The Case of the Green-Eyed Sister

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  In the kitchen Brogan produced glasses. He opened the refrigerator, took out a tray of ice cubes, pressed a lever and the ice cubes popped out into a dish. He stepped toward a butler’s pantry and opened a door, disclosing a closet the back of which was lined with shelves that were filled with various bottles.

  “Quite an assortment,” Mason said.

  “It is, indeed, counselor. I make much of my income by buying bankrupt stocks. I had a chance to buy up a bankrupt restaurant a few months ago. I turned the deal to my financial advantage. In fact, the entire wine cellar was left in my hands after a resale of the fixtures. The sale of fixtures got me even on the deal.

  “I could, of course, have sold the liquor and made a sweet profit on the transaction, but then I’d have had to pay income tax. As it is the transaction just balances on a cash basis, leaving me with the contents of the wine cellar, which, of course, I am carrying on my books at a most nominal value.”

  And George Brogan, not only pleased with himself, but pleased at having such an opportune moment to impress Mason with his business shrewdness as well as the legitimate nature of his business activities, rubbed his hands together.

  “Help yourself,” Brogan invited. “Pour your drinks the way you like them. I appreciate your suspicions, Mr. Mason, and the way you take precautions. I’m taking the same precautions. Each one pours his own drink. Each one puts in his own mixer. Each one drinks from his own glass without putting it down. I’d hate to have you slip a knockout drop in my glass, Mr. Mason, and I’d hate to have you think that I’d slip one in yours.”

  They put ice cubes in the glasses, poured drinks. Mason went over to the sink and let water from the faucet dribble in on top of the whisky and ice.

  “Here’s mud in your eye,” Brogan said.

  “Confusion to our enemies,” Mason corrected as he raised the glass to his lips.

  Brogan sputtered into dry, cackling laughter. “You’re a card, Mr. Mason, you really are, but it’s just what I expected. Now shall we go into the other room and listen to the recording?”

  Mason stepped hurriedly toward the door.

  “Just a moment, just a moment,” Brogan said, his voice suddenly cracking like a whip. “I think you don’t give me proper respect, Mr. Mason. I’ll leave the room first. You’re not to be in the room with that recording machine unless I’m there—not even for an instant. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, pardon me,” Mason said. “As a matter of fact I’ll have a little more water in my drink anyway.”

  He stepped back toward the sink.

  Brogan stalked into the living room, followed by Mrs. Atwood.

  Over the drainboard on the sink was a magnetic knife holder. It was some three inches wide and eight inches long. Eight or nine knives were fastened to it, held in place by magnetic attraction.

  Mason pulled off all of these knives. He put his fingers under the flat magnet, raised it from its position and put it in his hip pocket. Then he hurried into the living room, arriving but a few steps behind Mrs. Atwood.

  “Now if you’ll just stay on that side of the table,” Brogan warned, “I’ll stay over here. That way there won’t be any temptation on your part to do anything that might cause trouble, Mr. Mason. You understand I’m for you one hundred per cent, but I’m forced to protect my own professional reputation for fair dealing.”

  “Quite commendable. You understand my attitude and I understand yours,” Mason said. “If I can wreck Fritch’s scheme I’m going to do so.”

  He placed his glass on the table, drew up a chair, seated himself, and as he did so, surreptitiously slipped the flat magnet out of his hip pocket and under the cloth on the table.

  He picked up his glass, took a sip from it, put it down so it was behind the flat magnet. By manipulating his glass slowly from side to side he moved the magnet a few inches toward the recording machine.

  “Go right ahead. We’re ready any time you are,” Mason said.

  Brogan flicked a switch, then settled back to watch Mason and Sylvia Atwood.

  The recorder gave a few preliminary squawks, then voices that were startlingly clear and distinct filled the room. For fifteen minutes Mason and Sylvia Atwood listened to what purported to be a conversation between J. J. Fritch and Ned Bain relating to the original partnership which had been founded by the men. From that recorded conversation there could be no question but what Ned Bain knew definitely and positively that the money which had been advanced by Fritch was money that had been derived from the robbery of the bank.

