The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

12

Paul Drake was back in Perry Mason’s office within five minutes after he had left. He encountered the lawyer just leaving from the exit door of his private office.

“Where to?” Drake asked.

“Wilfred Dixon,” Mason told him. “I’m going to check up on Dixon and on the affairs of the first Mrs. Faulkner. He is her lawyer. What’s new? Anything important?”

Drake put his hand on Mason’s arm, drew Mason back into the inner office and closed the door. “Sometime during the night,” he said, “an attempt was made to get that goldfish tank out of the office. It sure looks as though you called the turn on that business, Perry.”

“Just when was the attempt made?”

“Police don’t know. For some reason or other, they never looked into the other side of the duplex house, but confined their investigations to Faulkner’s residence. Then, this morning, when Alberta Stanley, the secretary, opened up the real estate office, she found the place something of a wreck. There was a long rubber hose which had evidently been used to syphon the water out of the empty goldfish tank. That is, it was empty of goldfish.”

Mason nodded.

“After the water was syphoned out, the goldfish tank had been tipped over on its side and all of the mud and gravel in the bottom had been scooped out and left in a pile on the floor.”

Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Has it occurred to the police as yet that someone was looking for that bullet Faulkner carried into the office?”

“You can’t tell, Perry. It hasn’t occurred to Sergeant Dorset, but you never know what Lieutenant Tragg is working on. Dorset shoots off his mouth to the newspaper boys and tries to get publicity. Tragg is smooth as velvet. He kids the boys along and prefers results to publicity.”

“Anything else?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “I hate to do this, Perry.”

“Do what?”

“Be hanging crepe all over things, but it’s one of those cases where every bit of information you get is the kind you don’t want.”

“Shoot,” Mason told him.

“You remember Faulkner had a reputation of being a man who would skin the other fellow in a business deal. He kept within his own standards of honesty but he was completely ruthless.”

Mason nodded.

“Well, it seems that Faulkner was really anxious to get hold of that formula that Tom Gridley had developed for the treatment of gill disease. You remember he bought out Rawlins’ pet shop? — That was the first move in his campaign. Then, it turns out that Tom Gridley had mixed up a batch of his paste which was to be painted on plastic panels that were to be introduced into fish tanks. The trouble with Gridley is that he gets so interested in what he’s doing and... well, he’s just like a doctor. He wants to effect cures and doesn’t care too much about the financial end of things.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said.

“Well, it seems that yesterday evening, Faulkner, who had, of course, got the combination of the safe from Rawlins, went down to the pet store, opened the safe, took out the can of paste that Gridley had mixed up and sent it to a chemist to be analyzed. Rawlins was there and tried to stop him but it was no soap.”

“Faulkner certainly was a heel,” Mason said.

“According to the police, it furnishes a swell motivation for a murder.”

Mason thought the matter over and nodded his head. “Academically it’s bad. Practically it isn’t so bad.”

“You mean the way a jury will look at it?”

“Yes. It’s one of those things that you can play up strong to a jury. While technically it’s a motivation for murder, it’s such a flagrant example of oppression by a man who has money and power, who’s picking on a chap in his employ... No, Paul, that isn’t at all bad. I presume the theory of the police is that when Gridley found out about it he became terribly angry, took his gun and went up to kill Faulkner.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

Mason smiled and said, “I don’t think Tragg will hold to that theory very long.”

“Why not?”

“Because the evidence is against it.”

“What do you mean? It’s Gridley’s gun, there’s no question of that.”

“Sure, it’s Gridley’s gun,” Mason said. “But mind you this: If the circumstantial evidence means what the police think it means, Tom Gridley effected a settlement with Faulkner. He may have gone up there intending to kill him, but Faulkner gave him a check for a thousand dollars. Faulkner wouldn’t have done that unless he had reached some sort of a settlement with Gridley. Gridley certainly couldn’t have killed him before the check was made out, and would have had no reason to have killed him afterwards.”

“That’s right,” Drake said.

