The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

10

Mason and Della Street sat in a little all-night restaurant where the coffee was good. The ham was thin but had an excellent flavor and the eggs were cooked to golden perfection.

“Do you think we’re in the clear?” Della Street asked.

“I think so,” Mason said.

“You mean she’ll get rid of the gun?”

Mason nodded.

“What makes you think she’s going to do that?”

Mason said, “She was so anxious to get away. She certainly had something in mind. It doesn’t take more than six guesses, you know.”

“Didn’t she have an opportunity to get rid of the gun last night?”

“Perhaps not,” Mason said. “Remember that Sergeant Dorset took her out to see James Staunton. Did she tell you anything about the result of that interview?”

“Yes. Staunton insisted that Faulkner had brought him the fish. What’s more, he brought out a written statement to prove it.”

“The deuce he did!”

“That’s what she said.”

“A statement signed by Faulkner?”

“Yes.”

“What was done with the statement?”

“Sergeant Dorset took it. He gave Staunton a receipt for it.”

Mason said, “Staunton didn’t tell me about having any written statement from Faulkner. What was in it?”

“Something to the effect that Faulkner had turned over these two particular fish to Staunton. That he wanted Staunton to care for them and secure treatment for them; that he absolved Staunton of all responsibility in case anything should happen to the fish, either death from natural causes or theft or sabotage.”

“It was Faulkner’s signature?”

“Staunton insisted that it was, and apparently there was nothing about it to arouse Sergeant Dorset’s suspicions. He took the statement at its face value. Of course, I’m going by what Sally told me.”

Mason said, “Now why do you suppose Staunton didn’t produce that statement when I questioned him?”

“Probably because he felt your questioning wasn’t official.”

“I suppose so. But I thought I had him pretty well frightened.”

“But if Faulkner himself took those fish out of the tank, what was the reason for the soup ladle and the four-foot extension on the handle?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “I’ve already pointed that out to Sergeant Dorset. The ladle couldn’t have been used to take the fish out of the tank.”

“Why not?”

“In the first place,” Mason said, “the surface of the water in the tank was about seven and a half feet from the floor, and I don’t think the ceiling of the room was over nine and a half feet high. It’s one of those low-ceilinged bungalow rooms. Now take a four-foot handle on a soup ladle, try to bring it out of the tank, and you’ve got two feet of handle that remain in the tank after the top of the handle is against the ceiling.”

“But you can tilt the ladle, can’t you? That is, you can take it out on an angle.”

“Exactly,” Mason said, “and when you do that, you lose your fish.”

Della Street nodded, then frowned. She gave the problem thoughtful consideration.

“What’s more,” Mason went on, “I don’t think you could lift a fish out of a tank with a soup ladle. I don’t think the fish would stay in one position long enough to let you get him out. I think it would take something bigger than a soup ladle. Of course, I’m making allowances for the fact that these fish weren’t as active as they might have been. But even so, I doubt if it could be done.”

“Then what was the ladle used for? Was it just a blind?”

Mason said, “It could have been a blind. It could have been something else.”

“Such as what?” Della asked.

“It could have been a device to get something out of the tank other than fish.”

“What do you mean?”

Mason said, “Someone took a shot at Faulkner last week. At any rate he claims they did. The bullet missed him and embedded itself in the upholstery of the car. Of course, that bullet was valuable evidence. Police have worked out the science of ballistical detection now so that they can tell a great deal about the weapon which fired any particular bullet. And they can examine a bullet under a microscope and tell absolutely whether or not it was fired from any given gun.”

“And what does all this have to do with the goldfish tank?” Della Street asked.

Mason grinned. “It goes back to something Elmer Carson told me. He was in the office when Faulkner came in carrying the bullet with him.”

“The one he’d dug out of the car?”

“That’s right. He’d recovered the bullet from where it had embedded itself in the upholstery, and he’d notified the police, although he didn’t tell anyone in the real estate office about it.”

“And what happened?”

“The police came there and then Faulkner couldn’t find the bullet.”

“Oh, oh,” Della said.

“Now Carson points out that he never left his seat at his office desk, and the stenographer there, a Miss Stanley, apparently corroborated his statement. However, police searched him, also his desk.”

“So then what?”

“So then later on, along in the evening, when Miss Stanley was cleaning up her desk, she found a bullet under some paper on her desk.”

