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The Case of the Velvet Claws :: Гарднер Эрл Стенли
Страница: 95 из 149“The next question is, have you got sense enough to know which side of your bread has got the butter?”
“How do you mean?”
“What did you do last night after you got back to the room?”
“Talked about the weather, of course.”
“That’s fine,” he told her. “You had some drinks sent up, and sat and chatted, and then you got sleepy and went to sleep.”
“Who says that?” she asked.
“That’s what I say,” he explained, “and that’s what you’re going to say. You got sleepy and passed out.”
Her eyes were thoughtful. “How do you mean?”
Mason spoke as though he had been a teacher coaching a pupil. “You were tired and you’d been drinking. You got into your pajamas and went to sleep about elevenforty, and you don’t know anything that happened after that. You don’t know when Frank Locke left.”
“What good does it do me if I say I went to sleep?” she inquired.
Mason’s tone was casual. “I think Mrs. Belter would be very much inclined to overlook the matter of the embezzled account if you went to sleep as I mentioned.”
“Well, I didn’t go to sleep.”
“You’d better think it over.”
She stared at him with her big, appraising eyes and said nothing.
Mason crossed to the telephone and gave the number of Paul Drake’s Detective Agency.
“You know who this is, Paul,” he said, when he heard Drake’s voice. “What have you got, anything?”
“Yes,” said Drake, “I’ve got something on the broad.”
“Spill it,” said Mason.
“She won a beauty contest in Savannah,” said Drake. “She was under age at the time. There was another kid living with her in an apartment. A man got the kid in a jam, and then killed her. He tried to cover up the crime and made a bum job of it. He was arrested and tried. This girl switched her testimony at the last minute and gave him a break. He got a hung jury on the first trial, and managed to escape before they tried him again. He’s still a fugitive from justice. His name is Cecil Dawson. I’m looking him up for description and fingerprints, and any more dope I can get. I have an idea that he may be the man you want.”
“Okay,” Mason said, as though he had expected just that. “That comes in pretty handy right now. Stay with it, and I’ll get in touch with you a little later.”
He hung up the telephone and turned back to the girl.
“Well,” he asked, “what is it, yes or no?”
“No,” she said. “I told you that before, and I don’t change my mind.”
He stared at her, steadily.
“How do you mean?”
“What did you do last night after you got back to the room?”
“Talked about the weather, of course.”
“That’s fine,” he told her. “You had some drinks sent up, and sat and chatted, and then you got sleepy and went to sleep.”
“Who says that?” she asked.
“That’s what I say,” he explained, “and that’s what you’re going to say. You got sleepy and passed out.”
Her eyes were thoughtful. “How do you mean?”
Mason spoke as though he had been a teacher coaching a pupil. “You were tired and you’d been drinking. You got into your pajamas and went to sleep about elevenforty, and you don’t know anything that happened after that. You don’t know when Frank Locke left.”
“What good does it do me if I say I went to sleep?” she inquired.
Mason’s tone was casual. “I think Mrs. Belter would be very much inclined to overlook the matter of the embezzled account if you went to sleep as I mentioned.”
“Well, I didn’t go to sleep.”
“You’d better think it over.”
She stared at him with her big, appraising eyes and said nothing.
Mason crossed to the telephone and gave the number of Paul Drake’s Detective Agency.
“You know who this is, Paul,” he said, when he heard Drake’s voice. “What have you got, anything?”
“Yes,” said Drake, “I’ve got something on the broad.”
“Spill it,” said Mason.
“She won a beauty contest in Savannah,” said Drake. “She was under age at the time. There was another kid living with her in an apartment. A man got the kid in a jam, and then killed her. He tried to cover up the crime and made a bum job of it. He was arrested and tried. This girl switched her testimony at the last minute and gave him a break. He got a hung jury on the first trial, and managed to escape before they tried him again. He’s still a fugitive from justice. His name is Cecil Dawson. I’m looking him up for description and fingerprints, and any more dope I can get. I have an idea that he may be the man you want.”
“Okay,” Mason said, as though he had expected just that. “That comes in pretty handy right now. Stay with it, and I’ll get in touch with you a little later.”
He hung up the telephone and turned back to the girl.
“Well,” he asked, “what is it, yes or no?”
“No,” she said. “I told you that before, and I don’t change my mind.”
He stared at her, steadily.