“The minute Faulkner died, that check, and also the five thousand dollar check that Sally Madison has, weren’t worth the paper they were written on. You can’t cash a check after a man dies. I have an idea, Paul, that you’ll find Lieutenant Tragg begins to think this motive isn’t as simple as it appears to be on the surface. Hang it, if it weren’t for the evidence against Sally Madison and the fact that Della Street’s fingerprints are on that gun, we’d sit tight and tell the police to go jump in the lake. As it is, I’ve got to find out all the facts and be the first one to get the correct interpretation.”

“Suppose Sally Madison bumped him off?”

“Then,” Mason said, “the police have a perfect case against Della Street and me as being accessories after the fact.”

“Think they’ll press it?”

“You know damn well they’ll press it,” Mason said. “They’d like nothing better.”

“Well, of course,” Drake pointed out, “you can’t blame them. You certainly do skate on thin ice, Perry. You’ve been a thorn in the flesh of the police for a long time.”

Mason nodded, “I’ve had it coming to me once or twice,” he admitted, “but what makes me sore is to think that they’d really hang it on me in a case where we were absolutely innocent and only trying to help a young fellow who had T.B. get enough money to take treatments that would cure him. What have you found out about Dixon, anything?”

Drake said, “Dixon is really a deep one. Don’t make any mistake about him, Perry.”

“Have the police been after him?”

“Apparently the police don’t consider he has sufficient connection with things to bother very much about him. But my men have looked him up. He’s apparently just a common ordinary businessman, with a pretty good judgment when it comes to investments, but he’s the best poker player at his club and they say he never loses, regardless of how the cards happen to run.”

“You mean he cheats?”

“No, he bluffs, and when he’s bluffing, the other players think he has them bigger than a house. When he has them, they think he’s bluffing. Fellows who have played with him for years still get fooled. What do you want to see him for, Perry? What do you think he can tell you?”

“Damned if I know,” Mason said, “but I’m going to round up every angle of this case. Hang it, Paul, I’ve got to do it. I’m really in a mess this time, and they’ve got Della roped into it. That’s what comes of trusting a golddigger. Oh well, there’s no use conducting post mortems. By the time the police let me get in touch with Sally Madison she’ll have been bled white. I’m getting out a writ of habeas corpus and that of course will force their hand. They’ll have to put a charge against her. But by the time they do that, they’ll have really put her through a clothes wringer. Keep working, Paul, and if you get anything new, let Della Street know. Work on this case as you’ve never worked on anything else in your life. We’re working against time and we’ve got to find out not only the evidence, but we’ve got to interpret that evidence.”

“Did the broken goldfish bowl mean anything to you?”

“It means a lot,” Mason said.

“How come?”

“Suppose Sally Madison isn’t as dumb as she appears. Suppose back of that poker face of hers is a shrewd, calculating mind that isn’t missing a bet.”

“I’ll go with you that far,” Drake said.

“And suppose,” Mason went on, “she reasoned out what had happened to the bullet that Faulkner had taken to the office. Suppose when Faulkner gave her the key there in the café at the time he made the deal with her and told her to get Tom Gridley and go out and treat his fish, Sally Madison went out instead and used the soup ladle to get the bullet out of the tank. Then suppose she very shrewdly sold that bullet to the highest bidder.”

“Wait a minute,” Drake said. “You’ve got something wrong there, Perry.”

“What?”

“According to all the evidence, those goldfish must have been gone when Sally got there. Faulkner must have given her a complete double-cross on that.”

“All right, so what?”

“So when she went there to get the bullet, she would have known that the goldfish were gone.”

“Not goldfish,” Mason said, “a pair of Veiltail Moor Telescopes.”

“Okay. They’re goldfish to me.”

“You won’t think so after you’ve seen them,” Mason said. “If Sally Madison went in there to get that bullet, the fact that the fish weren’t there wouldn’t have stopped her from getting what she was after.”

“And then she went back and got Tom Gridley and came out the second time?”

