“Meaning that he fired it?”

  Mason said, “No. Meaning that someone else had, and he wanted to protect that person.”

  “Who?”

  Mason said, “When we went to Faulkner’s house the night of the murder, Mrs. Faulkner came tearing up in an automobile. She seemed in the devil of a hurry, but the way the exhaust smelled, I thought the choke must be nearly all the way out. That meant she’d been running with a cold motor, and that in turn meant she hadn’t come very far. So Paul Drake examined the car and found that the ash tray was empty. As he pointed out, a nervous person will almost invariably empty the ash tray of a car if there’s a long wait under tension.”

  Tragg nodded and said, “I’ve done it myself.”

  “Drake found the place where the ash tray had been emptied. It was a place from where you could see the front of the Faulkner house.”

  “You mean Mrs. Faulkner was waiting for you to drive up?”

  “That’s what I thought at the time,” Mason said, “and I damn near got a client convicted because the true solution didn’t occur to me.”

  “What was it?”

  “I was right in deducing that she had only come a short distance,” Mason said. “Her car had been parked earlier that evening at the spot where the ash tray had been emptied. I made the mistake of picking on the obvious and jumping at the wrong conclusion. It had been much earlier in the evening. It had been between five and seven instead of around the hour Sally Madison and I arrived.”

  “And why should she have parked there at that time?”

  “Because her husband had gone out, and Elmer Carson had taken advantage of his absence to go into the real estate office and start looking for that bullet. And Jane Faulkner, who had fired the shot at her husband in an attempt to get him out of the way, had been sitting there in her car, where she could see the entrance to the house, and blow her horn and warn Carson in the event Faulkner returned unexpectedly. In that event, Carson would have slipped out of the back door, gone through the alley, joined Mrs. Faulkner in her automobile, and been whisked away.”

  Tragg’s eyes narrowed. “You think Mrs. Faulkner took that shot at her husband?”

  “I’m satisfied she did. She pulled that sleep medicine stuff as a species of alibi. She’d managed to plant herself where she knew her husband was going to be driving his automobile. She planned to fire the shot, jump into her own car, take a dose of quick acting sedative, drive back to the house, undress, and go to bed. She fired the shot at her husband, all right, but she hadn’t realized the difficulty of shooting at a man in a moving automobile. She missed him by inches. The evidence shows that the only possible explanation of what happened is that Carson was protecting the person who tried to commit the murder. Obviously, Carson didn’t do it. Therefore, who was the person who had made the attempt, and whom Carson was trying to protect? I should have known when Mrs. Faulkner came driving up in her automobile in a terrific hurry and with the motor almost cold. She was trying to get home before her husband returned from that banquet, and her car was cold, not because she had been parked around there watching the house, but because she had been spending the evening in the arms of Elmer Carson, who lived, you will remember, within four blocks of Faulkner’s house.”

  Tragg stared steadily at the pattern of the carpet as he correlated these points in his mind.

  “That doesn’t make sense, Mason.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “That elaborate attempt at getting the bullet earlier in the evening when they knew that Faulkner was going to be out after eight-thirty. They’d have waited until then.”

  “No they wouldn’t,” Mason said. “They knew that he was going to be at the pet store while there were still some minutes of daylight. They wanted to drain that fish tank and try and find the bullet, which seemed to have eluded them, while they still had daylight. If Faulkner had driven up and found the lights on in the office, it would have been a give away. And you’d remember that since the duplex side of the building was to be used as an office, there were no curtains on the windows, merely Venetian blinds on the south and west windows.”

  “Wed,” Tragg admitted, “you called the turn on Dixon. They telephoned Faulkner, told him they’d make the deal promptly at eight-thirty, but that he had to be there with the twenty-five thousand dollars; that if he wasn’t there at that exact moment, they wouldn’t make the deal.

  “What I can’t figure out, though, is why Faulkner paid out twenty-five thousand in cash and trusted to Dixon’s good faith to go through with the deal.”

  “He had no alternative,” Mason said. “Besides, he knew Dixon wanted to buy his interest in the company.”

  “Wed, anyway, Faulkner dropped everything to rush out there. When he got out there, they raised the point about Tom Gridley. They weren’t buying any lawsuits. So Dixon called up Tom Gridley, and reached a deal with him over the phone by which Faulkner was to mail him a check for a thousand dollars. But how did Dixon and Genevieve Faulkner know all about that bullet business? I neglected to get that cleared up.”

  Mason said, “How did they know everything else that went on in the company? There’s only one answer. Alberta Stanley, the secretary for the company, was in Dixon’s employ. When she told him about the bullet, he deduced what must have happened—just as I did when I heard of it.”

