The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

3

A thick pea-soup fog had settled down upon the streets of the city until it seemed that Mason’s automobile was swimming slowly through a sea of watered milk. The windshield wipers were busily beating a monotonous rhythm of cold protest against the clammy surface of the windshield. Some fifty feet ahead, the red taillight of Harrington Faulkner’s automobile served as a guiding beacon.

“He’s a slow driver,” Della Street said.

“An advantage in weather of this kind,” Mason agreed.

Drake laughed. “Bet the guy never took a chance in his life. He’s a cold-blooded, meticulous bird with an ice water personality. I almost died when I saw him kick through over there at the table with that golddigger. How much did she nick him for, Perry?”

“I don’t know.”

“Judging from the expression on his face when he took out his checkbook,” Della said, “it must have been just about what the girl asked for. She certainly didn’t waste any time once she got her hands on the check. She didn’t even wait to finish her dinner.”

“No,” Mason said, “she didn’t make any bones about it. Her interest in Harrington Faulkner was purely financial.”

“And when we get out to his house, just what are we supposed to do?” Drake wanted to know.

Mason grinned. “I’ll bite, Paul, but he feels that he has to show us the location of the goldfish tank before we can understand his problem. It seems that’s an important phase of the case as far as he’s concerned, and when he gets an idea, he gets it all the way. As I gather it, Faulkner and his wife live in a large duplex house. One side is their living quarters and the other is where Faulkner and his partner, Elmer Carson, have their office. Apparently, Faulkner has various goldfish tanks scattered around the place and this particular pair of Veiltail Moors that is the cause of all the excitement is in part of the building that was used as an office. For some reason, Faulkner wants us to see the tank and the fish, and he has to have things done just so or not at all. It’s just the way he’s made.”

Drake said, “Faulkner’s a self-contained little cuss. You’d think it would take more than an ordinary jolt to send him running to a lawyer, all steamed up. What I mean is, he’s the sort you’d expect to find making an appointment two days in advance and keeping that appointment to the exact second.”

Mason said, “He evidently thinks more of that pair of Veiltail Moors than he does of his right eye. However, we’ll get the details when we get out to his house. My own idea is there’s something on his mind other than these fish and the affair with his partner, but I’m not going to stick my neck out until I see what’s in the offing.”

The taillight of the car ahead veered abruptly to the right. Mason piloted his car around the corner. They drove down a side street, pulled to a stop in front of a house which showed in misty outlines through the fog. Mason, Della Street and Paul Drake jumped out of the automobile, watched Harrington Faulkner carefully lock the ignition of his car, then lock the car door, following which he walked completely around the automobile, trying each of the doors to make sure it was locked. He even tried the trunk to make sure that it too was firmly bolted. Then he moved over to join them, a precise, gray-headed little man with calm, unhurried demeanor and studied precision in every move he made.

Having joined them, he took a leather key container from his pocket, carefully slid the zipper around the edges, took out a key and said in the precise tones of a lecturer explaining something to an audience in which he had only an impersonal interest, “Now, Mr. Mason, you will notice that there are two outer doors to this house, the one on the left bears the sign ‘FAULKNER AND CARSON, INCORPORATED, REALTORS.’ The door on the right is the door to my house.”

“Where does Elmer Carson live?” Mason asked.

“A few blocks down the street.”

“I notice,” Mason pointed out, “that the house is dark.”

“Yes,” Faulkner said tonelessly, “my wife evidently isn’t home.”

“Now the particular fish about which you are mainly concerned,” Mason went on, “are the black Veiltail Moors which are in the tank or aquarium that is in the office?”

“That’s right, and Elmer Carson claims the tank is an office fixture and that the fish are a part of the office furnishings. He’s secured a restraining order keeping me from moving any fixture or even tampering with them.”

“The fish were raised entirely by you?”

“Correct.”

“Carson made no financial contribution?”

