“Just what can be done?”
“If we can get the evidence,” Mason said, “the evidence that I hope I’m going to get, we can have them arrested for conspiracy.”
“Dad wouldn’t want that,” Hattie said quickly. “He wouldn’t want any publicity at all.”
“Well, come on,” Doyle said. “I’ll get you back to your office, Mr. Mason. My chariot’s outside. It’s not the latest or the best, but it gets you there.”
Mason said good-bye to the others, followed Doyle out and jumped in the five-year-old car as Doyle held the door open for him.
Doyle, getting around behind the wheel, said, “There’s one thing I don’t understand about the legal aspect of this case, Mr. Mason.”
“What’s that?” the lawyer asked, as the car eased away from the curb.
“Just how are they going to identify that tape recording?”
“It has to be done by the testimony of J. J. Fritch,” Mason said. “In other words, Fritch would get on the stand and swear that he had this conversation and that for his own protection he had made a tape recording.”
“And Fritch is a crook?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And a blackmailer?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And if anything happened that Fritch had to skip out and wasn’t there to identify that conversation it couldn’t be used?”
“That’s right,” Mason said. “The tape recording would have to be identified. Fritch would have to testify that it was a recording of a genuine conversation that he’d had with Ned Bain.”
“And on cross-examination Fritch would have to admit that he’d robbed the bank?”
“As I understand the facts, that’s right.”
“It would seem to me you could rip him wide open on cross-examination.”
“I can,” Mason said, “but the point is that the filing of the case would result in a lot of unfavorable publicity. I think that’s what’s worrying Mr. Bain.” 66
“That’s so,” Doyle admitted. “I don’t suppose Bain is worrying so much for himself. He’s thinking about the daughters—a couple of fine girls—and to have that thing hanging over their heads—No, we just can’t let that happen, Mr. Mason, no matter what we have to do.”
Mason nodded.
“A couple of fine girls like that!” Doyle repeated. “Gosh, you don’t find them any better anywhere in the world.
“There’s Hattie, she’s the most loyal, considerate, self-effacing girl you can imagine. And—well, no one needs a press agent for Sylvia Atwood.”
Mason smiled and nodded.
“She’s a real beauty,” Doyle said, “and full of fun and—there’s something so alive, so vital about her. You feel like a new man when you’re around her.
“I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Mason, that I’ve probably taken life a little too seriously. I’ve had my nose stuck too close to the drafting board. That’s probably a good way to lay the foundation for architectural skill, but it’s a darned poor way to start life.”
“I think you’ll find it’ll pay dividends,” Mason said.
“Oh, I suppose so, but when you see what happens to people who take life too seriously, and contrast them with a girl like Sylvia—I don’t know, Mr. Mason, I think life, like money, was meant to be spent. You can’t hoard money and ever get any good out of it. And life was meant to be lived. Somehow—it’s hard to express, but I don’t think there’s anything more perishable than the seconds that are ticked off by the second hand on a watch. You can’t save them. You have to spend them. You have to live them.”
“It’s not quite as simple as that,” Mason said. “A person has to prepare himself. You have to lay a foundation for life. The time you spend in study is an investment, as good as money in a bank.”
“Yes, I suppose so,“Doyle observed, and lapsed into silence.
After a moment Mason said, “I suppose the girls confided in you as soon as this came up?”
“Hattie did,” Doyle said. “She’s terribly conscientious. She—well, if there was anything that was going to affect the family, any old scandal or anything, she wanted me to know it before—well, before I committed myself.”
He laughed nervously.
“I wasn’t trying to pry into your private affairs,” Mason said.
“No, no, not at all. I’m glad to have an opportunity to explain matters. I’d do anything for those two girls, Mr. Mason, anything.”
“For the two girls,” Mason said.
There was a moment’s silence, then Doyle nodded. “That’s right, Mr. Mason.”
After that he was silent until he had deposited the lawyer in front of his office building and squeezed the attorney’s hand in a parting gesture of cordiality.
“It was wonderful meeting you, Mr. Mason, simply wonderful. It’s an experience I won’t ever forget. Having you in our corner gives one a feeling of complete invincibility.”
Mason laughed. “Don’t overestimate me,” he said. “I think we’re making progress, but that’s the most I can say at the moment.”
Chapter 6
It was almost eight-fifty the next morning when Mason parked his car in front of the apartment house. Della Street opened the door on her side, jumped to the sidewalk.
“You want me to go up with you?” she asked, as Mason walked around the car to join her.
Mason nodded.
“And just what am I supposed to do?”
“Keep your eyes and ears open,” Mason said.
“How are you going to explain to Mr. Brogan the fact that I’m with you?”
Mason said, “We don’t have to explain anything to Brogan. From now on he’s going to be on the defensive.”
“I take it I’m to be a witness?”
“That’s right.”
“But you have Sylvia Atwood.”
“That’s right. I want a witness I can depend on.”
“You don’t think you can depend on her?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “Come on, let’s go up. I see that Sylvia is already here. That’s her car parked up ahead.”
