The Case of the Velvet Claws   ::   Гарднер Эрл Стенли

He sat on a stool at the ice cream counter and drank a glass of plaincarbonated water, without haste and without showing any emotion. His eyes were thoughtful, but his manner was calm.

At the end of six or seven minutes the telephone rang again, and Mason answered it. “Smith talking,” he whined.

Locke’s voice came over the wire. “Yes, we’d be willing to pay that price provided we could get the proof.”

“Okay,” said Mason, “you be in your office tomorrow morning, and I’ll get in touch with you there. But don’t back out on me now, because I’m turning down this three hundred and fifty dollar offer.”

“Listen, I’d like to see you tonight and get the thing cleaned up right now.” There was a certain quaver of excitement in Locke’s voice.

“You can’t do that,” Mason told him. “I could give you the information tonight, but I can’t give you the proofs until tomorrow.”

“Well,” insisted Locke, “you could give me the information tonight, and then I’d pay you when you brought in the proofs tomorrow.”

Mason gave a mocking laugh. “Now I’ll tell one,” he said.

Locke said, irritably: “Oh, well, have it your own way.”

Mason chuckled. “Thanks,” he said, “I think I will,” and hung up the receiver.

He walked back to his automobile and sat in it for almost twenty minutes. At the end of that time, Frank Locke came out of the hotel, accompanied by a young woman. He had been shaved and massaged until his skin showed a trace of red under its sallow brown. He had the smugly complacent air of a man of the world, who rather enjoys knowing his way about.

The young woman with him was not over twentyone or two, if one could judge by her face. She had a well curved figure, which was displayed to advantage; a perfectly expressionless face; expensive garments and just the faintest suggestion of too much makeup about her. She was beautiful in a certain full blown manner.

Perry Mason waited until they had taken a taxi, then he went into the hotel, and walked over to the telephone desk.

The girl looked up with anxious eyes, put a surreptitious hand to the front of her waist, and pulled out a piece of paper.

On the piece of paper had been scribbled a telephone number: Freyburg 629803 .

Perry Mason nodded to her and slipped the piece of paper in his pocket.

“Was that the conversation—that line about paying for information?” he asked.

“I can’t divulge what went over the line.