The Case of the Green-Eyed Sister
Page 9
Brogan waited until he was certain Mason had finished reading, then said, “I’m terribly sorry, Mason. I like to be right on the dot. When I make an appointment I like to keep it, but—well, as you can see, I didn’t even stop to get a shave. I dashed up here, stopped long enough to just gulp down a cup of coffee and a couple of eggs. I was getting a terrific headache and wouldn’t have been good for anything without some coffee. As it is, I’m only—” he looked at his watch—“five minutes late.
“You know how it is, Mason. I intended to get away from the game early, but I started losing pretty heavily and got mad and began plunging. Then I began to recuperate. Got my losses back and a little more to boot, and—well, when a man gets in that position he keeps thinking—well, just one hand more. And, of course, the others are sore that you’re winning. They want an opportunity to get it back. They don’t want to see you get up and take their money out of the game.
“So I kept postponing my departure for one hand at a time until finally I just had time enough to make a dash for it. I’m terribly sorry. Won’t you folks sit down. I trust you young women will pardon my appearance.
“Now I know what you’re thinking, Mason. I know you’re thinking that the fault wasn’t with that machine yesterday, but that something had gone wrong and the recording had been erased. I’m going to play that tape for you once more so you’ll see that nothing has happened to it. First, if you’ll pardon me. I’ll put on some strong black coffee in the kitchen. I’ve been up all night and I—”
Brogan started for the kitchen.
Sylvia Atwood flashed Mason a warning glance.
Brogan stepped through the door, then suddenly stopped and stood rigid.
“What’s the matter?” Mason asked after a moment.
Brogan slowly turned, closed the door behind him, came to stand directly in front of Mason. His eyes were cold, hard and accusing.
“What the hell’s the idea, Mason?” he asked.
“What are you talking about?” Mason asked.
Brogan said, “I left that note on the door before I went out. The apartment was open all night. You came here early. You got that note. You—I think under the circumstances this is the thing to do.”
Brogan walked over to the telephone, jerked up the receiver, dialed Operator and said, “Get me police headquarters quick. There’s been a murder and I’m holding three people here. One of them is probably the murderer.”
Chapter 7
Sergeant Holcomb of Homicide could, when he chose and without apparent effort, be exceedingly nasty, sarcastic and disagreeable.
This time he was in rare form.
“I tell you,” Mason said angrily, “I can’t wait around here all day. I’ve been here two hours now.”
Sergeant Holcomb, who had commandeered the manager’s apartment and was holding all witnesses incommunicado, had taken his time about sending for Perry Mason. Now his eyes glittered ominously.
“Don’t pull that line with me,” he said. “It’s overworked. You’ve done it too much. You’ve discovered too many corpses.”
“I didn’t discover this corpse,” Mason said.
“That’s what you say.”
“Does anyone say I did?”
“I’m asking the questions.”
“Go on and ask them then.”
“Did you know J. J. Fritch in his lifetime?”
“I never met the man that I know of.”
“What do you know about the manner in which is body was discovered?”
“George Brogan started out for the kitchen to put on some coffee, stopped, turned around and called the police.”
“What were you doing here?”
“I had an appointment with Brogan.”
“About what?”
“A matter of business.”
“Tell me about it.”
Mason shook his head.
“Why not?”
“It’s confidential.”
“Nothing’s confidential in a murder case.”
“That’s where you and I have a difference of opinion. We’ve had them before and I dare say we’ll have them again.”
“I understand you told Brogan you were deaf and had to wear a hearing aid.”
“Wrong again.”
“You were wearing a hearing aid.”
“No. That’s a pocket-size wire recorder. The microphone is held against my temple. If Brogan thought it was a hearing aid that was his mistake.”
“Let’s see it.”
“There’s nothing on it now. I hadn’t switched it on today. I was waiting until my conversation with George Brogan—”
“Let’s see it.”
Mason took the device from his pocket, passed it over.
Sergeant Holcomb examined it for a few minutes, then opened his brief case and dropped it in. “You’ll get this back after it’s been examined. I’m not taking your word for anything.”
“There’s nothing on it today.”
“What was on it yesterday?”
“That’s my business, or rather my client’s business.”
“I can find out,” Holcomb threatened.
“Then do so, by all means.”
“Brogan tells me he left a note on the door for you.”
Mason nodded.
“Your secretary, Della Street, had the note in her possession.”
“What did she tell you?” Mason asked.
Holcomb merely grinned and said, “I’m asking you the questions now.”
“Very well,” Mason said, tightening his lips, his face granite hard. “Go ahead and ask them.”
“And remember you’re an attorney at law, an officer of the court,” Holcomb went on. “Don’t you think you can get smart and arbitrarily withhold information.”