Della looked at her wrist watch. “She’s early.”
“Not too early. It’ll take us two or three minutes to get up in the elevator. Come on, let’s go.”
They entered the apartment house, took the elevator, walked down the corridor. Della Street, who was a step in advance, said, “There’s a note here, Chief. It’s addressed to you.”
Mason looked over her shoulder.
An envelope had been fastened to the door with a thumbtack. The envelope was addressed simply in red crayon, “Mr. Perry Mason.”
Della glanced back over her shoulder and the lawyer nodded.
She pulled out the thumbtack, opened the unsealed envelope, pulled out the note. She held it so they could both read it.
It was scrawled in pencil.
Mr. Mason:
Occasionally I indulge in a poker game with some of the boys. It happens tonight is the night. We’re starting early, about ten o’clock I understand, and I’m hoping to be finished in ample time to keep our appointment. If, however, I should be a few minutes late please go on in and make yourself at home. I’m leaving the apartment unlocked so you can go on in and wait. I promise you that if I’m not there promptly at nine I won’t be over ten minutes late.
George Brogan
Mason regarded the note thoughtfully, then he carefully folded it, put it back in the envelope, used his cigarette lighter to look for the exact hole which had been made by the thumbtack.
“You’re suspicious?” Della Street asked.
“It’s a trap,” Mason said. “I want to get this back in the original hole made by the thumbtack so no one can prove we’ve read it. We—oh-oh.”
“What is it?” Della Street asked.
“Two holes here,” Mason said. “Someone else has taken it off, read it and put it back, but didn’t realize the necessity for putting it back in the original hole.”
/> “So what do we do?”
“Well,” Mason said, “we don’t make a third hole, that’s certain. We put it back but—I guess Brogan was smart enough to know I might do just that, so he made two thumbtack holes so I couldn’t say I hadn’t read it. And since he’s gone to that trouble and I’m trapped, I may as well put the note in my pocket.”
Mason viciously jabbed the thumbtack into the panel of the door, put the envelope and note in his pocket.
“And we go in?” Della Street asked.
Mason shook his head.
“Why not?”
“I tell you it’s a trap. He wants us to go in and search the apartment. He’s too damned anxious.”
“Why?”
“Nothing for our good,” Mason said. “Whatever reason will be for his good.”
“Such as what? What could he possibly gain by—?”
Mason said, “Suppose we go in the apartment and find someone has smashed open the safe?”
“So we wait right here?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “Having left the apartment unlocked, he can always claim we went in and—we’ll be waiting right here when he comes, and we’ll tell him just what we think of his traps and—wait a minute, Sylvia’s up here somewhere. She—”
He broke off as a jarring thud from the interior of the apartment shook the floor under them.
“What was that?” Della Street asked, startled.
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “It sounded as if someone had been—”
He broke off as a woman’s terrified scream came from the interior of the apartment.
Della Street instinctively raised a gloved hand to the doorknob, started to turn it.
Mason slapped her hand away.
“Chief, someone’s in trouble in there. Someone’s screaming.”
Mason nodded.
“But, Chief, we can’t leave that person in danger. That was a scream of terror. That—”
The door was abruptly jerked open from the inside. A woman’s hurrying figure started to dash out into the corridor, then straightened in a rigidity of dismay as she saw Mason and Della Street standing on the threshold.
“Well, Mrs. Atwood,” Mason said calmly, “you seem to have gone exploring.”
“Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed. “Thank heavens. Oh, quick. Good Lord—”
“What is it?” Mason asked.
“J. J. Fritch. He’s been killed.”
“How do you know?”
“His body was in the liquor closet. It toppled out on its face.”
Mason jerked a handkerchief from his pocket, held it over the palm of his hand, grabbed the knob of the door, pulled the door shut. He said to Sylvia Atwood, “You’re wearing gloves. Did you have them off when you were in there?”
She shook her head. Her face had gone white under the make-up, causing the rouge to flare into bizarre prominence even there in the dim light of the hall. “I had my gloves on all the time.”
“It was Fritch?” Mason asked.
She nodded.
“You’re sure he was dead?”
“Good heavens, yes. He toppled forward—”
“How’s he dressed?”
“He isn’t dressed.”
“Naked?”
“He has on underwear. A sleeveless undershirt and shorts.”
“No socks?”
She shook her head.
“No shoes?”
Again she shook her head.
Della Street looked at Mason anxiously. “Shouldn’t we—?”
Mason shook his head. “This is a trap. We’ve walked into it. Let’s try to get out of it.”
Still with the handkerchief over his palm, he gently tried the door of the apartment directly behind them and across the hall from the door of Brogan’s apartment.
The knob turned smoothly. The apartment door opened.
Mason turned back to the two young women.
“Listen,” he said, “I want you to get this and get it straight. Brogan will show up any minute now. He’ll be all flustered and in a hurry, claiming that he was detained in a poker game. I want you to tell him that I am downstairs parking the car. His natural inference will be that we all three came together, that I stopped in front of the apartment house to let you two girls out, that I then cruised around to find a parking place for the car, that I’ll be up immediately.”
