The Case of the Velvet Claws   ::   Гарднер Эрл Стенли

“That,” he proclaimed, “is the kind of business I like to talk—when I don’t have to invest anything, and make a fifty dollar profit already, I know it’s a good business. What do I do?”

“Let me see the register of revolvers you’ve sold,” Mason told him.

The man fished under a counter and produced a wellthumbed booklet, in which had been registered the style and make of the weapon, the number, the person to whom it was sold, and the signature of the purchaser.

Mason thumbed the pages until he found a 32Colt automatic.

“That’s the one,” he said.

Steinburg leaned over the book, and stared at the registration.

“What about it?”

“I’m coming in here with a man sometime today, or tomorrow,” said Mason, “and, as soon as you look at him, you nod your head vigorously, and say, ‘That’s the man, that’s the man, that’s the man, all right.’ I’ll ask you if you’re sure it’s the man and you get more and more certain. He’ll deny it, and the more he denies it, the more certain you get.”

Sol Steinburg pursed his thick lips. “That might be serious.”

Mason shook his head.

“It would be if you said it in court,” he admitted, “but you’re not going to say it in court. You’re not going to say it to anybody except this man. And you’re not going to say what it was he did. Simply identify him as being the man. Then you go in the back part of the store, and leave me with the firearm register here. Do you understand?”

“Sure, sure,” said Steinburg. “I understand it fine. All except one thing.”

“What’s that?” asked Mason.

“Where the fifty dollars is coming from.”

Mason slapped his pants pocket. “Right here, Sol.” He pulled out a roll of bills from which he took fifty dollars, and handed it to the pawnbroker.

“Anybody you come in with?” he asked. “Is that it?”

“Anybody I come in with,” Mason said. “I won’t come in here unless I’ve got the right man. I may have to dress the act up a little bit, but you follow my lead. Is that okay?”

The pawnbroker’s caressing fingers folded the fifty dollars.

“My friend,” he said, “whatever you do is all right with me. I say whatever I am supposed to say, and I say it loud, y’understand.”

“That’s fine,” said Mason. “Don’t get shaken in your identification.”

The skull cap twisted, as Sol Steinburg shook his head in vigorous negation.

Perry Mason walked out, whistling.



Chapter 14

Frank Locke sat in the editorial office and shred at Perry Mason.