The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

18

Late afternoon sunlight was throwing somewhat vague shadows from the palm trees on the lawn against the stuccoed side of the residence of Wilfred Dixon when Mason parked his car, walked up the steps to the porch and calmly rang the bell.

Wilfred Dixon opened the door, said rather formally, “Good afternoon, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said, “I’m back.”

“I’m engaged at the moment.”

“I have,” Mason announced, “more chips. I want to sit in the game again.”

“I’ll be glad to accommodate you some time this evening. Perhaps around eight o’clock, Mr. Mason?”

“That,” Mason announced, “won’t be satisfactory. I want to see you now.”

Dixon shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said, “The last time I saw you I made a bluff and you called it. This time I’ve got more chips and I think I have better cards.”

“Indeed.”

Mason said, “Thinking back on your conversation, I am impressed by the very skillful way in which you led me to believe that you never for a moment considered buying Faulkner’s interest in the company, but only selling Genevieve’s interest to him.”

“Well?” Dixon asked, acting as though he were on the point of closing the door.

Mason said, “It was a rather clever piece of work, but the only reason you would have had for being interested in the bullet which Carson had concealed in the fish tank would have been because you wanted to have some definite hold on Carson, and the only reason that I can think of for wanting to have such a hold would be either because you or Genevieve had fired the shot, or because you intended to buy out Faulkner, and when you bought him out wanted to have a strangle-hold on Carson so you could freeze him out without his being able to fight back.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Mason, that your reasoning is entirely fallacious. However, I’ll be glad to discuss it with you this evening.”

“And,” Mason said, “so that the deal would look better for income tax purposes, you arranged to give Faulkner a check for twenty-five thousand more than the price that was actually agreed upon and have Faulkner bring you twenty-five thousand dollars in cash.”

Wilfred Dixon’s eyes closed and opened three times, as though they might have been regulated by clockwork. “Come in,” he invited. “Mrs. Genevieve Faulkner is with me at the moment. I saw no reason to disturb her, but perhaps we’d better get this over with once and for all.”

“Perhaps we had,” Mason said.

Mason followed Dixon into the room, shook hands with Genevieve Faulkner, calmly seated himself, lit a cigarette and said, “So, of course, having received the twenty-five thousand dollars from Faulkner in a deal which was completely fraudulent because it had for its primary purpose an attempt to defraud the Collector of Internal Revenue, you inadvertently paid Sally Madison two thousand dollars in cash from the twenty-five thousand which Faulkner had previously delivered to you. Now, that means that you must have seen Faulkner either at his house or at some other place, subsequent to the time Sally Madison left Faulkner’s residence, and before you paid the money over to Sally Madison out here.”

Dixon smiled and shook his head at Genevieve Faulkner. “I don’t know just what he’s driving at, Genevieve,” he said calmly. “Apparently it’s some last-minute theory he’s using to try and get his client acquitted. I thought perhaps you’d better hear it.”

“The man seems to be crazy,” Genevieve Faulkner said.

“Let’s go back and look at the evidence,” Mason said. “Faulkner was very anxious to attend a banquet where some goldfish experts were to talk and where he was to mingle with some other goldfish collectors. He was in such a hurry that he wouldn’t even discuss matters with Sally Madison. He rushed her out of the house. He had drawn the water for his bath. He had shaved but part of his face, still had lather on it. It’s reasonable to suppose that after he put Sally Madison out, he washed his face. Then, before he had had a chance to clean his razor, before he had had a chance to take off his clothes and hastily jump into his hot bath, the telephone rang.

“Whatever was said over the telephone was something that was of the greatest importance to Harrington Faulkner. It was something that caused him to forego his bath, to put on his shirt, tie and coat and go dashing out to meet the person who had telephoned. That person must have been either you, Genevieve, or both. He paid over the twenty-five thousand dollars, and then returned to his house. By that time it was too late to attend the banquet. The water, which had been hot in the bathtub when he had drawn it some time before, had now become cold.

“Harrington Faulkner had another appointment he didn’t care to miss. But he had an hour or so before that appointment. He decided that he’d treat a fish that had tail rot, and then segregate that fish from the others. The treatment for tail rot is to immerse the fish in equal parts of hydrogen of peroxide and water. So Faulkner once more took off his coat and shirt, went to the kitchen, got a graniteware pot, put equal parts of hydrogen of peroxide in water in it, immersed the fish in that water, and then, when the treatment was finished, put that fish in the bathtub.