“You mean it wasn’t the same bullet?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I don’t think anyone else knows. It was simply a bullet. Everyone acted on the assumption that it was the same bullet Faulkner had brought in earlier in the day and had then misplaced. But as nearly as I can tell, there were no identifying marks on the bullet, so that it could not definitely be said to be the same one.”

“I don’t see just what you’re getting at,” Della Street said.

Mason said, “Faulkner thought that he had placed the bullet on the top of his desk when he came in. Then he’d gone over to dictate some correspondence, standing by Miss Stanley’s desk.”

“He must have been a pretty cool customer,” Della Street said. “If someone shot at me, I don’t think I’d dig out the bullet and then start dictating correspondence.”

Mason said, “As I gather it, Miss Stanley noticed that his hand was shaking a little, but, aside from that, there were no other evidences of emotion.”

Della Street looked at her employer as though trying to peer behind his eyes and penetrate his thoughts. “Personally I would have said that Faulkner was excitable. If someone had actually shot at him I’d think he would have been as nervous as a kitchen cockroach when a light is suddenly turned on.”

“He was rather a complex character,” Mason said. “Remember that night when the process server served the papers on him in Carson’s suit for defamation of character?”

“Yes, I remember the occasion quite distinctly.”

“Remember that he didn’t get the least bit nervous. Didn’t even read the papers, but pushed them down in his side pocket and kept his attention concentrated on the business of the moment — which was to get me to protect his precious goldfish by beating the temporary restraining order preventing him from moving the goldfish tank?”

Della Street nodded. “That’s right. He took the service of those papers right in his stride. They seemed to constitute only a minor irritation.”

“Despite the fact that the suit was for a hundred thousand dollars,” Mason pointed out.

“You’re getting at something, Chief. What is it?”

Mason said, “I’m simply sitting here sipping coffee and putting two and two together, trying to find out if perhaps someone may not have actually taken a shot at Faulkner while he was riding along in his automobile.”

Della Street said, “But Faulkner hardly impressed me as a man who would have forgotten where he placed that bullet after he’d dug it out. That doesn’t seem to be in keeping with his character.”

“It wasn’t,” Mason conceded readily enough.

“Chief, what are you getting at?”

Mason said, “Let’s consider another possibility, Della. A person seated at an adjoining desk, as Carson was, could have reached over to Faulkner’s desk, picked up the bullet Faulkner had left on the desk and hidden it where it would never have been discovered.”

“You mean without leaving his desk?”

“Yes.”

“But I thought you said they searched Carson and searched his desk.”

“They did.”

“I don’t see... oh! Now I get it! You mean he could have tossed it into the goldfish tank?”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “The goldfish tank was right back of Carson’s desk; was wide enough at the top so he could have tossed the bullet over his shoulder and been almost certain of having it light inside the tank, and then it would drop down to the bottom and be a relatively inconspicuous object among the pebbles and gravel at the bottom of the tank.”

Della Street’s eyes were sparkling with interest now. “Then when Faulkner thought attempts were being made to steal his goldfish... you mean it was actually someone trying to get the bullet back out of the tank?”

“Exactly,” Mason said, “and the soup ladle would have been an excellent instrument to have dredged down to the bottom of the tank, scooped up the bullet and eased it back out again. If someone had been reaching for the goldfish it wouldn’t have been necessary to have tied a four-foot extension to the handle of the soup ladle. The goldfish would have been swimming around in the water, and by waiting for a favorable opportunity, they could have been fished out with a container that had a handle not over two feet in length.”

“Then Carson must have been the one who shot at him and...”

“Not so fast,” Mason said. “Carson had been in his office all that morning. Remember, Miss Stanley will give him an alibi. Or so Carson says, and he would hardly dare to falsify that, because he must know the circumstances incident to that first shooting are now to receive a lot of police attention.”

“Then for some reason Carson was trying to confuse the issues.”

“Trying to protect the person who had fired the shot, or the person he thought had fired the shot.”

“You mean they may not have been the same?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Would that account for the sudden animosity which developed between Carson and Faulkner?”

“The animosity had been there for some time. The thing that flared suddenly into existence was Carson’s open hostility.”

“And what did that have to do with it?”

