The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

2

Mason said to Faulkner, “You haven’t even read the papers that process server handed you.”

Faulkner made a gesture of dismissal. “I don’t have to. It’s just part of a campaign to annoy me.”

“What’s he suing for?”

“A hundred thousand dollars, the man who served the papers said.”

Mason said, “You’re not interested enough to read them?”

“I’m not interested in anything Elmer Carson does to annoy me.”

“Tell me about the goldfish,” Mason said.

Faulkner said, “The Veiltail Moor Telescope is a prized goldfish. The uninitiated would hardly consider him a goldfish. He isn’t gold. He’s black.”

“All over?” Mason asked.

“Even the eyes.”

“What’s a Telescope fish?” Drake asked.

“A species of goldfish that has been developed by breeding. They’re called Telescopes because the eyes protrude from the sockets, sometimes as much as a quarter of an inch.”

“Isn’t that rather — unprepossessing?” Della Street asked.

“It might be to the uninitiated. Some people have called the Veiltail Moor Telescope the Fish of Death. Pure superstition. Just the way people react to the black color.”

“I don’t think I’d like them,” Della Street said.

“Some people don’t,” Faulkner agreed, as though the subject held no particular interest. “Waiter, will you please bring my order over to this table?”

“Yes, sir. And the lady’s order?”

“Serve it to her over there.”

Mason said, “After all, Faulkner, I’m not certain I like that method of handling the situation. Regardless of what the girl is, you’re dining with her, and...”

“That’s all right. She won’t mind. She isn’t the least bit interested in what I’m going to talk about.”

“What is she interested in?” Mason asked.

“Cash.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sally Madison.”

“And she is putting the bite on you?” Mason asked.

“I’ll say she is.”

“Yet you take her out to dinner?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“And walk away and leave her?” Della Street asked.

“I want to discuss business. She wouldn’t be interested. She understands the situation thoroughly. There’s no need of any concern about her.”

Drake glanced at Perry Mason. The waiter brought him his mince pie and coffee, shrimp cocktails to Della Street and Mason and consommé to Harrington Faulkner.

Over at the table Faulkner had vacated, Sally Madison completed her make-up, sat with a carefully cultivated expression of demure rectitude frozen on her face. She seemed to have no further interest in Harrington Faulkner or the party he had joined.

“You don’t seem to have any hard feelings,” Mason said.

“Oh, I don’t,” Faulkner hastily disclaimed. “She’s a very nice young woman — as golddiggers go.”

Mason said, “If you’re not going to read that complaint and summons, suppose you let me glance through it.”

Faulkner passed it across the table. Mason unfolded the papers, glanced through them, said, “It seems that this Elmer Carson says that you’ve repeatedly accused him of tampering with your goldfish; that the accusation is false and has been made with malice; that Carson wants ten thousand dollars as actual damages and ninety thousand dollars by way of punitive damages.”

Faulkner seemed to have only a detached interest in the claims made against him by Elmer Carson. “You can’t believe a word he says,” he explained.

“Just who is he?”

“He was my partner.”

“In the goldfish business?”

“Good heavens, no. The goldfish is just my own hobby. We have a real-estate business. It’s incorporated. We each own one-third of the stock and the balance is held by Genevieve Faulkner.”

“Your wife?”

Faulkner cleared his throat, said with some embarrassment, “My former wife. I was divorced five years ago.”

“And you and Carson aren’t getting along?”

“No. For some reason there’s been a sudden change in him. I’ve made Carson an ultimatum. He can submit a buy-or-sell offer. He’s jockeying around to get the best price available. Those are minor matters, Mr. Mason. I can handle them. I want to see you about protecting my fish.”

“Not about the slander suit?”

“No, no. That’s all right. I have ten days on that. Lots can happen in ten days.”

“Not about the golddigger?”

“No. She’s all right. I’m not worried about her.”

“Just about the goldfish?”

“That’s right. Only, you understand, Mr. Mason, the partner and the golddigger enter into it.”

“Why the concern about the goldfish?”

