The Case of the Velvet Claws pm-1

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  Norma Veitch looked up at Perry Mason. “My,” she said, “it was horrible. Wasn’t it?”

  Mason nodded, remarked casually, “You didn’t hear the shot, I presume?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “No, I was sound asleep. In fact, I didn’t wake up until after the officers came. They got Mother up, and I guess they didn’t know that I was sleeping in the adjoining room. They wanted to look through Mother’s room while she was upstairs, I guess. Anyway, the first thing I knew, I woke up and there was a man standing by the bed looking down at me.”

  She lowered her eyes and tittered slightly.

  One gathered that she had not found the experience unpleasant.

  “What happened?” asked Mason.

  “They acted as though they thought they had discovered the nigger in the woodpile,” she said. “They made me put on clothes and wouldn’t even let me out of their sight while I was dressing. They took me upstairs, and gave me what they call a third degree, I guess.”

  “What did you tell them?” asked Mason.

  “Told them the truth,” she said, “that I went to bed and went to sleep, and woke up to find somebody staring down at me.” She seemed rather pleased as she added, “They didn’t believe me.”

  Her mother sat at the table, hands folded on her lap, eyes staring steadily in fixed intensity at the center of the table.

  “And you didn’t hear anything, or see anything?” asked Perry Mason.

  “Not a thing.”

  “Have you any ideas about it?”

  She shook her head.

  “None that would bear repeating.”

  He glanced at her sharply.

  “Have you any that wouldn’t bear repeating?” he inquired.

  She nodded her head.

  “Of course, I’ve only been around here a week or so, but in that time…”

  “Norma!” said her mother, in a voice which had suddenly lost its dry huskiness and cracked like the lash of a whip.

  The girl lapsed into abrupt silence.

  Perry Mason glanced at the older woman. She had not so much as raised her eyes from the table when she spoke.

  “Did you hear anything, Mrs. Veitch?” he asked.

  “I am a servant. I hear nothing, and I see nothing.”

  “Rather commendable for one who is a servant, as far as minor matters are concerned,” he observed, “but I think you will find the law has ideas of its own upon the matter, and that you will be required to see and to hear.”

  “No,” she said, without so much as moving a muscle of her head. “I saw nothing.”

  “And heard nothing?”

  “And heard nothing.”

  Perry Mason scowled. Somehow he sensed that the woman was concealing something.

  “Did you answer those questions in just that way when you were questioned upstairs?” he asked.

  “I think,” she said, “the coffee is about ready to start percolating. You can turn the fire down as soon as it does, so that it doesn’t boil over.”

  Mason turned to the coffee. The percolator was specially designed to heat a maximum of water in a small amount of time, and the fire under it was a blue flame of terrific heat. Steam was commencing to rise from the water.

  “I’ll watch the coffee,” he said, “but I am interested to know whether or not you answered the questions in exactly that way when you were upstairs.”

  “What way?” she countered.

  “The way you answered them here.”

  “I told them the same thing,” she said, “that I saw nothing and heard nothing.”

  Norma Veitch giggled. “That’s her story,” she said, “and she sticks to it.”

  The mother snapped, “Norma!”

  Mason stared at them both, his thoughtful face apparently absolutely placid. Only his eyes were hard and calculating.

  “You know,” he said, “I’m a lawyer. If you have anything to confide in me, now would make an excellent time.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Veitch, tonelessly.

  “How’s that?” asked Perry Mason.

  “I merely agreed,” she said, “that this would be an excellent time.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Well?” said Mason.

  “But I have nothing to confide,” she said, her eyes still fixed on the table top.

  At that moment, the percolator commenced to bubble. Mason turned down the fire.

  “I’ll get some cups and saucers,” said Norma, jumping to her feet.

  Mrs. Veitch said, “Sit down, Norma. I’ll do it.” She pushed back her chair, walked to one of the cupboards, and took down some cups and saucers. “They’ll drink out of these.”

  “Mother,” said Norma, “those are the cups and saucers that are kept for the chauffeurs and servants.”

  “These are police officers,” said Mrs. Veitch. “They’re just the same.”

  “No, they aren’t, Mother,” said Norma.

  “I’m doing this,” said Mrs. Veitch. “You know what the master would have said had he been alive. He’d have given them nothing.”

  Norma Veitch said, “Well, he isn’t alive. Mrs. Belter is going to be the one that runs things.”

  Mrs. Veitch turned and looked steadily at her daughter from those deep-set, lack-luster eyes.

  “Don’t be too sure that she is,” she said.

  Perry Mason poured some of the coffee into the cups, and then poured it back through the coffee container in the percolator. When he had poured it through the second time, it was black and steaming.

  “Get me a tray,” he said, “and I’ll take in a couple of cups to Sergeant Hoffman and Carl Griffin. You can serve coffee to the others upstairs.”

  Wordlessly, she secured him a tray. Perry Mason poured three cups of coffee, picked up the tray, and walked into the dining room, through it into the sitting room.

  Sergeant Hoffman was standing, his shoulders thrown back, his head thrust forward, feet wide apart.

  Plumped down in one of the chairs, his face flushed and his eyes very red, was Carl Griffin.

  Sergeant Hoffman was talking as Perry Mason brought in the coffee.

  “That wasn’t the way you talked about her when you first came in,” Sergeant Hoffman said.

  “I was drunk then,” said Griffin.

