“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 hesitation 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 the 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.

  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.

  Chapter 13

  Mason called up his office from a drugstore that was within half a dozen blocks of Dixon’s house. “Della,” he said when he had Della Street on the line, “get hold of Paul Drake at once. Tell him to look up all of the evidence in connection with Harrington Faulkner’s divorce case. Somewhere around five years ago. I not only want all of the dope on the case, but I want a transcript of the evidence if we can get it, and I want to know what was actually behind it.”

  “Okay, Chief, anything else?”

  “That’s all. What’s new?”

  She said, “I’m glad you phoned. I filed the application for a writ of habeas corpus and Judge Downey issued a writ returnable next Tuesday. They’ve now booked Sally Madison on a charge of first-degree murder.”

  “I suppose they booked her as soon as they learned of the writ,” Mason said.

  “I guess so.”

  Mason said, “All right, I’m going up to the jail and demand an audience with her.”

  “As her attorney?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re going on record as representing her without first knowing what she has to say?”

  Mason said, “It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference what she has to say. I’m going to represent her because I’ve got to. I have no other choice in the matter. What have they done with Tom Gridley?”

  “No one knows. He’s still buried somewhere. Do you want me to prepare an application for a writ of habeas corpus for him?”

  “No,” Mason said. “I don’t have to represent him—at least not until after I see what Sally Madison has to say.”

  “Good luck to you, Chief,” Della Street said. “Sorry I got you into this.”

  “You didn’t. I got you into it.”

  “Well, don’t pull any punches.”

  “I won’t.”

  Mason hung up, jumped in his car and drove to the jail. The excessive politeness with which the officers greeted him and the celerity with which they arranged for an interview between Sally Madison and the lawyer as soon as Mason announced that he was going to represent her as her attorney, indicated that the police were quite well satisfied with the entire situation.

  Mason seated himself at the long table, down the middle of which ran a heavy-meshed steel screen. And a few moments later, a matron ushered Sally Madison into the other side of the room.

  “Hello, Sally,” Mason said.

  She looked very calm and self-possessed as she walked across to seat herself at the opposite side of the table, the heavy screen furnishing a partition between the prisoner and the visitor.

  “I’m sorry I walked out on you, Mr. Mason.”

  Mason said, “That’s only about half of what you need to be sorry for.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Going out with Della Street when you had that gun and money in your purse.”

  “I shouldn’t have done that, I know.”

  “Where were you when Lieutenant Tragg picked you up?”

  “I hadn’t walked more than four blocks from the time I left you. Tragg picked me up and talked with me a little while. Then he left me in the custody of a couple of officers while he went on a tour of the restaurants, looking for you and Miss Street.”

  “Have you made any statement to the police?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “What did you do that for?”

  “Because,” she said, “I had to tell them the truth.”

  “You didn’t have to tell them a damn thing,” Mason said.

  “Well, I thought I’d better.”

  “All right,” Mason said, “what’s the truth?”

  She said, “I held out on you, Mr. Mason.”

  “Good Lord,” Mason groaned, “tell me something new—at least give me the same break you gave the officers.”

  “You won’t be angry?”

  “Of course I’m angry.”

  “Then you won’t—won’t help me out?”

  Mason said, “I have no choice in the matter. I’m helping you out because I’ve got to help Della Street. I’ve got to try to get her out of a jam, and in order to do that I’ve got to try to get you out too.”

  “Have I made trouble for her?”

  “For her and for me and for everyone. Go ahead. What’s the story?”

  She lowered her eyes. “I went out to see Mr. Faulkner last night.”

  “What time?”

  “It was right around eight o’clock.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “He was shaving. He had his face all lathered and he had his coat and shirt off. He was in his undershirt. There was water running in the bathtub.”

  “The bathroom door was open?”

  “Yes.”

  “His wife was there?”

  “No.”

  “Who answered the door?”

  “No one. The door was standing ajar, open an inch or two.”

  “The front door?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I walked in. I could hear him in the bathroom. I called to him.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He came out.”

  “You’re sure the water in the bathtub was running?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hot or cold water?”

  “Why—hot water.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. I remember there was steam on the mirror.”

  “Was Faulkner angry at you?”

  “Angry at me? Why?”

  “For coming to see him that way.”

  “I guess he was. But everything worked out all right.”

  “Go ahead,” Mason said wearily, his invitation almost in the tone of a groan. “Let’s hear the rest of it.”