  Tragg nodded. “Of course. The Stanley girl is the answer to lots of things.”

  “What became of the check?” Mason asked.

  Tragg grinned. “Just as you deduced, that was the one weak spot in Dixon’s armor. The postman was talked and bribed into giving the letter back to Dixon when the mail was collected. But I’m still a long way from pinning the murder on Wilfred Dixon.”

  “Pinning the murder on him!” Mason exclaimed.

  “Why, yes.”

  “You can’t pin it on him,” Mason told the officer. “Use your head. The person who killed Faulkner went to Faulkner’s house. He found Faulkner treating a goldfish for tail rot. He got Faulkner to stop his treatment of the goldfish and go get his fountain pen so that he could write some document, or sign some document. And then, after that document had been signed, and while Faulkner still had his fountain pen in his hand, Faulkner remembered about that check to Gridley and decided he’d make a stub that would cover the amount of the check. So he tore the check out of the book, started making out the stub, and was shot in cold blood by a man who had started to leave the house, but who saw Gridley’s gun lying on the bed, and couldn’t resist the temptation to use it.

  “Faulkner fell down dead. When he fell, he upset the bowl of goldfish that was on the table in the bathroom. The bowl broke. One segment of the bowl contained a little water. One of the fish lived in there until he had exhausted the oxygen in the water, and then in his struggles, flopped out onto the floor. Taking the evidence of that goldfish, I’d say that the crime must have been committed somewhere around nine-thirty, and you’ll remember Faulkner said that he had an appointment at around that time.

  “Wilfred Dixon and Genevieve Faulkner weren’t above rigging their books so that they had a twenty-five thousand dollar profit that wouldn’t show on their income tax. They weren’t above throwing the hooks into Faulkner and forcing him to sell out. They weren’t above getting the bullet Carson had tossed into the fish tank, proving that Carson must have put it there, and blackmailing Carson into letting go of his own holdings for a fraction of their value; but they weren’t the type that deliberately kill a man without any motive. Once they’d got Faulkner’s twenty-five thousand dollars, they certainly had no interest in bumping him off. They didn’t realize that keeping silent would doom Sally Madison—not at first. By the time they did, they were in so deep they had to carry on. Dixon couldn’t tell the truth without implicating himself and Genevieve Faulkner in a fraudulent transaction. So they decided to keep quiet. But they certainly weren’t the ones who followed Faulkner home and murdered him.”

  “Then who the devil did?” Tragg asked.

  “Use your head,” Mason told him. “Remember there’s a blot on the magazine, an ink smear. What makes an ink smear? A fountain pen that’s almost empty. And James L. Staunton had a written release from Faulkner which he showed you when you started crowding him, but which he didn’t show to me when I questioned him. Why didn’t he produce it sooner? Why didn’t he show it to me? Because the ink was hardly dry on it, and probably because a portion of the blot that had fallen from the almost empty fountain pen when Faulkner took it out of his pocket had stained one edge of the document.”

  Tragg abruptly got up and reached for his hat. “Thanks, Mason.”

  “Did that written statement have a blot on it?” Mason asked.

  “Yes, on one edge. And like a damn fool I didn’t have the ink analyzed. I could have done it when I first saw the statement, and it would have shown that it had been written the night before, instead of at the time Faulkner brought the goldfish. I’m afraid, Mason, I’ve been so hypnotized by the fact that I was dealing with a girl who happened to have the murder gun in her purse, that I closed my eyes to everything else.”

  “That’s the big trouble with being an officer,” Mason agreed. “You have the responsibility of getting the evidence which will support a conviction. Once you make an arrest, you have to put in all of your energies getting evidence which will ensure the conviction of the arrested person. Otherwise you’re in bad with the D. A.”

  Tragg nodded, then half way to the door turned and said, “How about that fingerprint—that F. P. No. 10?”

  Mason said, “That fingerprint shows the danger of the lifting method. Every bit of evidence shows that Staunton was a shrewd man and a cunning man. Sergeant Dorset must have let it drop while he was out there with Sally Madison that they were lifting fingerprints at the scene of the murder. After they had left, Staunton, whom you will probably find knows something about fingerprinting, himself, knew that Sally Madison’s fingerprints would be on the glass tank where she had handled it while treating his goldfish. He simply lifted one of her fingerprints off of that tank and had it all ready, looking for a chance to slip it into the collection of lifted fingerprints. When Louis Corning came out to Staunton’s house to fingerprint the tank, it gave Staunton the opportunity he’d been anticipating. While Corning was taking fingerprints from the fish tank and completely absorbed in what he was doing, Staunton saw the collection of envelopes which Corning had so obligingly taken from his briefcase, and slipped Sally’s fingerprint in where he thought it would do the most good.”

