The Case of the Velvet Claws pm-1

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  Mason folded the letter abruptly, and thrust it in his pocket.

  “Get me Paul Drake on the phone again,” he said, and walked into his inner office and slammed the door shut behind him.

  When Paul Drake came on the line, he said, “Listen Paul, I want you to do something for me.”

  “Again?” asked Drake.

  “Yes,” said Mason. “You haven’t got started yet.”

  “All right, shoot,” said the detective.

  “Listen,” Mason said, slowly, “I want you to get in a car and go out to thirteen twenty-two West Sixty-ninth Street, and get Pete Mitchell out of bed. Now, you’ve got to handle this carefully so that you don’t get yourself in a jam, and me too. You’ve got to do it along the line of a boob detective who talks too much. Don’t ask Mitchell any questions until you give him all the information, see? Tell him that you’re a detective and that George Belter was murdered in his house tonight, and that you understand the number of the gun that did the job was the same number that was on a gun which was sold to this chap, Mitchell. Tell him that you suppose he still has the gun and that there’s some mistake in the numbers, but that you’d like to know whether or not he can account for his whereabouts at about midnight or a little later. Ask him if he has the gun, or if he remembers what he did with it. But be sure that you tell him everything before you ask him the questions.”

  “Just be a big, dumb boob, eh?” asked Drake.

  “Be a big, dumb boob,” Mason told him, “and cultivate a very short memory afterwards.”

  “I gotcha,” said Drake. “I’ve got to handle this thing in such a way that I’m in the clear, eh?”

  Mason said, wearily, “You handle it just the way I told you, just exactly that way.”

  Mason slipped the phone back on the receiver. He heard the click of the doorknob, and looked up.

  Della Street slipped into the office. Her face was white, and her eyes wide. She pushed the door shut behind her, and walked over to the desk.

  “There’s a man out in the office that says he knows you,” she said. “His name is Drumm, and he’s a detective from Police Headquarters.”

  The door pushed open behind her, and Sidney Drumm thrust a grinning face in the door. His washed-out eyes seemed utterly devoid of life, and he looked more than ever like a clerk who had just climbed down from a high stool, and was puttering about, searching for vouchers.

  “Pardon the intrusion,” he said, “but I wanted to talk with you before you had time to think up a good one.”

  Mason smiled. “We get used to poor manners from policemen,” he said.

  “I’m not a cop,” protested Drumm. “I’m just a dick. The cops hate me. I’m a poor, underpaid dick.”

  “Come in and sit down,” Mason invited.

  “Wonderful office hours you guys keep,” Drumm remarked. “I was looking all over for you, and saw a light up here in the office.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Mason corrected him, “I’ve got the shades drawn.”

  “Oh, well,” Drumm said, still grinning, “I had a hunch you were here anyway, because I know you’re such a hard worker.”

  Mason said, “All right. Never mind the kidding. I presume this is a professional call.”

  “Sure it is,” said Drumm, “I’ve got curiosity. I’m a bird that makes a living by having curiosity and getting it gratified. Right now I’m curious about that telephone number. You come to me and slip me a bit of change in order to strong-arm a private number out of the telephone company. I bust out and get the number for you, and an address, and you thank me for it very politely. Then you show up at that address, sitting around with a murdered guy and a woman. The question is, is it a coincidence?”

  “What’s the answer?” asked Mason.

  “No,” said Drumm, “I can’t speculate. I asked the question. You have to give me the answer.”

  “The answer,” Mason told him, “is that I was out there at the request of the wife.”

  “Funny you’d know the man’s wife, and wouldn’t know the man,” insisted Drumm.

  “Isn’t it?” said Mason sarcastically. “Of course that’s the worst part of running a law office. So many times a woman will come in and ask you about something, particularly if it happens to be a domestic problem, and won’t bring her husband along so that you can see what he looks like. In fact, I’ve even heard of two or three instances where women went to law offices and didn’t want their husbands to know anything about it. But of course that’s just a rumor and hearsay, and I wouldn’t want you to take my word for it.”

  Drumm kept grinning. “Well,” he said, “would you say that this was that kind of a case?”

  “I would say nothing,” Mason replied.

  Drumm quit grinning, and tilted his head back, his eyes became dreamy as they looked at the ceiling.

  “That gives it an interesting angle,” he said. “Wife comes to attorney who is noted for his ability to get people out of trouble. Attorney doesn’t know husband’s private telephone number. Attorney starts working on case for wife. Attorney uncovers telephone number. Attorney traces telephone number to husband, and goes out there. Wife there, husband murdered.”

  Mason’s voice was impatient. “Do you think you’re getting anywhere, Sidney?”

  Drumm grinned once more. “I’ll be damned if I know, Perry,” he said. “But I’m moving around.”

  “Let me know as soon as you get anywhere, will you?” asked Mason.

  Drumm got to his feet. “Oh,” he said, “you’ll know it fast enough.” He grinned from Mason to Della Street.

  “I presume,” he said, “that last remark of yours was my cue to get out.”

