The Case of the Velvet Claws

Chapter 12

The first rays of the early morning sun were gilding the tops of the buildings, when Perry Mason got hold of Harrison Burke’s housekeeper.

She was fiftyseven or eight years old, heavily fleshed, filled with animosity. Her eyes were sparkling with hostility.

“I don’t care who you are,” she said, truculently. “I tell you that he isn’t here. I don’t know where he is. He was out until aroundmidnight, then he got a telephone call, and went out again. After that, the telephone kept ringing all night. I didn’t answer it, because I knew he wasn’t here, and my feet get cold when I get up in the middle of the night. And I don’t appreciate being called out of bed at this hour, either!”

“How long after he came in before there was a telephone call?” asked Mason.

“It wasn’t very long, if it’s really any of your business.”

“Do you think he was expecting the telephone call?”

“How do I know? He woke me up when he came in. I heard him open the door and close it. I was trying to go to sleep again when I heard the telephone ring, and heard him talk. Then I heard him run up to his bedroom. I thought he was going to bed, but I guess he was putting some things in a suitcase, because this morning the suitcase is gone. I heard him run down the stairs and slam the front door.”

Perry Mason said, “Well, I guess that’s all, then.”

She said, “You bet it’s all!” and slammed the door.

Mason got in his car, and stopped at a hotel to call his office.

When he heardDella Street’s voice on the line, he said, “Is Mr. Mason there?”

“No, he isn’t,” she said. “Who’s calling?”

“This is a friend of his,” he told her, “Mr. Fred B. Johnson. I wanted to get in touch with Mr. Mason very badly.”

“I can’t tell you where he is,” she said rapidly, “but I expect he’ll be in soon. There are several people looking for him, and one of them, a Mr. Paul Drake, I think has an appointment. So I think he’ll be in soon.”

“Well, that’s all right,” Mason remarked, casually. “I’ll call again.”

“You haven’t any message to leave with me?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he told her, “except that I’ll call again,” and he hung up.

He called back the number of Drake’s Detective Bureau and got Paul Drake on the telephone.

“Don’t make any cracks where anybody can hear you, Paul,” said Mason, “because I have an idea a lot of people would like to ask me some questions that I’d rather not answer right now. You know who this is.”

“Yeah,” replied Drake, “I got some funny dope for you.”

“Shoot,” said Mason.

“I went out to this chap’s house. The one on West Sixtyninth Street, and I found something funny.”

“Go on,” Mason told him.

“This bird got a telephone call from somebody a little after midnight, and told his wife that he was called out of town on important business. He seemed pretty much frightened. He put some things in a suitcase, and, about quarter to one, an automobile drove by for him, and he got in and left. He told his wife that he’d get in touch with her and let her know where he was. This morning she received a telegram saying: ‘All right. Don’t worry. Love.’, and that’s all she knows. Naturally she was a bit worried.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said.

“Does it mean anything to you?” asked Drake.

“I think it does,” said Mason. “I’ve got to think it over a bit. I think it means a whole lot. Have you got anything new on Locke?”

Drake’s voice showed animation. “I haven’t found out what you want to know yet, Perry. But I think I’m on the tracks of it all right. You remember this jane at the Wheelright Hotel? This Esther Linten?”

“Yeah,” said Mason. “What about her?”

“Well,” said Drake, “it’s a funny thing, but she came from Georgia.”

Mason whistled.

“That’s not all,” went on Drake. “She’s getting some regular sugar from Locke. There’s a check that goes through every two weeks, and it’s a check that doesn’t come from Locke himself. It comes from a special account that Spicy Bits keeps in a downtown bank. We managed to get the cashier at the hotel to talk. The kid has been cashing the checks through the hotel regularly.”

“Can you trace her back to Georgia and find out what she’s been mixed up in?” Mason asked. “Maybe she hasn’t changed her name.”

“That’s what we’re working on now,” Drake said. “I’ve got the Georgia agency working on it. I told them to send me a wire just as soon as they had anything that looked definite, and not to wait until they had run it down, but to keep reporting progress.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “Can you tell me where Frank Locke was last night?”

“Every minute of the time. We had a shadow on that boy that stuck to him all evening. Do you want a complete report?”

“Yes,” said Mason. “Right away.”

“Where shall I send it?”

“Make sure that your messenger isn’t followed, and is somebody you can trust. Have him drop in at the Hotel Ripley, and leave it at the desk for Fred B. Johnson of Detroit.”

