The Case of the Velvet Claws   ::   Гарднер Эрл Стенли

She opened the door to the outer office, held it open and beckoned to the two men.

Carl Griffin’s face showed traces of his dissipation, but he was perfectly poised, very suave, and very much of the gentleman. He bowed his apologies to Della Street for walking in front of her as he passed through the door, smiled courteously and meaninglessly at Perry Mason, as he said, “Good afternoon.”

Arthur Atwood was a man in his late forties, with a face that needed sunlight. His eyes were sparkling, but shifty. His head was bald from the forehead to the top where a fringe of hair ran around and down to his ears, making a fuzzy halo for the back of the head. His lips were twisted into a perpetual, professional smile, which was utterly meaningless. The face had taken on lines from that smile, deep calipers running from the nose to the corners of the mouth, with crow’sfeet radiating out from the eyes. He was a man who was hard to judge, except in one thing—he was a dangerous antagonist.

Perry Mason indicated chairs and Della Street closed the door.

Carl Griffin started talking. “You will pardon me, Mr. Mason, if I seemed to have misunderstood your motives in this case earlier in the game. I understand that it was your clever detective work which is largely responsible for the confession of Mrs. Belter.”

Arthur Atwood interposed affably, “Just leave the talking to me if you will, Carl.”

Griffin smiled suavely, bowed toward his counsel.

Arthur Atwood hitched a chair up to the desk, sat down, looked at Perry Mason: “All right, counselor, we understand each other, I take it.”

“I’m not certain that we do,” said Mason.

Atwood’s lips twisted in his perpetual smile, but his sparkling eyes showed no trace of humor.

“You’re the attorney of record,” he said, “for Eva Belter’s contest to the probate of the will. Also for her in her application for letters as special administratrix. It would simplify matters very much if you would dismiss both the contest, and the application—without prejudice, of course.”

“Whom would it simplify matters for?” Mason asked.

Atwood waved his hand in the direction of his client. “Mr. Griffin, of course.”

“I’m not representing Griffin,” Mason answered curtly.

Atwood’s eyes now joined in the smile of his lips.

“That, of course, is true,” he said, “at the present time.