  “Oh, don’t be in any hurry,” Mason told him. “You know we come down to the office at three and four o’clock in the morning just to be here to receive friends who want to ask us foolish questions. We don’t really have any work to do. It’s just a habit we’ve gotten into, of getting down here early.”

  Drumm paused to stare at the lawyer. “You know, Perry, if you’d come clean with me, I might be able to help you a little bit. But if you’re going to stand off and be snooty, I’ve got to go out and pry around a little bit.”

  “Sure,” Mason admitted, “I understand that. That’s your business. You’ve got your profession, and I’ve got mine.”

  “That means, I take it,” said Drumm, “that you’re going to be snooty.”

  “That means,” said Mason, “that you’ve got to find out your facts on the outside.”

  “So long, Perry.”

  “So long, Sidney. Drop in again some time.”

  “Don’t worry, I will.”

  Sidney Drumm closed the door behind him.

  The girl moved impulsively toward Perry Mason.

  He waved her back with a motion of his hand, and said, “Take a look in that outer office and make sure he’s gone.”

  She moved toward the door, but, before her hand touched the knob, it turned, and flung open. Sidney Drumm thrust his head into the room again.

  He surveyed them and grinned.

  “Well,” he said, “you didn’t fall for that one. All right Perry, this time I’ll go out.”

  “Okay,” said Perry Mason. “Good-by!”

  Drumm closed the door, and a moment later slammed the door of the outer office.

  It was then about four o’clock in the morning.

  Chapter 11

  Perry Mason pulled his hat down on his head and slipped into his overcoat which was still damp enough to give forth a smell of wet wool.

  “I’m going out and chase down a few clews,” he told Della Street. “Sooner or later they’re going to start narrowing the circle, and then I won’t be able to move. I’ve got to do everything while I can still move around. You stick right here and hold the fort. I can’t leave word where you can reach me, because I’m afraid to have you call me. But I’ll call you every once in a while and ask if Mr. Mason is in. I’ll tell you my name is Johnson, that I’m a
n old friend of his, and ask if he left any message. You can manage to let me know what’s going on without letting on who I am.”

  “You think that they’ll have the telephone line tapped?”

  “They may. I don’t know just where this thing is going to lead.”

  “And they’ll have a warrant out for you?”

  “Not a warrant, but they’ll want to ask me some more questions.”

  She looked at him sympathetically, tenderly, said nothing.

  “Be careful,” he said, and walked out of the office.

  It was still dark when he entered the lobby of the Hotel Ripley, and asked for a room with bath. He registered under the name of Fred B. Johnson, of Detroit, and was given room 518, for which he was required to pay in advance, inasmuch as he had no baggage.

  He went to the room, pulled the curtains, ordered four bottles of ginger ale, with plenty of ice, and got a quart of whiskey from the bellboy. Then he sat in the overstuffed chair, with his feet on the bed, and smoked.

  The door was unlocked.

  He was smoking for more than half an hour, lighting one cigarette from the tip of the other, when the door opened. Eva Belter came in without knocking.

  She closed the door behind her, locked it, and smiled at him. “Oh, I’m so glad that you were here all right.”

  Perry Mason kept his seat. “You’re sure you weren’t followed?” he asked.

  “No, they didn’t follow me. They told me that I was going to be a material witness and that I mustn’t leave town, or do anything without communicating with the police. Tell me, do you think they’ll arrest me?”

  “That depends,” he said.

  “Depends on what?”

  “Depends on lots of things. I want to talk with you.”

  “All right” she said. “I found the will.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “In his desk.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “Brought it with me.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  “It’s just like I thought it was,” she said, “only I didn’t come off as well as I had expected. I thought that he would at least leave me enough to let me go to Europe and look around, and… and sort of get readjusted.”

  “You mean and get yourself another man.”

  “I didn’t say any such thing!”

  “I didn’t talk about what you said. I was talking about what you meant,” Mason told her, still using that calmly detached tone of voice.

  Her face became dignified.

  “Really, Mr. Mason,” she said, “I think the conversation is wandering rather far afield. Here is the will.”

  He stared thoughtfully at her. “If you’re going to drag me into murder cases,” he said, “you’d better not try those upstage tactics. They don’t work.”

  She drew herself up haughtily, then suddenly laughed. “Of course I meant I wanted to get another husband,” she said. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “All right. Why did you deny it then?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t help it. It’s just something in me that resents having people know too much about me.”

  “You mean,” he told her, “that you hate the truth. You’d rather build up a protective barrier of falsehoods.”

  She flushed.

  “That’s not fair!” she blazed.

  He stretched out his hand, without answering her, and took the paper from her hand. He read it slowly.

  “All in his handwriting?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “I don’t think it is.”

  He looked at her closely.

  “It seems to be all in the same handwriting.”

  “I don’t think it’s his writing.”

  He laughed. “That won’t get you any place,” he said. “Your husband showed the will to Carl Griffin and Arthur Atwood, Griffin’s attorney, and told them that it was his will and in his handwriting.”