Mason said, “I am sworn by my oath of office to protect my clients. I am going to protect them to the best of my ability. Don’t think you can use your authority to browbeat information out of me that I don’t think it’s proper to give.”
“Did your client murder J. J. Fritch?” Holcomb asked sneeringly.
“How the hell do I know,” Mason said.
“How’s that?” Holcomb asked in surprise.
“I said I wouldn’t know.”
“Why?” Holcomb asked, his eyes narrowing. “What makes you suspicious?”
“I’m not suspicious.”
“Well, your statement implies there’s a possibility a client of yours murdered Fritch.”
“Certainly there’s a possibility.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“For one thing I haven’t been permitted to talk with my client. I haven’t been permitted to talk with anyone.”
“Do you think I’m dumb enough to leave all the witnesses together so they can fix up a story that will account for all of the facts and leave me holding the sack? I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“Do you think I’m dumb enough to give you information that may betray the interests of a client before I’ve talked with my client?” Mason retorted.
Holcomb’s face darkened. “You’ll either give me the information or you’ll wish you had.”
“Go ahead, ask your questions.”
“What were you doing here?”
“I had an appointment.”
“With whom?”
“George Brogan.”
“When?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“What time did you get here?”
“I didn’t look at my watch.”
“Brogan left a note on the door.”
“So I understand.”
“Your secretary says she read it.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For telling me what my secretary said.”
“I’m not telling you all she said.”
“Then I’ll withdraw my thanks.”
“This isn’t going to get you anywhere.”
“When did you first know Fritch had been murdered?”
“I still don’t know he’s been murdered.”
“I told you so.”
“I heard you.”
“You mean you’re not going to take my word?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You intimated it.”
Mason shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette.
“When did you last see J. J. Fritch alive?”
“I haven’t seen him alive.”
“When did you first see his body?”
“I haven’t seen his body.”
“What are your relations with Mrs. Sylvia Atwood?”
“She’s my client.”
“When did she get here?”
“I don’t know.”
“By here I mean to Brogan’s apartment.”
“I don’t know.”
“When did she tell you she got here?”
“I haven’t had an opportunity to question her.”
“That isn’t what I asked you.”
“That’s what I told you.”
“When did she tell you she got to the Brogan apartment?”
“I haven’t had an opportunity to question her.”
“I’m asking you for a certain specific piece of information.”
“I’m giving you a certain specific piece of information.”
“When did your secretary get here?”
“I haven’t had an opportunity to talk with her.”
“She came with you, didn’t she?”
“I haven’t had an opportunity to question her.”
“She isn’t your client, she’s your secretary.”
“How do I know she isn’t my client? How do I know what you’re going to do? You’re crazy enough to charge her with first-degree murder.”
“By God, Mason,” Holcomb said, jumping to his feet, “I’ve got nerve enough to charge you with first-degree murder, and don’t think I haven’t.”
“That’s a threat?”
“You’re damn right,” Holcomb shouted, “that’s a threat. I’ll do it.”
“Very well,” Mason said, “in view of the statement you have just made I refuse to make any more statements until I have an opportunity to consult with counsel.”
“With counsel?” Holcomb yelled. “You’re a lawyer, and a damn good one, even if I hate to admit it.”
“A lawyer,” Mason said, “should never be his own client. If I’m going to be charged with murder I must have the advice of counsel.”
“Well, how do I know whether you’re going to be charged with murder or not?”
“You said you were going to.”
“I said I could.”
“You said you would.”
“Well, I will if I think the facts warrant it.”
“Do the facts warrant it?”
“Hell, I don’t know.”
“Then,” Mason said, “I don’t know whether I care to make any statement. I’ve told you that I had an appointment with Brogan for nine o’clock, that I came here to keep that appointment. I might have been a few minutes early. I might have been a few minutes late. I just don’t recall looking at my watch. I don’t even know if my watch is right. I understand Brogan left a note on the door telling me to go on in and sit down. I was delayed in getting to the apartment. As I entered the apartment I saw that my secretary, Della Street, had gone on in, that Brogan was following her, and that Sylvia Atwood was following Brogan. I was there in time to bring up the rear of the procession and close the door of the apartment behind us.
“Almost immediately Brogan explained that he had been engaged in an all-night poker game and had only stopped to grab a cup of coffee and a couple of eggs, that he felt pretty rocky, that he was sorry to be a few minutes late. I didn’t look at my watch to check his statement, but I assumed from what he said that it was then a few minutes after nine o’clock.”
“Then you yourself were late getting there,” Holcomb charged.
Mason said nothing.
“Did you go directly up to Brogan’s apartment when you left your car?”
“When I left my car?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
Holcomb frowned. “There’s something funny about this, something that doesn’t dovetail.”
Mason shrugged his shoulders.
“You went directly to the Brogan apartment?”
