Over the past eight months, I’ve led you by the snout through the Perry Mason Menagerie to witness the hijinks of assorted household pets and various fowl (plus one foul but sleepy mosquito.) This time, we’re changing up the sub-genus – and this time it’s personal.

I know you may scoff at first because The Case of the Moth-Eaten Mink is about a coat, not a creature. Well, my friends, let’s not forget the pack of lively little animals who sacrificed their lives so that some wealthy matron could muck about in the cold with a status symbol draped over her shoulders. I know whereof I speak, for my grandfather was a furrier! 

As a boy, Eddie Friedman emigrated to New York from Budapest, Hungary and ended up in the fur trade. On a business trip to San Francisco, he was invited by one of his clients, William Pincus (of Pincus Furs), to enjoy a home-cooked meal. There, Eddie met the three Pincus daughters and promptly fell in love with the eldest – the beautiful, slightly spoiled – okay, really spoiled – Fay. They could not have been more different from each other, and yet they married and begat three sons. And their oldest son Johnny begat three sons as well. And his oldest son . . . well, the buck stops there for that oldest son is the one telling you this story.

I worked a couple of summers for my grandfather. Mostly, I would deliver furs to other salons and run other errands for whoever demanded my services. In idle moments I would hide out in the fur vault, running my hands through the gorgeous, soft fur of coats, jackets and stoles that had once been minks, ermines and rabbits. The temperature was kept very low to preserve the merchandise, and the sensory pleasure of admiring the coats was mitigated by the fact that I was literally freezing. 

Still, I found it easy to appreciate Della Street’s first reaction to the moth-eaten merchandise early in the novel; “Oh, what a shame! What a terrible shame! . . . Gosh, Chief, it’s a Colton and Colfax guaranteed mink!”

The mink is the main attraction in the delightful extended scene that opens the book. After a grueling deposition, Perry and Della have arrived at Morris Alburg’s restaurant to ease their exhaustion, as we all do, with double Bacardis and a steak dinner. In return, they’re happy to listen to Morris’s complaints about his new waitress, Dixie Dayton, who has disappeared in the middle of her shift, leaving behind a bunch of disgruntled customers and the titular coat.

Perry utilizes some canny deductions to pinpoint the specific reason Dixie has ditched her job, but it comes too late for the girl: while trying to prevent some thugs from dragging her into a car, the worried waitress runs into another automobile’s path and ends up in the hospital. By then, Mason is hooked. The whole affair is so deliciously out of the ordinary; plus, Morris Alburg has exacted a promise from the lawyer to represent him in case the restauranteur runs into any trouble. 

Another element that makes this title stand out is the fact that Dixie’s troubles are tied into the year-old unsolved murder of a policeman, a good egg named Bob Claremont. This causes real tension between Mason and the cops, especially Lieutenant Tragg, who had investigated his colleague’s death and knew that Claremont was one of the good ones:

“That’s the hell of it, Mason. That’s what gives the decent cop a hard road to hoe, a few rotten apples in the barrel. Citizens don’t remember the story of the cop who gave his life trying to stop a hold-up. All they can remember is the cop who has the bad memory and can’t recall for the life of him the name of the bank in which he deposited the last hundred thousand dollars.”

I have a feeling that the final twist to this one was meant to have a huge impact on the reader; indeed, Gardner saves the reveal of the killer’s name for the final few paragraphs of the book, just like Christie or Queen or Carr might have done if they had a special surprise in the works. Unfortunately, having been inundated with certain TV shows for most of my life, I had this one figured out from the start. It doesn’t help that the story unfolds a bit too slowly, is a bit too simple,  and involves a basic situation  – murder in a seedy hotel – that has been done to death in the series. Add to that the fact that Perry doesn’t appear in court until Chapter 17, less than forty pages before the novel ends. The trick here is that D.A. Hamilton Burger calls Mason to the stand – as a witness for the prosecution! I’ll bet you can imagine how well that goes for Mr. Burger! 

Ultimately, there’s not much more to say about The Case of the Moth-Eaten Mink as a book. It’s . . . okay. But a word about the TV adaptation, which debuted on December 14, 1957 as the 13^th episode of the very first season of Perry Mason. Raymond Burr and Company look young and full of energy here. The screenplay trims a few details but is remarkably faithful to the novel, right down to using a lot of the book’s dialogue. The big difference comes at the end, when the writers craft a more dramatic reveal of the killer’s identity than that found on the page; this one even ends up with Perry Mason almost getting killed! The episode is also a nice showcase for Ray Collins as Lieutenant Tragg. Yes, he was clearly too old to play the part, but he has a field day riding the emotional roller coaster that Gardner provided Tragg in this one. 

We have a special two-parter coming up, as our October and November journeys through the Mason Menagerie find the attorney getting involved in monkey business!  Will you go ape for these latter-stage Masons, or will they drive you bananas?!? Will Della remain the gorilla Perry’s dreams? Will Gardner climb to new heights, or will we get more of the simian old simian old? 

I’ve run out of steam here! See you next month!!