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The Case of the Velvet Claws :: Гарднер Эрл Стенли
Страница: 72 из 149”
She made a dive for the battery of files which lined oneside of the office.
Perry Mason sat on the corner of her desk and watched her. Only his eyes showed the whitehot concentration of thought which was covering a dozen different angles of a complicated problem.
She came to him with a letter.
“That’s fine,” he said.
Printed in a column on the right hand margin was a list of vice presidents of the “BurkeforCongressClub.” There were more than a hundred names in fine print.
Mason squinted his eyes and read down the column. Every time he passed over a name, he checked it by moving his thumb nail down in the sheet. The fifteenth name was that of P. J. Mitchell, and the address given at the side of the name wasthirteen twentytwo West Sixtyninth Street.
Mason folded the letter abruptly, and thrust it in his pocket.
“Get me Paul Drake on the phone again,” he said, and walked into his inner office and slammed the door shut behind him.
When Paul Drake came on the line, he said, “Listen Paul, I want you to do something for me.”
“Again?” asked Drake.
“Yes,” said Mason. “You haven’t got started yet.”
“All right, shoot,” said the detective.
“Listen,” Mason said, slowly, “I want you to get in a car and go out tothirteen twentytwo West Sixtyninth Street, and get Pete Mitchell out of bed. Now, you’ve got to handle this carefully so that you don’t get yourself in a jam, and me too. You’ve got to do it along the line of a boob detective who talks too much. Don’t ask Mitchell any questions until you give him all the information, see? Tell him that you’re a detective and that George Belter was murdered in his house tonight, and that you understand the number of the gun that did the job was the same number that was on a gun which was sold to this chap, Mitchell. Tell him that you suppose he still has the gun and that there’s some mistake in the numbers, but that you’d like to know whether or not he can account for his whereabouts at aboutmidnight or a little later. Ask him if he has the gun, or if he remembers what he did with it. But be sure that you tell him everything before you ask him the questions.”
“Just be a big, dumb boob, eh?” asked Drake.
“Be a big, dumb boob,” Mason told him, “and cultivate a very short memory afterwards.”
“I gotcha,” said Drake. “I’ve got to handle this thing in such a way that I’m in the clear, eh?”
Mason said, wearily, “You handle it just the way I told you, just exactly that way.”
Mason slipped the phone back on the receiver.
She made a dive for the battery of files which lined oneside of the office.
Perry Mason sat on the corner of her desk and watched her. Only his eyes showed the whitehot concentration of thought which was covering a dozen different angles of a complicated problem.
She came to him with a letter.
“That’s fine,” he said.
Printed in a column on the right hand margin was a list of vice presidents of the “BurkeforCongressClub.” There were more than a hundred names in fine print.
Mason squinted his eyes and read down the column. Every time he passed over a name, he checked it by moving his thumb nail down in the sheet. The fifteenth name was that of P. J. Mitchell, and the address given at the side of the name wasthirteen twentytwo West Sixtyninth Street.
Mason folded the letter abruptly, and thrust it in his pocket.
“Get me Paul Drake on the phone again,” he said, and walked into his inner office and slammed the door shut behind him.
When Paul Drake came on the line, he said, “Listen Paul, I want you to do something for me.”
“Again?” asked Drake.
“Yes,” said Mason. “You haven’t got started yet.”
“All right, shoot,” said the detective.
“Listen,” Mason said, slowly, “I want you to get in a car and go out tothirteen twentytwo West Sixtyninth Street, and get Pete Mitchell out of bed. Now, you’ve got to handle this carefully so that you don’t get yourself in a jam, and me too. You’ve got to do it along the line of a boob detective who talks too much. Don’t ask Mitchell any questions until you give him all the information, see? Tell him that you’re a detective and that George Belter was murdered in his house tonight, and that you understand the number of the gun that did the job was the same number that was on a gun which was sold to this chap, Mitchell. Tell him that you suppose he still has the gun and that there’s some mistake in the numbers, but that you’d like to know whether or not he can account for his whereabouts at aboutmidnight or a little later. Ask him if he has the gun, or if he remembers what he did with it. But be sure that you tell him everything before you ask him the questions.”
“Just be a big, dumb boob, eh?” asked Drake.
“Be a big, dumb boob,” Mason told him, “and cultivate a very short memory afterwards.”
“I gotcha,” said Drake. “I’ve got to handle this thing in such a way that I’m in the clear, eh?”
Mason said, wearily, “You handle it just the way I told you, just exactly that way.”
Mason slipped the phone back on the receiver.