“Mr. Mason, I’ve raised this particular strain of Veiltail Moor Telescopes and I’m proud of them. You have no idea of the thought and labor that have gone into developing this particular fish, and now they’re threatened with extinction by gill disease, and that disease has been deliberately introduced into my aquarium by Elmer Carson.”

“He says in his complaint,” Mason said, “that you accuse him of deliberately trying to kill your fish, and it’s for that he’s asking damages.”

“Well, he did it all right.”

“Can you,” Mason asked, “prove it?”

“Probably not,” Faulkner admitted glumly.

“In that event,” Mason told him, “you might be stuck for a large sum by way of damages.”

“I suppose so,” Faulkner admitted readily enough, as though the matter held no immediate interest for him.

“You don’t seem particularly worried about it,” Mason said.

“There’s no use crossing bridges like that before you come to them,” Faulkner said. “I’m in enough trouble already. Perhaps, however, I haven’t made my position entirely clear. The things Carson does to annoy me don’t mean a thing to me. I am interested right now in saving my fish. Carson knows they are dying. In fact, it is because of him that they are dying. He knows that I want to remove them for treatment. So he has filed a suit, claiming the fish are the property of the corporation and not my individual property. That is, he claims the fish are affixed to the partnership real property and that I have threatened to and will, unless restrained, tear out the tank and remove the fish and tank from the premises. Because this constitutes a severance of the real property, he has flimflammed a judge into giving him a temporary restraining order... And hang it, Mason, he’s right. The confounded tank is affixed to the property... I want you to beat that restraining order. I want to establish tide to the fish and the tank as my own individual property. I want that restraining order smashed and smashed hard and quick, and I think you’re the man to do it.”

Mason glanced across to the girl at the table Faulkner had left. She seemed to be taking no interest in the conversation. A look of synthetic, motionless innocence was frozen on her face as painting is glazed on a china cup.

“You’re married?” Mason asked Faulkner. “I mean you’ve remarried since your divorce?”

“Oh, yes.”

“When did you start playing around with Sally Madison?” Faulkner’s face showed a brief flicker of surprise. “Playing around with Sally Madison?” he repeated almost incredulously. “Good Heavens, I’m not playing around with her.”

“I thought you said she was a golddigger.”

“She is.”

“And that she was putting the bite on you?”

“Indeed she is.”

Mason said, “I’m afraid you’re not clarifying the situation very much,” and then, reaching a sudden decision, added, “if you people will excuse me, and there’s no objection on the part of Mr. Faulkner, I think I’ll go talk to the golddigger and get her ideas on the case.”

Waiting only for Della Street’s nod and not so much as glancing at Faulkner, Mason left the table and crossed over to where Sally Madison was seated.

“Good evening,” he said. “My name is Mason. I’m a lawyer.”

Long lashes swept upward, dark eyes regarded the lawyer with the unabashed frankness of a speculator looking over a piece of property. “Yes, I know. You’re Perry Mason, the lawyer.”

“May I sit down?”

“Please do.”

Mason drew up a chair.

“I think,” he said, “I’m going to like this case.”

“I hope you do. Mr. Faulkner needs a good lawyer.”

“But,” Mason pointed out, “if I agreed to represent Mr. Faulkner, it might conflict with your interest.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“It might, therefore, cut down the amount of money you’d receive.”

“Oh, I think not,” she said with all the assurance of a person who occupied an impregnable position.

Mason glanced quizzically at her. “How much,” he asked, “do you want out of Mr. Faulkner?”

“Today it’s five thousand dollars.”

Mason smiled. “Why the accent on today? What was it yesterday?”

“Four thousand.”

“And the day before?”

“Three.”

“And what will it be tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. I think he’ll give me the five thousand tonight.”

Mason studied the expressionless countenance, heavy with make-up. His eyes showed he was taking a keen interest in the entire affair. “Faulkner says you’re a golddigger.”

“Yes, he would think so.”

“Are you?”