“That’s right.”

“Well,” Drake said, “it’s a theory, Perry. You’re giving that girl credit for an awful lot of sense.”

Mason nodded.

“I think you’re giving her too much credit,” Drake said.

Mason said, “I didn’t give her enough credit for awhile. Now I’m going to make my mistakes on the other side. That girl’s batted around a bit, Paul. She knows some of the answers. She’s in love with Tom Gridley. You take a woman of that type, when she falls for a man, it’s usually a combination of a starved mother instinct and a sex angle. My best guess is that that girl would stop at nothing. Anyway, I haven’t time to stay here and talk it over now. I’m on my way to see Dixon.”

“Be careful with Dixon,” Drake warned.

Mason said, “I’m going to be careful with everybody from now on, Paul, but it isn’t going to slow me down any. I’m going to keep moving.”

Mason drove to the address of Wilfred Dixon, found the house to be a rather imposing edifice of white stucco, red tile, landscaped grounds, a three-car garage and an atmosphere of quiet luxury.

Mason had no difficulty whatever in getting an immediate audience with Wilfred Dixon, who received him in a room on the southeast side of the house, a room which was something of a cross between a den and an office, with deep leather chairs, Venetian blinds, original oils, a huge flat-topped desk, a portable bar, and a leather davenport which seemed to invite an afternoon siesta. There were three telephones on the desk, but there were no filing cases in the room, no papers visible on the desk.

Wilfred Dixon was a short, chunky man with perfectly white hair, steel-gray eyes, and a face which was deeply tanned from the neck to the roots of the hair. His complexion indicated either considerable time spent on the golf links without a hat, or regular treatments under a quartz lamp.

“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Mason?” Dixon invited, after giving the lawyer a cordial grip with muscular fingers. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, and naturally it’s a pleasure to meet you, although, of course, I can’t understand why you should look me up. I presume it’s connected in some rather remote way with the tragic death of Harrington Faulkner.”

“It is,” Mason said, giving Dixon a steady look.

Dixon met his eyes with calm assurance. “I have, of course, managed the affairs of Genevieve Faulkner for some years. She was the first wife, you know. But of course you do know.”

And Dixon smiled, a disarming, magnetic smile.

“You knew Harrington Faulkner personally?” Mason asked.

“Oh yes,” Dixon said, as though stating a fact which must have been well known and perfectly obvious.

“Talked with him occasionally?”

“Oh yes. You see, it was a little embarrassing for Genevieve to hold business conferences with her former husband. Yet the first Mrs. Faulkner — I’ll call her Genevieve if you don’t mind, Mr. Mason — was very much interested in the business transactions of the firm.”

“That firm made money?” Mason asked.

“Ordinarily, Mr. Mason, I would consider that question involved Genevieve’s private affairs. But inasmuch as an investigation in connection with the Faulkner Estate will make the whole matter public, I see no reason for placing you to the inconvenience of getting your information through more devious channels. The business was immensely profitable.”

“Isn’t it rather unusual for a real estate business to make that much money under present conditions?”

“Not at all. It was more than a real estate business. The business was diversified. It administered various other businesses which had been previously used as investment outlets. Harrington Faulkner was a very good businessman, a very good businessman, indeed. Of course, he was unpopular. Personally, I didn’t approve of Mr. Faulkner’s business methods. I wouldn’t have employed them myself. I was representing Genevieve. I certainly was in no position to... well, shall we say, criticize the goose that was laying the golden eggs?”

“Faulkner was the money maker?”

“Faulkner was the money maker.”

“What about Carson?”

“Carson was an associate,” Dixon said suavely. “A man who had an equal interest in the business. One third of the stock was held by Faulkner, one third by Carson and one-third by Genevieve.”

“That still isn’t telling me anything about Carson,” Mason said.

With every appearance of candid surprise, Dixon raised his eyebrows. “Why, I thought that was telling you everything about Carson.”

“You haven’t said anything about his business ability.”

