Table Of ContentThe Case of the
One-Eyed Witness
by
Erle Stanley Gardner
Copyright © 1950 by Erle Stanley Gardner.
Renewed 1978 by Jean Bethel Gardner
Electronic Book: Copyright © 2012 by The Erle Stanley Gardner
Literary Trust
All rights reserved.
Contents
Copyright
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
About the Author
Foreword
Twice each year eight or ten of the outstanding experts in the �eld
of scienti�c crime detection gather at the Harvard Medical School.
There, under the auspices of Captain Frances G. Lee, one of the most
remarkable characters in the history of crime detection, these
experts instruct a handpicked class. The instruction �lls a work-
crammed week. It covers everything pertaining to murder, from
detection to an actual post-mortem.
There are no more than two dozen pupils. To be enrolled in such
a class one must have an okay from the governor of his state, a
clearance from the head of the state police, or a special dispensation
from Captain Frances G. Lee herself.
In previous forewords to three of my books I have mentioned
some of the leading �gures connected with these seminars: Captain
Frances G. Lee of the New Hampshire State Police; Dr. LeMoyne
Snyder, a doctor of medicine as well as a lawyer, who specializes in
the �eld of legal medicine; Dr. Alan R. Moritz of the Western
Reserve University in Cleveland, one of the country’s leading
pathologists as well as one of its cleverest detectives.
In the foreword to this book I want to introduce the reader to Dr.
Robert P. Brittain, a Scotsman who is both a barrister and a doctor
of medicine. He is a young man of great brilliance who is at present
lecturer in Forensic Medicine, in the department of Forensic
Medicine at Leeds University in Leeds, England.
Dr. Brittain is quiet and unassuming, a man of small, wiry
physique. Intellectually he’s a giant.
At his �rst lecture to a group of the broad-shouldered men who
had been carefully selected from the cream of the state police, I felt
that Dr. Brittain’s youthful appearance, his slight build, would make
it di�cult for him to hold the interest and attention of his audience.
I was never more mistaken.
Earnestness, sincerity and knowledge command respect
everywhere. Dr. Brittain aroused the interest of his audience with
his �rst few sentences. He held the men fascinated and there was an
underlying attitude of deep respect in their attention.
Midway in his lecture, in illustrating a point on identi�cation, Dr.
Brittain asked the members of the group to estimate his height and
weight. These men who were carefully trained to give a mere glance
and tell the color of a man’s eyes, his height, weight, age and
complexion, made some very wild guesses about Dr. Brittain. They
all estimated him as being heavier than he was and taller than he
was.
And at this point I take respectful issue with Dr. Brittain. It
wasn’t that these trained o�cers were lacking in powers of
observation, it was simply that they became confused in trying to
reconcile the man’s intellectual stature with his physical
appearance.
I know because I was in the room, and while I didn’t guess out
loud, I’d have been as far o� as any of the others if I’d made my
estimate.
Later on I was to see Dr. Brittain in his home in Glasgow, to
consult with him on a di�cult case Dr. LeMoyne Snyder and I were
trying to solve. I was then to learn something of his charm, his
social grace, his marvelous sense of humor, the poetic side of his
nature. But at the time I �rst saw him I sat spellbound through a
technical lecture, my interest so aroused that I can even now repeat
almost verbatim parts of that lecture.
I think the true measure of an instructor is whether he can be
interesting as well as exact. Knowledge is apt to be ponderous,
boring and a bit stu�y. We remember only what interests and
impresses us. If, therefore, instructors can make their lectures so
interesting they cause pupils to sit forward on the chair edges, there
is no need for later “cramming.”
And, lest the reader may think I am giving too much emphasis to
Captain Lee’s program, it is well to remember that the upgrading of
our police o�cers is one of the most important problems in the
present-day administration of justice.
Of late, I have been privileged to work with a committee which
donates its services for the purpose of freeing innocent men who
have been wrongfully convicted of murder. In this manner, I have
been brought to a realization that every time an innocent man is
convicted it is not only a great tragedy, but the party who is really
guilty continues at liberty as a menace to society. This has brought
home to me the importance of having crime detection keep pace
with the achievements of science in other �elds.
We have some remarkably competent investigative o�cers and
we are rapidly getting more. The police o�cer who has pride in his
profession and con�dence in his knowledge can tackle his job with
the quiet courtesy born of competence. The ignorant o�cer all too
frequently masks his ignorance with brutality and may well send
innocent men to prison.
Captain Frances G. Lee is a pioneer in the �eld of more e�cient
investigative work, and she carefully selects her instructors at these
semi-annual seminars on Homicide Investigation. The sessions run
through long hours for six consecutive event-packed days, but one
seldom sees a student yawn. Such men as Dr. Richard Ford of
Harvard, Dr. Milton Helpern of New York, Dr. Russell S. Fisher, now
Chief Medical Examiner of Baltimore, Dr. LeMoyne Snyder of
Lansing, and Dr. Joseph T. Walker of Harvard and laboratory
consultant for the Massachusetts State Police, make those seminars
never-to-be-forgotten events.
So I make a bow to these men who can make learning so much
fun, and I dedicate this book to one of the truly great intellects in
the �eld of legal medicine and of scienti�c crime detection,
DR. ROBERT P. BRITTAIN.