“At that point, Faulkner remembered that he had given a thousand-dollar check payable to Tom Gridley, which he hadn’t entered on the stub of his checkbook and therefore hadn’t deducted from his bank account. In view of the twenty-five-thousand dollar withdrawal, the balance in his checking account had been diminished materially, and he wanted to be certain that he kept right up to date on it. So he got his checkbook, took his fountain pen from the pocket of his coat, and picked up a magazine to use as a backer so he could write. He found that one magazine wasn’t enough, so at random, he picked up two old magazines. There was some reason why he remained in the bathroom to write that check stub. It probably had to do with the exact timing of his fish treatment. He was writing on the stub of that check when he was killed.”

Dixon yawned and politely stifled the yawn with his forefinger. “I’m afraid, Mr. Mason, you’re not getting anywhere with that theory.”

Mason said, “Perhaps not, but my own idea is that once the police start questioning Mrs. Genevieve Faulkner along the lines of that theory of mine, they’ll either force her to disgorge that other twenty-three thousand dollars and make a statement which will clarify the situation, or they’ll start searching the place and find the twenty-three thousand dollars.”

With elaborate courtesy, Dixon moved over toward the phone. “Would you like to have me call the police and suggest that to them?”

Mason looked him squarely in the eyes. “Yes,” he said, “and when you make the cad, ask for Lieutenant Tragg.”

Dixon shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid, Mason, that you want us to play into your hands. On second thought, I’ve decided that I’m simply not going to have anything to do with this.”

Mason grinned. “You made a bluff, just as I did yesterday, and this time I’m calling it. When you called me, I actually telephoned Tragg. Now go ahead and be as good a sport as I was.”

“You’re too anxious,” Dixon said, and walked back to his chair.

Mason said, “All right, if you won’t do it, I’d do it.”

“Go right ahead.”

Mason moved over to the telephone, turned back over his shoulder and said, “That one-thousand dollar check to Tom Gridley is the payoff. You didn’t want to buy the business and have any possible claims outstanding that might involve litigation. So you telephoned Tom Gridley and asked him if he’d accept a thousand dollars by way of a complete settlement. Gridley said he would. So you had Faulkner sign a check for that amount right here, which you mailed to Gridley. But when you learned Faulkner had been murdered, you had to get that check back. At the time you didn’t realize you were gambling with Sally Madison’s life. You only knew that if you could keep it from becoming known that Faulkner had rushed out here, you would be in a position to keep twenty-three thousand dollars in cold, hard cash, and still have plenty of opportunity to buy the business at your own price from Faulkner’s estate.”

Dixon said, “Come, come, Mr. Mason. This is being said in the presence of a witness. Tomorrow I shall sue you for defamation of character. You must have something on which to pin such a fantastic story.”

Mason said, “I have the word of my client.”

Dixon smiled. “For a veteran lawyer, you’re most susceptible to feminine charm.”

Mason said, “And I also have some shrewd deduction. You got up this morning and went to the corner drug store for breakfast. You were there an hour. That’s a long time to eat a light breakfast at a corner drug store. When I drove up, I looked the drug store over. There’s a mail box in front of it. The hour of the first mail collection in the morning is seven forty-five. I think the mailman who collects the mail will be able to testify that when he opened the box you were there with a plausible story and a bribe. You had inadvertently mailed a letter to Thomas Gridley. It had a check in it, but there was a mistake on the check. You wanted to rectify it. You convinced the man of your identity, of the fact that you had mailed the letter. That is a hunch, but when I play poker, I play hunches. And now I’m going to call Lieutenant Tragg.”

Mason picked up the telephone receiver, dialed Operator, and said, “Get me the police. This is an emergency.”

For a moment the room was completely silent, then suddenly a chair overturned. Mason looked back over his shoulder to see the squat, athletic form of Wilfred Dixon coming at him with a rush.

The lawyer dropped the receiver, swung in a body pivot, and at the same time jerked his head to one side.

Dixon’s punch missed Mason’s chin, went harmlessly over Mason’s shoulder. Mason’s right hand sank into the pit of Dixon’s stomach. Then, as the business counselor folded up, Mason jerked back his arm, raised his shoulder, and caught the man a terrific uppercut.

Dixon dropped to the floor with a thud that was as inanimate as the sound of a flour sack falling to the floor.

Mrs. Genevieve Faulkner sat very calmly, her knees crossed, eyes slightly narrowed, an expression of concentration on her face. She said, “You’re a rough player, Mr. Mason — but I always did like men who could take care of themselves. Perhaps you and I could talk a little business.”

Mason didn’t even bother to answer. He picked up the dangling receiver, said, “Police headquarters? Get me Lieutenant Tragg of Homicide, and get him in a hurry.”