The Case of the Green-Eyed Sister

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  The Case of the Green-Eyed Sister

  A Perry Mason Mystery

  Erle Stanley Gardner

  Foreword

  Some twenty-eight years ago Ralph Turner, then a young lad of nine, started reading the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and determined that he was going to become a detective.

  Several million other young lads, inspired by the same literature, were reaching the same decision.

  Ralph Turner’s case was interesting for two reasons. First, he was handicapped by a very great speech impediment. He stuttered so badly it was difficult for him to carry on any kind of a conversation. The other interesting thing about Ralph Turner’s ambition is that buried somewhere in his character was the quiet, dogged determination that held him steadfast in his decision.

  In discussing his career with friends, Ralph Turner casually mentions that “in those days there was no such thing as Police Science as it is taught today.” What he neglects to state is the fact that the reason Police Science is being taught today is in a very large measure due to his own quiet, unobtrusive, ceaseless efforts.

  Ralph started out to study chemistry with the sole goal of learning how chemistry could aid in the detection of crime. These studies laid the foundation for his textbook, published by Charles C. Thomas in 1949, Forensic Science and Laboratory Technics.

  This young man who stuttered decided that he had to get rid of his speech impediment in order to carry on his chosen career. His methodical approach to the problem was characteristic of everything he does. He investigated and found that the science of psychoanalysis might offer some hope. He submitted himself to psychiatric treatment, and not only cured his stuttering so that today he is in great demand as a lecturer, but learned enough about psychoanalysis to broaden his understanding of character and motivation—invaluable assets in his chosen field.

  In the vanguard of every new movement there are two types. One is the inspired leader, who pioneers the ideas, whose visions would remain only dreams unless they could be implemented by practical, down-to-earth detail work. The other type is the quiet, self-effacing individual, who is usually appointed secretary and plunges into the terrific mass of detail, the extent of which is seldom realized even by close associates.

  The pioneer visionary is long remembered. The detail man is referred to as “Good old So-and-So” and the general public never knows he exists.

  Ralph Turner is a rare combination. He has inspirational ideas, but he also has that ability to soak up detail, and, by some process of mental alchemy, transform those details into solid, substantial progress.

  Slowly but surely progress in the field of Police Science is advancing the technique of investigative work, bringing about higher standards and greater efficiency.

  Today the young man who wants to specialize in investigative work finds several colleges offering courses in Police Science.

  This newly developed field of study is as important in the field of justice as is legal medicine.

  The steady march of science has made tools available for the investigator if he but knows where to find those tools and how to use them. Too often jurors are called upon to rely on surmise or conjecture when, with proper investigative techniques, they could have been presented with solid, substantial proof.

  Ralph Turner was made secretary of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences when that organization was brought into existence, and has held the job ever since. He is an associate editor of the Journal of Criminal Law, Criminology and Police Science. He is associate editor of the American Lecture Series in Public Protection. He is an associate professor in the Police Administration Department of Michigan State College; and for the past five years he and the well-known Dr. C. W. Muehlberger have directed a research project on the reliability of chemical tests for intoxication, the results of which will shortly be published by the National Safety Council Committee on Tests for Intoxication.

  But Ralph Turner’s progress in his life’s work cannot be measured by any listing of academic degrees any more than by spectacular excursions into the field of the dramatic in forensic battles. Ralph Turner’s value lies in his ability to create an enthusiasm which the other person feels was entirely self-inspired.

  Where other men, temperamental leaders, insist upon recognition or they won’t play, Ralph Turner is always willing to subordinate his own individuality, to take on the thankless job of wrestling with endless details in order to advance the cause.

  Too frequently such men escape public recognition. The men who are in the limelight know and appreciate their indebtedness to these men, but the public never shares this knowledge. Because I want my readers to know something of this new field which is known as Police Science, and because I want to make a public acknowledgment of the outstanding work that has been so quietly, so faithfully performed by a man who has never been afraid of detail nor known what it is to shirk a responsibility, I dedicate this book to my friend:

  RALPH F. TURNER

  ERLE STANLEY GARDNER

  Chapter 1

  Della Street, Perry Mason’s confidential secretary, handed the lawyer a scented, engraved oblong of pasteboard.

  “If you’re going to do anything for this woman,” she said, “you’d better get a retainer.”

  “In other words, you don’t like her?” Mason asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “I think she’d cut your heart out for thirty-seven cents, if that’s what you mean.”

  Mason studied the card. “Sylvia Bain Atwood,” he read aloud. “Miss or Mrs., Della?”

  “She’s Mrs. Atwood and her green eyes are as cold as a cash register,” Della Street said. “Her manner, on the other hand, is a purely synthetic attempt to belie the expression of her eyes. I imagine her whole life has been like that.”

  “What does she want?”