“None whatever. The fish were raised from a strain which I developed. However, the tank, Mr. Mason, was billed to the corporation as an article of office furniture, and it is so fastened to the building that it probably would be considered a fixture. It is, you will understand, an oblong tank some three feet by two feet and four feet deep. There was a recess in the wall of the building, a place which was occupied by a china closet and which certainly added nothing to our office. I suggested that this closet could be removed and an aquarium inserted in the space. This was done with Carson’s approval and co-operation. When the bills came in, without thinking, I okayed them as an office expense, and, unfortunately, they were so carried on our books and in our income tax report. The tank is undoubtedly affixed to the building, and the building is owned by the corporation.”

“The entire building?” Mason asked.

“Yes. I have taken a lease on the other side of it where I live.”

“Then how did it happen that you put such valuable fish in the tank that was a part of the office?”

“Well, you see, Mr. Mason, it’s rather a long story. Originally, I put in a water garden in the bottom of the tank, a device to aerate the water and an assortment of some two dozen various types of interesting goldfish — the Fringetail, the Chinese Telescope, some Japanese Comets, some Nymphs and some Autumn Brocades. Then I developed these Veiltail Moor Telescopes, and suddenly found that other fish in another tank in which they were kept had developed something which looked suspiciously like gill fever, or rather a gill disease, since the fish really had passed the gill fever stage. I wanted some place to move these Moors at once where I could have them under observation; and, without thinking of the possible legal complications, I cleaned out the other fish and inserted these Veiltail Moors in the office tank. Almost immediately my troubles commenced. The fish developed disease and Elmer Carson suddenly blew up and demanded that I pay him an exorbitant price for his interest in the business. He went to court and got a restraining order preventing me from moving that fish tank away from the premises, on the ground that it was a fixture. I simply can’t understand what caused his sudden change of attitude, the bitter animosity with which he regards me. It happened almost overnight and followed an attempt on my life.”

“An attempt on your life!” Mason exclaimed.

“Exactly.”

“What happened?”

“Someone tried to shoot me. But after all, gentlemen, this is hardly the place to discuss these matters. Let’s go on in and— Hello, what’s this?”

“Seems to be a car stopping in front of the place,” Mason said.

The automobile which had pulled in to the curb disgorged two passengers, a man and a woman. As the figures materialized through the fog, Faulkner said, “It’s that Madison girl and her boy friend. This is a great time for them to be getting here! I gave her a key to the place. They should have been here thirty minutes ago. She started out fast enough. Didn’t even wait to finish her dinner. I suppose it’s that boy who held her up.”

Mason lowered his voice and talked rapidly. “Look here, Faulkner, that tank may be a fixture and therefore a part of the building which can’t be moved, but the fish certainly aren’t a fixture. They’re swimming around in the tank. Get a bucket or a net and lift those fish out and leave the tank in place — then you can fight out the restraining order with Elmer Carson.”

“By George, you’ve got something there!” Faulkner exclaimed. “Those fish are...” He broke off abruptly to turn to the couple who were hurrying up the walk. “Well, well,” he said testily. “What was holding you up?”

The slender, somewhat bony-shouldered young man with Sally Madison said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Faulkner, but the boss had a case of gill disease to treat and I had to coat a tank so he’d have a place to...”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Faulkner interrupted. “Do you mean to say you’re passing out the secret of this remedy right and left? Don’t you realize I just paid for an interest in that invention? You can’t tell a soul...”

“No, no,” Sally Madison interposed hastily and soothingly, “he isn’t telling anyone, Mr. Faulkner. The remedy is a secret, but you know Tom’s been experimenting with it there at the pet shop and of course Rawlins knew what he was doing and— Well, you know how it is. When he knew that Tom had a remedy for gill disease that he had been trying out — well, naturally, Tom couldn’t refuse to fix up a few tanks so that Mr. Rawlins could treat cases, but no one knows the secret formula, except Tom. It will be turned over to you and...”

“I don’t like it,” Faulkner snapped. “I don’t like it at all. That’s not the way to do business. How do we know that Rawlins isn’t faking the whole business? He’ll get hold of the material Tom is using to coat those panels and have it analyzed and then where will my investment be? I tell you I don’t like it.”