  Hoffman stared at him. “Many times a person tells the truth when he’s drunk and conceals his feelings when he’s sober,” he remarked.

  Carl Griffin raised his eyebrows in an expression of well-bred surprise.

  “Indeed?” he observed. “I’d never noticed it.”

  Sergeant Hoffman heard Mason behind him, whirled, and grinned as he saw the steaming cups of coffee.

  “Okay, Mason,” he said, “that’s going to come in pretty handy. Drink one of these, Griffin, and you’ll feel better.”

  Griffin nodded. “It looks good, but I feel all right now.”

  Mason handed him a cup of coffee.

  “Do you know anything about a will?” asked Sergeant Hoffman, abruptly.

  “I’d rather not answer that, if you don’t mind, Sergeant,” Griffin answered.

  Hoffman took himself a cup of coffee. “It happens that I do mind,” he commented. “I want you to answer that question.”

  “Yes, there’s a will,” Griffin admitted.

  “Where is it?” asked Hoffman.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How do you know there is one?”

  “He showed it to me.”

  “Does the property all go to his wife?”

  Griffin shook his head.

  “I don’t think anything goes to her,” he said, “except the sum of five thousand dollars.”

  Sergeant Hoffman raised his eyebrows, and whistled.

  “That,” he said, “puts a different aspect on it.”

  “Different aspect on what?” asked Griffin.

  “On the whole situation,” said Hoffman. “She was kept here practically dependent on him, and
upon his continuing to live. The minute he died, she was put out with virtually nothing.”

  Griffin volunteered a statement by way of explanation. “I don’t think they were very congenial.”

  Sergeant Hoffman said, musingly, “That’s not the point. Usually in any of these cases, we have to look for a motive.”

  Mason grinned at Sergeant Hoffman.

  “Are you insinuating that Mrs. Belter fired the shot which killed her husband?” he asked, as though the entire idea were humorous.

  “I was making a routine investigation, Mason, in order to find out who might have killed him. In such cases, we always look for a motive. We try to find out any one who would have benefited by his death.”

  “In that case,” Griffin remarked, soberly, “I presume that I’ll come under suspicion.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Hoffman.

  “Under the terms of the will,” said Griffin slowly, “I take virtually all of the estate. I don’t know as it’s any particular secret. I think that Uncle George had more affection for me than he did for any one else in the world. That is, he had as much affection for me as he could have, considering his disposition. I doubt if he was capable of having affection for any one.”

  “How did you feel toward him?” asked Hoffman.

  “I respected his mind,” Carl Griffin replied, choosing his words carefully, “and I think I appreciated something of his disposition. He lived a life that was very much apart, because he had a mind which was very impatient of all subterfuges and hypocrisies.”

  “Why did that condemn him to live apart?” asked Sergeant Hoffman.

  Griffin made a slight motion with his shoulders.

  “If you had a mind like that,” he said, “you wouldn’t need to ask the question. The man had wonderful intellectual capacity. He had the ability to see through people and to penetrate sham and hypocrisy. He was the type of a man who never made any friends. He was so thoroughly self-reliant that he didn’t have to lean on any one, and, therefore, he hadn’t any ground for establishing friendships. His sole inclination was to fight. He fought the world and everyone in it.”

  “Evidently he didn’t fight you,” said Sergeant Hoffman.

  “No,” admitted Griffin, “he didn’t fight me, because he knew that I didn’t give a damn about him or his money. I didn’t lick his boots, and, on the other hand, I didn’t double-cross him. I told him what I thought, and I shot fair with him.”

  Sergeant Hoffman narrowed his eyes. “Who did double-cross him?” he asked.

  “Why, what do you mean?”

  “You said you didn’t double-cross him, so he liked you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And there was an emphasis on the pronoun you used.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “How about his wife? Didn’t he like her?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t discuss his wife with me.”

  “Did she double-cross him?” demanded Sergeant Hoffman.

  “How should I know that?”

  Sergeant Hoffman stared at the young man. “You sure know how to keep things to yourself,” he mused, “but if you won’t talk, you won’t, so that’s all there is to it.”

  “But I’ll talk, Sergeant,” protested Griffin, “I’ll tell you everything I can.”

  Sergeant Hoffman sighed and said, “Can you tell me exactly where you were when the murder was committed?”

  A flush came over Griffin’s face.

  “I’m sorry, Sergeant,” he said, “but I can’t.”

  “Why?” asked Sergeant Hoffman.

  “Because,” said Griffin, “in the first place, I don’t know when the murder was committed, and in the second place, I wouldn’t know where I was. I’m afraid I’d been making quite an evening of it. I was out with a young woman earlier in the evening, and after I left her I went to a few speakeasies on my own. When I started home, I had that damned flat tire and I knew I was too drunk to change it. I couldn’t find a garage that was open, and it was raining, so I just fought the car along over the road. It must have taken me hours to get here.”

  “The tire was pretty well chewed to pieces,” remarked Sergeant Hoffman. “And, by the way, did any one else know of your uncle’s will? Had any one else seen it?”

  “Oh, yes,” Griffin answered, “my lawyer saw it.”

  “Oh,” said Sergeant Hoffman, “so you had a lawyer, too, did you?”

  “Of course I had a lawyer. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Who is he?” asked Hoffman.

  “Arthur Atwood. He’s got offices in the MutualBuilding.”

  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.r />
  “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.