The Case of the Green-Eyed Sister

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 understand 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.

Mason nodded to Della Street. Ring up the Drake Detective Agency, he said. Get Paul on the phone.

No, no, please! Sylvia Atwood exclaimed. Not another private detective. I detest them.

Drake is an ethical detective, Mason said. I have to contact him because I want to find out about Brogan.

Della Street’s swift fingers dialed a number on the private unlisted trunk line which was on her desk and which detoured the switchboard in the outer office.

A moment later, when she had Paul Drake on the line, she nodded to Mason.

Mason picked up the extension phone on his desk, said, Paul, this is Perry. I want to find out something about a George Brogan who seems to be a licensed private investigator. Do you know anything about him.… You do, eh.… All right, let me have it.

Mason listened for nearly a minute, then said, Thanks, Paul. I may be calling you in connection with a case.

He hung up the telephone.

Sylvia Atwood’s green eyes were intent with an unspoken question.

Well, Mason said, Brogan is quite a character. He drives an expensive automobile, maintains a membership in a country club and a yacht club, has a swank apartment, has been under fire three or four times over a question of losing his license, and no one seems to know just how he makes his money.

Does he make professional contacts at his country club? she asked.

Mason said, According to my sources of information, the people who know him would be the last ones to give him business.

In other words, your detective tells you that he’s a high-class blackmailer.

Mason grinned. If he’d told me that I wouldn’t tell you.

"Well, I’m telling it to you then."

Mason said, Of course, as between an attorney and client, it’s a privileged, confidential communication, but I still wouldn’t say it.

And wouldn’t admit that that was what your friend, Mr. Drake, had told you.

Mason grinned, shook his head.

You mentioned a relationship of attorney and client, she said. I hope that means that you are going to accept me as a client.

And, to make it official, Mason said, you’re going to pay me a retainer of five hundred dollars, because when I take my next step I don’t want to have any misunderstanding about whom I’m representing and what I’m trying to accomplish.

What’s going to be your next step?

Mason merely held out his hand.

Surely, she said, I don’t carry five hundred dollars in cash in my purse.

Your check’s good.

She hesitated for a moment. Her green eyes were hard and appraising, then she opened her purse, took out a checkbook, and wrote Mason a check.

Mason studied the check carefully, then said, Put on the back of it, ‘As a retainer on account of legal services to be rendered.’

She wrote as Mason suggested.

Mason blotted the check, handed it to Della Street, who placed a rubber stamp endorsement on it.

Mason pulled the telephone toward him, said, You want me to handle this my own way?

I want results.

Mason said to Della Street, Look up the number of George Brogan, Della. Get him on the line. We’ll place that call through the switchboard.

Do you think it’s wise for you to talk with Mr. Brogan? Sylvia Atwood asked.

Somebody has to talk with him.

"I’ve already talked with him."

"I don’t think it’s wise for you to continue to talk with him."

He assures me that he’s just trying to be helpful, that every cent of money he receives will be accounted for, that he’ll have to pay it over to Fritch in order to hold him in line.

And in the meantime, Mason said sarcastically, Fritch has given him possession of the spool of tape containing the recording of the conversation supposed to be between your father and Fritch?

She nodded.

Does that impress you as being a little unusual?

Well, of course, J.J. would have to do something in order to turn his information into money.

Della Street nodded to Perry Mason.

Mason picked up the telephone, said, "Hello. Brogan, this is Perry Mason. I want to see you.… It’s about a matter in which I’ve been retained by Sylvia Bain At-wood.… That’s right.… I want to hear the recording.… No, I want to hear it all, every bit of it.… Why not.… Well, you can’t expect so much as a thin dime.… All right, tell Mr. Fritch that he can’t expect even a thin dime unless I hear all of that recording and unless I’m satisfied it’s an authentic recording.… To hell with that stuff. Tell your friend, Fritch, that he’s dealing with a lawyer now.… All right, if he isn’t your friend, the message is still the same.… That’s right, every bit of recording that’s on that tape.… Every word.… Otherwise Fritch can go roll his hoop.… When I advise a client about buying a horse I want to see the horse, all of it.… That’s right.

When.… I can’t. I’m going to be busy in court.… All right, then make it right away. I’ll be over within ten minutes.… Why not.… All right, at your apartment then. I don’t care.… An hour.… All right.

Mason hung up the telephone, said to Sylvia, I’m going over to Brogan’s apartment. I’m going to hear that recording. I’m going to hear all of it. You’ll have to be there with me. I want you to listen carefully and tell me if you feel the voice you hear on the recording is that of your father. Now I’m going to tell you something else. I don’t like blackmail.

You think this is?

It’s first cousin to it, Mason said. It smells like blackmail, and it’s an aroma I don’t care for. Now I want you to do one other thing for me.

What?

Mason said, When I go over there I’m going to wear a hearing aid. I’m going to pretend to be a little deaf. I want you to play up to me on that.

Why the hearing aid?

Perhaps, Mason said, grinning, because I want to hear better. Now we’re to meet him at his apartment in an hour. I want you to meet me here in forty-five minutes. It’ll take us about fifteen minutes to get to his apartment from here. In the meantime I don’t want you to say anything to anyone about what we’re doing.

She nodded.

Now then, Mason went on, suppose it turns out this is a genuine recording of a conversation that actually took place between your father and J. J. Fritch, and in that conversation your father admits in effect that he knew the money used by Fritch in the partnership deal was the proceeds of a bank robbery. What are you going to do?

We’re going to pay off unless you can find some better way of handling it.

How much are you going to pay?

She hesitated. Her eyes avoided his.

How much? Mason asked.

As much as he demands, if we have to.

And then what?

And then I want to be very, very certain that there isn’t any more proof, that all of the proof is in our hands.

How do you propose to do that?

"I don’t