The Case of the Velvet Claws (11 page)

Sergeant Hoffman turned to Mason. "I don't know him. Do you know him, Mason?"

"Yes," Mason said, "I've met him once or twice. He's a bald-headed chap, who used to do some personal injury work. They say he always settles his cases out of court and always gets a good settlement."

"How did you happen to see the will in the presence of your lawyer?" pressed Sergeant Hoffman. "It's not usual for a man to call in the beneficiary under his will, together with his lawyer, in order to show them how the will is made, is it?"

Griffin pressed his lips together. "That's something that you'll have to ask my attorney about. I simply can't go into it. It's rather a complicated matter and one that I would prefer not to discuss."

Sergeant Hoffman snapped. "All right, let's forget about that stuff. Now go ahead and tell me what it was."

"What do you mean?" asked Griffin.

Bill Hoffman turned around so that he was squarely facing the young man, and looked down at him. His jaw was thrust slightly forward, and his patient eyes were suddenly hard.

"I mean just this, Griffin," he said, slowly and ominously, "you can't pull that stuff. You're trying to protect somebody, or trying to be a gentleman, or something of the sort. It won't go. You either tell me what you know here and now, or else you go to jail as a material witness."

Griffin's face flushed. "I say," he protested, "isn't that rather steep?"

"I don't give a damn how steep it is," Hoffman said. "This is a murder case, and you're sitting here trying to play button, button, who's got the button with me. Now come on, and kick through. What was said at that time, and how did it happen that the will was exhibited to you and to your lawyer?"

Griffin spoke reluctantly. "You understand that I'm telling you this under protest?"

"Sure," said Hoffman, "go ahead and tell me. What is it?"

"Well," Griffin said slowly and with evident reluctance, "I've intimated that Uncle George and his wife weren't on the best of terms. Uncle George had an idea that perhaps she was going to bring a suit against him for divorce in the event she could get the sort of evidence she wanted. Uncle George and I had some business dealings together, you know, and one time when Atwood and myself were discussing a business matter with him, he suddenly brought this other thing up. It was embarrassing to me, and I didn't want to go ahead and discuss it, but Atwood looked at it just the way any lawyer would."

Carl Griffin turned to Perry Mason. "I think you understand how that is, sir. I understand you're an attorney."

Bill Hoffman kept his eyes on Griffin's face. "Never mind him. Go on. What happened?"

"Well," said Griffin, "Uncle George made that single crack about him and his wife not being on the best of terms, and he held out a paper which he had in his hands, and which seemed to be all in his handwriting, and asked Mr. Atwood as a lawyer, if a will made entirely in the handwriting of the person who wrote it, was good without witnesses, or whether it needed to be witnessed. He said that he'd made his will, and that he thought there might be a contest because he wasn't leaving much of his property to his wife. In fact, I believe he mentioned the sum of five thousand dollars, and he said that the bulk of the estate was to go to me."

"You didn't read the will?" asked Sergeant Hoffman.

"Well, not exactly. No, not in the way that you'd pick it up and look it through, word for word. I glanced at it, and saw that it was in his handwriting, and heard what he had to say about it. Atwood, I think, read it more carefully."

"All right," said Hoffman, "go ahead. Then what?"

"That was all," said Griffin.

"No, it wasn't," Hoffman insisted. "What else?"

Griffin shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well," he said, "he went on to say something else, the way a man will sometimes. I didn't pay any attention to it."

"Never mind that line of hooey," pressed Hoffman. "What was it he said?"

"He said," blurted Griffin, his face coloring, "that he wanted it fixed so that if anything happened to him, his wife wouldn't profit by it. He said that he wouldn't put it past her to get his fortune by expediting his end, in the event she found she couldn't get a good slice of it through divorce proceedings. Now you know everything I know. And I don't think it's any of your damned business. I'm telling you this under protest, and I don't like your attitude."

"Never mind the side comments," Hoffman said. "I presume that accounts for your comment when you were drunk, and right after you had first heard about the murder. To the effect that…"

Griffin interrupted, holding up his hand.

"Please, Sergeant," he said, "don't bring that up. If I said it, I don't remember it, and I certainly didn't mean it."

Perry Mason said, "Maybe you didn't mean it, but you certainly managed…"

Sergeant Hoffman whirled on him.

