“Let ’em put me in jail if they can catch me,” Gramps said, and then added with a grin, “that’s always been my motto. Where’s that strawberry shortcake?”
Gramps helped Milred clean off the table. She brought in the dessert, and it wasn’t until after they had finished it that Gramps pushed back his plate, pulled his villainous pipe from his pocket, grinned across at Duryea, and said: “Well, son, I says to myself, says I to myself, says I, ‘Now suppose you had cut out headlines from a newspaper and pasted ’em together to make a sort of a note? That paper that the headlines had been cut from would be sort of an incriminatin’ piece of evidence. Of course, you could get rid of that piece of evidence all right, but then s’pose somebody got to lookin’ through a file of newspapers you had, an’ found every one except the newspaper of the twenty-fourth. That would be sort of a giveaway, too.’ So I started snoopin’ around.”
“And found what?” Duryea asked.
“Found the paper that had pieces cut from it — the same pieces that was on that message. Now then, son, as soon as I found that, I started puttin’ two and two together, an’—”
“Where did you find that newspaper?” Duryea interrupted.
“In Stanwood’s automobile,” Gramps said. “An’ that was the natural place to find it, too. Right in the glove compartment of the automobile.”
“Where is that newspaper?” Duryea demanded.
“You mean you ain’t interested in hearin’ my conclusions about it?” Gramps asked in a hurt voice.
“Not in the least,” Duryea said.
Gramps turned to Milred. “You heard him say that?”
“Definitely and distinctly, and, what’s more, Gramps, I’m warning you. He means it. This is his official mood. He isn’t to be trifled with.”
“Well,” Gramps said, “you can’t ever say that I didn’t offer to give you my theory an’ my explanation.”
“That’s right,” Milred said. “No one’s ever going to claim that, Gramps.”
“Get me that newspaper,” Duryea said. “I should have had it as soon as you came in. That may be one of the most important clues in the entire case.”
“That’s what I was tryin’ to tell you!” Gramps said. “Now, the way I figure it—”
“I... am — not — interested.”
Duryea pronounced the words slowly and distinctly and with an emphasis of cold finality. Then he added: “I want that newspaper — now.”
Gramps pushed back his chair, trotted out across the kitchen to his trailer.
“Watch him, Frank,” Milred warned. “He’s as full of guile as a sausage skin is of sausage. He planned this whole business carefully, dropping in on us just before dinner, mixing up one of his dynamite cocktails, getting you off your guard, and then springing this business about the newspaper.”
Duryea said grimly: “He’s carried this thing too damned far. If there’s anything phoney about that newspaper, he’ll go to jail, and he’ll stay there.”
They heard the door on Gramps’ trailer slam, heard his quick steps on the porch; then he was in the house, smiling disarmingly, handing a newspaper to Duryea.
“Here you are, son. See for yourself where these things are cut out.”
Duryea snatched at the newspaper, opened it, studied carefully the places where the sections had been cut out, then said to Gramps: “All right, Gramps, you’ve stuck your neck out. It happens that I have in my office the original newspaper of this date from which the phrases which composed that message were cut. Obviously then, this paper is spurious, a red herring designed to draw the police off the track. And the planting of such a red herring is a serious offence.
“Now, then, it probably hasn’t occurred to you, but it’s readily possible to prove that this clue has been planted and that this paper is a fraud, by a very simple method. I am having made a series of photographic copies of the so-called suicide note. These photographs are exactly the same size as the original. By using those photographs to check the edges of the cuts in the paper, I can prove my newspaper is genuine and that this is spurious... Get your hat. You’re going to my office, and you can consider yourself virtually in custody until this matter is clarified.”
Gramps said soothingly: “Tut, tut now, Frank. You’re getting yourself all worked up. You shouldn’t get nervous right after you eat.” He beamed at the district attorney paternally, said: “And don’t tell me to get my hat an’ come to your office as though that was some kind of punishment. You know darned good an’ well that’s more of a treat to me than takin’ a kid to a three-ring circus... Come on, son. Let’s get started for your office before you change your mind.”
Milred said: “Watch him, Frank. He’s pulled a fast one. Looks to me as though he might be protecting someone. And with a masculine Wiggins, of any age, the thing to remember is cherchez la femme. I’d consider the secretary, myself.”
Duryea said: “I’m quite certain he’s planned all this carefully — and the moment I demonstrate the strips which were cut from the newspaper and used in that message don’t fit in with this newspaper Gramps gave me, he’s going to jail, and unless he then gives a satisfactory explanation, he’s going to spend the night in a cell. So don’t look for him back.”
Gramps shook his head deprecatingly. “No wonder,” he announced dolefully, “so few people really try to help the law. Officials just don’t seem to want to co-operate... Come on, son. Let’s go.”
They went to the courthouse in Duryea’s car. Once in his office, Duryea called the sheriff, asked him to come at once. The sheriff brought with him freshly developed photographic, full-size copies of the message which had been found in the room with Pressman’s body.
“Now then, Gramps,” Duryea said grimly, “I’m going to show you something.”
He opened the newspaper Gramps had given him, laid the cut spaces over the photographic copy, comparing the edges which had been cut, and looked at Gramp Wiggins accusingly.
“What’s the matter?” Gramps asked innocently.
“This newspaper is a plant,” Duryea charged. “It doesn’t agree in the least with the edges of the words pasted on that message.”
“Well, now,” Gramps said, “ain’t that somethin’.”
“That very definitely is something,” Duryea told him coldly. “It means that you’ve tried to bamboozle this office with a spurious clue.”
Gramps raised his eyebrows. “Meanin’ me? Meanin’ that I have?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your proof of that?”
“You produced the newspaper,” Duryea said, “and that means you’re responsible for it.”
Gramps’ eyes were twinkling. “Well now, son,” he said, “let’s not go off half-cocked on this thing.”
“I’m not going off half-cocked on it,” Duryea said. “It happens that I have the original newspaper in my office safe, the one from which these phrases which make up the message had actually been cut.”
“Well, now,” Gramps said, “what I was gettin’ at is that before you go talkin’ about me cuttin’ up newspapers an’ drawin’ red herrings across the trail, you’d better be certain that it ain’t someone else who’s takin’ you for a ride.”
Duryea said: “One genuine clue and one spurious one. You have produced the spurious one. In view of your activities in the case, I think we’ll place the burden of proof on you.”
Gramps was not in the least ruffled. “Okay, son. Okay, that’s all right. But you keep talkin’ about this other newspaper bein’ the genuine one, the one from which the message was clipped. Don’t you think you’d sorta oughta compare that one with the message?”