The Case of the Green-Eyed Sister

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  “When did he pass away, doctor?”

  “I would say some time early this morning, perhaps five or six o’clock. It isn’t particularly important to determine the exact time in a case of this sort.”

  “No, I suppose not. Tell me, there won’t be any postmortem, will there?”

  “Oh, I hope not!” Sylvia exclaimed.

  “No, no, no, don’t worry about that, my dear. It’s perfectly natural. I’ll sign a death certificate. You can notify the mortician, or would you prefer to have me do it?”

  “Do you know someone who is good and dependable?” Sylvia asked.

  “Yes, yes, of course, my dear. I’ll be glad to do it for you.” 96

  “I think that would be the better way,” Sylvia said. “Don’t you, Jarrett?”

  They paused, looking toward Jarrett Bain, waiting for his answer.

  Jarrett, a vague, indefinite smile on his face, stood there with his arms folded, looking down at them, saying nothing.

  “Don’t you think so, Jarrett?” Sylvia asked.

  “Eh, how’s that? I beg your pardon.”

  “That Dr. Flasher should arrange for the mortician.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, of course.”

  Sylvia Atwood flashed Mason a glance, said to Dr. Flasher, “This is rather a harrowing experience. I’m worried about Hattie and—”

  “It’s been a shock to her all right,” Dr. Flasher said. “I’ve given her a hypodermic. I gave her a good dose. I want her to sleep and be undisturbed.”

  Sylvia nodded quickly. Her eyes flashed another quick glance at Mason, then she was looking at Dr. Flasher earnestly.

  “I think,” she said, “if we can expedite arrangements just as much as possible it will help. If you can explain to the mortician that while this death wasn’t unexpected it has, nevertheless, come at the end of a long battle and that some of the family are quite upset. In other words, rush things as much as possible. I’d like to have the body moved and the embalming done and everything before Hattie wakes up.”

  Dr. Flasher said, “I know a mortician who will be most considerate. I’ll notify him.”

  “At once?” Sylvia asked.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Just as soon as I get back to my office.”

  “And there won’t be any difficulties, any red tape, any formalities?”

  “No, absolutely not, my dear. Don’t worry about it. You’re getting yourself in something of a state. I’ll sign a death certificate, the body will be moved, they’ll go right ahead with the orderly process of embalming, and you can make arrangements for the funeral services.”

  Sylvia moved toward his side, took his arm. “You’re wonderful, Dr. Flasher, simply wonderful.”

  Dr. Flasher turned to look back over his shoulder, smiled and waved at Mason, said, “It was a real pleasure, Counselor. I’ll see you again.”

  Mason nodded.

  Sylvia Atwood escorted Dr. Flasher to the door. Mason watched her for a moment, then turned to look at the tall archaeologist standing beside him.

  “Rather a shock to you,” Mason said.

  “Eh, how’s that?”

  “I said it was a shock to you.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Poor Dad. I wanted him to take life easier some time ago but he was always full of drive. You wonder why.

  “After you’ve been prowling around through ruins erected by people who lived, loved and died a thousand years ago, and see the way the jungle has crept up over their temples, obliterated their market places, destroyed their works of art, smothered their culture, you realize that the individual shouldn’t make life a rat race but a dignified and leisurely journey into the field of universal knowledge.

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Mason, I’ll be seeing you.”

  Jarrett Bain turned and stalked slowly away.

  Della Street said in a low voice to Perry Mason, “Gosh, his head’s in the clouds! Sylvia’s putting something over.”

  “What?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t know. Here she comes now.”

  Sylvia, having let Dr. Flasher out of the front door, came hurrying up to Mason. She gripped his arm with fingers that were tight with agitated suspense and trembling a little.

  “I must see you, Mr. Mason,” she said in a low, intense voice.

  “You’re seeing me,” Mason told her.

  The green eyes flashed quickly at Della Street, then away.

  “There won’t be any delay, any post-mortem, any red tape?” she asked.

  “Not if Dr. Flasher signs the death certificate, not unless someone in authority interposes an official question.”

  “That police sergeant can be very, very disagreeable.”

  Mason nodded.

  “He might—well, of cours.…”

  Mason said, “You wanted to see me about something. Get it off your chest.”

  She looked around her to make certain no one was in a position to overhear, glanced once more at Della Street, then said under her breath, “Dad did it.”

  “Did what?” Mason asked.

  “Killed J.J.”

  “What?” Mason exclaimed.

  She nodded.

  “Look here,” Mason said, “let’s get this straight. Your father was home in bed. Fritch was killed apparently between midnight and three o’clock this morning and—”

  “Mr. Mason,” she said, “Dad did it. I know that. I can prove it if I have to. I don’t want to be the one to do it. But you must remember that’s the fact and I don’t think we should try to conceal it. I’m afraid we’ll get in trouble if we do try to conceal it.”

  “Well,” Mason said dryly, “you hardly wish to be placed in the position of discovering your father’s death and then babbling to the authorities he murdered the man whose corpse you found this morning.”