“Frankly, Mr. Mason, my dealings were with Faulkner.”

“If Faulkner was the mainspring of the business,” Mason said, “it must have galled him to do the bulk of the work and furnish the bulk of the capital, and then receive only one-third of the income.”

“Well, of course, he and Carson had a salary — a salary that was fixed and approved by the court.”

“And they couldn’t raise those salaries?”

“Not without Genevieve’s consent, no.”

“And were the salaries ever raised?”

“No,” Dixon said shortly.

“Was any request made to raise the salaries?”

Dixon’s eyes twinkled. “Several times.”

“Faulkner, I take it, didn’t feel too friendly toward his first wife?”

“I’m sure I never asked him about that.”

“I presume that originally Harrington Faulkner furnished most of the money which started the firm of Faulkner and Carson.”

“I believe so.”

“Carson was the younger man and Faulkner relied on him perhaps for an element of young blood in the business?”

“As to that, I couldn’t say. I only represented Genevieve after the separation and during the divorce.”

“You had known her before then?”

“No. I was acquainted with the attorney whom Genevieve employed. I’m a businessman, Mr. Mason, a business advisor, an investment counselor, if you wish. I try to be a good one. You really haven’t stated the object of your visit, why you’re here.”

Mason said, “Primarily, I’m interested in finding out what I can about Harrington Faulkner.”

“So I gathered. But the reason for your interest is not apparent. Doubtless, many people would like to know something of the affairs of Mr. Faulkner. There’s a difference between a casual curiosity, Mr. Mason, and a legitimate interest.”

“You may rest assured I have a legitimate interest.”

“Mr. Mason, I merely wanted to know what it was.”

Mason smiled. “I shall probably be the attorney for a claimant against the Faulkner Estate.”

“Probably?” Dixon asked.

“I haven’t as yet definitely accepted the case.”

“That makes your interest rather — shall we say, nebulous?”

“I wouldn’t say so,” Mason said.

“Well, of course, I wouldn’t have a difference of opinion with an attorney who has such an established reputation, Mr. Mason. So perhaps let us say you have your opinion and I shall try to keep an entirely open mind. I’m perfectly willing to be convinced.”

Mason said, “With two-thirds of the stock and complete control of the corporation, Faulkner, I guess, controlled the corporation with an iron hand?”

“There’s no law against guessing, Mr. Mason, none whatever. There are times when I find it a rather interesting occupation, although of course one hardly dares to reach a decision predicated solely upon a mere guess. One prefers to have facts to justify one’s opinion.”

“One does, indeed,” Mason said. “Therefore, one asks questions.”

“And receives answers,” Dixon told him suavely.

Mason’s eyes twinkled. “Not always the most definite answers that one would want.”

“That’s quite right, Mr. Mason. That’s something I myself have found repeatedly in my business dealings. For instance, you’ll remember I asked you about your interest in the unfortunate death of Harrington Faulkner. You stated, I believe, that you were considering representing a person who had a claim against the estate. May I ask the nature of that claim? I don’t think you told me.”

Mason said, “It involved a claim based upon a formula that was worked out for the cure of a fish disease.”

“Oh, Tom Gridley’s formula,” Dixon said.

“You seem to know a good deal about the business, Mr. Dixon.”

“As the person who represents a client whose financial eggs are virtually all in one basket, Mr. Mason, it behooves me to know a great deal about the details of the business.”

“Now, to go back,” Mason went on. “Faulkner was in the driver’s seat until suddenly, and I presume out of a clear sky, Genevieve Faulkner sued him for divorce. Quite evidently she must have had the goods on him.”

“The evidence in that case has all been introduced and a decision long since reached, Mr. Mason.”

“That decision must have been gall and wormwood to Harrington Faulkner. In place of controlling the corporation, he suddenly found that he was in the position of being a minority stockholder.”

“Of course,” Dixon pointed out somewhat smugly. “Since under the laws of this state man and wife are presumed to be partners, if the marriage is dissolved it becomes necessary for some sort of a settlement to be made.”