  The woman shook her head impatiently. “You mean that he showed them a will, and said it was in his handwriting. There was nothing to prevent Griffin from tearing up that will, and substituting a forged one. Was there?”

  He looked at her in cold appraisal.

  “Listen,” he said, “you’re saying lots of words. Do you know what they mean?”

  “Of course, I know what they mean.”

  “Well,” he told her, “that’s a dangerous accusation to make, unless you’ve got something to back it up with.”

  “I haven’t got anything to back it up with—yet,” she said, slowly.

  “All right, then,” he warned, “don’t make the accusation.”

  Her voice was edged with impatience. “You keep telling me that you’re my lawyer, and I’m to tell you everything. And then when I tell you everything, you start scolding me.”

  “Oh, forget it,” he said, and handed her back the will. “You can save that injured innocence until you get into court. Now tell me about this will. How did you get it?”

  “It was in his study,” she said, slowly. “The safe was unlocked. I sneaked out the will and then locked the safe.”

  “You know that isn’t even funny,” he told her.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the police would probably keep a guard in the room. In any event they would have noticed if the safe had been open and inventoried the contents.”

  She lowered her eyes, then said slowly, “Do you remember when we went back there? You were looking at the dead body, feeling of the bathrobe?”

  “Yes,” he said, his eyes narrowed.

  “All right. I slipped it out of the safe then. The safe was open. I locked it. You were examining the body.”

  He blinked. “By God,” he said, “I believe you did! You were over there near the desk and the safe. Why did you do it? Why didn’t you tell me what you were up to?”

  “Because I wanted to see if the will was in my favor, or whether I could destroy it. Do you think I should destroy it?”

  His answer was an explosive, “No!”

  She remained silent for several minutes.

  “Well,” she asked at length, “is there anything else?”

  “Yes,” he said, “sit down over there on the bed where I can look at you. Now I want to know some things. I didn’t ask them before the officers had talked with you because I was afraid I’d get you all rattled. I wanted you to have all the poise you could have when you were talking with them. But now the situation is different. I want to know exactly what happened.”

  She widened her eyes, let her face take on that look of synthetic innocence she affected and said: “I told you what happened.”

  He shook his head. “No, you didn’t.”

  “Are you accusing me of lying?”

  He sighed. “For God’s sake, forget that stuff and get down to earth.”

  “Exactly what is it you want to know?”

  “You had on your glad rags last night,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. You were all dolled up in your evening gown, without any back, and with your satin shoes, and Sunday-go-to-meeting stockings.”

  “Well?”

  “And your husband had been taking a bath.”

  “Well, what of that?”

  “You didn’t dress up just on your husband’s account,” he said.

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you dress every evening?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “you were out last night, and didn’t get back in until shortly before your husband was murdered. Isn’t that right?”

  She shook her head vigorously. Once more her manner became frigidly dignified.

  “No,” she said, “I was in all evening.”

  Perry Mason looked at her with cold, searching eyes.

  “The housekeeper told me when I was down in the kitchen getting some coffee that sh
e heard your maid tell you that somebody had rung up with a message about some shoes,” he ventured.

  It was obvious that Eva Belter was taken by surprise but she controlled herself with an effort.

  “Why, what’s wrong with that?” she asked.

  “Tell me first,” said Mason, “whether or not your maid did bring you such a message.”

  “Why, yes,” said Eva Belter, casually, “I think she did. I can’t be certain. I had some shoes that I was very anxious to get, and there has been some trouble about them. I think that Marie received some message about them, and told me what it was. The events crowded it out of my mind.”

  “Do you know anything at all about how they hang people?” Perry Mason asked abruptly.

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “For murder,” he went on. “It usually happens along in the morning. They come down to the death cell and read the death warrant. Then they strap your hands behind your back, and strap a board along your back, so that you can’t cave in. They start a march down the corridor to the scaffold. There are thirteen steps that you have to climb, and then you walk over and stand on a trap. There are prison officials standing by the side of the trap, who look things over, and, in a little cubby-hole back of the trap, are three convicts with sharp knives. There are three strings that run across a board. The hangman puts a noose over your head, and a black bag, and then puts straps around your legs…”

  She screamed.

  “All right. That’s exactly what’s coming to you if you don’t tell me the God’s truth.”

  Her face was white, her lips pale and quivering, and her eyes dark with panic.

  “I’m t-t-t-telling you the truth,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Listen,” he told her, “you’ve got to learn to be frank and to come clean if we’re going to get you out of this jam. Now you know, and I know, that that message about the shoes was just a stall. It was a code that you had, meaning that Harrison Burke wanted you to get in touch with him. Just the same way you gave me a code to tell the maid when I wanted to get in touch with you.”

  She was still shaken and white. Dumbly she nodded her head.

  “All right,” said Mason, “now tell me what happened. Harrison Burke sent that message to you. He wanted you to get in touch with him. Then you told him that you would meet him some place, and you put on your things and went out. Is that right?”