Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Velvet Claws

“All right,” she said, swiftly, “I ran out of the house, and then what happened?”

“Exactly the way you told it to me. You were so panicstricken that you ran out of the house. And remember that you ran out before the man who was in the room with your husband ran down the stairs. You dashed out of the house and out into the rain, grabbing up the first coat that you came to as you went past the hall stand. You were so excited that you didn’t even notice that one of your coats was there, but picked a man’s coat.”

“All right,” she said, speaking in that same swift, impatient tone of voice, “then what happened?”

“Then,” Mason continued, “you ran out into the rain, and there was an automobile parked out in the driveway, but you were too excited to notice the automobile, what kind it was, or whether it was a closed car or a touring car. You just started running. Then a man dashed out of the house behind you, jumped in the automobile, and switched on the headlights. You plunged into the shrubbery because you were afraid he was chasing you.

“The car went on past you down the drive and down the hill, and you started running to follow it, trying to get the license number, because, by that time, you realized the importance of finding out who this man was who had been with your husband when the shot was fired.”

“All right,” she said. “And then?”

“Still just the way you told it to me. You were afraid to go back to the house alone, and you went to the nearest telephone. Remember that all of that time you didn’t know that your husband had been killed. You only knew that you had heard a shot fired, and you didn’t know whether it was your husband who had fired the shot and wounded the man who escaped in the automobile, or whether that man had fired the shot at your husband. You didn’t know whether the shot had hit, or whether it had missed, whether your husband was wounded, slightly, seriously, or killed, or whether your husband had shot himself while this man was in the room. Can you remember all that?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“All right,” he said. “That accounts for your reason in calling me. I told you that I would come right out. Remember that you didn’t tell me over the telephone a shot had been fired. You simply told me that you were in trouble and afraid and wanted me to come.”

“How did it happen that I wanted you to come?” she asked. “What excuse is there for that?”

“I’m an old friend of yours,” he said. “I take it that you and your husband don’t go around together much socially.”

“No.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “You’ve been calling me by my first name once or twice lately. Begin to do it regularly, particularly when people are around. I’m going to be an old friend of yours and you called me as a friend, not particularly as an attorney.”

“I see.”

“Now the question is, can you remember all that? Answer!”

“Yes,” she said.

He gave the room a quick survey.

“You said you left your purse up here. You’d better find it.”

She walked to the desk and opened one of the drawers. The purse was in that. She took it out. “How about the gun?” she asked. “Hadn’t we better do something with the gun?”

He followed her eyes, and saw an automatic lying on the floor, almost underneath the desk, where the shadows kept it from being plainly visible.

“No,” he said, “that’s a break for us. The police may be able to trace this gun, and find out who it belongs to.”

She frowned and said, “It seems funny that a man would shoot and then throw the gun down here. We don’t know who that gun belongs to. Don’t you think we had better do something with it?”

“Do what with it?”

“Hide it some place.”

“Do that,” he said, “and then you will have something to explain. Let the police find the gun.”

“I’ve got a lot of confidence in you, Perry,” she replied. “But I’d a lot rather have it the other way. Just the dead body here.”

“No,” he said, shortly. “You can remember everything I told you?”

“Yes.”

He picked up the telephone.

“Police Headquarters,” he said.

Bill Hoffman, head of the Homicide Squad, was a big, patient man with slow, searching eyes, and a habit of turning things over and over in his mind before he reached a definite conclusion.

He sat in the living room on the downstairs floor of the Belter house and stared through his cigarette smoke at Perry Mason.

“The papers that we’ve found,” he said, “indicate that he was the real owner of Spicy Bits, the blackmailing sheet that’s been shaking them down during the last five or six years.”

Perry Mason spoke, slowly and cautiously, “I knew that, Sergeant.”

“How long have you known it?” asked Hoffman.

“Not very long.”

“How did you find out?”

“That’s something I can’t tell.”

“How did you happen to be here tonight before the police came?”

“You heard what Mrs. Belter said. That’s true. She called me. She was inclined to think that her husband might have lost his head, and shot the man who was calling on him. She didn’t know what had happened, and was afraid to go and find out.”

“Why was she afraid?” asked Hoffman.

Perry Mason shrugged his shoulders.

“You’ve seen the man,” he said, “and you know the type of a man it would take to run Spicy Bits. I would say, offhand, that he was rather hardboiled. He might not be a perfect gentleman or very chivalrous in dealing with womenfolk’s.”

Bill Hoffman turned the matter over in his mind.

“Well,” he said, “we can tell a lot more when we’ve traced that gun.”

“Can you trace it?” asked Mason.

“I think so. The numbers are on it.”

“Yes,” Mason said, “I saw them when they took down the numbers. A 32caliber Colt automatic, eh?”

“That’s the gun,” said Hoffman.

There was a period of silence. Hoffman smoked meditatively. Perry Mason sat perfectly still without so much as moving a muscle, the pose of a man who is either absolutely relaxed, or else is afraid to give way to the slightest motion for fear that it will betray him.

Once or twice Bill Hoffman raised his placid eyes and looked at Perry Mason. Finally Hoffman said, “There’s something funny about this whole thing, Mason. I don’t know just how to explain it.”

“Well,” said Mason, “it’s your business. I usually get in on the murder cases long after the police have finished. This is a new experience for me.”

Hoffman flashed him a glance.

“Yes,” he said, “it is rather unusual for an attorney to be on the ground before the police get there, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Mason, noncommittally, “I think I can agree with you upon that word ‘unusual.’”

Hoffman smoked awhile in silence.

“Located the nephew yet?” asked Mason.

“No,” said Hoffman. “We’ve covered most of the places where he usually hangs out. We crossed his trail earlier in the evening. He’d been out with some jane at a night club. We’ve located her all right. She said that he left her beforemidnight. About elevenfifteen she thinks it was.”

Suddenly there sounded the noise of a motor pounding up the drive. The rain had ceased, and the moon was breaking through the clouds.

Above the noise of the motor could be heard a steady thump… thump… thump… thump.

The car came to a stop, and a horn blared.

“Now what the devil?” said Bill Hoffman, and got slowly to his feet.

Perry Mason had his head cocked on one side, listening.

“Sounds like a flat,” he said.

Bill Hoffman moved toward the door, and Perry Mason followed along behind him.