The Case of the Velvet Claws (14 page)

It was rather simple. Locke had gone to a speakeasy, stayed there half an hour, gone to a barber shop, had a shave and massage, gone to the Wheelright Hotel, gone to room 946, remained there five or ten minutes, and then had gone to dinner with Esther Linten, the tenant of the room.

They had dined and danced until eleven o'clock, and then had gone back to the room in the Wheelright. Bellboys had brought up ginger ale and ice, and Locke had stayed in the room until one-thirty in the morning, when he had left.

Mason thrust the reports into his pocket and started drumming with the tips of his fingers on the sash of the window.

"You make me nervous," said Eva Belter. "I wish you'd tell me what's going on."

"I've told you what we're going to do."

"What were those papers?"

"A business matter."

"What business?"

He laughed at her. "Do I have to tell you the business of all of my clients just because I happen to be working for you?"

She frowned at him. "I think you're horrid."

He shrugged his shoulders and continued drumming upon the sash of the window.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened and Della Street walked in. She stiffened as she saw Eva Belter on the bed.

"Okay, Della," said Mason. "We've got to have some papers ready for an emergency that may arise. We've got to figure on a petition for letters of administration, on a contest for the probate of a will, and on an application for special letters of administration, an order appointing Mrs. Belter as special administratrix, and a bond all ready to submit for approval and filing. Then we've got to have special letters of administration, with copies to be certified and served on interested parties."

Della Street asked coolly, "Do you wish to dictate them now?"

"Yes, and I want some breakfast."

He went to the telephone, rang room service, and ordered breakfast sent up.

Della Street stared at Eva Belter. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I'll have to have that table."

Eva Belter arched her eyebrows and picked up her glass from the table, much with the gesture of a woman gathering her skirts about her when encountering a beggar on the street.

Mason lifted off the ginger ale bottle and the bowl of ice, polished the top of the table with the moist cover which had been on it, and set it down in front of a chair for Della Street.

She pulled up the straight-back chair, crossed her knees, put the notebook on the table, and poised her pencil.

Perry Mason dictated rapidly for twenty minutes. At the end of that time breakfast arrived. The three ate heartily and almost in silence. Eva Belter managed to give the impression that she was eating with the servants.

When the breakfast was finished, Mason had the things taken away, and proceeded with his dictation. By nine-thirty he had finished.

"Go back to the office and write those up," he told Della, "and have them all ready for signature. But don't let anybody see what you're doing. You'd better keep the outer office door locked. You can use the printed forms for the petitions."

"Okay," she said. "I'd like to see you for a moment alone."

Eva Belter sniffed.

"Don't mind her," said Mason, "she's going."

"Oh, no, I'm not," Eva Belter said.

"Yes, you are," Mason ordered. "You're going right now. I had to have you here while I was dictating those papers in order to get the information that I needed. You're going back and put that will back in the house. Then you're going up to my office this afternoon and sign all of these papers. And, in the meantime, you're going to keep your own counsel. The newspaper reporters are going to ask you questions. They'll get in touch with you somewhere along the line. You're going to use all of your sex appeal and be shocked and crushed by the terrible misfortune you've suffered. You're going to be unable to give out any kind of a coherent interview, and you're going to sell them on your grief. Every time they stick a camera your way, show lots of leg and turn on the water works. Do you understand?"

"You're coarse," she said coldly.

"I'm effective," he told her. "What the hell's the use of you trying to slip a lot of stuff over on me when you know it doesn't go?"

She put on her hat and coat with dignity and marched to the door.

"Just when I get so I really like you," she told him, "you have to go ahead and spoil it all."

He silently held the door open for her, bowed her out and then slammed it shut.

He moved over close to Della Street, and said, "What is it, Della?"

She reached down the front of her dress and pulled out an envelope.

"A messenger brought this."

"What is it?" he asked.

"Money."

He opened the flap of the envelope. There were one hundred dollar traveler checks on the inside. Two books with one thousand dollars in each book. All of the checks were signed "Harrison Burke" and duly counter-signed. The name of the payee was left blank.

There was a note attached to the checks, scribbled hurriedly in pencil.

