Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Velvet Claws

“Reporters, police, detectives. Lots of people,” said Locke.

“I saw them all.”

“This afternoon?”

“No, last night. Why?”

“Nothing,” Locke replied, “except that they may be looking for you in a different way now. What is it you want?”

“I just dropped in to tell you that Eva Belter had filed a petition for letters of administration on her husband’s estate.”

“What’s that to me?” asked Locke, his milkchocolate eyes on Perry Mason.

“It means that Eva Belter is running things from now on. You’re going to take your orders from her,” said Mason. “And it means that, inasmuch as I’m representing Eva Belter, you’re going to take some orders from me. One of the first things you’re going to do is to kill anything about that Beechwood Inn affair.”

“Is that so?” said Locke, sarcastically.

“That,” said Mason, with emphasis, “is so.”

“You’re what they call an optimist.”

“Maybe I am. Again, maybe I’m not. Just take down the telephone and ring up Eva Belter.”

“I don’t have to ring up Eva Belter, or anybody else. I’m running this newspaper.”

“You’re going to be like that, are you?”

“Just like that,” Locke snapped.

“I might talk with you again if we went some place where I was certain that I could talk without too many people listening,” Mason remarked.

“You’d have to make better talk than you did the last time,” said Locke, “or I wouldn’t be interested in leaving.”

“Well, we might take a stroll, Locke, and see if we could come to some terms.”

“Why not talk here?”

“You know the way I feel about this place,” Mason told him. “It makes me uneasy, and I don’t talk well when I’m uneasy.”

Locke hesitated for a minute, finally said, “Well, I won’t give you over fifteen minutes. You’ve got to talk turkey this time.”

“I can talk turkey,” Mason remarked.

“Well, I’m always willing to take a chance,” Locke said.

He got his hat and went down to the street with Mason.

“Suppose we get a cab and ride around until we find some place that looks good, where we can talk,” said Locke.

“Well, let’s walk down the block here, and around the corner. I want to be sure that we get a taxi that isn’t planted,” Mason said.

Locke made a grimace. “Oh, cut out that kid stuff, Mason! Be your age! I’ve got the office wired so that I can tune a witness in on the conversation when I want to, but don’t think that I’ve gone to all the trouble of arranging a bunch of stuff on the outside, so I can hear what you say. You could have yelled anything you said before from the tops of the skyscrapers, and it wouldn’t have made a damned bit of difference.”

Mason shook his head.

“No,” he said, “when I do business, I do it in just one way.”

Locke scowled. “I don’t like that way.”

“Lots of people don’t,” Mason admitted.

Locke stood still. “That’s not getting you anywhere, Mason. I might as well go back to the office.”

“You’ll regret it if you do,” Mason warned him.

Locke hesitated, and then finally shrugged his shoulders.

“All right,” he said, “let’s go. I’ve come this far. I may as well see it through.”

Mason walked him down the street until they came to Sol Steinburg’s place.

“We’ll go in here,” said Mason.

Locke flashed him a glance of instant suspicion. “I won’t talk in there,” he said.

“You don’t have to,” Mason told him, “we’re just going in here, and you can come right out.”

“What kind of a frameup is this?” Locke demanded.

“Oh, come on in,” Mason said, impatiently. “Who’s getting suspicious now?”

Locke walked on in, looking cautiously about him.

Sol Steinburg came out from the back room with his face wreathed in smiles, rubbing his hands. He looked at Mason, and said, “Hello, hello, hello. What do you want? You back again?” Then his eyes rested on Frank Locke.

Seldom is there a Hebrew who hasn’t an instinct of the dramatic and an ability to portray emotions.

Sol Steinburg’s face ran through a gamut of expressions. The smile gave place to an expression of startled recognition. The expression of startled recognition gave way to one of fierce determination. He raised a quivering forefinger, pointed it directly at Locke, and said, “That’s the man.”

Mason’s voice was incisive. “Now, wait a minute, Sol. We’ve got to be sure about this.”

The pawnbroker became voluble. “Ain’t I sure? Can’t I tell a man when I see him? You asked me if I could tell him when I saw him, and I told you, ‘yes.’ Now I see him, and I tell you yes again. That’s him! That’s the man! What do you want to be sure about more than that? That’s him. That’s the man. You can’t be mistaken about that. I know that face anywhere. I know that nose, and I know those colored eyes!”

Frank Locke swung back toward the door. His lips were snarling. “Say,” he said, “what kind of a doublecross am I getting here, anyway? What sort of a frameup is this? This won’t buy you anything. You’ll get the works for this!”

“Keep your shirt on,” Mason told him, then turned to the pawnbroker.

“Sol,” he said, “you’ve got to be so absolutely certain about this that you can go on the witness stand and no amount of crossexamination can shake your testimony.”

Sol waved expressive palms under his chin. “How could I be more certain?” he said. “Put me on the witness stand. Bring me on a dozen lawyers. Bring me on a hundred lawyers! I’ll tell the same story.”

Frank Locke said, “I never saw this man in my life.”

Sol Steinburg’s laugh was a masterpiece of sarcastic merriment.

Little beads of perspiration were showing on Locke’s forehead. He turned to Mason.

“What’s the idea?” he said. “What sort of a flimflam is this?”

Mason shook his head gravely.

“It’s just a part of my case,” he said. “It checks up, that’s all.”

“What checks up?”

“The fact that you bought the gun,” Mason said, in a low voice.

“You’re crazy as hell!” Locke yelled. “I never bought a gun here in my life. I never was inside the place. I never saw the store. I don’t carry a gun!”

Mason said to Steinburg, “Give me your gun register, will you, Sol? Then beat it. I want to talk.”

Steinburg passed over the booklet, waddled to the back of the store.

Mason opened the book to the place where the 32automatic Colt had been noted. He held the palm of his hand casually, so that the number of the gun was partially covered. With his forefinger, he indicated the words “32Colt automatic.” Then he moved over toward the name which was on the margin.

“I presume you’ll deny that you wrote that?” he asked.

Locke seemed trying to tear himself away, yet to be held by some impelling curiosity. He leaned forward. “Certainly I deny that I wrote it. I never was in the joint. I never saw this man. I never bought a gun here, and that isn’t my signature.”

Mason said, patiently, “I know it isn’t your signature, Locke. But are you going to say that you didn’t write it? You’d better be careful, because it may make quite a difference.”

“Of course I didn’t write it. What the hell’s eating you?”

“The police don’t know it yet,” said Mason, “but that gun is the one that killed George Belter last night.”

Locke recoiled as though he had been struck a blow. His milkchocolate eyes were wide and wild. The glint of the perspiration on his forehead was quite evident now.

“So that’s the kind of a dirty damn frameup this is, is it?”