“Perhaps. I really don’t know. Probably I am. But if Mr. Faulkner wants to throw brickbats around, let him tell you about himself. He’s a tight-fisted, miserly, overbearing— Oh, what’s the use! You wouldn’t understand.”

Mason laughed outright. “I’m trying,” he said, “to make heads or tails out of this case. So far I don’t seem to be having very much success. Now will you please tell me what it’s all about?”

She said, “My connection with it is very simple. I want money out of Harrington Faulkner.”

“And just why do you think Faulkner should give you money?”

“He wants his goldfish to get well, doesn’t he?”

“Apparently, but I’m afraid I don’t see the connection.”

For the first time since Mason had seated himself, some expression struggled through the glazed make-up of her face. “Mr. Mason, did you ever see someone whom you loved sick with tuberculosis?”

Mason’s eyes were puzzled. He shook his head. “Go on,” he said.

“Harrington Faulkner has money. So much money that he’d never miss five thousand dollars. He’s spent thousands of dollars on his hobby. Heaven knows how much he’s spent on these black goldfish alone. Not only is he rich but he’s stinking rich, and he hasn’t the faintest idea of how to enjoy his money or how to spend it so it would do him or anyone else any good. He’ll just keep on piling it up until some day he’ll die and that granite-hearted wife of his will fall heir to it. He’s a miser except on his goldfish. And in the meantime Tom Gridley has T.B. The doctor says he needs absolute rest, freedom from worry, complete relaxation. How much chance does Tom stand of getting any of that while he’s working at twenty-seven dollars a week, nine hours a day, in a pet store which is damp and smelly... He hasn’t had a chance to get out in the sunlight except a few brief snatches he can get on Sundays. That, of course, isn’t enough even to help.

“Mr. Faulkner goes into spasms because a few black goldfish are dying of gill disease, but he’d watch Tom die of T.B. and simply ignore the whole thing as being none of his concern.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“That’s all there is to it.”

“But what,” Mason asked, “does Tom Gridley have to do with Harrington Faulkner?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“No.”

She sighed with exasperation. “That’s what he went over there to tell you about.”

Mason said, “Perhaps it’s my fault. I got off on the wrong tangent. I thought you were trying to blackmail him.”

“I am,” she said with calm candor.

“But apparently not the way I thought,” Mason explained.

She said, “Do you know anything about goldfish, Mr. Mason?”

“Not a darn thing,” Mason admitted.

“Neither do I,” she said, “but Tom knows all about them. The goldfish that are Mr. Faulkner’s most prized possession have some sort of a gill disease and Tom has a treatment that will cure it. The only other treatment is a copper sulphate treatment that quite frequently proves fatal to the fish, and is of doubtful value as far as the disease is concerned. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Tell me about Tom’s treatment.”

“It’s a secret, but I can tell you this much. In place of being a harsh treatment that shocks the fish, it’s a gentle treatment that is thoroughly beneficial. Of course, one of the problems of treating fish by putting things in the water is that the remedy has to be thoroughly mixed with the water, and then, the minute you let it settle, it is apt to concentrate in the wrong places. If the remedy is heavier than water it will settle to the bottom, or if it’s lighter it will rise to the top.”

“And how does Tom get away from that?” Mason asked, interested.

“I can tell you that much. He paints the remedy he uses on a plastic panel which is inserted into the fish tank and then the panels are changed at certain intervals.”

“And it works?” Mason asked.

“I’ll say it works. It worked with Mr. Faulkner’s fish.”

“But I thought they were still sick.”

“They are.”

“Then it wouldn’t seem that the remedy worked.”

“Oh, but it does. You see, Tom wanted to go ahead and cure the fish entirely, but I wouldn’t let him. I gave Mr. Faulkner just enough of the remedy to keep them from dying, and then I told him that if he wanted to finance Tom in the invention we’d let him have a half interest in it and he could put it on the market. Tom’s one of these simple souls who trusts everyone. He’s a chemist and is always experimenting with remedies. He worked out one remedy for distemper and simply gave it to David Rawlins, the man who was running the pet shop. Rawlins just said ‘Thank you,’ and didn’t even give Tom a raise. Of course, you can’t blame him very much because I can understand his problem. He doesn’t have a large volume of business and there isn’t a whole lot of money to be made out of pets unless you have a huge place, but he works Tom terribly hard and... Well, after all, the man’s making some money out of this invention of Tom’s for distemper.”

