The Case of the Velvet Claws   ::   Гарднер Эрл Стенли

“I want an interview, Mr. Mason,” he said.

“Interview?” said Mason. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Crandall,” said the man. “A reporter for Spicy Bits. We’re interested in the doings of prominent people, Mr. Mason. And I’d like an interview with you as to what you discussed with Harrison Burke.”

Slowly, deliberately, Perry Mason took his hand from the automobile door catch, turned around on his heel, and surveyed the man.

“So,” he said, “that’s the kind of tactics you folks are going to use, is it?”

Crandall continued to stare with his impudent eyes.

“Don’t get hard,” he said, “because it won’t buy you anything.”

“The hell it won’t,” said Perry Mason. He measured the distance, and slammed a straight left full into the grinning mouth. Crandall’s head shot back. He staggered for two steps, then went down like a sack of meal.

Passing pedestrians paused to stare, and collected in a little group.

Mason paid no attention to them, but turned, jerked open the door of his machine, got in, slammed the door shut, stepped on the starter, and pushed the car out into traffic.

From a nearby drug store, he called Harrison Burke’s office.

When he had Burke on the line, he said, “Mason talking, Burke. Better not go out. And better get somebody to act as a bodyguard. The paper we talked about has got a couple of strong arm men sticking around, ready to muscle into your business in any way that’ll do the most damage. When you get that money for me, send it over to my office by messenger. Get somebody you can trust and don’t tell them what’s in the package. Put it in a sealed envelope, as though it might be papers.”

Harrison Burke started to say something.

Perry Mason savagely slammed the receiver on the hook, strode out of the telephone booth and into his car.



Chapter 7

A storm was whipping up from the southeast. Slow, leaden clouds drifted across the night sky, and bombarded the ground with great mushrooms of spattering water.

Wind was tugging at the corners of the apartment house where Perry Mason lived. A window was open only about half an inch at the bottom, but enough wind came through that opening to billow the curtains and keep them flapping.

Mason sat up in bed and groped for the telephone in the dark. He found the instrument, put it to his ear and said, “Hello.”

The voice of Eva Belter sounded swift and panicstricken over the wire.