesick at times, wantin’ to be out somewhere all alone, bachin’ it in a cabin.”
She didn’t say anything.
“And how about Stanwood?” Gramps asked.
“What about him?”
“What does he do? Where does he have his office?”
She smiled, motioned toward the open door. “That’s his office. He isn’t in. He is an accountant and auditor for the business.”
Gramps’ eyes twinkled friendly understanding. “Well now, p’r’aps you could tell me just a little about Stanwood.”
“Why should I?”
“I’ll put it to you the other way,” Gramps countered. “Why shouldn’t you?”
“Just what business is it of yours?”
“Well now,” Gramps said, “I’ll tell you. My granddaughter married the district attorney up in Santa Delbarra County, and I’m just sort of tryin’ to give the boy a hand.”
“Does he know it?” Jane Graven asked, her eyes softening somewhat.
Gramps paused to get just the right words to describe the conditions in Santa Delbarra. “He knows it,” he said. “But he don’t appreciate it.”
Jane Graven laughed outright at the lugubrious expression on the old man’s face. Then, as she saw that expression change, there was a flash of sympathy in her eyes. “Why try to help him then?” she asked.
“Well, you see, it’s this way,” Gramps explained. “I’ve always been interested in crime stuff. Read all the magazines and just about all the good mystery stories.”
“I see. I—” She broke off, turned toward the door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Baxter.”
Pelly Baxter gave Gramps a quick, appraising glance, then said to Jane Graven: “I would like to talk with you for a few moments if you don’t mind.”
There was that in the quiet, almost ominous insistence of his manner that made Jane arise at once. “We can talk in here,” she said, indicating one of the inner offices. “Well,” she said, “I guess that’s all, Mr. Wiggins.”
“Oh, I’ll wait,” Gramps said easily. “I’m in no hurry. I’d like to talk with you just a little more.”
Pelly Baxter stood impatiently waiting for Jane to join him. When she had led the way into the inner office, Baxter promptly closed the door.
Corliss Ramsay, pounding away at the typewriter, gave Gramps a casual glance, smiled at the friendliness in his eyes, and went on with her typing.
Gramps wandered around the office for a few moments, then strolled casually into the office of Harvey Stanwood.
It was a neat, efficient, businesslike office, with good, substantial furniture, volumes of reports on income tax decisions, copies of tax laws, and books on accounting.
Two newspapers were on the corner of the desk. Gramps absently fingered one of the newspapers, noticed that it was dated the twenty-fourth. He looked at the other, saw that it, too, was dated the twenty-fourth. And then Corliss Ramsay was in the doorway. Kindly, but firmly, she said: “The waiting room is out here, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, beg pardon,” Gramps said, and followed Corliss Ramsay back into the outer office, where he seated himself and browsed through an illustrated magazine for the quarter hour which elapsed before Pelly Baxter left the office.
Jane Graven did not emerge. The door remained half open. Gramps looked at Corliss, saw she was busy with her typing, said, as he got up: “Guess she’s waiting for me to come in,” and walked boldly through the half-opened door into the inner office.
Jane Graven was sitting with her elbows propped on a desk. She looked up as she saw Gramps in the door, and Gramps instantly realized she had been crying. Gramps closed the door.
“That’s all,” Jane managed to say, in a firm, businesslike voice. “Nothing more.”
Gramps crossed over to the desk. “Now you listen to me, sister. If anybody’s pushin’ you around—”
She rolled back the swivel chair, got to her feet, managed a very crisp, businesslike manner, despite her slightly swollen eyes. “That’s all, Mr. Wiggins. I have nothing further to communicate.”
“Well,” Gramps admitted, “when you say it in that voice, I guess that’s it... But you just remember me, sister. The name’s Wiggins. Everybody calls me ‘Gramps’. You can reach me care of the district attorney up in Santa Delbarra County — at least until this case gets cleared up. If there’s anythin’ I can do to help you, let me know.”
“Thank you. There’s nothing.”
Gramps gave one more wistfully longing look at the office of Harvey Stanwood on the way out.
Chapter 23
Sitting in the lobby of a downtown hotel, with an afternoon paper of the twenty-fourth, Gramps took less than fifteen minutes to realize that every word in the so-called suicide note that had been in the Petrie cabin had been cut from a newspaper of this date. The headlines were all there. One of them, in italics on the back page, was the caption for an editorial. The others were conventional headlines.
Why, then, did Harvey Stanwood have two of these newspapers on his desk?
Gramps gave that problem careful consideration, then with the blade of a razor-sharp penknife, carefully cut from his paper the same words which had been pasted to the sheet of paper so as to form the so-called suicide note.
Having done this, Gramps folded the narrow strips of paper and pushed them down into his vest pocket. Then he folded the newspaper, started to crumple it and drop it into the refuse can near the corner. Abruptly another thought struck him. He smoothed out the mutilated paper, looked at it long and thoughtfully, then, smiling, folded it carefully and left the hotel, his manner that of a man who has become obsessed with a very definite idea.
Chapter 24
Milred Duryea said: “I have a feeling of impending disaster.”