"That'll do from you, Mason!" he said. "I'm running this. You're here as an audience, and you can keep quiet, or get out!"

"You're not frightening me a damned bit, Sergeant," Mason said. "I'm here in the house of Mrs. Eva Belter, as attorney for Mrs. Eva Belter, and I hear a man making statements which are bound to be damaging to her reputation, if not otherwise. I am going to see that those statements are substantiated or withdrawn."

The look of patience had entirely vanished from Hoffman's eyes. He stared at Mason moodily.

"Well," he said, "stick up for your rights if you want to. And I don't know but what you've got some explaining to do at that. It's a damn funny thing that the police come here and find a murder, with you and a woman sitting here talking things over. And it's a damn funny thing, that when a woman discovers her husband has been murdered, she goes and rings up her attorney, before she does anything else."

Mason remarked hotly, "That's not a fair statement, and you know it. I'm a friend of hers."

"So it would seem," said Sergeant Hoffman, dryly.

Mason planted his feet wide apart and squared his shoulders. "Now, let's get this straight," he said. "I'm representing Eva Belter. There's no reason on God's green earth for throwing any mud at her. George Belter wasn't worth a damned thing to her dead. He was, to this guy. This guy comes drifting in with an alibi that won't stand up and starts taking cracks at my client."

Griffin protested hotly.

Mason kept staring at Sergeant Hoffman. "By God, you can't convict a woman with a lot of loose talk. It takes a jury to do that. And a jury can't convict her until she's proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."

The big sergeant looked at Perry Mason searchingly.

"And you're looking for a reasonable doubt, Mason?"

Mason pointed his finger at Carl Griffin.

"Just so you won't shoot off your face too much, young fellow," he said, "if my client ever goes before a jury, don't think I'm dumb enough to overlook the advantage I can get from dragging you and this will into the case."

"You mean you think he's guilty of this murder?" asked Sergeant Hoffman, coaxingly.

"I'm not a detective," said Mason. "I'm a lawyer. I know that the jury can't convict anybody as long as they've got a reasonable doubt. And if you start framing anything on my client, there sits my reasonable doubt right in that chair!"

Hoffman nodded.

"About what I expected," he said. "I shouldn't have let you sit in on this thing in the first place. Now you can get out!"

"I'm going," Mason told him.

"Paul," he said, "I've got another job for you, and it's a rush job. Have you got any more men you can put on the case?"

Paul's voice was sleepy.

"Gee, guy," he said, "ain't you ever satisfied?"

"Listen," said Mason, "wake up and snap out of it. I've got a job that's got to be done in a hurry, and you've got to beat the police to it."

"How the devil can I beat the police to it?" asked Paul Drake.

"You can," Mason told him, "because I happen to know that you've got access to certain records. You represented the Merchants Protective Association that kept duplicate records of all firearms sold in the city. Now, I want a Colt-32 automatic placed, with number 127337. The police are going to dig into it as a matter of routine, along with a lot of fingerprint stuff, and it'll probably be some time in the morning before they feed it through the mill. They know it's important but they don't figure there's any great hurry about it. What I want you to do is to get the dope in advance of the police. I've simply got to beat them to it."

"What happened with the gun?" asked Paul Drake.

"A guy got shot with it once, right through the heart," said Perry Mason.

Drake whistled. "Is that in connection with the other stuff I've been looking up?"

"I don't think so," Mason said, "but the police may. I've got to be in a position to protect my client. I want you to get the information, and get it before the police do."

"Okay," said Drake. "Where can I call you back?"

"You can't," Mason said. "I'll call you."

"When?"

"I'll call you again in an hour."

"I won't have it by then," protested Drake. "I couldn't."

"You've got to," Mason insisted, "and I'll call you anyway. Good-by." And he hung up the telephone. He then called the number of Harrison Burke's residence. There was no answer. He called Della Street's number, and her sleepy "Hello" came over the line, almost at once.

"This is Perry Mason, Della," he said. "Wake up and get the sleepy dirt out of your eyes. We've got work to do."

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Around three o'clock, or quarter past."

"Okay," she said. "What is it?"

"You awake all right?"

"Of course I'm awake. What do you think I'm doing, talking in my sleep?"