“Fine,” said Drake. “Keep in touch with me. I may want to get you.”

“Okay,” agreed Mason, and hung up.

He went at once to the Hotel Ripley, and asked at the desk if there was anything for Mr. Johnson. Upon being advised that there was not, he went up to 518 and tried the door. It was unlocked. He walked in.

Eva Belter sat on the edge of the bed, smoking. There was a highball glass in front of her on the stand by the bed. The whiskey bottle stood beside the glass. It was about a third empty.

In the overstuffed chair sat a big man with wavering eyes, who looked uncomfortable.

Eva Belter said, “I’m glad you came. You wouldn’t believe me, so I brought you some proof.”

“Proof of what?” asked Mason. He was staring at the big man who had risen from the overstuffed chair, and was regarding Mason from embarrassed eyes.

“Proof of the fact that the will’s a forgery,” she said. “This is Mr. Dagett. He’s the cashier at the bank where George handled all of his business. He knows a good deal about George’s private affairs. He says it’s not his writing.”

Dagett bowed and smiled. “You’re Mr. Mason,” he said, “the attorney? I’m glad to meet you.”

He did not offer to shake hands.

Mason planted his feet wide apart, and looked into the uncomfortable eyes of the big man.

“Never mind squirming around,” he said. “She’s got some hold on you or you wouldn’t be here at this hour of the morning. Probably you ring up the maid and leave a message about a hat or something. I don’t give a damn about that. What I want now are the straight facts. Never mind what she wants you to say. I’m telling you you’re giving her the most help by being on the square. Is this thing on the level?”

The banker’s face changed color. He took a half stride toward the lawyer, then stopped, took a deep breath, and said: “You mean about the will?”

“About the will,” said the lawyer.

“It is,” said Dagett. “I’ve examined that will carefully. It’s a forgery. And the remarkable thing about it is that it’s not a very good forgery at that. If you’ll study it closely, you can see that the character of the handwriting broke down once or twice in it. It’s as though some one tried to make a hasty forgery, and became fatigued during the process.”

Mason snapped, “Let me see that will.”

Eva Belter passed it over.

“How about another highball, Charlie?” she asked the banker, and tittered.

Dagett shook his head, savagely. “No,” he said, vehemently.

Mason examined the will carefully. His eyes narrowed. “By God!” he said. “You’re right!”

“There can be no question of it,” Dagett told him.

Mason turned to him sharply, “You’re willing to go on the stand and testify?” he asked.

“Good heavens, no! But you don’t need me! It’s selfevident.”

Perry Mason stared at him. “All right,” he said. “That’s all.”

Dagett walked to the door, flung it open and hurried out of the room.

Mason fastened his eyes on Eva Belter.

“Listen,” he said, “I told you you could meet me here to talk things over, but I didn’t want you to stick around the room. Don’t you realize what a position we’d be in if they discovered us here in one room at this hour of the morning?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“We’ve got to take some risks,” she said, “and I wanted you to talk with Mr. Dagett.”

“How did you get him?” he asked.

“Called him on the telephone and told him to come over, it was important. And it wasn’t nice of you to say the things you did to him. It was naughty!”

She giggled with alcoholic mirth.

“You know him pretty well?” asked Mason.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He stood staring at her. “You know damned well what I mean. You called him Charlie.”

“Certainly,” she said. “That’s his first name. He’s a friend of mine, as well as George’s.”

“I see,” said Mason.

He went to the telephone and called his office.

“Mr. Johnson,” he said. “Has Mr. Mason come in yet?”

“No,” said Della Street, “he hasn’t. I’m afraid he’s going to be awfully busy when he does come in, Mr. Johnson. Something happened last night. I don’t know exactly what it was, but it was a murder case of some kind, and Mr. Mason is representing one of the main witnesses. There have been some newspaper reporters trying to see him, and there’s some one who insists on staying in the outer office. I think he’s a police detective. So I’m very much afraid that if you were counting on seeing Mr. Mason at the office this morning, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“Gee, that’s too bad,” Mason said. “I have some papers to dictate that I know Mr. Mason would want to see, and probably he’d have to sign them. I wonder if you could tell me some one who could take them down in shorthand?”

“I think I could,” said Della Street.

“I was just wondering,” said Mason, “whether you could get away with all of the people that are around there.”

“Leave it to me,” she said.

“I’m at the Hotel Ripley,” he told her.

“Okay,” she said, and hung up.

Mason stared at Eva Belter moodily.