Mason unfolded the note, and read it: "I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE BETTER FOR ME TO KEEP OUT OF THE WAY FOR A LITTLE WHILE. GO AHEAD AND KEEP ME OUT OF THIS. NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS, KEEP ME OUT OF IT." The note was signed with the initials "H.B."

Mason handed the books over to Della Street.

"Business," he said, "is looking up. Be careful where you cash them."

She nodded her head.

"Tell me, what's happened? What has she got you into?"

"She hasn't got me into anything except a couple of good fees. And before she gets done, she's going to pay more."

"She has too," insisted Della. "She's got you mixed up in that murder case. I heard some of the reporters talking this morning. She got you out there before she notified the police, and she's framed things so that she can drag you into it at any time. What makes you think she isn't going to tell the police you were the man who was in the room when the shot was fired?"

Mason made a weary gesture.

"I don't," he said. "I have an idea that she's going to do that sooner or later."

"Are you going to stand for it?"

The lawyer explained patiently.

"When you're representing clients, Della," he said, "you can't pick and choose them. You've got to take them as they come. There's only one rule in this game, and that is that when you do take them, you've got to give them all you've got."

She sniffed. "That doesn't mean that you have to sit back and let them accuse you of murder in order to protect a sweetheart."

"You're getting pretty wise," Mason remarked. "Who've you been talking to?"

"One of the reporters. Only I haven't been talking. I've been listening."

He smiled at her. "Skip along and get these things out, and don't worry about me. I've got work to do. Whenever you come over here, be careful that nobody shadows you."

"This is the last time I dare to try it," she said. "I had an awful time getting away. They tried to follow me. I pulled the same stunt that Mrs. Belter did the first time she came to the office, of going through the dressing-room. It always bothers a man when he's trailing a woman, and she walks into a ladies' room. They'll fall for it once, but not twice."

"Okay," said Mason. "I've kept under cover almost as long as I can myself. They'll be picking me up sometime today."

"I hate her!" Della Street said fervently. "I wish you'd never seen her. She isn't worth the money. If we made ten times as much money out of it, she still wouldn't be worth it. I told you just what she was – all velvet and claws!"

"Wait a minute, young lady," Mason warned. "You haven't seen the blow-off yet."

Della Street tossed her head. "I've seen enough. I'll have these things all ready by this afternoon."

"Okay," said Mason. "Let her sign them, and see that everything's in order. I may have to grab them and run, or telephone you and have you meet me some place."

She flashed him a smile and went out, very trim, very self-possessed, loyal and very worried.

Mason waited five minutes, and then lit a cigarette, and walked out of the hotel.

After a few moments, he heard a stir from the interior of the room, the creak of bed springs, and then a woman's voice saying, "Who is it?"

"Telegram," said Perry Mason.

He heard the door latch click on the inside, and the door open. Mason lowered his shoulder, pushed the door back and walked into the room.

The girl had on pajamas of the sheerest silk which revealed the details of her figure. She had been sleeping, and her eyes were swollen. Her face still had traces of make-up but showed a certain sallow color of skin beneath the cosmetics.

Seeing her in the light of the morning, Mason knew that she was older than he had at first thought. She was, however beautiful, and her figure would have been the delight of a sculptor. Her eyes were large and dark. There was a sullen pout to the mouth.

She stood before him without any semblance of modesty, but with a certain air of sullen defiance about her.

"What's the idea of busting in here this way?" she asked.

"I wanted to talk with you."

"That's a hell of a way to do it," said the girl.

Mason nodded. "Get back into bed. You'll catch cold."

"Just for that," she said, "I don't think I will."

She crossed to the window, raised the shade, and turned to face him.

"Well," she said, "spill it."

"I'm sorry," said Mason, "but you're in a jam."

"Says you!" she retorted.

"It happens that I'm telling you the truth."

"Who do you think you are?"

"My name's Mason."

"A detective?"

"No, a lawyer."

"Huh."

"I happen to represent Mrs. Eva Belter," he went on. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"Not a damn thing."

"Well," he protested, "don't get hard about it. You might at least be sociable."

She made a grimace, spat forth a swift comment, "I hate to have my sleep interrupted at this hour in the morning, and I hate men who come busting in the way you did."

Mason ignored her statement. "Did you know that Frank Locke didn't own Spicy Bits?" he asked casually.

