The Case of the Velvet Claws   ::   Гарднер Эрл Стенли

She studied the tip of her shoe, then said in a mumbled voice: “Harrison Burke.”

Perry Mason said, slowly: “You mean Harrison Burke, the one who’s candidate for…”

“Yes,” she snapped, as though she would interrupt him before he could say anything concerning Harrison Burke.

“What were you doing there with him?”

“Dining and dancing.”

“Well?” he inquired.

“Well,” she said, “we went back into the private dining room, and kept out of sight until the officers started taking the names of the witnesses. The sergeant in charge was a friend of Harrison’s, and he knew that it would be fatal for the newspapers to get hold of the fact that we were there. So he let us stay on in the dining room until after everything was finished, and then he smuggled us out of the back door.”

“Anybody see you?” asked Mason.

She shook her head. “Nobody that I know.”

“All right,” he said, “go on from there.”

She looked up at him and said, abruptly: “Do you know Frank Locke?”

He nodded his head. “You mean the one that edits Spicy Bits?”

She clamped her lips together in a firm line, and nodded her head in silent assent.

“What about him?” asked Perry Mason.

“He knows about it,” she said.

“Going to publish it?” he asked.

She nodded.

Perry Mason fingered a paper weight on his desk. His hand was well formed, long and tapering, yet the fingers seemed filled with competent strength. It seemed the hand could have a grip of crushing force should the occasion require.

“You can buy him off,” he said.

“No,” she said, “I can’t. You’ve got to.”

“Why can’t Harrison Burke?” he asked.

“Don’t you understand?” she said. “Harrison Burke might explain his having been at the Beechwood Inn with a married woman. But he could never explain paying hush money to silence a scandal sheet from publishing the fact. He’s got to keep out of this. They may trap him.”

Perry Mason drummed with his fingers on the top of the desk.

“And you want me to square the thing?” he asked.

“I want you to square it.”

“How high would you pay?”

She rushed on in swift conversation now, leaning toward him and talking rapidly.

“Listen,” she said, “I’m going to tell you something. Remember what it is, but don’t ask me how I happened to know. I don’t think you can buy Frank Locke off. You’ve got to go higher. Frank Locke pretends to own Spicy Bits.