“All right,” he said, “since you’re here, and you’ve risked this much, you’re going to stay here for a while.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“I’m going to file a petition for letters of administration,” he said. “That will force them to come out and offer the will for probate, and then we’re going to file a contest to the probate of the will, and make an application to have you appointed a special administratrix.”

“What does all that mean?”

“That means,” he told her, “that you’re going to be in the saddle from now on, and we’re going to keep you there no matter what they do.”

“What good will that do?” she asked. “If I’m virtually disinherited under the will, we’ve got to prove it’s a forgery, and I can’t get anything until after there’s been a trial and a judgment. Can I?”

“I’m thinking about the management of the properties of the estate,” said Mason, “Spicy Bits for instance.”

“Oh,” she said, “I see.”

Mason went on, “We’re going to dictate these papers all at once, and leave them with my secretary so that she can file them, one at a time. You’ve got to take that will and put it back. They’ll probably have a guard in the room so you can’t return it where you found it, but you can plant it some place in the house.”

She tittered once more. “I can do that, too,” she said.

Mason said: “You do take the damnedest chances. Why you fished that will out of there is more than I know. If you’re caught with it, it might be serious.”

“Cheer up,” she told him, “I won’t be caught with it. You don’t ever take a chance, do you?”

“My God!” he said. “I took a chance when I started in mixing in your business. You’re plain dynamite.”

She smiled seductively at him. “Do you think so?” she said. “I know some men who like women that way.”

He stared moodily at her.

“You’re getting drunk,” he told her. “Lay off that whiskey.”

“My,” she said, “you talk just like a husband.”

He walked over, picked up the whiskey bottle, jammed the cork in, put the bottle in the drawer of the bureau, locked the drawer and put the key in his pocket.

“Was that nice?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

The telephone rang. Mason answered it. The clerk advised him that a messenger had just arrived with a package for him.

Mason said to have a boy bring the package up, and hung up.

When the bellboy knocked at the door, Mason was standing at the knob. He opened the door, handed the boy a tip, and took the envelope. It was the report from the Detective Agency concerning the activities of Frank Locke on the preceding evening.

“What is it?” asked Eva Belter.

He shook his head, walked over to the window, opened the envelope, and started reading the typewritten report.

It was rather simple. Locke had gone to a speakeasy, stayed there half an hour, gone to a barber shop, had a shave and massage, gone to the Wheelright Hotel, gone to room 946, remained there five or ten minutes, and then had gone to dinner with Esther Linten, the tenant of the room.

They had dined and danced until eleven o’clock, and then had gone back to the room in the Wheelright. Bellboys had brought up ginger ale and ice, and Locke had stayed in the room until onethirty in the morning, when he had left.

Mason thrust the reports into his pocket and started drumming with the tips of his fingers on the sash of the window.

“You make me nervous,” said Eva Belter. “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”

“I’ve told you what we’re going to do.”

“What were those papers?”

“A business matter.”

“What business?”

He laughed at her. “Do I have to tell you the business of all of my clients just because I happen to be working for you?”

She frowned at him. “I think you’re horrid.”

He shrugged his shoulders and continued drumming upon the sash of the window.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called.

The door opened and Della Street walked in. She stiffened as she saw Eva Belter on the bed.

“Okay, Della,” said Mason. “We’ve got to have some papers ready for an emergency that may arise. We’ve got to figure on a petition for letters of administration, on a contest for the probate of a will, and on an application for special letters of administration, an order appointing Mrs. Belter as special administratrix, and a bond all ready to submit for approval and filing. Then we’ve got to have special letters of administration, with copies to be certified and served on interested parties.”

Della Street asked coolly, “Do you wish to dictate them now?”

“Yes, and I want some breakfast.”

He went to the telephone, rang room service, and ordered breakfast sent up.

Della Street stared at Eva Belter. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ll have to have that table.”

Eva Belter arched her eyebrows and picked up her glass from the table, much with the gesture of a woman gathering her skirts about her when encountering a beggar on the street.

Mason lifted off the ginger ale bottle and the bowl of ice, polished the top of the table with the moist cover which had been on it, and set it down in front of a chair for Della Street.

She pulled up the straightback chair, crossed her knees, put the notebook on the table, and poised her pencil.

Perry Mason dictated rapidly for twenty minutes. At the end of that time breakfast arrived. The three ate heartily and almost in silence. Eva Belter managed to give the impression that she was eating with the servants.