  “Mr. Faulkner said he didn’t want to have any trouble with me; that he’d like very much to get things cleaned up. He knew that Tom would do exactly as I suggested, and he said that we might as well come to terms.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him that if he’d give me two thousand dollars we’d call everything square. That Tom would continue to work for him for six weeks and then would take a six-months layoff and then would come back to work for the pet store again; that if Tom worked out any inventions during the six months he was resting, Mr. Faulkner could have a half interest in them; that he and Tom would own them equally; that Faulkner would put Tom’s remedies on the market and he and Tom would split the net profits. They’d be sort of partners.”

  “And what did Faulkner say?”

  “He gave me the two thousand dollars and I surrendered the five-thousand-dollar check I had, and told him I’d go and see Tom and that I was certain it would be all right.”

  “Are you aware of the fact that Tom went to see him at quarter past eight?”

  “I don’t think Tom did.”

  “I think there’s pretty good evidence he did.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about that, but I’m quite certain Tom didn’t go, because Tom had no reason to go. Tom had told me he’d leave everything in my hands.”

  “And the two thousand dollars you got, you received in cash from Mr. Faulkner?”

  “That’s right.”

  Mason thought for a moment, then said, “All right, how about the gun?”

  She said, “I’m sorry about the gun, Mr. Mason.”

  “You should be.”

  “It’s Tom’s gun.”

  “I know.”

  She said, “I have no idea how it got there, but when I went in the bedroom with Mrs. Faulkner—trying to comfort her, you know—I saw this gun on the dresser. I recognized it as Tom’s and—well, you know, I wanted to protect Tom. That was my first thought, my first instinctive reaction, and I just picked up the gun and shoved it into my purse. Knowing that a man had killed himself . . . ”

  “Been murdered,” Mason supplemented.

  “Knowing a man had been murdered,” she went on, accepting his correction without protest, “I didn’t want Tom’s gun to be found on the place. I knew that Tom couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder, but I didn’t know how the gun had got there.”

  “And that’s all?” Mason asked.

  “I cross my heart and hope to die, Mr. Mason, that’s all .”

  Mason said, “You told this story to the officers?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They listened.”

  “Did they question you?”

  “Not much. A little bit.”

  “Was there a shorthand reporter there?”

  “Yes.”

  “He took down everything you said in shorthand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then they asked me if I had any objection to signing the statement and I told them certainly not, provided it was written up just the way I’d said it. They wrote out the statement and I signed it.”

  “Did they tell you you didn’t have to say anything?”

  “Oh yes. They recited some rigmarole in a sing-song voice saying I didn’t have to say anything if I didn’t want to.”

  “And that’s the way your story stands on paper?”

  “Yes.”

  Mason said, with a voice that was bitter with venom, “You little fool!”

  “Why, what do you mean, Mr. Mason?”

  Mason said, “Your story is so improbable on the face of it that it isn’t even a good fairy tale. It’s obviously something you thought up on the spur of the moment to protect Tom. But the officers were too smart to try to get you to change it right at the start. They reduced it to writing and got you to sign it. Now they’ll begin to bring pressure to bear on you so you’ll have to change it, and then you’ll be in a sweet mess.”

  “But I don’t have to change it.”

  “Think not?”

  “No.”

  “Where did this figure of two thousand dollars come from—the one that you submitted to Faulkner?”

  “Why, I thought that was just about a fair price.”

  “You hadn’t mentioned it to him before?”

  “No.”

  “And Faulkner was shaving when you got there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Preparing to take a bath?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was in the bathroom?”

  “Yes.”

  “He came out of the bathroom when you went in there—into the bedroom?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Careful now,” Mason said. “Did he come out of the bathroom or did he receive you in the bathroom?”

  “Well, sort of in the door of the bathroom.”

  “And gave you two thousand dollars in cash?”

  “Yes.”

  Mason said, “You asked him for two thousand dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he had two thousand dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Exactly two thousand dollars?”

  “Well . . . I don’t know . . . he may have had more, but he gave me the two thousand dollars.”

  “In cash?”

  “Certainly. That’s where the money came from that was in my purse.”

  “And you found that gun of Tom Gridley’s at Faulkner’s house?”

  “Yes. And if you want to know something, Mr. Faulkner was the one who took the gun there in the first place. Tom was keeping it at the pet store, and then yesterday evening about seven-thirty, Mr. Faulkner was down there prowling around, taking inventory, and—well, he took the gun. Mr. Rawlins can swear to that. He saw Mr. Faulkner take it.”

  “Did you tell that to the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s in your written statement?”

  “Yes.”