  “It’s a business matter,” Della Street said, her voice mimicking the mincing manner of the client. “A matter too complicated to be discussed except with a trained legal mind.”

  “Like that, eh?” Mason asked.

  “Exactly like that,” she said. “Very hoity-toity. Very snooty. Very superior. Very, very definitely moving in a different social stratum from that occupied by secretaries.”

  Mason laughed. “Well, send her in, Della.”

  “She’ll turn those green eyes on you,” Della warned, “and start twisting and squirming like a cat getting ready to rub against your leg.”

  Mason laughed. “Well, you’ve given me a pretty good description of a client whom I don’t think I’m going to like. Let’s have a look at her, Della.”

  Della Street returned to the outer office and escorted Sylvia Bain Atwood into Mason’s presence.

  The green eyes flickered upward in one swift appraisal, then the lids lowered demurely.

  “Mr. Mason,” she said, “I really feel diffident about approaching you with a problem as simple and as small as mine, but my father always said in dealing with professional men get the best. The best is always the cheapest.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” Mason said, taking her outstretched hand. “Please be seated. Tell me what I can do for you.”

  Once again the green eyes flashed in swift appraisal, then Mrs. Atwood settled in the client’s comfortable chair. A coldly hostile glance at Della Street plainly showed her annoyance at the presence of a secretary. Then she twisted about in the chair in a peculiarly feline manner and adjusted herself into the most comfortable position.

  “Go on,” Mason said, “tell me what you want. I’ll let you know if I’m in a position to be of help, and don’t mind Miss Street. She stays and keeps
notes on my interviews, puts them in a confidential locked file, and helps me remember things.”

  “My problem is very simple,” Mrs. Atwood murmured deprecatingly.

  Mason, catching Della Street’s eye, let his own twinkle in amusement. “Then I dare say, Mrs. Atwood, you won’t need me,” he said. “I’m quite certain if it’s such a simple problem you would do better to consult some attorney who is less busy than I am and who would consequently—”

  “Oh no, no, no, no, no!” she interrupted quickly. “Please, Mr. Mason! It’s—well, I mean it will be simple for you, but it might puzzle anyone else.”

  “Suppose you tell me what it is,” Mason said.

  “It concerns my family,” she said.

  “You’re a widow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Children?”

  “No.”

  “Then your family?” Mason asked.

  “Consists of my sister, Hattie Bain; my brother, Jarrett Bain, his wife, Phoebe; my father, Ned Bain, who is at present confined to his room in the house. He has heart trouble and is required to have absolute rest and quiet.”

  “Go on.”

  “I am naturally the adventurous type, Mr. Mason.” She raised her eyes to his provocatively.

  “Go on.”

  “Hattie is the stay-at-home type. I was always the venturesome one. Hattie stayed to take care of the family. I married. Then my husband died and left me with a not inconsiderable amount of property.”

  “And then you returned to live at home?”

  “Good heavens no! I find the home atmosphere a little—well, a little confining. I have to live my own life. I have an apartment here in town, but I am very fond of my family and I do keep in close touch with them.”

  “Your mother?” Mason asked.

  “She died about a year ago. She’d been sick for a long time.”

  Della Street glanced at Mason. Mason pursed his lips, thoughtfully regarded Sylvia Atwood.

  “Who took care of your mother during her long illness?” he asked.

  “Hattie. I don’t see why she didn’t hire a nurse, but Hattie wouldn’t listen to it for a minute. Hattie had to do it all herself. She is the domestic one, the—well, I shouldn’t say this, Mr. Mason, but she’s the drudge type, the steady-going type.”

  “And probably a very good thing for your mother that she was.”

  “Oh, of course,” Sylvia agreed readily enough. “She was wonderful to Mother. The point is that I loved Mother just as much as Hattie, but I couldn’t have done all that detail work of taking care of her. I’d have stripped myself of all my possessions, if necessary, to have hired nurses, but I’d simply have died if I’d tried to stay home and do the nursing myself.”

  “I see,” Mason observed dryly.

  “I’m not certain that you do.”

  “Does it make any difference?”

  “No.”

  “Then go on and tell me about the matter that’s bothering you.”

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Mason, that I’m dealing with persons who may not be entirely honest.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Money.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Well, if it is, it’s so skillfully disguised that you could hardly call it that.”

  “Suppose you tell me about it.”

  “To start with, it goes back to a period several years ago. Texas oil was beginning to be a factor in the life of the state.”

  Mason nodded encouragement.

  “My father had gone broke in the real-estate business. He at that time knew a very peculiar character by the name of Jeremiah Josiah Fritch.”

  “Quite a name,” Mason said.

  “They call him J.J., after his first initials.”

  Mason nodded.

  “J.J. had some money. My father had an option on a huge tract of land that he thought might have oil on it, although it was pretty well out of what was then regarded as the oil belt.

