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Burke pushed back his chair,and made apolitician’s tentative motion of extending his hand. Perry Mason did not see the hand, or, if he did, he did not bother to acknowledge it, but strode toward the door.
“Half an hour,” he said, on the threshold, and slammed the door behind him.
As he put his hand on the door catch of his automobile, a man tapped him on the shoulder.
Mason turned.
The man was a heavy-set individual with impudent eyes.
“I want an interview, Mr. Mason,” he said.
“Interview?” said Mason. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Crandall,” said the man. “A reporter for Spicy Bits. We’re interested in the doings of prominent people, Mr. Mason. And I’d like an interview with you as to what you discussed with Harrison Burke.”
Slowly, deliberately, Perry Mason took his hand from the automobile door catch, turned around on his heel, and surveyed the man.
“So,” he said, “that’s the kind of tactics you folks are going to use, is it?”
Crandall continued to stare with his impudent eyes.
“Don’t get hard,” he said, “because it won’t buy you anything.”
“The hell it won’t,” said Perry Mason. He measured the distance, and slammed a straight left full into the gri
Passing pedestrians paused to stare, and collected in a little group.
Mason paid no attention to them, but turned, jerked open the door of his machine, got in, slammed the door shut, stepped on the starter, and pushed the car out into traffic.
From a nearby drug store, he called Harrison Burke’s office.
When he had Burke on the line, he said, “Mason talking, Burke. Better not go out. And better get somebody to act as a bodyguard. The paper we talked about has got a couple of strong arm men sticking around, ready to muscle into your business in any way that’ll do the most damage. When you get that money for me, send it over to my office by messenger. Get somebody you can trust and don’t tell them what’s in the package. Put it in a sealed envelope, as though it might be papers.”
Harrison Burke started to say something.
Perry Mason savagely slammed the receiver on the hook, strode out of the telephone booth and into his car.
Chapter 7
A storm was whipping up from the southeast. Slow, leaden clouds drifted across the night sky, and bombarded the ground with great mushrooms of spattering water.
Wind was tugging at the corners of the apartment house where Perry Mason lived. A window was open only about half an inch at the bottom, but enough wind came through that opening to billow the curtains and keep them flapping.
Mason sat up in bed and groped for the telephone in the dark. He found the instrument, put it to his ear and said, “Hello.”
The voice of Eva Belter sounded swift and panic-stricken over the wire.
“Thank God I’ve got you! Get in your car and come at once! This is Eva Belter.”
Perry Mason was still sleepy.
“Come where?” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“Something awful has happened,” she said. “Don’t come to the house. I’m not there.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m down at a drug store on Griswold Avenue. Drive out the Avenue and you’ll see the lights in the drug store. I’ll be standing in front of it.”
Perry Mason was getting his faculties together.
“Listen,” he said, “I’ve answered night calls before, where people have been trying to take me for a ride. Let’s make sure that there isn’t anything phony about this.”
She screamed at him over the telephone.
“Oh, don’t be so damned cautious! Come out here at once. I tell you I’m in serious trouble. You can recognize my voice all right.”
Mason said calmly, “Yes. I know all that. What was the name you gave me the first time you came to the office?”
“Griffin!” she shrieked.
“Okay,” said Mason. “Coming out.”
He climbed into his clothes, slipped a revolver in his hip pocket, pulled on a raincoat, and a cap which came down low over his forehead, switched out the lights, and left the apartment. His car was in the garage, and he nursed it into action; moved out into the rain before the motor was fully warmed.
The car spat and back-fired as he turned the corner. Mason kept the choke out and stepped on the gas. Rain whipped against the windshield. Little geysers of water mushroomed up from the pavement where the big drops splashed down were turned to brilliance by the illumination of his headlights.
Mason ignored the possibility of any other traffic on the road as he swept past the intersections with increasing speed. He turned to the right on Griswold Avenue, and ran for a mile and a half before he slowed down and commenced to look for lights.
He saw her standing in front of a drug store. She had on a coat and no hat, and was heedless of the rain, which had soaked her hair thoroughly. Her eyes were wide and scared.
Perry Mason swung into the curb and brought the car to a stop.
“I thought you’d never get here,” she said, as he opened the door for her.
She climbed in, and Perry saw that she wore an evening gown, satin shoes, and a man’s coat. She was soaking wet and water trickled down to the floorboards of the car.
“What’s the trouble?” Perry Mason asked.
She stared at him with her white, wet face, and said, “Drive out to the house, quick!”
“What’s the trouble?” he repeated.
“My husband’s been murdered,” she wailed.
Mason snapped on the dome light in the car.
“Don’t do that!” she said.
He looked at her face. “Tell me about it,” he said, calmly.
“Will you get this car started?”
“Not until I know the facts,” he replied, almost casually.
“We’ve got to get there before the police do.”
“Why have we?”
“Because we’ve got to.”
Mason shook his head. “No,” he said, “we’re not going to talk to the police until I know exactly what happened.”
“Oh,” she said, “it was terrible!”
“Who killed him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what do you know?”
“Will you turn off that damned light?” she snapped.
“After you’ve finished telling me what happened,” he persisted.
“What do you want it on for?”
“The better to see you with, my dear,” he said, but there was no humor in his voice. His ma
She sighed wearily. “I don’t know what happened. I think it was somebody that he’d been blackmailing. I could hear their voices from the upper floor. They were very angry. I went to the stairs to listen.”
“Could you hear what was being said?”
“No,” she said, “just words and the tone. I could hear that they were cursing. Every once in a while there would be a word. My husband was using that cold, sarcastic tone that he gets when he’s fighting mad. The other man had his voice raised, but he wasn’t shouting. He was interrupting my husband every once in a while.”