Mason grinned and said, “Put yourself in Carson’s position. He’d tossed a bullet into a fish tank. He’d evidently acted on the spur of the moment, looking for the best possible place of concealment. It was a simple matter to toss the bullet in, but it was a difficult matter to get the bullet out. Particularly when you remember that Faulkner was living in the other side of the duplex house and that he was suspicious of Carson and would have promptly rushed over to see what Carson was doing if Carson came to the office outside of office hours.”

Della Street nodded.

“You can’t reach down to the bottom of a four-foot fish tank,” Mason said, “and pull out a lead bullet without making some rather elaborate preparations. And it was at this time that Carson suddenly realized Faulkner was concerned about the health of the goldfish and was planning to remove the entire tank to some place where the fish could be given treatment.”

“But wouldn’t Carson have been in a position to profit by that? Wouldn’t he have stood more chance of getting the bullet if the tank had been moved?”

“Probably not. And you must also remember that he was running the risk of having the bullet discovered as soon as the tank was moved. Of course, once that bullet was discovered, it wouldn’t take very much of a detective to piece together what must have happened, and Carson would find himself in quite a spot.”

“I’d say he was in a spot anyway,” Della Street said.

“He was,” Mason told her. “And so it became necessary for him to take steps to prevent the goldfish tank from being removed from the office. That was the reason for his sudden flare-up of hostility and the filing of his initial action against Faulkner, the action which resulted in a temporary restraining order preventing Faulkner from removing the fish tank. Of course, Carson might have been left without a leg to stand on when he finally got into court, but that didn’t bother him. He knew that by filing the action against Faulkner he could at least delay things until he had a chance to get that bullet out of the tank.”

“That certainly sounds logical,” Della Street admitted, “and would account for some of the things Carson did.”

“And,” Mason went on, “in order to make the filing of that injunction suit seem logical, Carson had to play the part all the way along the line. Otherwise, his sudden concern over the goldfish tank would have been so conspicuous that it might have aroused suspicion.”

“So that accounts for his action for defamation of character?”

“Exactly.”

“But what about the earlier attempts to steal the goldfish?”

“There weren’t any. Carson had probably managed to get access to the fish tank for some rather limited period. At that time, he probably tried various methods of extracting the bullet and found that he was up against a tougher problem than he had anticipated. The size of the tank, the weight of the tank, and its position, made it something of a job to get that bullet out.”

“And I suppose that the forty-five bullet which was subsequently found on Miss Stanley’s desk was simply another bullet that had been deliberately planted.”

“So it would seem,” Mason said. “You will note that Miss Stanley vouched for the fact that Carson had not left the office before the police arrived, and that he had been seated at his desk during all of the time which had elapsed between Faulkner’s entrance and the arrival of the police, but it’s logical to assume that between the arrival of the police and the discovery of the bullet, Carson must have gone out — perhaps several times. He certainly must have gone out for lunch. He could easily have picked up another bullet then.”

Della Street showed her excitement. “Chief, you’ve got it all figured out. It must have happened in exactly that way. And if it did, then Carson must have been the one who killed Faulkner and...”

“Take it easy, Della,” Mason cautioned. “Remember that all I have at present is a beautiful theory, a logical theory, but nevertheless, only a theory. And remember that we’re in a jam.”

“How do you mean?”

“Sally Madison had a gun in her purse. Let’s hope she’s smart enough to either hide that gun where it won’t be discovered, or to wipe all the fingerprints off of it, or to do both. In the event she doesn’t, and if it should prove to be the murder gun, the police will find fingerprints on it and sooner or later they’re pretty apt to discover they’re your fingerprints. Then we’re up against a serious charge. It will be a simple matter for the police to prove that we took Sally Madison out of circulation during a crucial period in the investigation. And if we try to plead innocence, or pretend that we didn’t know she had the murder weapon in her purse, we will be confronted with your fingerprints on the gun. So, taken by and large, we’re up against it if Sally Madison is caught before she gets rid of that gun.”

“Chief, couldn’t you have telephoned the police as soon as we’d found out that she had a gun in her purse?”

“We could have,” Mason said, “and in the light of subsequent events, we undoubtedly should have. However, the police would have been skeptical, and at the time, it seemed like a better bet to wipe your fingerprints off the gun, wash our hands of Sally Madison, and step out of the case. The peculiar combination of circumstances which made that night clerk enter the room and decide to stay there couldn’t very well have been foreseen.”