“And I presume,” Mason went on, “that with the constant threat being held over Faulkner’s head that you would go back into court and ask the judge to reopen the alimony settlement in the event of any failure on the part of Faulkner to accede to your wishes, you must have incurred Faulkner’s enmity.”

Once more the eyebrows went up. “I merely represent Genevieve’s investments. Naturally, I represent her interests to the best of my ability.”

“You talked with Faulkner occasionally?”

“Oh yes.”

“He told you many of the details of the business?”

“Naturally.”

“Did he come to you and tell you the details voluntarily, or did you ask him?”

“Well, of course, Mr. Mason, you’d hardly expect a man in Mr. Faulkner’s position to run to me with every little detail about his business.”

“But you were interested?”

“Quite naturally.”

“Therefore, I take it you asked him?”

“About the things I wanted to know, yes.”

“And that included virtually everything?”

“Really, Mr. Mason, I couldn’t say as to that, because naturally I don’t know how much I didn’t know. I only know the things I did know.”

And Dixon beamed at the lawyer with a manner that indicated he was trying his best to cooperate in giving Mason any information that was available.

“May I ask you when you last talked with Faulkner?” Mason asked.

Dixon’s face became as a wooden mask.

“Of course,” Mason said, “it’s a question that the police will ask sooner or later.”

Dixon carefully placed the tips of his fingers together, regarded his nails for a moment.

“I take it,” Mason said, “that you talked with him sometime yesterday evening.”

Dixon raised his eyes. “Really, Mr. Mason, what is the ground for that assumption?”

“Your hesitancy.”

“I was deliberating.”

Mason smiled. “The hesitancy may have been due to deliberation, but it was nevertheless a hesitation.”

“A very good point, Mr. Mason. A good point, indeed. I’m frank to admit that I was deliberating and therefore hesitating. I don’t know whether to answer your question or whether to reserve my answer until I am interrogated by the police.”

“Any particular reason why you shouldn’t tell me?”

“I was debating that with myself.”

“Anything to conceal?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then why conceal it?”

“I think that’s unfair, Mr. Mason. I am not concealing anything. I have answered your questions fully and frankly.”

“When did you last talk with Faulkner?”

“Well, Mr. Mason, as you have so shrewdly deduced, it was yesterday.”

“What time yesterday?”

“Now, do you mean when I talked with him personally, face to face?”

Mason said, “I want to know when you talked with him personally and I want to know when you talked with him over the telephone.”

“What makes you think there was a telephone conversation?”

“The fact that you differentiate between a conversation with him face to face and another conversation.”

Dixon said, “I’m afraid I’m no match for you, Mr. Mason. I’m afraid I’m in the hands of a very shrewd lawyer.”

“I am,” Mason said, “still waiting for an answer.”

“You have, of course, no official right to ask that question.”

“None whatever.”

“Perhaps I wouldn’t choose to answer it. What then?”

“Then,” Mason said, “I would ring up my friend, Lieutenant Tragg, tell him that you had seen Harrington Faulkner on the day he was murdered, perhaps on the evening he was murdered; that you had apparently talked with him over the telephone. And then I would hang up, shake hands with you, tell you I appreciated your cooperation, and go away.”

Once more, Dixon put his fingers together. Then he nodded his head, as though he had reached some definite decision. But he still remained silent, a chubby figure with a mask-like countenance, sitting behind a huge desk, slowly nodding his head in impressive acquiescence with himself.

Mason waited silently.

Dixon said at length, “You make a very powerful argument, Mr. Mason. You do indeed. You would make a good poker player. It would be hard to judge what was in your hand when you shoved your chips into the pot — very hard indeed.”

Mason said nothing.

Dixon nodded his head a few more times, then went on to say, “I will, of course, be called on eventually by the police. In fact, I have debated with myself whether I should telephone the police and tell them exactly what I know. You will, of course, be able to get all this information sooner or later, else I wouldn’t be talking to you. You still haven’t told me your exact interest in finding out the facts.”