When the breakfast was finished, Mason had the things taken away, and proceeded with his dictation. By ninethirty he had finished.

“Go back to the office and write those up,” he told Della, “and have them all ready for signature. But don’t let anybody see what you’re doing. You’d better keep the outer office door locked. You can use the printed forms for the petitions.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’d like to see you for a moment alone.”

Eva Belter sniffed.

“Don’t mind her,” said Mason, “she’s going.”

“Oh, no, I’m not,” Eva Belter said.

“Yes, you are,” Mason ordered. “You’re going right now. I had to have you here while I was dictating those papers in order to get the information that I needed. You’re going back and put that will back in the house. Then you’re going up to my office this afternoon and sign all of these papers. And, in the meantime, you’re going to keep your own counsel. The newspaper reporters are going to ask you questions. They’ll get in touch with you somewhere along the line. You’re going to use all of your sex appeal and be shocked and crushed by the terrible misfortune you’ve suffered. You’re going to be unable to give out any kind of a coherent interview, and you’re going to sell them on your grief. Every time they stick a camera your way, show lots of leg and turn on the water works. Do you understand?”

“You’re coarse,” she said coldly.

“I’m effective,” he told her. “What the hell’s the use of you trying to slip a lot of stuff over on me when you know it doesn’t go?”

She put on her hat and coat with dignity and marched to the door.

“Just when I get so I really like you,” she told him, “you have to go ahead and spoil it all.”

He silently held the door open for her, bowed her out and then slammed it shut.

He moved over close to Della Street, and said, “What is it, Della?”

She reached down the front of her dress and pulled out an envelope.

“A messenger brought this.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Money.”

He opened the flap of the envelope. There were one hundred dollar traveler checks on the inside. Two books with one thousand dollars in each book. All of the checks were signed “Harrison Burke” and duly countersigned. The name of the payee was left blank.

There was a note attached to the checks, scribbled hurriedly in pencil.

Mason unfolded the note, and read it:

The note was signed with the initials “H.B.”

Mason handed the books over to Della Street.

“Business,” he said, “is looking up. Be careful where you cash them.”

She nodded her head.

“Tell me, what’s happened? What has she got you into?”

“She hasn’t got me into anything except a couple of good fees. And before she gets done, she’s going to pay more.”

“She has too,” insisted Della. “She’s got you mixed up in that murder case. I heard some of the reporters talking this morning. She got you out there before she notified the police, and she’s framed things so that she can drag you into it at any time. What makes you think she isn’t going to tell the police you were the man who was in the room when the shot was fired?”

Mason made a weary gesture.

“I don’t,” he said. “I have an idea that she’s going to do that sooner or later.”

“Are you going to stand for it?”

The lawyer explained patiently.

“When you’re representing clients, Della,” he said, “you can’t pick and choose them. You’ve got to take them as they come. There’s only one rule in this game, and that is that when you do take them, you’ve got to give them all you’ve got.”

She sniffed. “That doesn’t mean that you have to sit back and let them accuse you of murder in order to protect a sweetheart.”

“You’re getting pretty wise,” Mason remarked. “Who’ve you been talking to?”

“One of the reporters. Only I haven’t been talking. I’ve been listening.”

He smiled at her. “Skip along and get these things out, and don’t worry about me. I’ve got work to do. Whenever you come over here, be careful that nobody shadows you.”

“This is the last time I dare to try it,” she said. “I had an awful time getting away. They tried to follow me. I pulled the same stunt that Mrs. Belter did the first time she came to the office, of going through the dressingroom. It always bothers a man when he’s trailing a woman, and she walks into a ladies’ room. They’ll fall for it once, but not twice.”

“Okay,” said Mason. “I’ve kept under cover almost as long as I can myself. They’ll be picking me up sometime today.”

“I hate her!”Della Street said fervently. “I wish you’d never seen her. She isn’t worth the money. If we made ten times as much money out of it, she still wouldn’t be worth it. I told you just what she was—all velvet and claws!”

“Wait a minute, young lady,” Mason warned. “You haven’t seen the blowoff yet.”

Della Street tossed her head. “I’ve seen enough. I’ll have these things all ready by this afternoon.”

“Okay,” said Mason. “Let her sign them, and see that everything’s in order. I may have to grab them and run, or telephone you and have you meet me some place.”

She flashed him a smile and went out, very trim, very selfpossessed, loyal and very worried.

Mason waited five minutes, and then lit a cigarette, and walked out of the hotel.