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The Case of the Velvet Claws :: Гарднер Эрл Стенли
Страница: 100 из 149You can’t be mistaken aboutthat. 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.
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.