Dixon suddenly looked up at Mason, his attitude that of a man who is courteously awaiting a reply to a routine question.

Mason sat absolutely silent.

Dixon drew his eyebrows together, looked down at his desk, then slowly shook his head in a gesture of negation, as though after giving the matter thoughtful consideration, Mason’s refusal to be more frank had caused him to reverse his former decision.

Still Mason said nothing.

Dixon looked up abruptly and failed to surprise any expression on the lawyer’s face.

Suddenly the business counselor put both hands flat on the desk, palms down, the gesture of a man who has definitely reached a decision. “Mr. Faulkner conferred with me several times yesterday, Mr. Mason.”

“In person?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“That goes beyond the scope of your original question, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said, “I am more concerned with the question than with the reason for asking it.”

Dixon raised and lowered his hands, the palms making little patting noises on the desk. “Well, Mr. Mason, it’s asking for a good deal, but, after all — Mr. Faulkner wanted to buy out Genevieve’s interest.”

“And you wanted to sell?”

“At a price, yes.”

“The price was in dispute?”

“Oh, very much.”

“Was there a wide difference?”

“Quite a wide range. You see, Mr. Faulkner had certain ideas as to the value of the stock. To be perfectly frank, Mr. Mason, he offered to sell his stock to us at a certain figure. Then he thought that in case we didn’t want to accept that offer, we should be willing to sell our stock at the same figure.”

“And you weren’t?”

“Oh, definitely not.”

“May I ask why?”

“It’s rather elemental, Mr. Mason. Mr. Faulkner was operating the company on a very profitable basis. He was receiving a salary that had not been raised during the past five years. Nor had Mr. Carson’s. If Genevieve had purchased Mr. Faulkner’s stock, Mr. Faulkner would then have been at liberty to step out into the commercial world and capitalize upon his own very remarkable business qualifications. He could even have built himself up another business which might well have been competitive to ours.

“On the other hand, when it came to fixing a price for which Genevieve Faulkner would be willing to sell her stock, I was forced to adopt the position that the value of the stock, so far as she was concerned, was predicated upon the income she was receiving from it, and if she were to sell out, she would want to get a sum of money which would draw an equal return. And, of course, investments are not nearly as profitable as they once were, nor do they have the element of safety. That made a wide difference, a very, very wide difference, Mr. Mason, between our selling price and our buying price.”

“I take it that made for some bad feeling?”

“Not bad feeling, Mr. Mason. Surely not bad feeling. It was merely a difference of opinion about a business transaction.”

“And you held the whip hand?”

“I’d hardly say that, Mr. Mason. We were perfectly willing to let matters go on in status quo.”

“But Faulkner found it very galling to be working for an inadequate salary...”

“Tut, tut, tut, Mr. Mason. The salary wasn’t inadequate, it was the same salary he had been drawing when he owned a two-thirds interest in the corporation.”

Mason’s eyes twinkled. “A salary which he had fixed so that Carson wouldn’t be in a position to ask for any salary increases.”

“I certainly don’t know what Mr. Faulkner had in mind. I only know that the arrangement which was made by all parties concerned when the divorce decree was granted by the court was that salaries could not be raised without Genevieve’s consent unless the court was called in to reopen the whole business.”

“I can imagine,” Mason said, “you had Harrington Faulkner in a position that was very, very disagreeable to him.”

“As I have stated several times before, Mr. Mason, I am not a mind reader, and I see no reason for speculating upon Mr. Faulkner’s ideas.”

“You saw him several times yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“In other words, the situation was approaching a crisis?”

“Well, Mr. Faulkner definitely wanted to do something.”

“Of course,” Mason said, “if Faulkner had bought Genevieve’s stock, he would then once more have been a two-thirds owner in the company. Faulkner would have been in a position to have got rid of Carson, and firing him would have been a perfect answer to Carson’s lawsuit.”