  “No one knows I found it,” she said quickly, sharply. “I stuck by the story that we had all met together there in front of Brogan’s apartment. That was the way you wanted it, wasn’t it?”

  “That was what you told Holcomb?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then,” Mason said, “we can’t change it very well, can we?”

  “No. There’s no reason why we should.”

  “Of course,” Mason told her, “you should be doing everything you could legitimately do to protect your father’s memory and—”

  “Listen, Mr. Mason, you and I are practical people. Now I’m telling you I may not have a chance to talk to you again for some little time.”

  “Why?”

  She said, “Don’t be stupid, Mr. Mason. I’m going to be prostrated with grief and I can’t discuss these things in the presence of other people. They don’t know what we know. And, of course, none of this can come from me without making it appear that I’m an undutiful daughter, but Dad brooded over what you had told him about Fritch and Brogan. He couldn’t sleep. Last night about twenty minutes past twelve he got up and took the car. He wasn’t supposed to drive. He wasn’t even supposed to go out. He wasn’t supposed to have any excitement, but he had been taking medicine that made him feel better and he was strong enough to do what he felt had to be done.”

  “And what was that?” Mason asked.

  “He went up to face J.J., to call him a liar and a scoundrel, and demand that record.”

  “What record? The one that Brogan had?”

  “No, no, please don’t be so difficult, Mr. Mason. The one you told Dad that Fritch had, the master record, the one that had been spliced.”

  “Go on,” Mason said.

  “He and Fritch had an argument. I suppose Dad lost his temper. No one will ever know what happened now, but I know Dad was up there. Dad got back here around half-past one or two this morning. He parked the car and went in to bed.

  “Apparently the strain he had put on his heart had been too much. There had been excitement and—well, you wonder why Dad didn’t die right there in his tracks, but somehow he managed to carry through and get back here.”

  “Go
on,” Mason said, making no effort to conceal his skepticism.

  “That’s what happened,” she said. “Dad killed him. I can’t be the one to let the authorities realize that, but somehow, Mr. Mason, you must see that they do understand it.”

  “I must?”

  “Yes, someone has to.”

  “Why not let them find out for themselves?” Mason asked.

  “They might not find out and they might—well, they might try to pin it on someone else.”

  “You, for instance?” Mason asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “Your father,” Mason said, “is dead. He’s not here to defend himself. He can’t speak for himself. How do you know that he went out last night between twelve and three?”

  “It was about twenty minutes past twelve. I know because I followed him.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “To that apartment house.”

  “Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “I—I thought for a while that I would, and then I thought it might be better for Dad to get it off his chest and handle it in his own way. To tell you the truth, Mr. Mason, I wasn’t certain, I couldn’t be certain, that—that there hadn’t been some association between Dad and J.J.

  “Even if you are correct about that recording and even if J.J. had faked it, there still could have been something, some previous tie-up between him and Dad. Oh, I tell you, I did a lot of thinking, but I finally decided to let Dad go ahead and handle it his own way.”

  “Did anyone else see your father leave?” Mason asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I’m afraid,” Mason said coldly, “there would have to be some other proof, something that—”

  She moved close to him. “Mr. Mason,” she said, “I have the proof.”

  “What?”

  “I have the proof!”

  “Go on,” Mason said.

  She said, “A few minutes before Dr. Flasher came I went in to say my own private last farewell to Dad. I put my hand under the pillow of his bed to straighten it out a little bit, to straighten out his head.”

  “Go on,” Mason said. “What happened?”

  “There was something under the pillow.”

  “What?”

  “The spool of tape.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?” Mason exclaimed.

  “Of course I am. It was the spool of tape, the original recording that Fritch had. It’s spliced where it had been put together just like you said it would be. Dad had got hold of it in some way. He carried it back with him and put it under his pillow. It was there.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  She said, “I put it in a safe place—that is, the only place where it’s safe for the moment. I’m going to get it and give it to you, then you must use your own judgment.

  “But please, Mr. Mason, please don’t misunderstand what I say. Dad has gone. I don’t know whether he killed J.J. in self-defense or not. Dad is the one who was responsible for the death of J. J. Fritch. Fritch is dead and Dad is dead. They can’t punish him. We must, simply must see that somehow the authorities get the lead that will start them investigating Dad. I don’t want to be the one that gives them that lead, but if necessary I will break down and tell them.”

  “Go on,” Mason said. “You have that spool of tape. What else?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Do you have anything else?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I want to get the whole story.”

  “I have—I have the ice pick.”

  “And where did you get that?”

  “This morning, when the body fell out of that liquor closet and rolled right at my feet. It was terrible! Horrible!”

  “Never mind that,” Mason said. “You can pull the dramatic part later. Where was the ice pick?”

  “Still in J.J.’s body.”

  “Where?”

  “In his body.”

  “I mean what part of his body?”