“So what do we do now?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “We keep our fingers crossed and...”

Abruptly, Mason lowered his coffee cup to the saucer. “Damn!” he said.

“What is it, Chief?”

“Don’t look startled and don’t act guilty,” Mason warned. “Leave the talking to me. Lieutenant Tragg has just entered the restaurant and is headed this way, and if you think Tragg isn’t the last person in the world I want to talk to just now, you’ve got another think coming.”

Della Street’s face changed color. “Chief, you keep out of it. Let me take the rap. After all, I’m the one whose fingerprints are on the gun. They can’t prove that you knew anything...”

Mason raised his head to look over Della Street’s shoulder and said, with every semblance of surprise, “Well, well, well! Our old friend, Lieutenant Tragg! What brings you out here so early in the morning?”

Tragg placed his hat on a vacant chair, drew up another one and calmly seated himself. “What brings you here?”

“Hunger,” Mason said, smiling.

“Is this your regular breakfast place?” Tragg asked.

“I think we’ll adopt it,” Mason told him. “The menu isn’t large, but it’s attractive. You’ll find the coffee excellent, and the eggs are well cooked. I don’t know about you, Lieutenant, but I particularly detest eggs that are fried in a pan so hot that a crust forms on the bottom of the eggs. Now, you take the fried eggs here, and they’re thoroughly delicious.”

“Exactly,” Tragg said, and to the man behind the counter called out, “Ham and eggs, and a big cup of coffee now, and another cup of coffee when you serve the eggs.”

Tragg shifted his position slightly, smiled at Mason and said, “And now, Counselor, since you’ve exhausted the subject of fried eggs, suppose we talk about murders.”

“Oh, but I haven’t exhausted the subject of eggs,” Mason protested. “A great deal depends on cooking them at just the right temperature. Now, the yolk of a fried egg should be thoroughly warm all the way through, not cooked almost solid at the bottom but runny on top. Nor should...”

“I agree with you entirely,” Tragg interrupted. “That also depends entirely on the temperature of the frying pan. But what do you think about Faulkner’s murder?”

“I never think about murders, Lieutenant, unless I’m paid to do so. And in the event I’m paid for my thoughts, I try to give only my client the benefit of them. Now you are in a different position...”

“Quite right,” Tragg interposed calmly, reaching for the sugar as the waiter served his first cup of coffee. “I am paid by the taxpayers to think about murders at all times, and, thinking about murder, I somehow find my thoughts turning to a certain Miss Sally Madison. What can you tell me about her?”

“A rather attractive young woman,” Mason said. “She seems to be devoted to her present boy friend who works in a pet store. Doubtless she has had other boy friends to whom she has been devoted, but I think that her present affair with Tom Gridley is, perhaps, more apt to result in matrimony.”

“Something of a golddigger, I understand,” Tragg observed.

Mason’s face showed surprise. “Who told you that?”

“Oh, I get around. Is she a client of yours?”

“Now there again,” Mason said smiling, “you are asking a difficult question. That is, the question is easy; it’s the answer that’s difficult.”

“You might try answering it either yes or no,” Tragg said.

“It isn’t that easy. She hasn’t as yet definitely retained me to represent her interests. But on the other hand, I think she desires to do so, and I am investigating the facts.”

“Think you’ll represent her?”

“I’m sure I can’t say. The case she presents is far from being an easy one.”

“So I would gather.”

“You see,” Mason went on, “as the agent of her boy friend, Tom Gridley, she may or may not have reached a contract with Harrington Faulkner. A contract involves a meeting of the minds, and a meeting of the minds in turn depends upon...”

Tragg held up his hand. “Please,” he begged.

Mason raised his eyebrows in apparent surprise.

Tragg said, “You’re unusually loquacious this morning, Counselor. And a man who can deliver such an extemporaneous dissertation upon the art of frying eggs could doubtless talk almost indefinitely on the law of contracts. And so, if you’ll pardon me, I think I’ll talk to your charming secretary for a while.”

Tragg turned to Della Street and asked, “Where did you spend the night last night, Miss Street?”

Della smiled sweetly: “That question, of course, Lieutenant, involved an assumption that the night is, or was, an indivisible unit. Now, as a matter of fact, a night is really divided into two periods. First, the period before midnight, which I believe was legally yesterday, and the period after midnight, which is today.”