“To the outer door, yes. Where did you expect me to go?”
Holcomb said, “You had to find a parking place for your car. The women went up first.”
Mason yawned.
“Didn’t they?” Holcomb asked.
Mason smiled. “I’ve made my statement, Sergeant Holcomb. In view of the fact that you have announced that you intend to file a first-degree murder charge against me I do not intend to make any further statement except in the presence of an attorney. I think my statement covers the ground sufficiently so that no important item of information that would assist in any way in carrying out your investigations has been withheld from you. I do not propose to tell you anything that might be considered the betrayal of a professional confidence.”
“You can’t tell us the nature of your business with Brogan?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“You can’t tell us whether Mrs. Atwood was your client?”
“I can.”
“Was she?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing for her?”
“Attending to a business matter.”
“What sort of a business matter?”
Mason shrugged his shoulders.
“Brogan tells us it had to do with a tape recording.”
“Does he indeed?”
“He says he looked for that tape recording and can’t find it. He thinks you must have taken it.”
“Indeed.”
“Did you take a tape recording out of Brogan’s apartment?”
“No.”
“Did you know J. J. Fritch had the apartment across the hall under the name of Frank Reedy?”
“You mean he had the apartment directly across from George Brogan?” Mason asked, surprise in his voice.
“Yes.”
Mason raised his eyebrows and whistled.
“Evidently you didn’t know it then.”
Mason said nothing.
“Well,” Holcomb said, “go on and talk.”
“I’ve talked.”
“You haven’t answered my questions.”
“I don’t intend to answer all of your questions. I have to draw the line.”
“Well, tell me where you draw it,” Holcomb said. “Let’s get it straight for the record.”
Mason said, “I draw a very sharp line of demarcation, Sergeant Holcomb. Your questions resolve themselves into two main categories.”
“All right,” Holcomb said, “what are they?”
“The questions that I choose to answer and the questions that I choose not to answer. The one classification I am quite willing to answer, the other I am not.”
Holcomb’s face reddened. “That’s a hell of an attitude for an attorney at law to take.”
“Isn’t it?” Mason said, smiling. “What attitude would you suggest, Sergeant?”
“I’d suggest that you answer questions or you may find yourself in a hell of a predicament.”
“You’ve already outlined that to me. You have even gone so far as to specify the predicament,” Mason said, “that is, that I will be charged with first-degree murder. Now then, Sergeant, I feel that I have granted you every consideration and every courtesy. I have been kept waiting here while other witnesses have been interrogated. I think your ruling that no one could leave the apartment house is completely, utterly asinine. I am an attorney at law. I have an office here in the city. I can be found there whenever you want me. Now I’m going to get up and walk right out of here.”
�
�That’s what you think.”
“I repeat,” Mason said, “I am going to get up and walk right out of here unless I am forcibly restrained. If I am forcibly restrained it will only be because I am under arrest. If I am under arrest I want a charge to be preferred and then I want an opportunity to secure bail.”
“You don’t get bail for first-degree murder.”
“That’s fine. Then accuse me of first-degree murder.”
“I’m not ready to.”
“In that case,” Mason said, “I’m walking right out of here, Sergeant. When you get ready to charge me, you know where to find me.”
Mason got up and started for the door.
“Sit down,” Holcomb shouted. “I’m not done with you.”
“I’m done with you,” Mason said and opened the door of the apartment.
“Hold him,” Holcomb shouted.
A uniformed officer grabbed Mason by the arms.
“Bring him back,” Holcomb said.
Mason said, “If you want to charge me with first-degree murder, Sergeant Holcomb, I’m here ready to be charged. If you want to put me under arrest, take me to headquarters. If you forcibly restrain me without putting me under arrest, or if you arrest me without charging me with crime, I’m going to sue you for false arrest and for assault. Now make up your mind which you want.”
The officer dropped his hands to his sides, looked perplexedly at Sergeant Holcomb.
“Hold him,” Holcomb said. “He can’t pull that stuff.”
“Are you charging me with anything?” Mason asked.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Holcomb blazed. “Your story doesn’t check with the other stories I’ve heard. I think you were in Brogan’s apartment and then backed out again.”
“I’ve told you repeatedly,” Mason said, “that I had just entered Brogan’s apartment on the heels of Brogan and the two young women.”
“For the first time?”
“For the first time today. I was here yesterday.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“Go to hell,” Mason said and started for the door. “You’ll either charge me or let me go. I won’t tell you another thing.”
The officer took a step after him.
Sergeant Holcomb abruptly changed his mind. He said wearily, “Oh, let him go,” and sank back into his chair.
Chapter 8
Paul Drake slid into his favorite position in the big overstuffed leather chair in Mason’s office. His body was cross-ways in the chair, the knees were draped over one rounded arm, the other was supporting the small of his back.