As an avid reader of Golden Age murder mysteries, I have certainly seen my share of red herrings in print. These are the clues – the references, the hints, even the omissions – that an author might provide to send the reader up the proverbial garden path and well away from the true solution. Red herrings often rely on the reader to draw a false connection from cleverly inferred but ultimately irrelevant details. The mid-series Perry Mason entry The Case of the Screaming Woman offers up a false scent in the book’s dedication, before Chapter One even begins. The (likely unintentional) misdirection sent me off on the wrong track like a classic red herring, and it wasn’t so much Had-I-But-Known but I-Should’ve-Known-Better to assume and presume.
Erle Stanley Gardner dedicates this 1957 book to a friend and learned medical man, Dr. A.W. Freireich. In the heartfelt introduction, Gardner explains that Dr. Freireich was responsible for a number of real-world forensic and pharmacological advancements, including using Benzedrine Sulphate to combat a potentially deadly overdose of sleeping pills and demonstrating that the condition of hypoglycemia is not a valid defense for murder. As Gardner presents them, the doctor’s achievements are indeed impressive, and I was expecting Screaming Woman’s plot and resolution to turn on just such a clever piece of medical science, especially as a doctor character is the victim. And that’s where I make my false assumption: the dedication is just that, an acknowledgement of an accomplished friend and not, I realized to my chagrin, a clue to the potentially medico-legal direction the story might follow.
As ever, this Mason tale starts cleverly and goes, as Mason uses the phrase to quote a witness on the stand here, “lickety-split”. Joan Kirby requests that the lawyer listen to her husband’s tall tale of a story and dissuade him from sticking to such an outrageous fabrication. John Northrup Kirby claims that he picked up a young woman who was carrying a gas can and walking along the side of the road the previous night. He drove her back to her stalled car, but no car could be found. As she had no money, Kirby then rented a motel room for her and registered as man and wife. This rather unbelievable tale might not be so important except for one thing: a doctor who lived nearby was found unconscious and dying in his office, his head bashed with a laboratory beaker. And in Dr. Phineas L. Babb’s appointment book for that date were written two last names, Logan and Kirby.
It’s a lovely premise, and a neat gloss on the traditional “client in trouble” opening. John Kirby, a smooth-talking salesman, believes the story he tells is a solid, police-proof one, while Kirby’s wife and Perry Mason think otherwise. The author keeps his characters busy as the plot pushes propulsively forward, and this case leads Mason and his argumentative client not to a jury trial but a preliminary one, where the District Attorney’s office must prove it has enough evidence to accuse John Northrup Kirby of murder.
Indeed, the preliminary hearing, with Mason running rings around the dyspeptic and vengeful D.A. Hamilton Burger, is a true highlight of the book. Even more than securing a murder charge for Kirby, the D.A. wants to prove that his longtime courtroom nemesis has withheld evidence from the police. The item in question is a notebook of names that someone other than Mason’s client had taken from Dr. Babb’s office the night of the assault and ultimately gave to Mason’s faithful assistant, Della Street, for safekeeping.
To Burger’s growing exasperation, Mason objects repeatedly in court with the litany, “Any evidence as to anything received by Miss Street last Tuesday night is incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial unless the prosecutor first shows it is connected with the issues involved in this case.” The objection is sustained – repeatedly – and Burger finds himself in a pickle: the prosecution must connect the notebook to Mason’s client and his alleged crime to introduce it as evidence. If he can’t do so (and he can’t), he must drop the accusation of withholding evidence against the quick-thinking defense attorney.
As ever, this Mason tale starts cleverly and goes, as Mason uses the phrase to quote a witness on the stand here, “lickety-split”. Joan Kirby requests that the lawyer listen to her husband’s tall tale of a story and dissuade him from sticking to such an outrageous fabrication. John Northrup Kirby claims that he picked up a young woman who was carrying a gas can and walking along the side of the road the previous night. He drove her back to her stalled car, but no car could be found. As she had no money, Kirby then rented a motel room for her and registered as man and wife. This rather unbelievable tale might not be so important except for one thing: a doctor who lived nearby was found unconscious and dying in his office, his head bashed with a laboratory beaker. And in Dr. Phineas L. Babb’s appointment book for that date were written two last names, Logan and Kirby.
It’s a lovely premise, and a neat gloss on the traditional “client in trouble” opening. John Kirby, a smooth-talking salesman, believes the story he tells is a solid, police-proof one, while Kirby’s wife and Perry Mason think otherwise. The author keeps his characters busy as the plot pushes propulsively forward, and this case leads Mason and his argumentative client not to a jury trial but a preliminary one, where the District Attorney’s office must prove it has enough evidence to accuse John Northrup Kirby of murder.
Indeed, the preliminary hearing, with Mason running rings around the dyspeptic and vengeful D.A. Hamilton Burger, is a true highlight of the book. Even more than securing a murder charge for Kirby, the D.A. wants to prove that his longtime courtroom nemesis has withheld evidence from the police. The item in question is a notebook of names that someone other than Mason’s client had taken from Dr. Babb’s office the night of the assault and ultimately gave to Mason’s faithful assistant, Della Street, for safekeeping.
To Burger’s growing exasperation, Mason objects repeatedly in court with the litany, “Any evidence as to anything received by Miss Street last Tuesday night is incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial unless the prosecutor first shows it is connected with the issues involved in this case.” The objection is sustained – repeatedly – and Burger finds himself in a pickle: the prosecution must connect the notebook to Mason’s client and his alleged crime to introduce it as evidence. If he can’t do so (and he can’t), he must drop the accusation of withholding evidence against the quick-thinking defense attorney.
Less satisfying are the couple of elements in Screaming Woman that stretch credulity, even for a series and genre firmly established as escapist crime fiction. For example, the narrative revolves around the premise that three different persons or parties manage to visit the victim’s office separately, often unaware of each other, mere moments before, while, or after the attack takes place. This crime scene-as-Grand Central Station approach is nothing new to mystery writers or readers, but I am always reminded of the convenient coincidence of such timings.
There are a few enjoyably tactile puzzle pieces collected along the way (mother-of-pearl buttons and a cat with a goldfish among them), but in my opinion the climactic clue – the one that exonerates Mason’s client in the courtroom – is another one of those credulity breakers. It’s a last-minute “dying message” clue where the audio recording of the now-deceased Dr. Babb’s hospital room interrogation is played in court. The problem is that the victim’s naming of his attacker is given not one or two but three aural interpretations, and the third version (the one Mason suggests and the reader is meant to accept) is the least convincing one from a logical and phonetic standpoint.
To date, this is my first mid-1950s Perry Mason story to sample, having stuck to the classic early Gardner tales of the 1930s, back when the author’s wily lawyer was less ethical and his cases (if possible) were even more sensational and frenetic. The Case of the Screaming Woman is highly enjoyable and very engaging, even if the series’ formula and artifice are starting to show signs of wear. It’s interesting to note that this book would have appeared in print right when the long-running and beloved Perry Mason television series starring Raymond Burr debuted. The first episode, “The Case of the Restless Redhead”, premiered on September 21, 1957.
To date, this is my first mid-1950s Perry Mason story to sample, having stuck to the classic early Gardner tales of the 1930s, back when the author’s wily lawyer was less ethical and his cases (if possible) were even more sensational and frenetic. The Case of the Screaming Woman is highly enjoyable and very engaging, even if the series’ formula and artifice are starting to show signs of wear. It’s interesting to note that this book would have appeared in print right when the long-running and beloved Perry Mason television series starring Raymond Burr debuted. The first episode, “The Case of the Restless Redhead”, premiered on September 21, 1957.
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