  “Well,” Brogan said, unable to keep a note of triumph from his voice when he had finished the recording, “are you satisfied?”

  “Satisfied with what?” Mason asked.

  Brogan caught himself quickly. “Satisfied that it is your father’s voice?” he asked Mrs. Atwood. “Because if it isn’t, that’s all there is to it. We’ll go right ahead and have Fritch arrested for attempted extortion.”

  “And if it is her father’s voice?” Mason asked.

  “Then, of course, we’re going to have to be more careful.”

  Mason stood up, his hand resting on the table. He slowly leaned toward the machine, looking down at the recorded tape, pushing the flat magnet ahead of his fingers as his hand slid forward over the cloth.

  “Now just a moment, Mr. Mason, just a moment,” Brogan said, suddenly wary. “That’s far enough.”

  Mason said, “I want to look at that spool. I want to see whether it’s been spliced.”

  His finger tips pushed the magnet under the cloth.

  “Spliced?” Brogan asked. “What difference would that make?”

  “It might make a lot.”

  “Well, it hasn’t been spliced. I can assure you of that, although I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  Brogan rewound the tape back on its proper spool, lifted it off the machine.

  Mason abruptly leaned forward, giving the magnet a last push as he did so.

  “Let me look at that spool, Brogan,” he said.

  Brogan put the spool on the table, said, “Mason, don’t try anything. I’m going to have to ask you to step back, then I’ll show you the whole spool.”

  “Certainly,” Mason said, stepping well back out of the way. “I want to see if it’s been spliced.”

  Brogan said, “After all, this is a business matter with both of us. You’re representing a client. I’m hoping to represent that same client. Our interests are in common. You’ve been through deals of this sort before and so have I. Now let’s keep our heads and discuss the matter on a logical, adult basis.”

  Brogan put a lead pencil down through the center of the spool and unwound some fifteen feet of tape, letting it fall on the floor.

  “Now, you see,” he said, “there isn’t a splice in it.”

  “Not in that much of it,” Mason said.

  Brogan reeled off another ten or fifteen feet, then with the forefinger of his other hand wound the tape back onto the spool, revolving the spool on the pencil while it was flat on the table.

  “Well, that’s all that you’re going to see right now,” he said. “I haven’t permission to go any further. I can assure you that tape isn’t spliced. So far as I know there’s nothing whatever wrong with it. It’s absolutely genuine and authentic.”

  Brogan picked up the spool, said, “Now I’m going to put this spool back in the safe before we do any more talking.”

  Brogan momentarily turned his back to put the spool in the safe. Mason, leaning forward, ostensibly to inspect the recording machine, slipped the magnet out from under the cloth.

  Sylvia Atwood’s green eyes suddenly widened as she saw Mason putting something in his hip pocket. Mason motioned her to silence.

  “Well,” Mason said, “I’ll help myself to another drink if you don’t mind, Brogan, and then we’ll sit down and talk business.”

  He stepped out in the kitchen, swiftly put the magnetic knife holder back into place, put the knives in their proper plac
e, and was pouring more whisky into his glass when Brogan and Mrs. Atwood appeared in the doorway.

  “Help yourself,” Brogan said, “I’m sorry if I was a little suspicious, Mason, but frankly, I’m just a little afraid of you. You have a reputation for being damnably clever that I thoroughly respect.”

  Mason said, “All right, let’s get down to brass tacks. Fritch wants twenty-five thousand dollars. How much will he take?”

  “I think twenty,” Brogan said, his eyes narrowing. “I think if I were representing Mrs. Atwood I could save her a cool five thousand dollars.”

  “What would be your terms?”

  “Terms!” Brogan said. “Why, Mr. Mason, I’d simply want a reasonable compensation. I’d leave that matter entirely in your hands, absolutely in your hands as an attorney who’s experienced in these matters and who can appreciate the gravity of the situation and knows what this record could well be worth.”

