Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Velvet Claws

“No, you haven’t.”

“I’m surprised and a little confused, that’s all,” she said.

He stood surveying her, moodyeyed, 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 overtone 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.”

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.