The Case of the Velvet Claws (16 page)

Mason sat back, apparently entirely absorbed in the crowds on the sidewalks, the fronts of the buildings, the window displays.

Locke started to say something once, but changed his mind and lapsed into silence. His milk-chocolate eyes were wide and worried. His face had not regained its color. It showed white and pasty.

The cab drew up in front of the Wheelright Hotel.

Locke got out and indicated Mason to the cab driver, with a gesture of his hand.

Mason shook his head.

"No, Locke," he said, "this is your party. You wanted the cab."

Locke pulled a bill out of his pocket, tossed it to the cab driver, turned, and started through the entrance of the hotel. Mason followed.

Locke walked at once to the elevator, said, "Ninth floor," to the operator.

When the cage stopped, he got out and walked straight toward Esther Linten's room, without bothering to see if Mason was following. He knocked on the door. "It's me, Honey," he called.

Esther Linten opened the door. She had on a kimono which opened in the front sufficiently to reveal pink silk underwear. When she saw Mason, she pulled the kimono abruptly about her, and stepped back, her eyes large.

"What's the meaning of this, Frank?" she asked.

Locke pushed on past her. "I can't explain things, Honey, but I want you to tell this fellow where I was last night."

She lowered her eyes, and said, "What do you mean, Frank?"

Locke's voice was savage. "Oh, nix on that stuff. You know what I mean. Go on. This is a jam, and you've got to come clean."

She stared at Locke with fluttering eyelids. "Tell him everything?" she asked.

"Everything," said Locke. "He ain't a vice squad. He's just a dumb boob that thinks he can work a frame-up on me, and get away with it."

She spoke, in a low voice, "We went out, and after that, you came here."

"Then what happened?" pressed Locke.

"I undressed," she muttered.

"Go on," said Locke. "Tell it to him. Give him the whole business. Speak up so he can hear you."

"I went to bed," she said slowly, "and I'd had a couple of drinks."

"What time was that?" asked Mason.

"About eleven-thirty, I guess," she said.

Locke stared at her. "What happened after that?" he demanded.

She shook her head. "I woke up this morning with an awful headache, Frank. And I knew, of course, that you were here when I went to sleep. But I don't know what time you went out, or anything about it. I passed out after I got into bed."

Locke jumped away from her and stood in a corner, as though he were guarding himself against a physical attack from both of them.

"You dirty, double-crossing…"

Mason interrupted, "That's no way to talk to a lady."

Locke was furious. "You damn fool. Can't you see she ain't a lady?"

Esther Linten stared at him from angry eyes. "That's not going to get you anywhere, Frank. If you didn't want me to tell the truth, why the hell didn't you tell me you wanted an alibi? If you'd wanted me to lie about it why didn't you tip me off, and I'd have said anything you wanted me to say. But you told me to tell the truth and I did."

Locke cursed again.

"Well," said the lawyer, "it's very evident that this young lady is dressing. We don't want to detain her. I'm in a hurry Locke. Do you want to go with me, or do you want to stay here with her?"

Locke's tone was ominous as he said, "I'll stay here with her."

"Fine," Mason remarked, "I'll put in a telephone call from here."

He walked over to the telephone, took down the receiver, and said, "Police Headquarters."

Locke watched him with the look of a cornered rat in his eyes.

After a while Mason spoke into the transmitter, "Get me Sidney Drumm, will you? He's on the Detective Force."

Locke's voice rasped out in agony, "For God's sake, hang up that receiver, quick."

Mason turned to survey him with mild curiosity.

"Hang it up!" yelled Locke. "Damn it, you've got the whip hand. You've worked a frame-up on me that I can't buck. Not that the frame-up isn't crude as hell, but I don't dare to have you go into the motive. That's the thing that cooks me. You put on evidence about the motive and a jury would never listen to anything else."

Mason slid the receiver back on the hook, turned to face Locke.

"Now," he said, "we're getting some place."

"What is it you want?" asked Locke.

"You know what I want," said Mason.

Locke flung out his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"All right," he said, "that's understood. Anything else?"

Mason shook his head. "Not right now. It might be well to remember that Eva Belter is the real owner of the paper now. Personally, I think it would be a good plan to consult with her before you publish anything which might be distasteful to her. You come out every two weeks, don't you?"

"Yes, our publication day is next Thursday."

"Anything may happen between now and then, Locke," Mason told him.

Locke said nothing.

Mason turned to the girl.

"I'm sorry we disturbed you, Miss," he said.

"That's all right," she said. "If the damn fool wanted me to lie, why didn't he say so? What was his idea in telling me he wanted me to tell the truth?"

Locke whirled on her. "You are lying, Esther. You know damned well you didn't pass out when you went to bed."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Maybe I didn't," she said, "but I can't remember anything. Lots of times when I get plastered, I can't remember what happened all during that evening."