Faulkner angrily inserted a key in the lock of the door, snapped back the catch, flung the door open, reached inside, switched on a light and marched truculently into the room.

Sally Madison placed a hand on Mason’s arm, said proudly, “This is Tom, Mr. Mason.”

Mason grinned, said, “How are you, Tom?” and extended his hand, which was wrapped in the grip of long, bony fingers.

Gridley said, “I’m glad to know you, Mr. Mason. I’ve heard so much about you that...”

He was interrupted by an exclamation from Harrington Faulkner. “Who’s been in here? What’s happened? Call the police!”

Mason pushed through the doorway and followed the direction of Harrington Faulkner’s angry eyes.

The tank which had been inserted in place of the china closet had been ripped from its fastenings and moved out to the extreme edge of a built-in sideboard. A chair had been placed in front of the sideboard, making a convenient step upon which some person had evidently stood. Water was splashed about on the waxed hardwood floor, and lying on the floor beside the chair was an ordinary long-handled silver soup ladle. To the handle of this ladle a four-foot section of broomstick had been attached so as to form a rude but effective extension.

The bottom of the goldfish tank contained an inch or two of small pebbles and sea shells with a few plants that stretched green shoots up toward the surface of the water. There was no sign of life in the tank.

“My fish!” Faulkner exclaimed, grasping the edges of the tank with his hands, pressing his face to within a few inches of the glass sides of the tank. “What’s happened to the fish? Where are they?”

“They seem to have disappeared,” Mason said dryly.

“I’ve been robbed!” Faulkner exclaimed. “It’s a low-down dastardly attempt by Elmer Carson to...”

“Careful now,” Mason warned.

“Careful!” Faulkner exploded. “Why should I be careful? You can see what’s happened with your own eyes. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. He’s removed the fish from the tank and intends to use that as a club to make me come to his terms... Hang it, it’s just the same as kidnaping. I don’t intend to stand for this. He’s gone too far now. I’m going to have him arrested! I’m going to get the police on the job and we’ll settle this thing right here and right now.”

Faulkner darted over to the telephone, snatched up the receiver, dialed Operator, and screeched into the mouthpiece, “Get me police headquarters quick! I want to report a burglary.”

Mason moved over to the telephone. “Look here, Faulkner,” he warned, “be careful what you say. You can call the police, tell them your story and let them reach any conclusions they want, but don’t go making accusations and don’t mention names. From a collector’s standpoint those fish of yours are probably of considerable value, but so far as the police are concerned, they’re just two more goldfish you...”

Faulkner motioned Mason to silence, said into the telephone in a voice that was tremulous with emotion, “I want police on the job right away. This is Harrington Faulkner. I’ve been robbed. My most priceless possession... Get the best detectives on the force out here right away.”

Mason moved back to join the others. “Let’s get out,” he said quietly. “If the police take this thing seriously they’ll want to take fingerprints.”

“Suppose they don’t take it seriously?” Drake asked.

Mason shrugged his shoulders.

Over at the telephone, Harrington Faulkner repeated his name, gave the address and hung up. “The police say to get everyone out of the room.” He fairly screeched in his excitement. “They told me...”

“I know, I know,” Mason interpolated soothingly. “I’ve just told everyone to get out and leave the place as it is.”

“You can come next door,” Faulkner said. “That’s where I live. We’ll wait there for the police.”

Faulkner ushered them out to the porch, across to the other door of the duplex house which he opened, and switched on lights. “My wife is out,” he explained, “but if you’ll just wait here... Make yourselves right at home, please. Just be seated. The police say it will only be a few minutes before they have a radio car out here.”

“How about the door to the other side of the house?” Mason asked. “You’d better see that it’s locked and that no one gets in until the police arrive.”

“There’s a spring lock on it. It locks when you pull the door shut.”

“You’re certain that the door was locked when you arrived?” Mason asked.

“Yes, yes. You saw me insert the key and open the door,” Faulkner said impatiently. “The door was locked and the lock hadn’t been tampered with.”