  Mason sipped his drink thoughtfully. “Look here, Brogan, I’m not going to advise my client to pay a cent, or to employ you to act as intermediary in paying a red cent until I’m certain that tape is a genuine recording. Now you don’t want me to put my hands on it. I tell you what we’ll do. Play the tape once more, but let me sit where I can watch it while it goes through the recording head so I can see there aren’t any splices in it.”

  “Why all the bother about splices?” Brogan asked. “What difference would a splice make?”

  “Simply this, there might be parts of two conversations on there, so blended and scrambled that Mr. Bain’s answers might have been to some other question altogether.”

  Brogan threw back his head and laughed. “That’s such a farfetched idea, Mason. I doubt that it could even be done.”

  “I know damn well it could be done,” Mason said.

  “Well, I’m certain it wasn’t done.”

  “I don’t care about how you feel. I want to be certain.”

  “How? What can I do to assure you?”

  “I want you to run that tape again while I’m sitting beside you.”

  Brogan shook his head. “I couldn’t permit that.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “I’ve got to see the inside of that tape. I’ve got to see that it isn’t spliced.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Brogan said. “I’ll turn the machine around. In that way you can remain on your side of the table yet watch the tape as it unwinds.”

  “That’ll be satisfactory,” Mason said. “I want to hear it once more anyway.”

  “Why do you want to hear it again?”

  “Frankly, because I want to become familiar with Ned Bain’s voice.”

  “It’s his voice all right.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t accept your assurance.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to. I’m just telling you. I might save you some work.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind work.”

  Brogan led the way back to the living room, switched on the tape recording machine, then went once more to the wall safe and twisted the dials, standing slightly to one side so that he could watch Mason as he did so.

  Brogan removed the spool of tape, placed it on the machine, fed it through the recording head, turned the machine around so that Mason could see the inside of the tape, and stepped back, his arms folded, his eyes watchful.

  The machine made a few preliminary noises. The tape slowly unwound. There was complete silence.

  “Well,” Mason said, “what’s the matter? Start it playing. You haven’t put it in wrong, have you?”

  Sudden panic seized Brogan. He leaned forward and adjusted the controls of the machine.

  “Be certain you aren’t erasing that tape as you’re feeding it through,” Mason warned.

  Brogan abruptly shut off the machine, studied the connections carefully, then again threaded the tape through.

  “No chance of that,” he said. “I’ve played thousands of tapes on this machine. I know what I’m doing. Keep back, Mason.”

  “I’m back,” Mason said. “I thought perhaps I might help you.”

  “I can get along without your help.”

  Once more Brogan started the tape winding through the recording head.

  Again there was a period of complete silence. After a long interval a faint sound of a few words emanated in a conversation that was inaudible.

  Brogan turned up the volume to its maximum capacity.

  The tape continued to unwind. Occasionally it was possible to hear a very faint word, but not distinctly enough to tell what was being said.

  “Good God!” Brogan said under his breath. Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. He suddenly looked up at Mason, his eyes suspicious. “What did you do to this machine?” he shouted.

  “What could I have done to it?” Mason asked.

  “I’m damned if I know,” Brogan said. He switched the machine off, rewound the tape by hand. “I think you’ve reversed the magnets in some way. It hasn’t done you a damn bit of good, Mason. I’ll get another machine. I’ll—”

  “Do so by all means,” Mason told him. “And when you do, and get that playing again to your satisfaction, would you mind calling me? Before I advise Mrs. Atwood to retain you to enter into negotiations with Mr. Fritch, I want to assure myself that that’s a genuine tape recording.”

  Brogan controlled himself by an effort. He wiped perspiration from his forehead. “You don’t need to worry about its being genuine.”

  “It seems to worry you that it might not be genuine.”

  “I have my professional reputation to consider. If any-thing’s happened to that tape I’d be in a tight spot.”

