FRANK DURYEA, the young D. A., was on the spot. Elections were coming on. The ranchers in Petrie, California, were up in arms over a loophole in the law. A mysterious and seemingly impossible murder was making a confused situation even more embarrassing. And a lot of very nice people were involved, each certain that the others were mixed up in the murder. ENTER CRAMPS WIGGINS. Duryea and his wife Milred had learned to expect most anything when her grandfather clattered into town in his disreputable-looking car with the home-made trailer. Cramps’ visits had an effect like that of a fresh, salty gale — invigorating and energizing, but promising trouble at least, if not out-and-out destruction. And this time was no exception. Excitement was Gramps’ life. If there wasn’t any, he made it; and if there was, he helped it along and made it bigger. Gramps had never let himself become too civilized — and a lucky thing it was for the District Attorney. For when they found the murdered man in the chicken rancher’s shack it was Gramps, with his eye for the girls and his knowledge of comparatively primitive accoutrements such as oil lamps, who found the astounding answer to a confusing puzzle