Locke said meaningly, "Well, you'd better get over that habit. It might prove fatal."

She flared at him. "I should think you'd have a bellyful of having friends who had things fatal happen to them!"

He went white. "Shut up, Esther. Can't you get the sketch?"

"Shut up yourself, then! I'm not a girl that you can talk to that way."

Mason interposed. "Well, never mind, it's all settled now, anyway. Come on, Locke, let's get going. I think you'd better come with me after all. I've got some more things I want to say to you."

Locke walked to the door, paused, looked at Esther Linten with his mild brown eyes gleaming malevolence, and then stepped out into the corridor.

Mason stepped up behind him without even looking back at the girl, and closed the door. He took Locke's arm and piloted him toward the elevator.

"I just want you to know," said Locke, "that that frame-up was so damned crude that it wasn't even funny. It was this Georgia business that you mentioned that bothered me. I don't want to have anybody go into that. I think you've got the wrong idea about it, but it's something that's a closed chapter in my life."

Mason smiled, and said, "Oh, no, it isn't, Locke. Murder never outlaws, you know, and they can always bring you back for another trial."

Locke pushed himself away from Mason's side. His lips were twitching, and his eyes were filled with panic. "I can beat that case if they try me in Savannah. But if you spring it here in connection with another murder case, they'd make short work of me, and you're just smooth enough to know it."

Mason shrugged his shoulders. "Incidentally, Locke," he said, "I presume that you've been embezzling money from the accounts to keep this thing going," and he jerked his thumb back toward the room they had quitted.

"Well," said Locke, "guess again. That's one place where you can't do a damn thing. Nobody on earth knows what my understanding was with George Belter, except George Belter. It wasn't in writing. It was just an understanding between us."

"Well, be careful what you say, Locke," Mason warned, "and remember that Mrs. Belter is the owner of the paper now. You'd better have an understanding with her before you pay out any more money. Your accounts will have to be audited in court now, you know."

Locke swore under his breath. "So that's it, is it?"

"That's it," Mason said. "I'm going to leave you when we get out of the hotel, Locke. Don't go back and try to beat up that woman, because anything she might say wouldn't make a particle of difference. I don't know whether Sol Steinburg is right in identifying you as the man who bought the murder gun in this case or not. But, even if he isn't, all we need to do is to simply pass the word to the Georgia authorities, and you go back for another trial. Maybe you beat the rap, maybe you don't; but you're out of the picture here."

Locke said, curiously, "Listen, you're playing a hell of a deep game. I'd like to know what it is."

Mason looked at him innocently.

"Why no, Locke," he said, "I'm just representing a client, and sort of messing around here, trying to find out something. I had some detectives who chased down the number on the gun. I guess we got it a little bit in advance of the police, because they are going about it as a matter of routine. And I did some single-shooting on it."

Locke laughed. "Save that," he said, "and tell it to somebody who appreciates it. You don't fool me any with that damned innocent stuff."

Mason shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, Locke," he said, "I'm sorry. I may get in touch with you later on. In the meantime, I'd be awfully careful about mentioning anything at all about Mrs. Belter's business, or about my business, and that goes double for anything connected with this Beechwood Inn business, or Harrison Burke."

"Hell," said Locke, "you don't need to rub it in. I'm off of that stuff for life. I know when I'm licked. What are you going to do about that Georgia business? Anything?"

"I'm not a detective or an officer. I'm simply a lawyer. I'm representing Mrs. Belter. That's all."

The cage dropped them into the lobby of the hotel, and Mason went to the door and signaled a taxi.

"So long, Locke," he said. "I'll see you later."

As the cab drove away, Locke was standing in the doorway, leaning up against the building for support. His face was pale and his lips twisted into a frozen smile.

Morning sunlight was streaming in through the windows. The bed was littered with newspapers. Headlines streamed across them news of the Belter murder, which had developed enough interesting angles to betray to the news-skilled reporters that a major sensation was due to break.

The Examiner carried headlines which monopolized the front page. "MURDER BARES ROMANCE." Underneath in smaller headlines: NEPHEW OF VICTIM ENGAGED TO HOUSEKEEPER'S DAUGHTER. SECRET ROMANCE BARED BY POLICE. – WILL CONTEST FILED IN BELTER ESTATE. DISINHERITED WIDOW CLAIMS WILL FORGERY – POLICE TRACE GUN TO MISSING MAN – WIDOW'S CHANCE REMARK STARTS SEARCH FOR LAWYER."

These headlines appeared over different articles on the front page of the paper. The inside page showed pictures of Eva Belter sitting with her knees crossed, a handkerchief to her eyes. There were headlines with the by-line of a well-known sob sister, "WIDOW WEEPS AS POLICE QUESTION."

