“If you persist in this course, counselor, you may find yourself in front of a jury.”
“All right,” said Mason, “what’s the English translation of that, a threat?”
“You can’t keep us out of the saddle,” said Atwood. “And when we get in the saddle, we will have several important decisions to make. Some of them may affect your activities.”
Perry Mason got to his feet.
“I don’t like this business of talking around in circles,” he said. “I come out and say what I have to say.”
“Well,” said Atwood, still speaking suavely, “exactly what do you have to say?”
“No!” snapped Mason, explosively.
Carl Griffin coughed apologetically.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “perhaps I might say something which would simplify the situation.”
“No,” said Atwood, “I’m doing the talking.”
Griffin smiled at Mason.
“No hard feelings, counselor,” he said, “it’s a matter of business.”
“Please,” said Atwood, his eyes staring steadily at his client.
“Oh, all right,” said Griffin.
Mason motioned toward the door. “Well, gentlemen, I guess the conference is over.”
Atwood tried again. “If you could only see your way clear to dismissing the applications, counselor, it would save time. As it is, you must admit that we have a perfect case, but we didn’t like the time and expense necessary to present it.”
Mason stared at him stonily. “Listen,” he said, “you may think you’ve got a perfect case, but right now I’m in the saddle, and I’m going to stay in the saddle.”
Atwood lost his temper. “You’re not in the saddle firmly enough to stay twenty-four hours!”
“You think not?”
“Permit me to remind you, counselor,” Atwood remarked, “that you might be considered an accessory to the murder. The police would doubtless be guided by our wishes in the matter, since my client is now the legal heir.”
Mason moved over toward him. “Any time I need you to remind me of where I stand, Atwood, I’ll call you up.”
“All right,” said Atwood, “if you want to be disagreeable about it, we’ll play that kind of a game.”
“That’s fine,” Mason told him, “I do want to be disagreeable about it.”
Atwood signaled to his client, and both men walked to the door.
Atwood strode through it unhesitatingly, but Carl Griffin paused with his hands on the knob, acting very much as though he had something he wanted to say.
Mason’s manner, however, was not encouraging. Griffin shrugged his shoulders and followed his attorney out of the office.
When they had gone, Della Street came in.
“Did you reach some kind of an agreement with them?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Can’t they beat us?” she asked, avoiding his eyes.
He seemed to have aged ten years. “Listen, Della, I’m fighting for time. If they’d given me a little time, and some elbow room, I’d have worked this situation out all right. But that woman had to go and drag me into it in order to get herself out. That left me with only one alternative—to get her in so that I could be on the outside, where I could do some good.”
“You don’t need to explain, chief,” she told him. “I’m sorry if I seemed to criticize you. It was all so unexpected, and so totally unlike you, that it surprised me. That was all. Please forget it.” But her eyes still avoided his.
“Sure,” he said. “I’m going down to Paul Drake’s office. You can reach me there if it’s anything important, but don’t tell anybody where I am.”
Chapter 17
Paul Drake sat at a battered desk in a cubbyhole of an office and grinned across at Perry Mason.
“Pretty clever work,” he said. “Did you have that up your sleeve all the time, or did you just pull it on her when the going got rough?”
Mason’s eyes were heavy. “I’ve had an idea what happened but getting an idea and getting proof are two different things. Now I’ve got to save her.”
“Forget it,” said Drake. “In the first place she isn’t worth it, and in the second place, you can’t. Her only chance is self-defense and that won’t work because she admits he was across the room from her when she shot.”
“No,” said Mason. “She’s a client. I stay by my clients. She forced my hand, and I had to make the play I did. Otherwise, we’d both have been in a mess.”
“I wouldn’t give her any consideration whatever,” Drake said. “She’s just a two-timing little tart that saw a chance to marry money, did it, and has been giving everybody the double-cross ever since. You can talk all you want to about your duty to a client, but when the client starts framing a murder rap on you, that’s different.”
Mason surveyed the detective with heavy eyes. “That’s neither here nor there. I’m going to save her.”
“How can you?”
“Get this straight,” said Perry Mason. “She isn’t guilty of anything until she’s convicted.”
“She confessed,” said Drake.
“That doesn’t make any difference. The confession is evidence that can be used in the case against her, that’s all.”
“Well,” said Drake, “what’s a jury going to do? You’d have to save her on the ground of insanity or self-defense. And she hates your guts. She’ll get another lawyer now.”
“That’s just the point,” said Mason. “There might be any one of several different methods by which she might be saved. I’m not talking about methods now. I’m talking about results. I want you to get everything you can on that Veitch family from the present time, back to the year One.”
“You mean the housekeeper?” asked Drake.
“I mean the housekeeper and the daughter. The whole family.”
“You still think that housekeeper is keeping something back?”
“I know it.”
“Okay, I’ll turn the men loose on the housekeeper. How did that Georgia stuff suit you?”
“Swell.”