"Who's Frank Locke, and what's Spicy Bits?"

He laughed at her.

"Frank Locke," he said, "is the man who's been signing the checks on the special account of Spicy Bits, which you've been cashing every two weeks."

"You're one of these smart guys, ain't you?" she said.

"I get around," Mason admitted.

"Well, what about it?"

"Locke was just a figurehead. A man by the name of Belter owned the paper. Locke did what Belter told him to."

She stretched up her arms and yawned. "Well, what's that to me? Have you got a cigarette?"

Mason handed her a cigarette. She came close to him while he applied the match, then strolled over and sat down on the bed, tucked her feet up in under her, and hugged her knees.

"Go on," she said, "if it interests you. I reckon I can't get to sleep until after you leave."

"You're not going to sleep any more today."

"No?"

"No. There's a morning paper outside the door. Would you like to see it?"

"Why?"

"It tells all about the murder of George C. Belter."

"I hate murders before breakfast."

"You might like to read about this one anyway."

"All right," she said, "go get me the paper."

He shook his head at her.

"No," he said, "you get the paper. Otherwise, when I open the door something might happen, and I'd get pushed out."

She got up, puffing placidly at the cigarette, crossed to the door, opened it, reached out and picked up the paper.

The headlines screamed the news of the Belter murder. She walked back to the bed, sat down with her feet tucked in under her, legs crossed, and read through the paper, smoking as she read.

"Well," she said. "I still don't see that it's anything in my young life. Some guy got bumped. It's too bad, but he probably had it coming to him."

"He did," said Mason.

"Well, why should that make me lose my beauty sleep?"

"If you'll use your noodle," he explained patiently, "you'll find out that Mrs. Belter has come into a position where she controls all of the property in the estate and I happen to represent Mrs. Belter."

"Well?"

"You've been blackmailing Frank Locke," he said, "and Locke has been embezzling trust funds in order to pay the blackmail. That special account of Spicy Bits was an account that was given him to use in purchasing information. He's been handing it over to you."

"I'm in the clear," she said, tossing the paper to the floor, "I didn't know anything at all about it."

He laughed at her.

"How about the blackmail?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, yes, you do, Esther. You are shaking him down on account of this Georgia business."

That remark registered with her. Her face changed color, and, for the first time, there was a startled look in her eyes.

Mason went on to press his advantage.

"That," he said, "wouldn't look pretty. You may have heard of compounding a felony. It's a crime in this state, you know."

She appraised him watchfully. "You're not a dick, just a lawyer?"

"Just a lawyer."

"Okay," she said. "What do you want?"

"Now you're commencing to talk turkey."

"I'm not talking; I'm listening."

"You were with Frank Locke last night," he said.

"Who says I was?"

"I do. You went out with him, then came back here, and he stayed until long in the morning."

"I'm free, white, and twenty-one," she said, "and this is my home. I guess I've got a right to entertain men friends if I want to."

"Sure you have," he said. "The next question is, have you got sense enough to know which side of your bread has got the butter?"

"How do you mean?"

"What did you do last night after you got back to the room?"

"Talked about the weather, of course."

"That's fine," he told her. "You had some drinks sent up, and sat and chatted, and then you got sleepy and went to sleep."

"Who says that?" she asked.

"That's what I say," he explained, "and that's what you're going to say. You got sleepy and passed out."

Her eyes were thoughtful. "How do you mean?"

Mason spoke as though he had been a teacher coaching a pupil. "You were tired and you'd been drinking. You got into your pajamas and went to sleep about eleven-forty, and you don't know anything that happened after that. You don't know when Frank Locke left."

"What good does it do me if I say I went to sleep?" she inquired.

Mason's tone was casual. "I think Mrs. Belter would be very much inclined to overlook the matter of the embezzled account if you went to sleep as I mentioned."

"Well, I didn't go to sleep."

"You'd better think it over."

She stared at him with her big, appraising eyes and said nothing.

Mason crossed to the telephone and gave the number of Paul Drake's Detective Agency.

"You know who this is, Paul," he said, when he heard Drake's voice. "What have you got, anything?"

"Yes," said Drake, "I've got something on the broad."

"Spill it," said Mason.