“Won’t he question us on details?” Della Street asked.
“I’ll show up before he gets a chance to question you,” Mason said, “provided you do just as I say.”
“Della, here’s the note that was on the door. Be holding that in your hand. Have the paper open as though you had just read it. That will give you an excuse to know that the door is open and unlocked.”
She nodded.
“As soon as you have told him that I’m parking the car,” Mason said, “turn the knob and walk in just casually and naturally, saying you were about to do so anyway because you’d read the note addressed to me, that I’ll be right up.”
Della Street nodded.
“Now then,” Mason said to Sylvia Atwood, “while that is taking place you’ll have an opportunity to step into the background. Don’t turn so that you face this apartment, but put your hand behind your back, grope until you find the bell on this apartment. Ring it twice. Two short, quick rings. Then follow Della and George Brogan into the apartment. Manipulate it so you’ll be the last one in-”
“Won’t Brogan stand to one side for us two to enter first and—”
“See that he doesn’t. Brogan is a crook and a blackmailer. He never was a gentleman. He isn’t too concerned with the niceties of etiquette.”
“And what will you do?”
Mason said, “There’s one chance in a hundred I may have that master spool of tape before Brogan turns up. I’ll hear your signal. I’ll give you just about three seconds to get through the door, after I hear the two rings, then I’ll slip out into the corridor, close this door behind me and ring Brogan’s bell, or I may be able to get here just as you’re closing the door and come on in. In that way Bro-gan can’t prove where I’ve been. Perhaps he’ll think I really was parking the car. Now, have you folks got that straight?”
“I have,” Della Street said.
Sylvia Atwood said, “I don’t understand just how—”
“You don’t have to,” Della said briskly. “I’ll tell you what to do. Do exactly what Mr. Mason says. Go ahead, Chief.”
Mason slipped open the door of Fritch’s apartment, which had been rented under the name of Frank Reedy, and closed the door behind him.
The drapes were drawn across the windows. The lights were on. In a corner of the room a television set was flickering a commercial.
Mason slipped through the living room, entered a bedroom.
Here again drapes were drawn across the windows. The bed was freshly made and apparently had not been slept in. A dressing gown was thrown across a chair by the bedside. There were also bedroom slippers neatly arranged under the chair.
Mason looked in the bathroom. It was entirely in order, but here again an electric light was on and a shade was pulled.
Mason retraced his steps, pushed open a door into the kitchenette.
Immediately he sensed a peculiar situation. Every shelf was loaded to the brim with canned goods. Mason opened the icebox. It was filled with food. At one end of the kitchen a deep-freeze unit had been installed, a huge affair some seven feet in length.
Mason opened the lid and whistled in surprise. It was jammed to the brim with frozen foods, meat wrapped in packages and labeled, ice cream, frozen strawberries, frozen cherries, package after package of frozen vegetables, packages of biscuit dough which needed only to be put in the oven and baked, pound after pound of butter, several pies and cakes.
Mason lowered the lid, snapped the latch into place.
Apparently J. J. Fritch had been prepared for a siege. He had been in a position to close the door of his apartment and
completely retire from the world. There would have been no necessity for him to go out. He could have remained in hiding for weeks or months as the occasion might require.
Mason left the kitchen, returned to the living room, opened the door of a huge closet.
It was well filled with clothing, shoes and sound recording equipment.
Mason tried the closets in the bedroom, being careful whenever he touched anything to have a handkerchief over his hand.
The bedroom closet held a conventional array of men’s clothing.
Mason was just about to try a dresser drawer when the bell of the apartment gave two quick, sharp rings.
Mason dashed to the door leading to the hallway, stood there and listened.
He heard feminine voices, heard the booming of a masculine voice. He waited about three seconds, then eased the door open.
The door of the apartment across the way was just closing. Sylvia Atwood was standing in the doorway, gently pushing it shut.
Mason jumped into the corridor, pulled the door of Fritch’s apartment shut behind him, pushed on the door of the Brogan apartment, said to Sylvia Atwood, “Well, I guess I’m not late after all.”
George Brogan grinned at Mason, walked on across to the windows, pulled back the drapes letting in morning sunlight.
Brogan was a disreputable-looking spectacle. His face had a shadow of dark stubble. The collar of his shirt was wilted down in front where his perspiring chin had been resting against the top of the collar. The skin of his face had that peculiar oily appearance which in some men is an indication of a sleepless night. His eyes were weary and a little bloodshot. There was an odor of alcohol on his breath.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did you get my note, Mason?”
Mason looked blank.
Della Street said, “Here it is, Chief. It was on the door,” and handed Mason the note.
Brogan looked inquiringly at Della Street.
“Miss Street, my confidential secretary,” Mason said. “I brought her with me this morning. She came up ahead of me.”
“Oh,” Brogan said, and then, bowing, muttered the conventional formula of pleasure at making her acquaintance, but his eyes, anxious and furtive, rested apprehensively on Mason’s face as Mason read the note.
The Case of the Green-Eyed Sister Page 8