“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.
Chapter 10
It was nearly three o’clock in the morning when Perry Mason got Paul Drake on the telephone.
“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 D
ella 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 lying. 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 bighearted. 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.”
“All right, your gun was finally purchased by a man named Pete Mitchell, who gave his address as thirteen twenty-two West Sixty-ninth Street.”
“All right,” said Mason, “have you got any dope on the other angle of the case? About Frank Locke?”
“No, I haven’t been able to get
a report from our southern agency yet. I’ve traced him back to a southern state, Georgia it was, and the trail seems to go haywire there. It looks as though that’s where he changed his name.”
“That’s fine,” Mason said. “That’s where he had his trouble. How about the rest of it? Do you get anything on him?”
“I’ve got a line on the jane at the Wheelright Hotel,” Drake said. “It’s a girl named Esther Linten. She lives there at the Wheelright, has room nine-forty-six, by the month.”
“What does she do?” asked Mason. “Did you find that out?”
“Anybody she can, I guess,” Drake told him. “We can’t get very much of a line on her as yet, but give us a little time, and let me get some sleep. A guy can’t be every place at once, and work without sleep.”
“You’ll get used to it after a while,” Mason told him, grinning, “particularly if you keep working on this case. You stay there in the office for five minutes. I’ll call you back.”
“Okay,” sighed Drake, and hung up.
Perry Mason went out to the outer office.
“Della,” he said, “do you remember when all of the political stuff was going around a couple of years ago? We made a file for some of the letters?”
“Yes,” she said, “there’s a file ‘Political Letters.’ I didn’t know what you saved them for.”
“Connections,” he said. “You’ll find a ‘Burke-for-Congress-Club’ letter some place in there. Get it for me, and make it snappy.”
She made a dive for the battery of files which lined one side of the office.
Perry Mason sat on the corner of her desk and watched her. Only his eyes showed the white-hot concentration of thought which was covering a dozen different angles of a complicated problem.
She came to him with a letter.
“That’s fine,” he said.
Printed in a column on the right hand margin was a list of vice presidents of the “Burke-for-Congress-Club.” There were more than a hundred names in fine print.
Mason squinted his eyes and read down the column. Every time he passed over a name, he checked it by moving his thumb nail down in the sheet. The fifteenth name was that of P. J. Mitchell, and the address given at the side of the name was thirteen twenty-two West Sixty-ninth Street.
The Case of the Velvet Claws pm-1 Page 10