Tragg grinned, said to Perry Mason, “She’s an apt pupil, Counselor. I doubt if you could have stalled for time any better if you had stepped in and answered the question for her.”

“I doubt if I could have done as well,” Mason admitted cheerfully.

“Now,” Tragg said, suddenly losing his smile and becoming grimly official in his manner, “suppose we quit talking about fried eggs and contracts and the legal subdivision of the period of darkness, and suppose, Miss Street, you tell me exactly where you were from ten o’clock last night until the present time, omitting nothing — and that’s an official question.”

“Is there any reason why she should have to answer that question?” Mason asked. “Even conceding that it is a legal question.”

Tragg’s face was as hard as granite. “Yes. In the event I get the run-around it will be an important factor in determining whether any connection Miss Street may have had with what transpired was accidental or deliberate.”

Della Street said brightly, “Well, of course...”

“Take it easy, Della,” Mason warned.

She glanced at him and at what she saw in his eyes the expression of animation fled from her features.

“I’m still waiting for an answer to my question,” Lieutenant Tragg said harshly.

“Don’t you think you should be fair with Miss Street?” Mason asked.

Tragg didn’t take his eyes from Della’s face. He said, “Your interruptions all go on the debit side of the ledger as far as I’m concerned, Mason. Miss Street, where did you spend the night?”

Mason interposed suavely, “Of course, Lieutenant, you’re not a mind reader. The fact that you came to this restaurant means that you knew we were in the neighborhood. There are logically only two sources from which you could have acquired that information. One of them is that you received over the radio a report from a patrol car stating that it had been called to the Kellinger Hotel, where a complaint had been made that two young women were receiving a male guest as a visitor in violation of the rules of the hotel, and the police had been called to eject the tenants. You thereupon acted upon the assumption that you would, perhaps, find the parties who had been ejected in a near-by all-night restaurant, and by the simple process of cruising around, located us here.”

Tragg started to say something, but Mason, slightly raising his voice, kept the conversational lead. “The other assumption is that you picked up Sally Madison on the street a few moments ago and questioned her. In which event you learned from her that we were in the vicinity. And if you questioned her, you doubtless made a rather complete job of it.”

Mason’s warning glance at Della Street conveyed the impression to her that in such event Lieutenant Tragg had doubtless examined the purse and by this time was fully familiar with its contents.

Tragg was still looking at Della Street. “Now that you’ve been properly coached, Miss Street, where did you spend the night?”

“I spent part of it at my apartment. The rest of it at the Kellinger Hotel.”

“How did you happen to go to the Kellinger Hotel?”

“Sally Madison called me on the telephone and told me Mr. Mason wished me to take her to some hotel.”

“Did she say why?”

Della Street said quite innocently, “I can’t remember quite definitely whether she told me why or whether I subsequently learned why from Mr. Mason. He wanted me to get her out of...”

“Out of circulation,” Tragg prompted as Della Street’s voice suddenly trailed away into silence.

“Out of the way of newspaper reporters,” Della Street finished, smiling sweetly at Lieutenant Tragg.

“What time was this?” Tragg asked.

“That Sally Madison called me?”

“Yes.”

Della Street said, “I really couldn’t say. I don’t think I looked at my watch, but doubtless the Kellinger Hotel can tell you approximately what time we arrived.”

“What I am asking you now,” Tragg said, “is what time you received this call from Sally Madison.”

“I’m sure I can’t say.”

“Now then,” Tragg said, “we’re getting to the important part. Watch your answers carefully, because a great deal is going to depend on what you say. Did you notice anything unusual about Sally Madison?”

“Oh, yes,” Della Street told him quickly.

Tragg’s voice was grim and harsh. “What?” he asked, and the single word was as harshly explosive as the cracking of a whip.

Mason’s eyes warned Della Street.

“Why,” she said, “the girl slept in the nude.” She smiled at Lieutenant Tragg and then went on rapidly, “That’s rather unusual, you know, Lieutenant... I mean she simply stripped her clothes off and jumped into bed. Ordinarily a young woman as beautiful as Sally Madison takes much more care of her personal appearance before retiring. She’ll put creams and lotions on her face and usually...”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Tragg said.