"Never mind the cracks," he told her, "this is serious. Can you get some clothes on and get down to the office right away? I'll order a taxi to be out at the house by the time you get dressed."

"I'm dressing right now," she answered. "Do I take time to make myself pretty, or do I just put on some clothes?"

"Better make yourself pretty," he answered, "but don't take too long doing it."

"Right now," she said, and hung up on him.

Mason telephoned a taxi company to send a cab out to her apartment. Then he left the all night drug store, from which he had been telephoning, got in his car, and drove rapidly to his office.

He switched on the lights, pulled down the shades, and started pacing the floor.

Back and forth, back and forth he paced, his hands behind his back, his head thrust forward, and slightly bowed. There was something of the appearance of a caged tiger in his manner. He seemed impatient, and yet it was a controlled impatience. A fighter who was cornered, savage, who didn't dare make a false move.

A key sounded in the door, and Della Street walked in.

"Morning, chief," she said. "You sure do keep hours!"

He beckoned to her to come in and sit down. "This," he said, "is the start of a busy day."

"What is it?" she asked, looking at him with troubled eyes.

"Murder."

"We're just representing a client?" she inquired.

"I don't know. We may be mixed up in it."

"Mixed up in it?"

"Yes."

"It's that woman," she said savagely.

He shook his head impatiently. "I wish you'd get over those ideas, Della."

"That's right just the same," she persisted. "I knew there was something about her. I knew there was trouble that was going to follow that woman around. I never did trust her."

"Okay," Mason said wearily. "Now forget that, and get your instructions. I don't know what's going to happen here, and you may have to carry on if anything happens that I can't keep the ball rolling."

"What do you mean," she asked, "that you can't?"

"Never mind about that."

"But I do mind," she said, eyes wide with apprehension. "You're in danger."

He ignored the remark. "This woman came to us as Eva Griffin. I tried to follow her, and couldn't make it stick. Later on, I started a fight with Spicy Bits, and tried to find out who was really back of the sheet. It turned out to be a man named Belter who lived out on Elmwood Drive. You'll read about the place and the chap in the morning papers. I went out to see Belter and found he was a tough customer. While I was there, I ran into his wife. And she was none other than our client. Her real name is Eva Belter."

"What was she trying to do?" asked Della Street. "Double-cross you?"

"No," said Mason. "She was in a jam. She'd been places with a man, and her husband was on her back trail. He didn't know who the woman was. It was the man he was after. But he was exposing the man through the scandal sheet, and eventually the identity of the woman would have come out."

"Who is this man?" asked Della Street.

"Harrison Burke," he said, slowly.

She arched her eyebrows and was silent.

Mason lit a cigarette.

"What does Harrison Burke have to say about it?" she asked after a little while.

Perry Mason made a gesture with his hands.

"He was the guy that kicked through with the money in the envelope; the coin that came into the office this afternoon by messenger."

"Oh."

There was silence for a minute or two. Both were thinking.

"Well," she said at length, "go on. What am I going to read about in the papers tomorrow?"

He spoke in a monotone. "I went to bed, and Eva Belter called me sometime after midnight. Around twelve thirty, I guess it was. It was raining to beat the band. She wanted me to come out and pick her up at a drug store. She said she was in trouble. I went out, and she told me that some man had been having an argument with her husband and shot him."

"Did she know the man?" Della Street inquired softly.

"No," said Mason, "she didn't. She didn't see him. She only heard his voice."

"Did she know the voice?"

"She thought she did."

"Who did she think it was?"

"Me."

The girl looked at him steadily, her eyes not changing their expression in the least.

"Was it?"

"No. I was at home, in bed."

"Can you prove it?" she asked, tonelessly.

"Good Lord," he said, impatiently. "I don't take an alibi to bed with me!"

"The lousy little double-crosser!" More calmly she asked, "Then what happened?"

"We went out there, and found her husband dead. A 32-Colt automatic. I got the number of it. One shot, right through the heart. He'd been taking a bath, and somebody shot him."

Della Street's eyes widened. "Then she got you out there before she notified the police?"

"Exactly," said Mason. "The police don't like that."

The girl's face was white. She sucked in her breath to say something, but thought better of it and remained silent.

