His uncle seemed on the verge of apoplexy.
“The jar,” he managed to ejaculate at last. “The blue jar! What’s become of that?”
Jack stared at him in non-comprehension, but submerged in the torrent of words that followed he began to understand.
It came with a rush: “Ming — unique — gem of my collection — worth ten thousand pounds at least — offer from Hoggenheimer, the American millionaire — only one of its kind in the world. — Confound it, sir, what have you done with my BLUE JAR?”
Jack rushed to the office. He must find Lavington. The young lady in the office eyed him coldly.
“Dr. Lavington left late last night — by motor. He left a note for you.”
Jack tore it open. It was short and to the point.
“My dear young friend:
“Is the day of the supernatural over? Not quite — especially when tricked out in new scientific language. Kindest regards from Felise, invalid father, and myself. We have twelve hours start, which ought to be ample.
“Yours ever,
Erle Stanley Gardner
The Case of the Irate Witness
The first — and only — Perry Mason short story... complete with courtroom climax and legal legerdemain. Need we say more?
The early-morning shadows cast by the mountains still lay heavily on the town’s main street as the big siren on the roof of the Jebson Commercial Company began to scream shrilly.
The danger of fire was always present, and at the sound, men at breakfast rose and pushed their chairs back from the table. Men who were shaving barely paused to wipe lather from their faces; men who had been sleeping grabbed the first available garments. All of them ran to places where they could look for the first telltale wisps of smoke.
There was no smoke.
The big siren was still screaming urgently as the men formed into streaming lines, like ants whose hill has been attacked. The lines all moved toward the Jebson Commercial Company.
There the men were told that the doors of the big vault had been found wide open. A jagged hole had been cut into one door with an acetylene torch.
The men looked at one another silently. This was the fifteenth of the month. The big, twice-a-month payroll, which had been brought up from the Ivanhoe National Bank the day before, had been the prize.
Frank Bernal, manager of the company’s mine, the man who ruled Jebson City with an iron hand, arrived and took charge. The responsibility was his, and what he found was alarming.
Tom Munson, the night watchman, was lying on the floor in a back room, snoring in drunken slumber. The burglar alarm, which had been installed within the last six months, had been bypassed by means of an electrical device. This device was so ingenious that it was apparent that, if the work were that of a gang, at least one of the burglars was an expert electrician.
Ralph Nesbitt, the company accountant, was significantly silent. When Frank Bernal had been appointed manager a year earlier, Nesbitt had pointed out that the big vault was obsolete.
Bernal, determined to prove himself in his new job, had avoided the expense of tearing out the old vault and installing a new one by investing in an up-to-date burglar alarm and putting a special night watchman on duty.
Now the safe had been looted of $100,000 and Frank Bernal had to make a report to the main office in Chicago, with the disquieting knowledge that Ralph Nesbitt’s memo stating that the antiquated vault was a pushover was at this moment reposing in the company files...
Some distance out of Jebson City, Perry Mason, the famous trial lawyer, was driving fast along a mountain road. He had planned a weekend fishing trip for a long time, but a jury which had waited until midnight before reaching its verdict had delayed Mason’s departure and it was now 8:30 in the morning.
His fishing clothes, rod, wading boots, and creel were all in the trunk. He was wearing the suit in which he had stepped from the courtroom, and having driven all night he was eager for the cool, piny mountains.
A blazing red light, shining directly at him as he rounded a turn in the canyon road, dazzled his road-weary eyes. A sign, STOP — POLICE, had been placed in the middle of the road. Two men, a grim-faced man with a .30–30 rifle in his hands and a silver badge on his shirt and a uniformed motorcycle officer, stood beside the sign.
Mason stopped his car.
The man with the badge, deputy sheriff, said, “We’d better take a look at your driving license. There’s been a big robbery at Jebson City.”
“That so?” Mason said. “I went through Jebson City an hour ago and everything seemed quiet.”
“Where you been since then?”
“I stopped at a little service station and restaurant for breakfast.”
“Let’s take a look at your driving license.”
Mason handed it to him.
The man started to return it, then looked at it again. “Say,” he said, “you’re Perry Mason, the big criminal lawyer!”
“Not a criminal lawyer,” Mason said patiently, “a trial lawyer. I sometimes defend men who are accused of crime.”
“What are you doing up in this country?”
“Going fishing.”
The deputy looked at him suspiciously. “Why aren’t you wearing your fishing clothes?”
“Because,” Mason said, and smiled, “I’m not fishing.”
“You said you were going fishing.”
“I also intend,” Mason said, “to go to bed tonight. According to you, I should be wearing my pajamas.”
The deputy frowned. The traffic officer laughed and waved Mason on.
The deputy nodded at the departing car. “Looks like a live clue to me,” he said, “but I can’t find it in that conversation.”
“There isn’t any,” the traffic officer said.
The deputy remained dubious, and later on, when a news-hungry reporter from the local paper asked the deputy if he knew of anything that would make a good story, the deputy said that he did.
And that was why Della Street, Perry Mason’s confidential secretary, was surprised to read stories in the metropolitan papers stating that Perry Mason, the noted trial lawyer, was rumored to have been retained to represent the person or persons who had looted the vault of the Jebson Commercial Company. All this had been arranged, it would seem, before Mason’s “client” had even been apprehended.
When Perry Mason called his office by long-distance the next afternoon, Della said, “I thought you were going to the mountains for a vacation.”
“That’s right. Why?”
“The papers claim you’re representing whoever robbed the Jebson Commercial Company.”
“First I’ve heard of it,” Mason said. “I went through Jebson City before they discovered the robbery, stopped for breakfast a little farther on, and then got caught in a roadblock. In the eyes of some officious deputy, that seems to have made me an accessory after the fact.”
“Well,” Della Street said, “they’ve caught a man by the name of Harvey L. Corbin, and apparently have quite a case against him. They’re hinting at mysterious evidence which won’t be disclosed until the time of trial.”
“Was he the one who committed the crime?” Mason asked.
“The police think so. He has a criminal record. When his employers at Jebson City found out about it, they told him to leave town. That was the evening before the robbery.”
“Just like that, eh?” Mason asked.
“Well, you see, Jebson City is a one-industry town, and the company owns all the houses. They’re leased to the employees. I understand Corbin’s wife and daughter were told they could stay on until Corbin got located in a new place, but Corbin was told to leave town at once. You aren’t interested, are you?”