Reading the newspapers, Mason had kept abreast of the situation. He had learned that the police had traced the gun to one Pete Mitchell, who had mysteriously disappeared immediately after the shooting, but who had a perfect alibi covering the time when the crime had actually been committed. It was the assumption of the police that Mitchell was shielding some one to whom he had given the gun.

No names were mentioned, but Mason was able to realize that the police were getting close to Harrison Burke. He had also read, with increasing interest, about a chance remark which Eva Belter had made which had caused the police to start seeking an attorney who had represented her, and who had mysteriously disappeared from his office. The police were confidently predicting that the mystery would be solved within another twenty-four hours, and the man who fired the fatal shot be behind the bars.

Somebody knocked at the door.

Perry Mason put down the newspaper he was reading, cocked his head on one side, and listened.

The knock was repeated.

Mason shrugged his shoulders, walked to the door, twisted the key, and opened it.

Della Street was in the hall.

She pushed her way into the room, slammed the door behind her, and locked it.

"I told you not to risk it," Mason told her.

She turned around and looked at him. Her eyes were slightly blood-shot, with dark circles under them, and her face was haggard.

"I don't care," she said. "It was all right. I managed to ditch them. I've been playing tag with them for an hour."

"You can't ever tell about those fellows, Della. They're clever. Sometimes they let you think you've got away in order to find out where you wanted to go."

"They didn't slip anything over on me," she said in a voice that told of raw nerves. "I tell you they don't know where I am."

He caught the note of hysteria in her voice. "Well, I'm glad you're here. I was just wondering who I could get to take down some stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Some stuff that's going to come up."

She made a gesture toward the newspapers on the bed.

"Chief," she said, "I told you that she was going to get you into trouble. She came into the office and signed those papers. There were a bunch of reporters hanging around, of course, and they started going after her. Then the detectives took her down to Headquarters for further questioning. You can see what she did."

Mason nodded. "That's all right. Don't get excited, Della."

"Get excited? Do you know what she did? She made the statement down there that she recognized your voice. That you were the man that was in the room with Belter when the shot was fired. And then she pulled a fainting fit, and a lot of hysterics, and stuff of that sort."

"That's all right, Della," he said soothingly. "I knew she was going to do that."

Della stared at him with wide eyes.

"You did?" she asked. "I thought I was the one who knew that!"

He nodded. "Sure you did, Della. So did I."

"She's a rat and a liar!" Della Street said.

Mason shrugged his shoulders and walked to the telephone. He gave the number of Drake's Detective Bureau, and got Paul Drake on the line.

"Listen, Paul," he said, "make sure you're not tailed, and sneak over to Room 518 in the Hotel Ripley. Better bring a couple of stenographer's notebooks, and a bunch of pencils along with you. Will you?"

"Right away?" asked the detective.

"Right away," he said. "It's eight forty-five now, and I'm expecting a show to start at nine."

He hung up the telephone.

Della Street was curious. "What is it, chief?" she asked.

"I'm expecting Eva Belter to be here at nine o'clock," he said briefly.

"I don't want to be here when that woman's here," Della Street said. "I can't trust myself around her. She's double-crossed you all the way from the start. I want to kill her. She's such a sleek little gutter rat."

He put his hand on her shoulder. "Sit down and take it easy, Della. There's going to be a show-down."

There was a sound at the door. The knob turned, the door opened, and Eva Belter walked in.

She looked at Della Street, and said, "Oh, you're both here."

"Apparently," Mason said, "you've been doing some talking." He gestured, as he spoke, toward the newspapers which were piled on the bed.

She walked over to him, ignoring the other woman, placed her hands on his shoulders, looked up in his eyes. "Perry," she said, "I never felt so rotten about anything in my life. I don't know how I happened to say it. They got me down at Headquarters and barked questions at me. Everybody shrieked questions. I never saw anything like it. I didn't dream that it would be anything at all like that. I tried to protect you, but I couldn't. It slipped out, and just as soon as I made the first slip, they all started piling on me. They made threats, and told me they'd name me as an accessory."

"What did you tell them?" asked Mason.

She looked in his eyes, then went over to the bed, sat down, took out her handkerchief from her purse, and started to cry.

Della Street moved two swift steps toward her, but Mason caught her arm and pushed her back.

"I'm handling this," he said.

Eva Belter continued to sob into her handkerchief.

"Go ahead," said Mason. "What did you tell them?"

She shook her head.

"Never mind that sob stuff," he said, "it doesn't go over so big right now. We're in a jam and you'd better tell me what you said."

She sobbed. "I just t-t-t-told them that I heard your v-v-v-voice."

"Did you say it was my voice? Or some one that sounded like me?"

"I t-t-told them everything. That it was your voice."

His tone was hard. "You knew damned well it wasn't my voice."