“Those two the only things Tom’s invented?” Mason asked.

“No, no, he’s done other things but somebody always gyps him out of them... Well, this time I decided things would be different. I am going to take charge of the thing myself. Mr. Faulkner could give Tom five thousand outright and then pay him a royalty to boot. I’m willing to let the five thousand be considered as an advance payment against one half of the royalties, but only against one-half.”

“I don’t suppose there are a great number of goldfish fanciers in the country,” Mason said.

“Oh, but I think there are. I think that lots of people collect them as a hobby.”

“But do you think there’s enough gill disease to enable Mr. Faulkner to break even on an investment of that size?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. All I’m interested in is seeing that Tom gets a chance to go out into the country, some place where there’s sunshine and fresh air. He’s got to go where he can take life easy for a while. If he does, they tell me he can be cured absolutely. If he doesn’t, things will go from bad to worse until finally it will be too late. I’m giving Mr. Faulkner an opportunity to cure those prize fish of his and to have a remedy that will enable him to build up his strain without danger of future infection, and that’s worth a lot to him. When you consider what he’s spent on them, I’m letting him off cheap.”

Mason smiled. “But you’re boosting the ante on him one thousand dollars a day?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Why?”

“He’s trying to blackmail me. He says Tom worked out his invention while he was working for Rawlins and that, therefore, the invention belongs to Rawlins and unless Tom cures his fish, then Mr. Faulkner will buy an interest in Rawlins’ store and sue Tom for his invention. Mr. Faulkner is a hard man, and I’m dealing with him in the only way he’ll understand — the hard way.”

“And just what is Tom Gridley to you?” Mason asked.

She met his eyes steadily. “My boy friend.”

Mason chuckled. “Well,” he said, “it’s no wonder Faulkner thinks you’re a golddigger. I thought from the way he talked that he’d been making passes at you and that you were holding him up.”

Her eyes flickered somewhat scornfully over to where Harrington Faulkner was sitting, stiffly uncomfortable, at the table. “Mr. Faulkner,” she announced with cold finality, “never made passes at anyone,” and then, after a moment, qualified by adding, “except a goldfish.”

Mason smiled. “The man’s married?”

“That’s what I mean. A goldfish.”

“His wife?”

“Yes.”

The waiter appeared with food on a tray. “Shall I serve you at this table?” he inquired of Mason.

Mason looked over to where Harrington Faulkner had turned to regard proceedings at the other table, apparently with anxiety. “If you don’t mind,” he said to Sally Madison, “I’ll return to my table, and send Mr. Faulkner back to join you. I don’t think I’ll take his case.”

“You don’t need to send him back,” Sally Madison said. “Tell him to send over his check for five thousand bucks, and tell him from me that I’m going to wait here until I get it, or until his damn black goldfish turn belly up.”

“I’ll tell him,” Mason promised, and, excusing himself, returned to his own table.

Faulkner glanced at him questioningly.

Mason nodded. “I don’t know just what you want,” he said, “but I’ll at least look into the matter — after I’ve had something to eat.”

“We could talk right here,” Faulkner said.

Mason’s nod indicated Sally Madison sitting alone at the other table. “After I’ve had something to eat,” he repeated, “and I take it you didn’t want me to try and work out any terms with Miss Madison, because, if you did, I’m not interested.”

Faulkner said, “Sally Madison’s proposition amounts to blackmail.”

“I dare say it does,” Mason agreed calmly. “There’s a lot of blackmail in the world.”

Faulkner said bitterly, “I suppose she’s played upon your sympathies. After all, her face and her figure are her biggest asset, and how well she knows it!” And then he added somewhat bitterly, “Personally, I don’t see what people can see in that type.”

Mason merely grinned. “Personally,” he announced, “I have never collected goldfish.”