“How about the windows?” Drake asked. “Did you notice whether they were locked?”

“I noticed,” Mason said as Faulkner scowled in an effort to concentrate. “All the windows in that room at least were locked. How many rooms are in the place, Faulkner?”

“Four. That room is our executive office where we have our desks. Then there’s another room which we use as a filing room. We fitted up the kitchen so there’s a little bar and an electric icebox. We can fix a customer a drink if the occasion seems appropriate. I’ll go and look through those other rooms and see if I can find where anything’s been disturbed. But I’m certain I’ll find everything in order. The man who stole those fish opened the front door with a key and walked right in. He knew exactly where to go, what to get and just what he was doing.”

“Better not go in there until the police come,” Mason warned. “They might not like it.”

The sound of a siren cut through the foggy darkness outside and throbbed ominously. Faulkner jumped up, ran to the front door and stood on the porch, waiting for the police car.

“Going in?” Drake asked Mason.

Mason shook his head, said, “We stick right here.”

Tom Gridley moved uneasily. “I left a couple of plastic panels out in my car,” he said. “They were painted and all ready to insert in the tank. I...”

“Your car locked?” Mason asked.

“No, that’s the point, it isn’t.”

“Better go out and lock it then. Wait until after the police get in. I take it you’re taking every precaution to keep your formula secret?”

Tom Gridley nodded. “I shouldn’t have even told Rawlins I had a remedy.”

Authoritative voices sounded from the outside. Harrington Faulkner by this time had regained control of his emotions and his voice was once more precise in its articulation. Steps moved across the porch. The door to the other house opened and closed.

Mason nodded to Gridley. “Better take advantage of this opportunity to run out and lock your car,” he said.

Paul Drake grinned across at Mason. “The great goldfish case!”

Mason chuckled. “Serves me right for letting my curiosity run away with me.”

“Wait until the police find out you’re here,” Drake said gleefully.

“And you,” Mason retorted. “Particularly when they report the call to the press room.”

The grin faded from Drake’s face. “Hang it, I feel sort of sheepish.”

“There’s no reason why you should,” Sally Madison said. “These goldfish mean as much to Mr. Faulkner as though they were members of his family. It’s just the same as if he had had a son kidnapped. Is that someone coming?”

They listened, heard the sound of a car, then quick steps, and a moment later the front door opened.

The woman who stood on the threshold was a blonde somewhere in the middle thirties and making a valiant attempt to preserve a figure which had begun to fill out. The curves were still attractive, but were becoming ample, and there was a girdled smoothness about the fit of her skirt, a conscious elevation of the corners of the mouth, a determined effort at holding the chin high — all of which combined to give an effect of static immobility. The woman seemed somehow to have robbed herself of all her natural spontaneity in an attempt to stay the hand of time. Her every move seemed to have been rehearsed in front of a mirror.

Sally Madison said almost under her breath, “Mrs. Faulkner!”

Mason and Drake jumped to their feet. Mason moved forward. “Permit me to introduce myself, Mrs. Faulkner. I’m Perry Mason. I came out here at the request of your husband who seems to have encountered some trouble in the real estate office next door. This is Miss Street, my secretary, and Miss Madison. And may I present Mr. Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency.”

Mrs. Faulkner swept on into the room. From the doorway a somewhat embarrassed Tom Gridley stood uncertainly as though debating whether to enter or to turn and seek refuge in the car.

“And,” Mason observed, swinging around to include Gridley in his introduction, “Mr. Thomas Gridley.”

Mrs. Faulkner’s voice was well-modulated. It had a slow, almost drawling quality that was deep-throated and seductive. “Do make yourselves right at home,” she said. “My husband has been very much upset lately and I’m glad that he has finally consulted a prominent attorney. I have been suggesting that he do so for some time. Do be seated, please. Would any of you care for a drink?”

She waited a few moments, then said, “Oh, I think I’ll get some Scotch and soda anyway. You people look as though you could use a drink.”

“Perhaps,” Della Street suggested, “I could be of some help.”