"I didn't intend to tell them," she wailed, "but it was the truth. It was your voice."

"All right. We'll take it that way," Mason said.

Della Street started to say something, but stopped when he turned on her and fastened her with level-lidded eyes.

There was a silence in the room, broken only by the faint rumble of noises from the street, and the sobs of the woman.

After a minute or two the door opened, and Paul Drake walked in.

"Hello, everybody," he said, cheerfully. "Made time, didn't I? I got a break. There was nobody who seemed to have the slightest interest in where I was, or what I was doing."

"Did you see anybody hanging around the front of the place?" asked Mason. "I'm not entirely certain that they didn't shadow Della."

"Nobody that I noticed."

Mason waved his hand toward the woman who sat on the bed with her legs crossed.

"This is Eva Belter," he said.

Drake grinned and looked at the legs.

"Yes," he said, "I recognized her from a picture in the paper."

Eva Belter took the handkerchief down from her eyes, and stared up at Drake. She smiled ingratiatingly.

Della Street snapped, "Even your tears weren't genuine!"

Eva Belter turned and looked at her, her blue eyes suddenly grown hard.

Perry Mason whirled on Della. "Listen, Della," he said, "I'm running this show." He looked over at Paul Drake. "Did you bring the notebooks and pencils, Paul?"

The detective nodded.

Mason took the notebooks and pencils, and passed them over to Della Street.

"Can you move the table and take down what's said, Della?" he asked.

"I can try," she said in a choked voice.

"All right. Be sure and get what she says," and he jerked his thumb in the direction of Eva Belter.

Eva Belter looked from one to the other. "What is it?" she asked. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to get the straight of this," Mason told her.

"You want me here?" asked Paul Drake.

"Sure," Mason told him. "You're a witness."

"You make me nervous," said Eva Belter. "That's the way they did last night. They had me in the District Attorney's office, and they had people sitting there with notebooks and pencils. It makes me nervous to have people take down what I say."

Mason smiled. "Yes, I should think it would. Did they ask you anything about the gun?"

Eva Belter widened her blue eyes in that stare of innocence which made her seem so young and helpless.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You know what I mean," Mason persisted. "Did they ask anything about how you happened to have the gun?"

"How I happened to have the gun?" she asked.

"Yes," said Mason. "Harrison Burke gave it to you, you know, and that's the reason you had to telephone him – to tell him that it was his gun that had been used in the shooting."

Della Street's pencil was skipping rapidly over the page of the notebook.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Eva Belter said with dignity.

"Oh, yes, you do," Mason told her. "You telephoned Burke that there had been an accident or something, and that his gun had figured in it. He'd had the gun given him by a friend named Mitchell, and he drove right around and picked up Mitchell. The two of them ducked under cover."

"Why," she exclaimed, "I never heard of anything like that!"

"That line isn't going to get you anywhere, live," Mason told her, "because I saw Harrison Burke, and I have a statement signed by him."

She stiffened in sudden consternation.

"You have a statement signed by him?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I thought you were representing me."

"What's wrong with representing you and having a statement from Burke?" he asked.

"Nothing, only he's Iying if he said that he ever gave me that gun. I never saw it in my life."

"That makes it more simple," Mason commented.

"What does?"

"You'll see," he told her. "Now let's go back and clear up another point or two. When you got your purse it was in your husband's desk. Do you remember that?"

"What do you mean?" she inquired in a low cautious voice.

"When I was there with you," Mason said, "and you got your purse."

"Oh, yes, I remember that! I'd put it in the desk earlier in the evening."

"Fine," said Mason. "Now, just between the four of us, who do you think was in the room with your husband when the shot was fired?"

She said, simply, "You were."

"That's fine," Mason said without enthusiasm. "Now, your husband had been taking a bath just before the shot was fired."

For the first time she seemed uneasy. "I don't know about that. You were there. I wasn't."

"Yes, you know," Mason insisted. "He was in the bath, and he got out and put a bathrobe around him, without even waiting to dry himself."

"Did he?" she asked mechanically.

"You know he did, and the evidence shows he did. Now, how do you suppose that I got in to see him if he was in his bath?"

"Why, I guess the servant let you in, didn't he?"

Mason smiled. "The servant doesn't say so, does he?"

"Well, I don't know. All I know is that I heard your voice."

"You'd been out with Burke," Mason said, slowly, "and you came in. You didn't carry your purse with you while you were wearing your evening clothes, did you?"

"No, I didn't have it with me then," she said, and suddenly bit her lip.

Mason grinned at her.

"Then how," he said, "did it get in your husband's desk?"

"I don't know."

"You remember the receipts that I gave you for the amounts you paid on account of fees?" Mason asked.

She nodded her head.

"Where are they?"

She shrugged her shoulders.