“What do you want me to find out about the housekeeper?”
“Everything you can. And about the daughter too. Don’t overlook a single bet.”
“Listen,” said Drake. “Have you got something up your sleeve, Perry?”
“I’m going to get her out.”
“Do you know how you’re going to do it?”
“I’ve got an idea. If I hadn’t had an idea how I could get her out, I wouldn’t have got her in, in the first place.”
“Not even when she tried to put a murder rap on you?” asked Drake, curiously.
“Not even when she tried to put a murder rap on me,” said Mason, doggedly.
“You sure as hell do stick up for your clients,” said Drake.
“I wish I could convince some other people of that,” the lawyer said, wearily.
Drake looked at him sharply. Perry Mason went on, “That’s my creed in life, Paul. I’m a lawyer. I take people who are in trouble, and I try to get them out of trouble. I’m not presenting the people’s side of the case, I’m only presenting the defendant’s side. The District Attorney represents the people, and he makes the strongest kind of a case he can. It’s my duty to make the strongest kind of a case I can on the other side, and then it’s up to the jury to decide. That’s the way we get justice. If the District Attorney would be fair, then I could be fair. But the District Attorney uses everything he can in order to get a conviction. I use everything I can in order to get an acquittal. It’s like two teams playing football. One of them tries to go in one direction just as hard as it can, and the other tries to go in the other direction just as hard as it can.
“It’s sort of an obsession with me to do the best I can for a client. My clients aren’t blameless. Many of them are crooks. Probably a lot of them are guilty. That’s not for me to determine. That’s for the jury to determine.”
“Are you going to try and prov
e this woman was crazy?” the detective asked.
Mason shrugged his shoulders. “I’m going to keep a jury from convicting her,” he said.
“You’ll never get away from that confession,” said Drake. “It shows murder.”
“Confession or no confession, they can’t prove her guilty of anything, until the jury says she’s guilty.”
Drake shrugged expressive shoulders, and said, “Oh, well, there’s no use of our arguing about it. I’ll turn the men loose on the Veitches, and get all the dope for you.”
“I don’t suppose I need to tell you,” said Mason, “that minutes are precious. All that I’ve been fighting for all the way along is time enough to get the evidence I want. You’ve got to work fast. It’s a matter of time, that’s all.”
Perry Mason went back to his office. The puffs under the eyes, which came from fatigue, were more pronounced, but his eyes were steady and hard.
He opened the door of his office. Della Street was at the typewriter. She glanced up, then looked back at her work.
Mason slammed the door shut behind him, walked over to her. “For God’s sake, Della,” he pleaded, “won’t you have confidence in me?”
She flashed him a swift glance.
“Of course I’ve got confidence in you.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“I’m surprised and a little confused, that’s all,” she said.
He stood surveying her, moody-eyed, hopeless.
“All right,” he said, at length. “You get the State Bureau of Vital Statistics on the telephone, and stay on the telephone until you get the information you want. Get somebody at the head of the department if you can. Never mind what it costs. We want the information, and we want it right now. We want to know whether or not Norma Veitch was ever married. My best guess is that she was. And we want to know if there’s been a divorce.”
Della Street stared at him.
“What’s that got to do with the murder case?”
“Never mind,” he said. “Veitch is probably her real name. That is, it’s her mother’s name, and it would be the name that was on the marriage license as the name of the bride when she was married. Of course, she might not have been married, and she might not have been married in this state. But there’s something funny about the whole set up. And there’s something in her past that she’s holding back. I want to know what it is.”
“You don’t think Norma Veitch was mixed up in it in any way, do you?” Della Street asked.
Mason’s eyes were cold, his face determined.
“All I’ve got to do is to raise a reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury,” he told her. “Don’t forget that. Get on the telephone and get that information.”
He walked into his inner office and closed the door. He started pacing back and forth, his thumbs propped in the armholes of his vest, his head bowed in concentration.
He was still pacing the floor, half an hour later, when Della Street opened the door.
“You were right,” she said.
“How?”
“She was married. I got the dope from the Bureau of Vital Statistics. She was married six months ago to a man named Harry Loring. There’s no record of a divorce.”
Perry Mason gained the door with three quick strides, pushed it impatiently to one side, strode across the outer office and went at almost a run down the corridor to the stairs. He took the stairs down to the floor on which Paul Drake had his office and banged on the exit door of Drake’s office with impatient fists.
Paul Drake opened the door.
“Hell, it’s you! Don’t you ever stay in your office to see clients?”
“Listen,” Mason told him, “I’ve got a break. Norma Veitch was married!”
“What of it?” asked Drake.
“She’s engaged to Carl Griffin.”
“Well, couldn’t she have gotten a divorce?”
“No. There’s no divorce. There wasn’t time for a divorce. The marriage was only six months ago.”
“Okay,” said Drake. “What do you want?”