  “The chest.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “I pulled it out and put it in my purse.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because it was our ice pick.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I could recognize it. Ours is a distinctive ice pick. Edison Doyle gave it to us. He found a place where they were on sale. They’re big ice picks with a distinctive metal band around the top so you can use them as a hammer to crush ice if you want.”

  Mason said, “You talk as if there were more than one.”

  “Yes, Edison saw them on sale. He bought three. He was laughing about it at the time. He said he was giving us one, was keeping one and was going to save the third as a wedding present for whichever one of us girls got married first.”

  “And you recognized this ice pick?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you first found the body this morning?”

  “Yes. Can’t you see, Mr. Mason? At that time I was trying to protect Dad at any cost. I didn’t know he’d gone on to a higher court. So, much as I hated to touch the thing, I pulled that ice pick out of the body and put it in my purse. Then I ran to the door and met you and Miss Street.”

  “And Sergeant Holcomb didn’t search your purse?” Mason asked.

  “Oh, of course, but I didn’t have it then.”

  “What had you done with it?”

  “Put it in the coiled fire hose on the lower floor where no one would think of looking for it, but where I could pick it up again after they’d finished questioning me.”

  “So,” Mason said, “you discovered the body, and you have the murder weapon?”

  “That’s right. I’ve hidden it temporarily where no one will look for it, but I wanted to ask you what I should do about it? I—”

  Steps sounded behind them. Edison Doyle came rushing up to them.

  “Hello, Mr. Mason,” he said, and then all in one breath, “Sylvia, what the devil’s this?”

  “What?” Sylvia asked.

  Doyle thrust forward a spool of tape.

  “Where did you get that?” Sylvia flared.

  “From the drawer in Hattie’s dresser.”

  “What were you doing looking in there?”

  “At Dr. Flasher’s suggestion I was to stay with her until she dropped off to sleep. He gave her a hypo, you know. There were tears on her face and when she dropped off to sleep I looked for a handkerchief. I opened the top drawer in the bureau and this was lying right on top.”

  “Oh, Edison,” Sylvia said, “you—you’ve done something now—I—I don’t know.”

  “But what is it?” Edison Doyle said.

  “You shouldn’t have found it there,” Sylvia Atwood said. “I had found it earlier. It was under Dad’s pillow. I put it there until I could ask Mr. Mason about it. Because Hattie had been given a hypo and put to sleep and wasn’t to be disturbed I felt certain no one would go in there. I didn’t want anyone to know until I could ask Mr. Mason—”

  Abruptly she put her hands to her face and started to cry.

  “There, there,” Doyle said, putting his arm around her shoulders and patting her reassuringly. “It’s all right, Sylvia. Mr. Mason is here. He’ll tell us what to do. You poor girl, you’re all unstrung!”

  Her shoulders shook convulsively with sobs.

  Della Street wordlessly reached out and took the spool of tape from Edison Doyle’s fingers.

  As soon as she had done so, Edison Doyle, finding both hands free, promptly and naturally circled Sylvia Atwood with his arms, held the sobbing figure close to him.

  “Poor little kid,” he said, “you’ve had more than you can take.”

  Sylvia sobbed for a moment, then said, “Oh, Edison, you’re such a comfort! Mr. Mason, will you please take charge of things—of everything?”

  “Everything’s going to be all right,” Edison Doyle went on. “You come with me. Y
ou’re going to have to lie down and keep quiet.”

  He gave Mason a significant look, slipped his arm around Sylvia’s waist and led her out of the room.

  “Well,” Della Street said, looking at the spool of tape, “that’s that!”

  “I think,” Mason said, “that we’ll see if it is.”

  “You mean we listen to it?”

  “I mean we listen to it.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then,” Mason said, “if it turns out to be that master spool of spliced tape we find ourselves in a hell of a fix.”

  “And if it shouldn’t be?”

  Mason grinned. “We’re in a hell of a fix anyway.”

  “And,” Della Street said bitterly, “not being a woman you can’t break out crying on Sergeant Holcomb’s shoulder and have him solicitously put you to bed.”

  “No,” Mason said, “but he can solicitously put me out of circulation, and don’t ever kid yourself but what he’s damned anxious to do just that.”

  “And the murder weapon?” she asked.

  “Fortunately she didn’t tell me what she’d done with that. Washed it and put it in the ice box, I suppose.”

  “Should you find out?”

  He shook his head. “Then I’d be an accessory after the fact. This tape recording is evidence, but not of murder. But a murder weapon is something altogether different. We’ll let our little green-eyed minx take care of that.”

  “She won’t,” Della Street said. “She’s too busy stealing her sister’s boyfriend.”

  “No, she’s just giving her sex appeal its morning exercise,” Mason said.

  “That’s what you think. Come on, Chief, if we’re going to listen to that tape recording let’s do it before there are any more murders.”

  “More murders? How many do you think there have been already?”

  “I count two to date,” she said.

  Chapter 9

  Mason escorted Della Street to the place where their cars were parked.

  “Take your car, Della,” Mason said, “and follow me to the office.”