  “J.J. agreed to buy the land for my father and Dad would put in all of his money in a test well at a point to be designated by J.J.”

  “That was done?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was a dry hole. My father still had hope and faith. No one else did. The property naturally declined in value. Dad mortgaged everything he had to J.J. for an option on the property. He secured a new loan from outsiders that were interested in adjoining property and were glad to have Dad exploring the formations. He put down a new well, this time at a spot where he felt there was oil, although J.J. just laughed at him and called the new drilling project ‘Bain’s Folly.’”

  “What happened to that oil well?”

  “It opened up a whole new pool. People said it was just luck. They said Dad was trying to tie in on another anticline but stumbled on a new pool. Anyhow, Dad was able to pay off all his loans and buy the property from J.J. and more than recoup his losses.”

  Mason nodded.

  “But the foundation of the whole thing,” she said, “was this money J.J. gave Dad.”

  “Wasn’t it a loan?”

  “Not exactly. Dad and he were friends. J.J. had other interests. At the start it was a sort of partnership. The point is, Mr. Mason, that all of the money in the family grew out of this original arrangement with J. J. Fritch.”

  “That is important?” Mason asked.

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Because it now appears that J.J. was a bank robber. Did you ever hear of the spectacular bank robbery known as the Bank Inspector Robbery?”

  Mason shook his head.

  “A few years ago it was quite famous. A man with elaborately forged credentials as a bank examiner entered one of the big banks. He managed to get all the cash reserves in a readily accessible place. He also managed to disconnect the emergency alarm that would signal a holdup.

  “Then two confederates entered the bank, held up the employees and calmly made off with half a million dollars in cash and traveler’s checks.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that this holdup has some connection with your problem?” Mason asked.

  “Exactly. The bank thinks J.J. was one of the gang and that the money he gave Dad was part of the loot.”

  “Your father wasn’t one of the robbers?”

  “No, of course not. But they might try to claim he was aware of the fact that the money had been stolen and thereby became a trustee, and in that way the bank could take over the oil lands.”

  “The bank is claiming that?”

  “The bank may be going to claim that. Apparently—now I’m not able to verify this, Mr. Mason—but apparently as a result of a steady, conscientious search the authorities were able to check the thumbprint of J. J. Fritch on his driving license as being that of the spurious bank examiner.”

  “After all these years,” Mason said.

  She nodded.

  “How do you know this?”

  “From a man by the name of Brogan.”

  “Who is Brogan?”

  “George Brogan, a private detective.”

  Mason’s eyes narrowed. “This sounds like a racket, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard of George Brogan.”

  “Well, he’s an investigator, and I understand his reputation isn’t too savory.”

  “It begins to look like an unusual type of blackmail,” Mason said.

  “So,” she said, “if the bank could establish the identity of that money and prove that my father had knowledge, they would then be able to grab our property by claiming that my father had become an involuntary trustee or something of that sort. It’s a legal matter, it’s complicated and I don’t know too much about it.”

  “The bank has made some effort to do this?”

  “No, but I understand from Mr. Brogan that the bank will do it if it has certain information which it may get at any time.”

  “Tell me more about Brogan.”

  “Well, Mr. Brogan wants us to understan
d he definitely is not representing J. J. Fritch.”

  “Where is Fritch?”

  “He’s not available.”

  “You mean he’s in hiding?”

  “Not exactly. He’s ‘not available’ is the way Mr. Brogan expresses it.”

  “And what does Fritch want?”

  “He wants money.”

  “How much money?”

  “A lot.”

  “That’s a typical blackmail setup.”

  “I can understand that it certainly looks like blackmail.”

  “What,” Mason asked, “specifically is the present situation?”

  “George Brogan wants us to employ him to try and work out a solution.”

  “How much money does he want?”

  “He says that he’ll charge a nominal fee, but that J.J. is badly in need of money and that while he scorns J.J.‘s morals, the only way we can be safe is to be certain J.J.’s testimony isn’t unfavorable.”

  “And what do you propose doing?”

  “I propose to pay whatever is necessary.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it affects the entire family—not only the money involved but there’s the question of the family reputation.”

  “You must have something more than this to go on,” Mason said. “There’s something that you haven’t disclosed.”

  “George Brogan has a tape recording.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of what is supposed to be a conversation between J.J. and Dad.”

  “When did this conversation take place?”

  “About three years ago.”

  “How does it happen that Brogan has this tape recording?”

  “Apparently Fritch trapped Dad into the conversation. It took place in Fritch’s office and he had a tape recorder.”

  “Have you heard this tape recording?”

  “I’ve heard part of it. He would only let me listen to just a few words.”

  “Is it a genuine recording?”

  “It sounds like Dad’s voice.”

  “Is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve been afraid to ask Dad. In his present condition I wouldn’t want to do anything that would disturb him.”