Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Velvet Claws

She stared at him with a speculative look that held something of a wistful tenderness. “But you insist on being loyal to your clients, no matter how rotten they are.”

“Of course,” he told her. “That’s my duty.”

“To your profession?”

“No,” he said slowly, “to myself. I’m a paid gladiator. I fight for my clients. Most clients aren’t square shooters. That’s why they’re clients. They’ve got themselves into trouble. It’s up to me to get them out. I have to shoot square with them. I can’t always expect them to shoot square with me.”

“It isn’t fair!” she blazed.

“Of course not,” he smiled. “It’s business.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I told the detective that you wanted her shadowed as soon as she left the office,” she said, abruptly getting back to her duties. “He said he’d be there to pick her up.”

“You talked with Paul Drake himself?”

“Of course, otherwise I wouldn’t have told you everything was all right.”

“Okay,” he said, “you can bank three hundred out of that retainer, and give me two hundred to put in my pocket. We’ll find out who she really is, and then we’ll have an ace in the hole.”

Della Street went back to the outer office, returned with two hundred dollars in currency, which she handed to Perry Mason.

He smiled at her.

“You’re a good girl, Della,” he said. “Even if you do get funny ideas about women.”

She whirled on him. “I hate her!” she said, “I hate the very ground she walks on! But it isn’t that. It’s something more than the hate. It’s sort of a hunch I’ve got.”

He planted his feet wide apart, thrust his hands in his pockets, and stared at her.

“Why do you hate her?” he asked, with tolerant amusement.

“I hate everything she stands for!” said Della Street. “I’ve had to work for everything I got. I never got a thing in life that I didn’t work for. And lots of times I’ve worked for things and have had nothing in return. That woman is the type that has never worked for anything in her life! She doesn’t give a damned thing in return for what she gets. Not even herself.”

Perry Mason pursed his lips thoughtfully. “And all of this outburst is occasioned just because you gave her the onceover and didn’t like the way she was dressed?” he asked.

“I liked the way she was dressed. She’s dressed like a million dollars. Those clothes she had on cost somebody a lot of money. And you can bet that she wasn’t the one that paid for them. She’s too wellkept, too wellgroomed, too baby faced. Did you notice that trick she has of making her eyes wide when she wants to impress you? She’s practiced that baby stare in front of a mirror.”

He watched her with eyes that were suddenly deep and enigmatical. “If all clients had your loyalty, Della, there wouldn’t be any law business. Don’t forget that. You’ve got to take clients as they come. You’re different. Your family was rich. Then they lost their money. You went to work. Lots of women wouldn’t have done that.”

Her eyes were wistful once more.

“What would they have done?” she asked. “What could they have done?”

“They could,” he remarked slowly, “have married a man, and then gone out to the Beechwood Inn with some other man, got caught, and had to get a lawyer to get them out of the jam.”

She turned toward the outer office, keeping her eyes averted from him. Those eyes were glowing. “I started to talk about clients,” she observed, “and you begin to talk about me.” And she pushed her way through the door and into the outer office.

Perry Mason walked to the doorway and stood there while Della Street went over to her desk, sat down at it, and slid a sheet of paper into her typewriter. Mason was still standing there when the door of the outer office opened and a tall man, with drooping shoulders and a head that was thrust forward on a long neck, came into the outer office. He regarded Della Street with protruding glassy eyes that held a perpetual expression of droll humor, smiled at her, turned to Mason and said: “Hello, Perry.”

Mason said: “Come on in, Paul. Did you get anything?”

Drake said: “I got back.”

Mason held the door open, and closed it after the detective had gone into the private office.

“What happened?” he asked.

Paul Drake sat down in the chair which the woman had occupied a few minutes earlier, raised his foot to the other chair and lit a cigarette.

“She’s a wise baby,” he said.

“What makes you think so?” asked Perry Mason. “Did she know you were tailing her?”

“I don’t think so,” said Drake. “I stood by the elevator shaft, where I could see her when she came out of the office. When she came out, I got in the elevator first. She kept watching your office to see if anybody came out of it. I think she thought perhaps you’d send your girl to try and spot her. She seemed relieved when the elevator got down.

“She walked to the corner, and I tagged along behind, keeping a few people between her and me. She ducked into the department store across the street, walked right along as though she knew exactly what she wanted to do, and went into the Women’s Rest Room.

“She looked sort of funny when she went in there, and I had an idea maybe it was a dodge, so I hunted up an attendant, and asked him if there was any other way out of the Women’s Rest Room. It seems there are three ways out. There’s a way that goes into the beauty parlor. There’s a way into the manicuring room, and a way into the cafe.”

“Which way did she take?” asked Mason.

“She took the beauty parlor just about fifteen seconds before I covered it. I figured she’d simply used the dressing room stuff as a blind. She knew that a man couldn’t follow her in there, and she’d evidently figured it all out in advance. I found out this much, she had a car parked in front of the beauty parlor street exit, with a chauffeur sitting at the wheel. The car was a big Lincoln, if that’ll help you any.”

“It won’t,” said Mason.

“I didn’t think it would,” grinned Drake.

Frank Locke had coarse, mahogany skin, and wore a tweed suit.

His skin didn’t have the tanned appearance which comes from outdoor sports, but looked rather as though it had absorbed so much nicotine that it had become stained. His eyes were a mild brown, the color of milk chocolate, and absolutely without sheen. They seemed dead and lifeless. His nose was big, and his mouth weak. To a casual observer, he seemed utterly mild and innocuous.

“Well,” he said, “you can talk here.”

Perry Mason shook his head. “No, you’ve got this place rigged up with all sorts of dictographs. I’ll talk where I know that you’re the only one that’ll hear what I’m going to say.”

“Where?” asked Frank Locke.

“You can come to my office,” said Mason, without hope or enthusiasm in his tone.

Frank Locke laughed, and his laugh was gratingly mirthless. “Now I’ll tell one,” he said.

“Okay,” said Mason. “Put on your hat, and start out with me. We’ll agree on some place.”

“How do you mean?” asked Locke, his eyes suddenly suspicious.

“We’ll pick a hotel,” said Mason.

“One that you’ve picked out already?” asked Locke.

“No,” said Mason, “we’ll get a cab and tell him to drive us around. If you’re that suspicious, you can pick the hotel yourself.”

Frank Locke hesitated a minute, then said: “Excuse me a moment. I’ll have to see if it’s all right for me to leave the office. I’ve got some things that I’ve been working on.”

“Okay,” said Mason, and sat down.