“I want you to find her husband. His name’s Harry Loring. I want to find out when they separated, and why. And I’m particularly anxious to find out whether she ever knew Carl Griffin before she came to the house on her visit. In other words, I want to know whether she’d ever visited her mother while her mother was working at Belter’s place, before the date of this last visit.”
The detective whistled.
“By God!” he said. “I believe you’re going to set up a defense of emotional insanity, and the unwritten law for Eva Belter.”
“Will you get busy on that thing right away?”
“I can have it for you inside of half an hour if he’s anywheres in the city,” said Drake.
“The sooner the quicker. I’ll be waiting in the office.”
He went back to his own office, walked past Della Street without a word.
She stopped him as he was entering his office. “Harrison Burke telephoned.”
Mason raised his eyebrows.
“Where is he?”
“He wouldn’t say. He said he was going to call later. He wouldn’t even leave me a telephone number.”
“Presume he’s read about the new development, in the extras,” said Mason.
“He didn’t say. Just said that he’d call later.”
The telephone rang.
She motioned toward the inner office.
“This is probably the call,” she said.
Mason went into the inner office.
He heard Della Street say, “Just a moment, Mr. Burke,” and then as he took down the receiver, Burke’s voice on the wire.
“Hello, Burke,” he said.
Burke’s voice was still impressively resonant, but there was an over-tone of panic in it. Every once in a while it seemed that his voice would climb to the high notes and crack, but he always managed to get it back after just the one break.
“Listen,” he said, “this is awful. I’ve just read the papers.”
Mason said, “It’s not so bad. You’re out of the murder case. You can pose as a friend of the family on the other. It isn’t going to be pleasant, but it isn’t like being held for murder.”
“But they’ll use it against me in my campaign.”
“Use what?” Mason inquired.
“My friendship with this woman.”
“I can’t help that,” Mason told him, “but I’m working on an out for you. The District Attorney isn’t going to let your name get mixed into the case unless he has to show a motive at the trial.”
Burke’s voice became more orotund.
“That,” he said, “was what I wanted to discuss with you. The District Attorney is very fair. Unless there’s a trial my name won’t be dragged into it. Now you might fix things so there wouldn’t be a trial.”
“How?” Mason asked.
“You could persuade her to plead guilty to second degree murder. You’re still acting as her attorney. The District Attorney would let you see her—on that understanding. I’ve talked with him.”
Mason snapped a swift reply. “Nothing doing!” he said. “I’m going to try to protect your interests, but I’ll do it my way. You keep under cover for a while.”
“There’d be a nice fee,” said Harrison Burke in a suave, oily voice, “five thousand in cash. Perhaps we could even make it a little more…”
Perry Mason slammed the receiver back on its hook.
The lawyer resumed his pacing of the floor. Fifteen or twenty minutes later the telephone rang.
Mason took down the receiver and heard Paul Drake’s voice. “I think we’ve got your man located. There’s a man named Harry Loring who is at the Belvedere Apartments. His wife left him about a week ago and is said to have gone to live with her mother. Do we want him?”
“You bet we want him,” Mason said, “and we want him quick! Can you go out there with me? I’ll probably want a witness.”
“Okay,” Drake said.
“I’ve got a car here if you haven’t.”
“We’ll take two cars. We may need them.”
Chapter 18
Harry Loring was a thin, nervous individual, with a habit of blinking his eyes rapidly, and moistening his lips nervously with the tip of his tongue. He sat on a trunk which was strapped and shook his head at Paul Drake.
“No,” he said, “you’ve got the wrong party. I’m not married.”
Drake looked at Perry Mason. Mason gave a faint shrug to his shoulders, which Drake interpreted as a signal to him to do the talking.
“Did you ever know a Norma Veitch?” he asked.
“Never,” said Loring, darting his tongue to his lips.
“You’re moving out?” asked Drake.
“Yes,” Loring said. “I can’t keep on with the rent here.”
“Never been married, eh?”
“No, I’m a bachelor.”
“Where are you moving?”
“I’m sure I don’t know—yet.”
Loring looked from face to face with his eyes blinking.
“Are you gentlemen officers?” he asked.
“Never mind about us,” said Drake. “We’re talking about you.”
Loring said, “Yes, sir,” and lapsed into silence.
Drake flashed Mason another glance.
“Packing up rather suddenly, aren’t you?” Drake went on.
Loring shrugged. “I don’t know as it’s sudden. There isn’t much to pack.”
“Now listen,” Drake said, “there’s no use for you to try to string us along, because we can check up on you and find out the facts. You say you have never been married. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. I’m a bachelor, just like I told you.”
“Okay. Now the neighbors say you were married. There was a woman here who lived in the apartment with you, as your wife, up until about a week ago.”
Loring’s eyes blinked rapidly. He shifted his position on the trunk, nervously.
“I wasn’t married to her,” he said.
“How long have you known her?”
“About two weeks. She was a waitress at a restaurant.”
“What restaurant?”
The Case of the Velvet Claws pm-1 Page 18
