She poured herself a cup of black coffee.
From the living-room she heard the hilarious roar of Frank Duryea’s laughter.
“A good belly-laugh,” she muttered to herself. “Someone’s held out a story on me — and it’s been a long time since I’ve heard that roar from Frank.”
She got the dinner on the table, called the others.
Duryea was having a complete reaction from the blue mood which had gripped him earlier in the evening. Now, he was hilariously joyful. Gramps seemed to be completely unchanged, but from the twinkle in his eye and the continued chuckles from her husband, Milred knew that the men had been having a good time. The old man, she realized, was just about immune to alcohol. A case-hardened old sinner who lived his own life just as he damn pleased.
Milred was glad she’d had that coffee.
Gramps flashed her a shrewdly appraising glance, then said to Duryea: “How’d you like to talk over that murder a little bit, son?”
“I wouldn’t like it,” Duryea said.
“Definitely not,” Milred announced.
“Well,” Gramps said, “I got a clue that I think Frank should know about before he talks with Mrs. Pressman.”
“A clue or a theory?” Milred asked.
“A clue.”
Duryea had picked up his salad fork and was spearing the ice cube in his water glass, trying to hold it under water, laughing quietly every time it bobbed up.
“Consider the ice cube, my dear,” he said. “You can’t hold it down. Every time you think you’ve got it anchored, it bobs up again. Just goes to show what a little determination will do... Reminds me of someone we know.”
“Determination is right,” Milred said. “I have a very strong suspicion that Gramps has deliberately tried to soften the blow he’s about to land, with an alcoholic cushion.”
“Good old cushion,” Duryea said. “That’s the stuff, Gramps! Always cushion your blows. Hit me again sometime.”
“What,” Milred asked Gramps, “is your clue? Something seems to tell me this is going to be very, very serious.”
“Well,” Gramps said, “I’m going to tell you something. I’ve found the newspaper that the suicide message was cut from.”
Milred heard a clatter of silver against glassware and looked up to see Frank Duryea’s wet salad fork lying unnoticed in his plate. All of the hilarity had left him. He was coldly efficient, and, Milred realized, suddenly sober.
“You have what?” he asked.
“I got that newspaper,” Gramps said.
“Where did you get it?”
Gramps said: “Well, now, that’s a funny story. You promise me you ain’t goin’ to be sore at me, Frank?”
“Where did you get it?”
“Well,” Gramps said, “I... Now wait a minute, folks. Let’s not let this interfere with the dinner. Let’s go ahead and start eatin’. Things are goin’ to get cold, and—”
“Where did you get it?” Duryea repeated.
“Well,” Gramps said, “I dropped into Pressman’s office to talk with Pressman’s secretary.”
“What was the object in doing that?” Duryea asked ominously.
Gramps said: “Well, I wanted to know a little bit about Pressman — wanted to find out if maybe he used to live out in a cabin somewhere.”
“Go on,” Duryea said quietly.
Gramps said: “Someone came in to see Miss Graven while I was there, so I sort of rubbered around the office. This man Stanwood that was in your office the other night... You know he works there.”
“I’m still waiting,” Duryea said, “to find out where you got that paper.”
“Well,” Gramps went on, after the manner of a small boy explaining how the rock slipped out of his hand to crash through the plate-glass window, “I went on into Stanwood’s office, an’ I noticed a newspaper on the desk. It wasn’t a current newspaper. It was dated the twenty-fourth. I looked at it an’ happened to notice some headlines. I noticed they was the same headlines that was on that suicide note, so, later on, I got to lookin’ through the paper an’ found that every one of the pieces that made up that message had been cut from that same newspaper... Now that newspaper was put out on the twenty-fourth. It’s a Los Angeles afternoon newspaper. It doesn’t get up to Petrie until around eight o’clock in the evenin,” maybe a little later than eight o’clock... Figure that one out, son.”
Duryea said: “I’m not figuring anything out right now. Where did you get that newspaper that has the words cut out?”
Gramps said: “Nope. I’m not gonna say another word until I’ve had some of this grub. ’Tain’t right for Milred to slave her fingers to the bone out there tryin’ to get grub for you, if you ain’t goin’ to enjoy it, an’ ’tain’t right for you to get yourself all excited on an empty stomach. Didn’t know you were goin’ to carry on so about it, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it until after dinner... Milred, how about some of those biscuits while they’re hot?”
Gramps reached across the table, calmly selected three biscuits from the napkin-covered dish, opened them, put a generous slab of butter in each, and closed them to let the butter melt.
“That’s the way with biscuits,” he said. “You’ve got to let the butter melt an’ soak right into ’em.”
Milred nodded to her husband. “Go ahead, Frank. Let’s start eating. I know Gramps when he gets one of these fits. You can’t budge him with dynamite.”
Duryea didn’t say anything, but ate with grim, unsociable silence. Watching him, Milred suddenly remembered the emergency operation she had performed on the telephone and made an excuse to leave the table and put the receiver back into place.
When Gramps had finished with his biscuits and honey, fried chicken and mashed potatoes with country gravy, he pushed back his plate, said hopefully: “Don’t tell me there’s dessert.”
“Strawberry shortcake,” Milred said.
Gramps grinned across at Frank Duryea. “Son, I guess it’s the Wiggins strain in her. That woman certainly can cook.”
Duryea said nothing, registering an austere, silent disapproval.
Gramps said: “Now son, you don’t want to be like that. You just go ahead an’ enjoy this strawberry shortcake, ’cause somethin’ seems to tell me when I get done tellin’ you about this here clue, you’ll be makin’ a beeline for the office.”
Milred said suddenly: “Look here, Frank, you can trust this man if you want to, but he’s my own flesh and blood, and I know him like a book! I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw a truck by the steering wheel with one hand.”
Duryea said sternly: “Gramps, if you’ve been interfering in this case, you’re going to have to take it right on the chin. I’m not going to intercede for you.”
“Intercede for me!” Gramps exclaimed indignantly. “Well, I should hope to say you ain’t. Nobody ever interceded for me in my life, an’ we ain’t goin’ to begin now.”
“That’s the old spirit, Gramps,” Milred said, “but I have an idea you’re going to jail. My husband really takes his official duties quite seriously.”