“Of course,” Mason interposed, “you’ve interrupted Della, Lieutenant. If you had let her keep on talking, she might have told you exactly what you had in mind.”

“If I’d let her keep on talking,” Tragg said, “she’d have been here until noon describing Sally Madison’s bedtime habits. The question is, Miss Street, did you or did you not notice anything unusual about Sally Madison or did she make any confession or admission to you?”

“Remember, Lieutenant,” Mason said, “that as a potential client, anything Sally Madison may have said was a privileged communication and as Della Street is my secretary, she can’t be questioned concerning that.”

“I think I understand that rule,” Tragg conceded. “And it applies to anything that was necessarily said in connection with the matter on which Sally Madison was consulting you. Now I take it that matter related exclusively to a claim she had against the estate of Harrington Faulkner. I now want to know definitely, once and for all, whether Della Street noticed anything unusual or significant in connection with Sally Madison. Did you or did you not, Miss Street?”

Della Street said, “Of course, Lieutenant, I had only met the girl a day or two ago, and so I don’t know what is usual about her. Therefore, when you ask me if I noticed anything unusual, it’s hard to tell...”

“All this stalling around,” Tragg said, “causes me to reach a very definite conclusion in my own mind. Miss Street, how did it happen Perry Mason came up to call on you at the hour of five o’clock in the morning?”

“Was it five o’clock?” Della Street asked, with some show of surprise. “I’m certain that I didn’t look at my watch, Lieutenant, I merely...”

Mason said, “There again, of course, the records of the Hotel Kellinger will be of some assistance to you, Lieutenant.”

Tragg said, “Despite your repeated warnings to Della Street that she isn’t to conceal any information which I can subsequently ascertain by interviewing the clerk at the Kellinger Hotel, I want to know whether you noticed anything unusual in connection with Sally Madison, anything in connection with her wearing apparel, what she had on, what she had with her, what she did, or what she said.”

Mason said, “I’m quite certain, Lieutenant, that if Miss Street had noticed anything such as you have mentioned that was sufficiently unusual to be of any importance, she would have told me, so you can ask your question of me.”

“I don’t have to. I’m asking Miss Street. Miss Street, why did you call Perry Mason and ask him to come to the hotel?”

Della Street’s eyes were suddenly hard and defiant. “That is none of your business.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes.”

“You know my business is rather inclusive,” Tragg said, “particularly insofar as murders are concerned.”

Della Street clamped her lips together in a tight line.

Abruptly, Tragg said, “All right, you two have sparred around here trying to find out how much I know. The very fact that you’ve been sparring for time convinces me that you do know the thing I wanted to find out. As Perry Mason so aptly pointed out, you could gamble with either one of two alternatives. One was that I’d received a report from the officers who answered the call to the Kellinger Hotel, and had cruised the neighborhood simply on the off Chance of picking you up. The other was that I had first picked up Sally Madison and questioned her. You stalled for time, hoping that the first alternative was the correct one. You’re wrong. I’d picked up the report from the officers when it came in as a routine radio report. I’d been up all night, waiting for a break in the case. That radio report looked like the break I’d been waiting for. I dashed out and picked up Sally Madison on the street. In her purse she had two thousand dollars in cash, the possession of which she couldn’t explain. She also had a thirty-eight caliber, double-action revolver which had recently been fired, and which bears every evidence of having been the weapon with which Harrington Faulkner was murdered. Now then, Perry Mason and Della Street, if I can prove that either one of you knew of the contents of that purse, I’m going to stick you as being accessories after the fact. I gave you every opportunity to report to me and to communicate any significant information connected with the murder of Harrington Faulkner. You chose not to do so. And, so help me, Mason, if I can prove that you knew that gun was in Sally Madison’s purse, I’m going to nail you to the cross.”

Abruptly, Lieutenant Tragg pushed back his chair, said to the puzzled waiter, “Never mind the ham and eggs. I’ll pay the check now.”

And Tragg slammed money down on the counter and walked out.

Della Street’s eyes, sick with dismay, caught those of Perry Mason. “Oh, Chief,” she said, “I should have told him! I’m sick all over.”

The lines of Mason’s face could have been carved from stone. He said, “It’s okay, kid. There were two possible alternatives. We took a chance and we lost. Now we’ll carry on from there. It seems to be our unlucky day. We’re in it together, and it’s a sweet mess.”