“As a lawyer,” Dixon purred, “you doubtless see possibilities which, as a layman, I would not see. My own interest in the matter was simply to get the best possible price for my client in the event a sale was to be made.”

“You weren’t interested in buying Faulkner’s interest?”

“Frankly, we were not.”

“Not at any price?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

“In other words, what with Faulkner’s quarrel with Carson, the various and sundry suits Carson had been filing, and the situation in which your client found herself, you were in a position to force Faulkner to buy at your price?”

Dixon said nothing.

“It was something in the nature of a legalized holdup,” Mason went on, as though thinking out loud.

Dixon straightened in the chair as though Mason had struck him. “My dear Mr. Mason! I was merely representing the interests of my client. There was no longer the slightest affection between her and Mr. Faulkner. I mention that merely to show that there was no reason for any sentiment to be mixed with the business matter.”

“All right. You saw Faulkner several times during the day. When was the last time you talked with him?”

“Over the telephone.”

“About what time?”

“At approximately... well, sometime between eight and eight-fifteen. I can’t fix the time any closer than that.”

“Between eight and eight-fifteen?” Mason said, his voice showing his interest.

“That’s right.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Well, I told him that in the event any sale was going to be consummated, we wanted to have the matter disposed of at once; that if the matter wasn’t terminated before midnight, we would consider that there was no use taking up further time with discussions.”

“And what did Faulkner say?”

“Faulkner told me that he would be over to see me between ten and eleven; that he wanted to look in very briefly on a banquet of goldfish fanciers, after which he had an appointment. He said that when he saw me he would be in a position to make us a final offer. That if we didn’t accept the proposition he’d make us at that time, he would consider the matter closed.”

“Did he say anything about anyone else being there with him at the time you phoned?”

“No, sir. He did not.”

“That conversation might have been as late as eight-fifteen?”

“Yes.”

“Or as early as eight o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“Earlier than eight o’clock?”

“I’m quite sure it wasn’t, because I remember looking at my watch at eight and speculating whether I’d hear any more from Mr. Faulkner that evening.”

“And you don’t think it was later than eight-fifteen?”

“At eight-fifteen, Mr. Mason, I tuned in a radio program in which I was interested, so I’m quite certain of the time there.”

“There’s no question but what it was Harrington Faulkner with whom you were talking?”

“No question whatever.”

“I take it Faulkner didn’t keep his appointment with you?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“That caused you some concern?”

“Well, Mr. Mason,” Dixon said, running his chunky, capable fingers through his white hair, “I see no reason why I shouldn’t be frank with you. I was — disappointed.”

“But you didn’t call Mr. Faulkner back?”

“No indeed I did not. I was keeping myself in the position of — well, I didn’t want to show any eagerness whatever. The deal which I had previously outlined to Mr. Faulkner would have been quite profitable if it had gone through.”

“Can you remember exactly what Faulkner said over the telephone?”

“Yes, he said that he had planned on attending a rather important meeting that night and was just getting dressed to go out to it. That he would much prefer to attend that meeting, keep his appointment and conclude his deal with us some time today.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I didn’t think that would be satisfactory to my client because today was Saturday. He then said he’d be here between ten and eleven.”

“Would you mind telling me the amount of the price you had fixed?”

“I don’t think that needs to enter into it, Mr. Mason.”

“Or the price at which Faulkner was willing to sell?”

“Really, Mr. Mason, I’m quite certain it would have no bearing on the matter.”

“How much of a difference was there between the two figures?”

“Oh, a very substantial amount.”

“When was Faulkner here personally?”

“About three o’clock in the afternoon, I believe it was — the last time — for just a few minutes.”

“You had already made Faulkner your proposition?”

“Yes.”

“And he had made you his?”

“Yes.”

“How long was the interview?”

“Not more than five minutes.”

“Did Faulkner see his wife — I mean his former wife?”

“Not at that interview.”

“Had he seen her at any other interview during the day?”

