Duryea said hastily, “That’s all. You may all go.”
Joan Harpler said to Nita Moline, “Suppose you come over to my yacht. I can fix you up with some clothes.”
“Thanks. They’ll be more than welcome,” Miss Moline said.
There was a moment’s silence. Joan Harpler looked at Ted Shale. “I suppose there’s no way I could — I’m sorry.”
Ted laughed. “Forget it. I’m on my way to the hotel.”
Chapter 3
Frank Duryea stopped in at a restaurant on the road home for a cup of coffee. He noticed that his hand was shaking slightly as he poured a spoonful of sugar into the steaming liquid. Well, after all, he told himself, he’d been up until three o’clock, had rolled out at nine, and then had this murder case dumped into his lap. He felt pretty shaky. The hot coffee revived him somewhat.
Driving home, he found himself thinking of a dozen questions he should have asked the witnesses. However, it wouldn’t have been wise to keep them there in their wet clothes. If one should turn out to be suspect, a clever lawyer could make a grandstand play to the jury by harping on how the accused had been kept standing in wet clothes while being interrogated, first by the sheriff, and then by the district attorney.
Duryea rounded the corner, swung wide for his driveway, and then, with an exclamation of surprise, slammed on the brakes and stopped the car. A somewhat dilapidated-looking automobile and a house trailer which bore the unmistakable stamp of being what was known in the trade as “a backyard job” were parked in his driveway.
Duryea parked his car parallel to the curb, got out, and walked up the steps of his bungalow, regarding the visiting car and trailer dubiously.
Milred, attired in sharkskin slacks, came to the door. Ignoring the fact that he already had his latchkey in the lock, she made quite a ceremony of opening the front door.
“Why, hello, Frank! I didn’t expect you’d be back so soon. Guess who’s here?”
Her voice was raised sufficiently to be distinctly audible to a visitor who was in the Living room, and she accompanied her question with the distress signal of a lowered right eyelid — a wink so violent that it twisted up the right-hand corner of her mouth.
Duryea winked back and raised his voice. “Gosh, I don’t know. Who is here?”
“Gramps.”
Duryea looked blank.
“You remember. Grandfather Wiggins. I’ve told you about him. You never met him, though. He was down in Mexico when we were married. Remember? He...”
Duryea heard quick steps coming across the living room, then an undersized man with twinkling eyes, white hair, a close-cropped white mustache, and quick motions, so spry they seemed birdlike, came bearing down on him.
“It’s all right, my boy! She’s trying to break it to you easy. I’m bad news, but I ain’t goin’ to stay. Got Milred up out o’ bed on a Sunday when she wanted to sleep, that’s what I did! Just a damned old nuisance. She said you’d been up until three or four o’clock this morning makin’ whoopee. More power to you. Didn’t think you had it in you. Thought you was pantywaist. Heard you was district attorney, an’ thought you’d be somethin’ of a stick. How are you, son?” Grandpa Wiggins shot out his right hand, shook hands, said, “Turn around to the light. Let’s have a look at you.”
Duryea saw twinkling blue eyes surveying him through steel-rimmed glasses, eyes framed in a network of kindly crow’s-feet. “Look all right,” Wiggins said. “Damn it, you look human. Had any breakfast?”
“Not yet,” Duryea said. “We’ll go out and get something. The maid’s off for a couple of days, and...”
“Have breakfast with me,” Wiggins said. “No use spendin’ money at a restaurant. I’m the black sheep o’ the Wiggins family, but I’m a good cook. I’ll go cook up some breakfast. Good idea — mighty good I’ll get out an’ Milred’ll give you the dirt on me. I’ve been a heller, an’ I ain’t reformed yet. I’m the rollin’ stone that’s gathered no moss. All right, folks, when you hear me beatin’ on the bottom of a fryin’ pan, that’ll mean breakfast’s ready. Nothin’ fancy, now. Just plain wholesome grub, but it’ll do you good.”
He nodded three or four times, beaming at them, then turned and darted across the living room, through the dining room, and out to the kitchen. Duryea had a departing glimpse of fast-moving legs, of baggy, somewhat frayed trousers, surmounted by a completely disreputable sweater.
When the bang of the back door announced their guest had left the house, Milred looked up at him. “Well, that’s it, Frank. That’s the family skeleton in the Wiggins closet.”
Duryea asked, “What do we do with him?”
She said, “We don’t do anything with him. No one ever has yet. The question is what he’s going to do with us. He’s capable of darn near anything. Honestly, Frank, I never thought you’d have to see him. That’s why I never told you more about him. He doesn’t like cops or the law, and, knowing you were a district attorney, I thought he’d give you a wide berth.”
Duryea grinned. “What’s he done?”
“Oh, everything and nothing. I think he did a little boot-legging once. He hates conventional things. He likes people who are — well, sort of on the fringe. He’s always getting chummy with some down-and-outer. The last time I saw him, he was telling about a bank robber he knew, said he was a splendid chap — that the only difference between whether you robbed a bank or whether the bank robbed you was which one got there first. He’s simply impossible, Frank — and yet he’s likeable.”
Duryea said, “I thought he had some mining property down in Mexico.”
“He did. They took it away from him. He has some sort of an annuity that keeps him going. He just doesn’t care enough about money to be bothered with it. Frank, I’ll get rid of him by tomorrow, but if it isn’t too much, can you put up with him today?”
Duryea slid his arm around her shoulders. “Sure thing, hon. Why shouldn’t I put up with him? He’s your family.”
“I know, but he’s so thoroughly unpredictable, and — gosh, you just can’t tell what he’ll do. I remember Dad telling stories about him. Dad was methodical and prudent, and — well, I think Grandfather hated him — said he took after his mother’s side of the family.”
“Where in the world did he get that trailer?” Duryea asked. “And where’s he been?”
“He made the trailer himself, and he’s been everywhere. I tell you, Frank, he has the weirdest assortment of friends and cronies scattered around the country, and...”
Duryea patted his wife’s shoulder. “Listen, babe, you’re all worked up. Sure, I’ll like him — only we’ll have to put him in the guest room, and get that trailer out of the neighborhood.”
“You won’t get Gramps Wiggins out of the trailer,” she said. “That’s his. It’s his home.”
“Been in it yet?” Duryea asked.
“No. He only got here about half an hour ago, and I kept him waiting while I bathed and dressed.”
“Reminds me, I’m going to shave.”
“You’d better hurry,” she warned, “because Gramps moves like chain lightning. He’s never able to stay put. Heaven knows what he’ll cook for breakfast, but it won’t be long before he’ll be beating on the bottom of that frying pan.”
Her husband made a grimace. “And me with a head,” he observed. “Better go out and head off that frying pan business, Milred. The neighbors might not like it.”
“Okay, you hurry with your shaving. I’ll do my best. But if he says he’s going to beat on a frying pan, it’s my own private opinion that he’s going to beat on a frying pan.”