Mrs. Faulkner turned wary, appraising blue eyes upon Mason’s secretary, regarded her for a moment, then her face softened into a smile. “Why yes,” she said graciously, “if you’d like to. It would be very nice.”

Della Street followed Mrs. Faulkner out through the dining room into the kitchen.

Sally Madison turned to Mason. “See what I mean?” she asked cryptically, and then added parenthetically, “Goldfish.”

Tom Gridley moved over to Sally Madison, said apologetically, “Of course, I could have kept Rawlins waiting on coating those other panels until after I’d put these panels in Faulkner’s tank. I suppose I should have insisted.”

“Don’t be silly. It wouldn’t have made a particle of difference. We’d have come dashing out here, and then we’d have been the ones to have found the tank empty. He’d have managed to blame us for that somehow, for... Say, you don’t suppose the old buzzard’s going to get technical about that check, now that his goldfish have been stolen?”

Gridley said, “I don’t see any reason why he should. That formula is a safe and sure cure for gill disease. They’ve never had anything before that could come anywhere near touching it. Why, I can cure any case within forty-eight hours... well, make it seventy-two hours to be on the safe side, but the fish begin to get better almost as soon as I put the first panel in the tank. Then I change it at the end of twelve hours and put in a little stronger solution. After that...”

“Never mind, dear,” Sally Madison said, as though cautioning him to silence. “These people aren’t particularly interested in goldfish.”

Paul Drake caught Mason’s eye, closed his own eye in a slow wink.

Mrs. Faulkner and Della Street returned from the kitchen with glasses, ice cubes, Scotch and soda. Mrs. Faulkner poured drinks, Della Street served them. Then Mrs. Faulkner seated herself across the room from Mason. She crossed well-curved legs and saw that the sweep of her skirt was just right across the knee. “I have,” she said to Perry Mason with an artificial smile, “heard a lot about you. I hoped that someday I’d meet you. I’ve read about all your cases — followed them with a great deal of interest.”

“Thank you,” Mason said, and had just started to say something else when the front door was pushed open and Harrington Faulkner, white with rage, said in a voice indignation had made harsh and rasping, “Do you know what they told me? They told me that there’s no law against kidnapping fish! They said that if I could prove outside thieves got into the place it would be burglary, but since Elmer Carson owns a half interest in the place and has the right to come and go as he pleases, that if he wanted to enter the place and take my goldfish, the only thing I could do would be to start a civil suit for damages. And then one of the officers had the temerity to tell me that the damages wouldn’t amount to much; that you could buy a whole flock of goldfish for half the amount I’d have to pay a lawyer to draw up the papers. The ignorance of the man is as annoying as it is unpardonable. A flock of fish! The ignoramus! You’d have thought he was talking about birds.”

“Did you,” Mason asked, “tell him that Elmer Carson was the one who had taken the fish?”

Faulkner’s eyes shifted away from Mason’s. “Well, of course I told him that I’d been having trouble with Carson and that Carson had a key. You see, whoever got in must have got in through the door.”

“The windows all locked?” Mason asked.

“The windows were all locked. Someone had taken a screw driver or a chisel and pried open the kitchen door, but it was a clumsy job. As the officers pointed out, it had been done from the inside, and furthermore, the door on the screen porch was hooked shut. Whoever did it made a very clumsy attempt to make it seem that burglars had forced an entrance through the back door. No one would have been fooled by it. I don’t know anything about burglary, but just as soon as I looked at the marks on the door even I could tell what had happened.”

Mason said, “I warned you not to make any charges against Carson. In the first place, you’re putting yourself in a dangerous position making accusations which you can’t substantiate, and in the second place, I felt certain that once the police got the idea that it was a feud between two business associates, they’d wash their hands of the entire affair.”

“Well, it’s been done now,” Faulkner said coldly, “and personally I don’t think the way you suggested that I handle it was the proper way to have handled it. When you come right down to it, Mr. Mason, my interest in the matter lies in recovering my fish before it is too late. Those fish are very valuable. They mean as much to me as my own family. The fish are in a very critical condition and I want them back so I can treat them and save their lives. You’re as bad as the police, with your damned don’t-do-this and don’t-do-that.”

