JК
The Case of the Velvet Claws :: Гарднер Эрл Стенли
Страница: 54 из 149It was a roadster withside curtains up. A vague form at the wheel was staring at the house. The white blur of his face could be seen through the side curtains of the car. He was holding one hand on the horn which kept up a steady, incessant racket.
Sergeant Hoffman stepped out into the light on the porch, and the noise of the horn ceased.
The door of the roadster opened, and a voice called in thick accents:
“Digley. I got… flat tire… can’t change… don’t dare bend over… don’t feel well. You come fixsh car… fixsh tire.”
Perry Mason remarked casually, “That probably will be the nephew, Carl Griffin. We’ll see what he has to say.”
Bill Hoffman grunted. “If I’m any judge at this distance, he won’t be able to say much.”
Together they moved toward the car.
The young man crawled out from behind the steering wheel, felt vaguely with a groping foot for the step of the roadster, and lurched forward. He would have fallen, had it not been for his hand which caught and held one of the supports of the top. He stood there, weaving uncertainly back and forth.
“Got flat tire,” he said. “Want Digley… you’re not Digley. There’s two of you… not either one of you Digley. Who the hell are you? What you want shish time of night? ‘Snot a nicesh time night for men to come pay call.”
Bill Hoffman moved forward.
“You’re drunk,” he said.
The man leered at him with owlish scrutiny.
“Course I’m drunk… wash schpose I shtayed out for? Course I’m drunk.”
Hoffman said patiently: “Are you Carl Griffin?”
“Coursh I’m Carl Griffin.”
“All right,” said Bill Hoffman. “You’d better snap out of it. Your uncle has been murdered.”
There was a moment of silence. The man who held to the top of the roadster shook his head two or three times, as though trying to shake away some mental fog which gripped him.
When he spoke, his voice was more crisp.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Your uncle,” said the Sergeant. “That is, I presume he’s your uncle, George C. Belter. He was murdered an hour or an hour and a half ago.”
The reek of whiskey enveloped the man. He was struggling to get his selfpossession. He took two or three deep breaths, and then said, “You’re drunk.”
Sergeant Hoffman smiled. “No,Griffin, we’re not drunk,” he said, patiently. “You’re the one that’s drunk. You’ve been out going places and doing things.
Sergeant Hoffman stepped out into the light on the porch, and the noise of the horn ceased.
The door of the roadster opened, and a voice called in thick accents:
“Digley. I got… flat tire… can’t change… don’t dare bend over… don’t feel well. You come fixsh car… fixsh tire.”
Perry Mason remarked casually, “That probably will be the nephew, Carl Griffin. We’ll see what he has to say.”
Bill Hoffman grunted. “If I’m any judge at this distance, he won’t be able to say much.”
Together they moved toward the car.
The young man crawled out from behind the steering wheel, felt vaguely with a groping foot for the step of the roadster, and lurched forward. He would have fallen, had it not been for his hand which caught and held one of the supports of the top. He stood there, weaving uncertainly back and forth.
“Got flat tire,” he said. “Want Digley… you’re not Digley. There’s two of you… not either one of you Digley. Who the hell are you? What you want shish time of night? ‘Snot a nicesh time night for men to come pay call.”
Bill Hoffman moved forward.
“You’re drunk,” he said.
The man leered at him with owlish scrutiny.
“Course I’m drunk… wash schpose I shtayed out for? Course I’m drunk.”
Hoffman said patiently: “Are you Carl Griffin?”
“Coursh I’m Carl Griffin.”
“All right,” said Bill Hoffman. “You’d better snap out of it. Your uncle has been murdered.”
There was a moment of silence. The man who held to the top of the roadster shook his head two or three times, as though trying to shake away some mental fog which gripped him.
When he spoke, his voice was more crisp.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Your uncle,” said the Sergeant. “That is, I presume he’s your uncle, George C. Belter. He was murdered an hour or an hour and a half ago.”
The reek of whiskey enveloped the man. He was struggling to get his selfpossession. He took two or three deep breaths, and then said, “You’re drunk.”
Sergeant Hoffman smiled. “No,Griffin, we’re not drunk,” he said, patiently. “You’re the one that’s drunk. You’ve been out going places and doing things.