Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Velvet Claws

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 Sundaygotomeeting 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 she 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 cubbyhole 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…”