Faulkner’s voice rose to a rasp of nervous tension. The man’s calm seemed so completely shattered that he might have been on the verge of hysteria. “Can’t any of you understand the importance of this? Don’t you realize that those fish represent the crowning achievement of something that has been my hobby for years? You all sit there doing nothing, making no constructive suggestions. Those fish are sick. They may be dying right now, and no one lifts a finger to do anything about it. Not a finger! You just sit here guzzling my whiskey while they die!”

Faulkner’s wife didn’t shift her position or even turn her head to look at her husband. She said, over her shoulder, as though speaking to a child, “That will do, Harrington. There’s nothing anyone could have done. You called the police, and apparently you botched things all up with them. Perhaps if you’d have invited them in to have a drink with us they’d have been inclined to look at the situation in an entirely different manner.”

The telephone rang. Faulkner went to it, picked up the receiver, rasped, “Hello... yes, this is he speaking.”

For several seconds he listened to what was being said at the other end of the line. Then a triumphant smile spread over his face. “Then it’s all right. The deal’s closed,” he said. “We can sign the papers as soon as you can get them drawn up... Yes, I’ll expect you to pay for them... all the details of transferring title.”

He listened a moment more, then hung up.

Mason watched the man curiously as he marched from the telephone to stand in front of Sally Madison. “I hate to be held up,” he announced in a rasping voice.

Sally Madison moved only her long eyelashes. “Yes?” she asked in a drawling voice.

“You tried to hold me up tonight,” Faulkner went on, “and I warned you I was a bad man to fool with.”

She blew out cigarette smoke, said nothing.

“So,” Faulkner stated triumphantly, “I’m stopping payment on that check I gave you. I have just completed a deal that has been pending with David Rawlins by which I have purchased his business outright, including the fixtures, the good will, all formulae, and all inventions he or any of his employees have worked out.”

Faulkner turned swiftly to Tom Gridley. “You’re working for me now, young man.”

Sally Madison kept the dismay out of her eyes, but her voice held a quaver, “You can’t do that, Mr. Faulkner.”

“I’ve already done it.”

“Tom’s invention doesn’t go with Mr. Rawlins’ business. Tom perfected that on his own time.”

“Bosh. That’s what they all say. We’ll see what a judge has to say about that. And now, young woman, I’ll trouble you to return that check I gave you earlier this evening. I’ve bought the entire business for less than half of the amount you were holding me up for.”

Sally Madison shook her head doggedly. “You closed the deal. You paid for the formula.”

“A formula you had no right to sell. I should have you arrested for obtaining money under false pretenses. As it is, you’ll either give me back that check or I’ll stop payment on it.”

Tom Gridley said, “After all, Sally, it doesn’t amount to so much. It’s only...”

Faulkner turned to him. “Not amount to so much, young man! Is that any way to talk about...”

Mrs. Faulkner’s voice showed interest as her husband suddenly became silent. “Go on, dear,” she said. “Let’s hear how much. I’m wondering just how much you paid her.”

Faulkner scowled at her and said savagely. “If it’s any of your business, it was five thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand dollars!” Tom Gridley exclaimed. “Why I told Sally to sell it for...” Abruptly he caught Sally Madison’s eyes and stopped speaking in the middle of the sentence.

Drake hurriedly gulped down his drink as he saw Perry Mason put down his glass, arise from his chair, cross over to Faulkner. “I think,” Drake said in a low voice to Della Street, who was watching Mason with amused eyes, “this is where we came in — and it’s damned good whiskey. I hate to waste it.”

Mason said to Faulkner, “I don’t think we need to trouble you further, Mr. Faulkner. Your case doesn’t interest me in the least, and there’s no charge for the preliminary investigation.”

Mrs. Faulkner said hastily, “Please don’t judge him too harshly, Mr. Mason. He’s just a bundle of nerves.”

Mason bowed. “And I’d also be a bundle of nerves — if I had him for a client. Good night.”