“I believe he did — the meeting was by chance. I think Mr. Faulkner called about eleven o’clock in the morning and, as I remember it, encountered his wife — that is, his former wife, on the porch.”

“And they talked for awhile?”

“I believe so.”

“Is it fair to ask what they talked about?”

“I’m quite certain, Mr. Mason, that’s between Genevieve and her husband.”

“And might I see Genevieve to ask her a few questions?”

“For a man whose interest in Faulkner’s estate is as nebulous as yours, if you’ll permit me to say so, Mr. Mason, you want to cover quite a bit of territory.”

Mason said, “I want to see Genevieve Faulkner.”

“Are you, by any chance, representing someone who is charged with the murder of Mr. Faulkner?”

“So far as I know, no one has been charged with the murder of Mr. Faulkner.”

“You are, however, aware of the probability that someone may be charged with such murder?”

“Naturally.”

“And that someone might become, or might even now be a client of yours?”

Mason smiled. “I might be tempted to represent some person who is charged with the murder of Mr. Faulkner.”

Dixon said quite definitely, “I don’t think I would like that.”

Mason’s silence was significant.

Dixon said, “Things which one would discuss without hesitancy with a lawyer who was planning merely to represent a claim against the estate of Harrington Faulkner are hardly the same things which one would discuss with a lawyer who was planning to represent a person who was going to be accused of the murder of Harrington Faulkner.”

“Suppose that person were unjustly accused?” Mason suggested.

“That,” Dixon said self-righteously, “is something that would be left to a jury.”

“Let’s leave it to the jury, then,” Mason said, grinning. “I should like very much to see Genevieve Faulkner.”

“I’m afraid that is impossible.”

“I take it that she has no interest in the estate.”

Dixon’s eyes abruptly shifted to his desk. “Why do you ask that, Mr. Mason?”

“Does she?”

“I would say she had none — unless Harrington Faulkner’s will provided otherwise — which is very unlikely. Genevieve Faulkner has no interest whatever in the estate of Harrington Faulkner. In other words, she has no possible motive for murder.”

Mason grinned. “That wasn’t what I asked.”

Dixon matched his smile. “That was, however, the answer I gave.”

Knuckles tapped lightly and in a perfunctory manner upon the door, and a half second later, without waiting for any answer, that door was opened by a woman who entered the room with all the assurance of one who belonged there.

A frown of annoyance crossed Dixon’s face. “I have no dictation today, Miss Smith,” he said.

Mason turned to look at the woman who had entered. She was slender and very attractive, somewhere in that vaguely indefinite period which is between forty-five and fifty-five. And, for a brief instant, Mason caught the flicker of a puzzled expression on her face as she stood looking from Dixon to the lawyer.

Mason was on his feet instantly. “Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Faulkner?”

“No, thank you. I... I...”

Mason turned to Dixon. “You’ll pardon me for reaching the obvious conclusion.”

Dixon admitted somewhat dourly that the name “Smith” had perhaps been a bit unfortunate. “Genevieve, my dear, this is Perry Mason, an attorney, a very skillful, clever attorney who has called on me to secure information about Harrington Faulkner. He asked permission to see you and I told him that I saw no reason for granting an interview.”

Mason said, “If she has anything to conceal, it’s bound to come out sooner or later, Dixon, and...”

“She has nothing to conceal.”

“Are you,” Mason asked of Genevieve Faulkner, “interested in goldfish?”

Dixon said, “She is not interested in goldfish.”

Mrs. Faulkner smiled serenely at Perry Mason and said, “It would seem that Mr. Mason is the one who is interested in fishing. And so, if you gentlemen will pardon me, I’ll retire and return when Mr. Dixon isn’t engaged.”

“I’m leaving right now,” Mason said, getting to his feet and bowing. “I wasn’t aware that Mr. Faulkner had had such an attractive first wife.”

“Neither was Mr. Faulkner,” Dixon said dryly, and then stood rigidly erect and silent while Mason bowed himself out of the room.