"She won a beauty contest in Savannah," said Drake. "She was under age at the time. There was another kid living with her in an apartment. A man got the kid in a jam, and then killed her. He tried to cover up the crime and made a bum job of it. He was arrested and tried. This girl switched her testimony at the last minute and gave him a break. He got a hung jury on the first trial, and managed to escape before they tried him again. He's still a fugitive from justice. His name is Cecil Dawson. I'm looking him up for description and fingerprints, and any more dope I can get. I have an idea that he may be the man you want."

"Okay," Mason said, as though he had expected just that. "That comes in pretty handy right now. Stay with it, and I'll get in touch with you a little later."

He hung up the telephone and turned back to the girl.

"Well," he asked, "what is it, yes or no?"

"No," she said. "I told you that before, and I don't change my mind."

He stared at her, steadily. "You know, the funny part of it is," he said, slowly, "that it goes farther back than just the blackmail. It goes back to the time that you changed your testimony, and gave Dawson an opportunity to get a hung jury. When he's brought back and tried on that murder charge, the fact that you have been here with him and taking these checks from him will put you in kind of a tough spot on a perjury prosecution."

Her face lost its color. Her eyes were big, dark and staring. Her mouth sagged open and she breathed heavily through it.

"My God!" she said.

"Exactly," said Mason. "You were asleep last night."

She kept her eyes on him and asked, "Would that square it?"

"I don't know," Mason told her. "It would square things at this end. I don't know whether anybody's going to make a squawk about the Georgia business or not."

"All right. I was asleep."

Mason got up and moved toward the door.

"You want to remember that," he said. "Nobody knows about this except me. If you tell Locke that I was here, or the proposition I made you, I'll see that you get the works everywhere along the line."

"Don't be silly," she said. "I know when I've had enough."

He walked out and closed the door behind him.

He got in his car and drove to Sol Steinburg's Pawnshop.

Steinburg was fat, with shrewd, twinkling eyes, a skull cap, and thick, curling lips, which were twisted in a perpetual smile.

He beamed on Perry Mason, and said, "Well, well, well. It's been a long time since I've seen you, my friend."

Mason shook hands. "It certainly has, Sol. And now I'm in trouble."

The pawnbroker nodded and rubbed his hands together.

"Whenever they get in trouble," he said, "they come to Sol Steinburg's place. What is your trouble, my friend?"

"Listen," said Mason, "I want you to do something for me."

The skull cap nodded in vigorous assent.

"I'd do anything I could for you, y'understand. Of course, business is business. And if it's a business matter, you've got to come to me on a business basis, and take business treatment. But if it ain't business y'understand, I'd do anything I could."

Mason's eyes twinkled. "It's business for you, Sol," he said, "because you're going to make fifty dollars out of it. But you don't have to invest anything."

The fat man broke out in laughter.

"That," he proclaimed, "is the kind of business I like to talk – when I don't have to invest anything, and make a fifty dollar profit already, I know it's a good business. What do I do?"

"Let me see the register of revolvers you've sold," Mason told him.

The man fished under a counter and produced a well-thumbed booklet, in which had been registered the style and make of the weapon, the number, the person to whom it was sold, and the signature of the purchaser.

Mason thumbed the pages until he found a 32-Colt automatic.

"That's the one," he said.

Steinburg leaned over the book, and stared at the registration.

"What about it?"

"I'm coming in here with a man sometime today, or tomorrow," said Mason, "and, as soon as you look at him, you nod your head vigorously, and say, 'That's the man, that's the man, that's the man, all right.' I'll ask you if you're sure it's the man and you get more and more certain. He'll deny it, and the more he denies it, the more certain you get."

Sol Steinburg pursed his thick lips. "That might be serious."

Mason shook his head.

"It would be if you said it in court," he admitted, "but you're not going to say it in court. You're not going to say it to anybody except this man. And you're not going to say what it was he did. Simply identify him as being the man. Then you go in the back part of the store, and leave me with the firearm register here. Do you understand?"

"Sure, sure," said Steinburg. "I understand it fine. All except one thing."

"What's that?" asked Mason.

"Where the fifty dollars is coming from."

Mason slapped his pants pocket. "Right here, Sol." He pulled out a roll of bills from which he took fifty dollars, and handed it to the pawnbroker.

"Anybody you come in with?" he asked. "Is that it?"