The Case of the Velvet Claws   ::   Гарднер Эрл Стенли

One of them was a woman in the late forties, with hair that was shot with gray, deepset, lackluster, black eyes that seemed to have been pulled into her face by invisible strings that had worked the eyes so far back into the sockets it was hard totell their expression. They hid from sight back in the shadowed hollows. She had a long face, a thin, firm mouth, and high cheek bones. She was dressed in black.

The other woman was very much younger, not over twentytwo or three. Her hair was jet black and glossy. Her eyes were a snapping black, and their brightness emphasized the dullness of the deepsunken eyes of the older woman. Her lips were full and very red. Her face had received careful attention with rouge and powder. The eyebrows were thin, black and arched, the eyelashes long.

“You’re Mrs. Veitch?” asked Perry Mason, addressing the older woman.

She nodded in tightlipped silence.

The girl at her side spoke in a rich, throaty voice.

“I’m Norma Veitch, her daughter. What is it you wanted? Mother’s all upset.”

“Yes, I know,” apologized Mason. “I wondered if we could get some coffee. Carl Griffin has just come home, and I think he’s going to need it. And there’s a bunch of men working on the case upstairs who will want some.”

Norma Veitch got to her feet. “Why, I guess so. It’s all right isn’t it, Mother?” she asked.

She glanced at the older woman, and the older woman nodded her head once more.

“I’ll get it, Mother,” said Norma Veitch.

“No,” said the older woman, speaking in a voice that was as dry as the rustling of corn husks. “I’ll get it. You don’t know where things are.”

She pushed back her chair and walked across the kitchen to a cupboard. She slid back a door and took down a huge coffee percolator and a can of coffee. Her face was absolutely expressionless, but she moved as though she were very tired.

She was flatchested and flathipped and walked with springless steps. Her entire manner was that of dejection.

The girl turned to Mason and flashed him a smile from her full red lips.

“You’re a detective?” she asked.

Mason shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’m the man that was here with Mrs. Belter. I’m the one that called the police.”

Norma Veitch said, “Oh, yes. I heard something about you.”

Mason turned to the mother.

“I can make the coffee all right, Mrs. Veitch, if you don’t feel able.”

“No,” she said in that same dry, expressionless voice. “I can make it all right.