  “So you’ve told us a good many times. Well, I can count on you to give me a ring when you’ve got another tape recorder set up and have the spool ready to put in operation?”

  “You can indeed,” Brogan said, righting to keep a semblance of composure. “I’m quite satisfied it’ll be all right, Mr. Mason.”

  “That’s fine,” Mason told him. “We’ll be back.”

  “It’s something wrong with the machine,” Brogan said. “It has to be with the machine. The magnets have become polarized or something. I’ll get another machine up here, probably some time tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine,” Mason said. “Give me a ring and we’ll make an appointment. I’m fairly busy in court right at the moment.”

  Brogan escorted them to the door, took off the safety chain, spun back the knurled knob, opened the door and said, “Well, thank you very much for coming in. It’s about lunch-time. Sorry that I can’t ask you to have lunch with me, but I’m going to be busy trying to get that machine adjusted, trying to find out just what the devil happened to it.”

  His pale eyes stared at Mason. “Just what the devil did happen to it?” he asked. “I don’t think it’ll make much difference on the tape recording, Mr. Mason, but it was a damn fine trick. Personally I’d like to know what the trick was.”

  “Trick?” Mason asked.

  “You said it,” Brogan said, hesitated a moment, and then slammed the door.

  Standing there in the hallway, they heard the chain snap into place, heard the bolt rasp into its socket.

  “Well,” Mason said to Sylvia Atwood, “that’s that.”

  “Mr. Mason,” she whispered, “what did you do? What was that you put in your pocket? What was it that was under the silk cover on that table?”

  Mason looked at her innocently. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Abruptly she smiled. “No, I’m quite sure you wouldn’t.”

  “Well,” Mason told her, “I’ll get in touch with you when I hear from Brogan again.”

  “You think you’ll hear from him soon?”

  “Oh, certainly,” Mason told her. “He’ll have some things to do first, a good story to think up, and then he’ll be his affable self once more. He’ll assure us there was only a minor defect in the playback mechanism. He’ll have it all fixed by tomorrow.”

  “Mr. Mason, what in the wor
ld did you do? It sounded as though you’d managed to erase every bit of conversation on that tape!”

  Mason raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I did?”

  “Yes.”

  “How in the world could I have done that with Brogan watching me all the time?”

  She led the way toward the elevator. “I presume that question is worrying Mr. George Brogan at the present time.”

  Mason grinned. “Particularly in view of his assurance that there was only one recording of that conversation in existence and no dubbed copies.”

  “And,” she went on lightly, “your hearing aid seems to have a lot to do with your success in these matters. Do you wear it often?”

  “I have a slight cold,” Mason told her, and opening the elevator door, stood to one side for her to enter.

  Chapter 4

  Mason’s private office looked as if it could well have been the laboratory in some sound studio.

  Mason’s miniature wire recorder was on the desk. A connection led from it to a tape recorder which was so arranged that a recording could be made on tape directly from the miniature wire recorder. In addition to that, a monitoring attachment enabled Mason and Della Street to hear what was being recorded.

  “That certainly comes in good and clear,” Della Street said.

  Mason nodded.

  “What about Brogan?”

  “He’s going to have to show his hand,” Mason said. “He’ll rush out to see Fritch. When that happens Drake’s men will be on the job. He—”

  Mason broke off as a code knock sounded on the door of his private office.

  “That’s Paul now, Della.”

  Della Street opened the door.

  Paul Drake, good humored in his gangling, double-jointed way, entered the room, pushed the door shut behind him, grinned and said, “What the deuce are you folks doing in here?”

  Mason grinned. “I used my little German wire recorder to record the conversation with your friend Brogan, and incidentally, to make my own copy of the tape recording that he had.”

  Drake listened. “Seems to come in clear enough. What are you doing with that tape machine?”

  “Transferring from wire to tape,” Mason explained. “I’ll use the tape for reference and lock the wire away as original evidence.”