  “I don’t believe he could have done that,” Tragg said.

  “Ask him,” Mason said, grinning. “And when you ask him, tell him that you’ve found his fingerprint on the lift that carries Exhibit F. P. 10.”

  “Why did Staunton kill him?” Tragg asked after he had thought over Mason’s suggestion for a second or two.

  Mason said wearily, “Go find out. Good Lord, do you want me to do everything for you? Faulkner and Staunton had been secret partners in a mining deal. I’d bet you ten to one that Faulkner had Staunton over the barrel. Faulkner had just been forced by Dixon to sell out his business for less than it was worth, and you’d probably find that Faulkner was passing the bite on to Staunton. Hell, I don’t know, and I’m not paid to think about it. My job was to get Sally Madison out of jail and I’m getting her out of jail. Della Street and I are going out on the town. We’re going to eat. Maybe we’re even going to drink!”

  “More power to you,” Tragg said. “Where will you be?”

  Mason wrote the names of three night clubs on a slip of paper, handed it to Lieutenant Tragg. “We’d be at one of those three places, but don’t try to reach us to report anything except a confession from Staunton and the time at which you’re going to release Sally Madison from jail. We don’t want to be disturbed over minor matters.”

  Chapter 20

  The orchestra was playing one of the old-time waltzes. Lights had been turned down and blue spotlights shining on the dome above the dance door gave the place the appearance of summer moonlight, showing the forms of couples waltzing slowly.

  Mason’s lips brushed Della Street’s cheek. “Happy?” he asked.

  “Yes, darling,” she said softly. “And it’s lovely not to be going to jail!”

  A waiter came hurrying toward them, caught Mason’s eye, made frantic signals.

  Mason guided Della Street over toward him, then, on the edge of the dance floor they ceased moving their feet but kept swaying to the rhythm of the music. “What is it?” Mason asked.

  “A Lieutenant Tragg has called up. Says he’s from Homicide and to convey the message to you that you win ad the way along the line, and that Sally Madison is to be released at midnight. He wants to know if you care to talk to him?”

  Mason grinned. “He’s on the line?”

  “Yes.”

  Mason said, “Kindly give him my thanks—tell him that I’d be there in time for the ceremonies, and that I’m too agreeably engaged at the moment to talk with anyone except my partner.”

  The waiter turned away. Mason guided Della Street back toward the center of the dance floor.

  “Poor Sally Madison,” Mason said, “she was willing to take a chance on the death chamber in order to save the man she loved.”

  Della Street looked up at him. “You can’t blame her for that. It’s . . . it’s feminine nature.”

  Mason said, “It surprises some people, Della, to think you find as much loyalty in the Sally Madisons of the world as you do in women who have followed all the rules.”

  Della Street lowered her eyes. “It’s the way a woman’s made, Chief. She’d do anything for the man she loves—anything.” Then she added hastily, “What time is it, Chief? We don’t want to be late getting to the jail.”

  “We won’t,” Mason assured her, circling her waist with his arm, as the music ended. “I even think,” he added as the fights blazed into brilliance and they started back toward their table, “that Lieutenant Tragg might be grateful enough to delay things a few minutes for us. And the next time you go places with a golddigger, Della, take a look in the purse first.”

  Della Street laughed. “I probably won’t,” she said. “You and I learn everything from our adventures except prudence.”

  “That’s the way I like to have it,” Mason said, grinning at her.

  About the Author

  Author photo courtesy of the Harry Ransom Center, The University of Texas at Austin

  Erle Stanley Gardner (1889-1970) is a prolific American author best known for his works centered on the lawyer-detective Perry Mason. At the time of his death in March of 1970, in Ventura, California, Gardner was “the most widely read of all American writers” and “the most widely translated author in the world,” according to social historian Russell Nye. He was cited by the Guinness Book of World Records as the #1 Bestselling Writer of All Time. The first Perry Mason novel, The Case of The Velvet Claws, published in 1933, sold twenty-eight million copies in its first fifteen years. In the mid-1950s, the Perry Mason novels were selling at the rate of 20,000 copies a day. There have been six motion pictures based on his work and the hugely popular “Perry Mason” television series starring Raymond Burr, which aired for nine years and 271 episodes.

 

 

  Erle Stanley Gardner, The Case of the Golddigger's Purse (Perry Mason Series Book 26)

 

 

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