Perry Mason went on, in his same monotone: "I had a run-in with Sergeant Hoffman. There's a nephew out there that I don't like. He's too much of a gentleman. The housekeeper's concealing something, and I think her daughter is Iying. I didn't get a chance to talk with the other servants. The police held me downstairs while they made the investigation up-stairs. But I had a chance to look around a little bit before the police got there."

"How bad was your trouble with Sergeant Hoffman?" she asked.

"Bad enough," he said, "the way things are."

"You mean you have to stick up for your client?" she asked, her eyes suspiciously moist. "What's going to happen next?"

"I don't know. I think that the housekeeper is going to crack. They evidently haven't gone after her very hard yet. But they will. I think she knows something. I don't know what it is. I'm not even sure that Eva Belter gave me the full facts of the case."

"If she did," said Della Street, savagely, "it's the first time since she's been in here that she hasn't concealed something, and lied about something else. And that business of dragging you into it! Bah! The cat! I could kill her!"

Mason waved his hand, depreciatingly. "Never mind that. I'm in this now."

"Does Harrison Burke know about this murder business?" she asked.

"I tried to get him on the telephone. He's out."

"What a sweet time for him to be out!" she exclaimed.

Mason smiled wearily. "Isn't it?"

They looked at each other.

Della Street took a quick breath, started speaking impulsively.

"Look here," she said, "you're letting this woman get you in a funny position. You had words with this man who was killed. You were fighting his paper, and when you fight, you don't do it gently. That woman trapped you to get you out there. She wanted you to be there when the police came. She's getting ready to throw you to the wolves, if it looks as though her precious hands were going to get soiled. Now are you going to let her get away with that?"

"Not if I can help it," he said, "but I won't go back on her until I have to."

Della Street's face was white, her lips drawn into a thin, firm line. "She's a…" she said, and stopped.

"She's a client," insisted Perry Mason, "and she's paying well."

"Paying well for what? To have you represent her in a blackmail case? Or to take a rap for murder?"

There were tears in her eyes.

"Mr. Mason," she said, "please don't be so damned big hearted. Keep on the outside of this thing, and let them go ahead and do whatever they want to. You simply act as an attorney and come into the case as a lawyer."

His voice was patient. "It's pretty late for that now, isn't it, Della?"

"No, it isn't. You keep out of it!"

He smiled patiently. "She's a client, Della."

"That's all right," she said, "after you get to court. You can sit back and see what happens at the trial."

He shook his head. "No, Della, the District Attorney doesn't wait until he gets to court. His representatives are out there right now, talking with the witnesses and putting the words in Carl Griffin's mouth that will become newspaper headlines tomorrow and damaging testimony by the time the case comes to trial."

She recognized the futility of further argument.

"You think they're going to arrest the woman?" she asked.

"I don't know what they're going to do," he said.

"Have they found a motive?"

"No," he said, "they haven't found a motive. They started looking for the conventional ones, and they didn't pan out, so that stopped them. But when they find out about this other business, they'll have a motive already made to order."

"Are they going to find out about it?" she asked.

"They're bound to."

Della Street's eyes suddenly widened. "Do you think," she said, "it was Harrison Burke? The man who was out there when the shot was fired?"

"I've tried to get Harrison Burke on the telephone," he said, "and haven't been able to. Aside from that I'm not even thinking. Go on out and get on the telephone. Try him again. Keep trying his house at ten minute intervals until you get him, or get somebody."

"Okay," she said.

"Also, ring up Paul Drake. He'll probably be at his office. If he isn't, try him on that emergency telephone number we've got. He's doing some work for me on this."

She was once more merely a secretary. "Yes, Mr. Mason," she said, and went into the other office.

Perry Mason resumed his pacing of the floor.

After a few minutes, his telephone rang.

He picked up the receiver.

"Paul Drake," said Della Street's voice.

Paul Drake's voice said, "Hello, Perry."

"Have you got anything?" Mason asked.

"Yes, I got a lucky break on that gun business, and I can give you the dope on it."

"Your line's all clear? There's nobody listening?"

"No," said Drake, "it's okay."

"All right," Mason said, "hand it to me."

"I don't suppose you care anything about where the gun was jobbed or who the dealer was?" asked Drake. "What you want is the name of the purchaser."

"That's right."