Erle Stanley Gardner
Chapter 1
The night sky was sodden with low-hanging clouds. Cold drizzle
coated the sidewalks with moisture, gave a halo to the street lights,
and caused the tires of passing automobiles to hiss over wet
pavement.
Most of the buildings in the neighborhood shopping center were
dark, but on the corner the drugstore was a blaze of light Halfway
down the block on the same side an all-night café radiated a glow of
hospitality. Across the street the motion picture theater had
switched out most of the lights in the foyer. The second show was
drawing to a close and within �ve minutes the doors would open to
disgorge the audience after the last run of the feature picture.
Over in the drugstore, the prescription clerk in a white smock
was making entries in a book. The long soda counter was vacant,
but a tired-looking girl was arranging glasses, preparing for the
sudden rush of trade which would follow the closing of the motion
picture theater. Within seven minutes every stool would be occupied
and people would be three deep at the counter. At that time, the
cashier would move over to help out, and the prescription clerk
would lend a hand.
In the meantime there was a complete lull as the store waited for
that last spurt of business which would swell the day’s receipts.
The woman who came hurrying down Vance Avenue and turned
into Kramer Boulevard paused to glance apprehensively over her
shoulder before making the turn, then she rounded the corner. The
light from the window of the drugstore splashed her features,
showing lines of determination about the mouth, fear in the eyes.
She opened the door and walked in.
The cashier, an open book held �at on the desk by the side of the
cash register, kept on with her reading. The girl at the soda fountain
looked up inquiringly. The prescription clerk put down his pen and
started to move forward.
Then it was apparent the woman’s interest was in the two
telephone booths at the back of the store.
Afterwards, in trying to recall her appearance, they all agreed she
was somewhere in her early thirties, with a good �gure which even
the lines of the dark coat with the fur collar couldn’t hide. The
cashier noticed that she was carrying a brown alligator-skin purse.
They might have remembered more if it hadn’t been that at that
moment the swinging doors of the movie theater opened and a
stream of people poured out to congest the sidewalks.
The cashier sighed and closed her book. The prescription clerk
pushed an advertising display of vitamin pills to the front of the
counter, moved a carton of razor blades slightly forward. The girl at
the soda fountain wiped her hands on a towel, and started mixing
four chocolate malted milks in the electric mixer. She knew she
would have orders for those within the next ninety seconds.
The woman disappeared into one of the phone booths, opened
her handbag and took out a coin purse.
A frown of annoyance crossed her features. She searched vainly
for a nickel, then almost ran to the cashier’s desk.
“Can you give me some nickels? Please hurry. Please!”
The cashier would have noticed her then if it hadn’t been that the
doors of the drugstore were pushed open by a crowd of teen-age
students, noisily centered in their own little world, exchanging loud
banter, intent upon banana splits, butterscotch sundaes, whipped
cream, marshmallow, chocolate syrup, and chopped nuts.
The cashier handed the woman �ve nickels, sized up the crowd
pouring in the door and moved over to the soda fountain to give a
hand. It would be another ten minutes before the avalanche would
hit the cashier’s desk.
The woman vanished into the phone booth. No one remembered
her after that.
She placed a slip of paper on the shelf by the telephone, stacked
the �ve nickels on top of the paper, picked o� the top nickel,
dropped it in the coin slot and dialed a number.
The hand which held the receiver to her ear was quivering
slightly. Her eyes kept watch through the glass window of the
booth, carefully checking the faces of this sudden in�ux of late
customers.
The woman listened anxiously while she heard the sound of
ringing coming over the telephone, then the receiver was lifted at
the other end of the line, the strains of dance music from an
orchestra mingled with the synthetic sweetness of a voice which had
been carefully trained in sugary accents, “Yes. Hello.”
“Quick, please. Get this right I want to speak with Perry Mason,
the lawyer. Get him to the phone and …”
“Perry Mason? I’m afraid …”
“Get Pierre, the headwaiter, on the phone. Mr. Mason is with a
young woman at a table …”
“But Pierre is very busy. There will be a wait. If you are in a
hurry …”
“Go to Pierre. Ask him to point out Mr. Mason to you. Tell Mr.
Mason to come to the phone at once. It’s important. At once. Do you
understand?”
“All right. Hold the line.”
There followed some two minutes of waiting. The woman
impatiently glanced at her diamond-studded wrist watch, frowned at
the telephone, said at length, half to herself, half to the mouthpiece
of the telephone, “Hurry, hurry. Oh, please hurry!”
It seemed an age before the lawyer’s slightly annoyed voice came
over the wire. “Hello. Yes. This is Mr. Mason.”
Her words came out with the staccato force of a sudden burst of
machine-gun �re.
“This is important,” she said. “You must get it and you must get
it straight the �rst time. I won’t have an opportunity to …”
“Who is this speaking?” the lawyer interrupted.
“I’m the one who sent you the package,” she said. “Please listen
to what I have to say. Do you have a pencil?”
“Yes.”
“Please write down this name and address.”
“But why …”
“Please, Mr. Mason. I will explain. Seconds are precious. Will you
please write this name and address?”
“Go ahead.”
