“The officers went over there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Faulkner didn’t make too good an impression with the officers. I think they thought he might have fired the shot himself.”

  “Why?”

  “Heaven knows. Faulkner was a deep one. Understand, Mason, I’m not making any accusations or any insinuations. All I know is that after a while the officers wanted to know if Faulkner had a gun, and when he said he did have one, the officers told him they’d go over and take a look at it.”

  “He showed it to them?”

  “I presume so. I didn’t go over with them. They were gone ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “When was this?”

  “A week ago.”

  “What time?”

  “Around ten o’clock in the morning.”

  “What caliber is Faulkner’s gun?”

  “A thirty-eight, I believe. I think that’s what he told the police.”

  “And what caliber was the bullet that Faulkner dug out of the upholstery?”

  “A forty-five.”

  “How did Faulkner and his wife get along?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Could you make a guess?”

  “I couldn’t even do that. I’ve heard him talk to her over the phone and use about the same tone he’d use to a disobedient dog, but Mrs. Faulkner kept her feelings to herself.”

  “There had been bad blood between you and Faulkner before this?”

  “Not bad blood, exactly—a little difference of opinion here and there, and some friction, but we were getting along with some outward semblance of harmony.”

  “And after this?”

  “After this I blew up. I told him either to buy or sell.”

  “You were going to sell out to him . . . to his estate, I mean?”

  “I may. I don’t know. I’d never have sold out to that old buzzard at the price he wanted to pay. If you want to know something about him in a business deal, ask Wilfred Dixon.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He looks after the interests of the first Mrs. Faulkner— Genevieve Faulkner.”

  “What interests?”

  “Her share in the realty company.”

  “How much?”

  “One third. That was her settlement when the divorce went through. At that time Faulkner owned two thirds of the stock and I owned a third. He got dragged into divorce court and the judge nicked him for a half of the stock he owned and gave it to the wife. Faulkner’s been scared to death of divorces ever since that experience.”

  Mason said, “If you hated him that much, why didn’t you and the first Mrs. Faulkner get together and pool your stock and freeze him out? I’m asking just as a matter of curiosity.”

  Carson said frankly, “Because I couldn’t. The stock was all pooled. That was a part of the divorce business. The judge worked out a pooling agreement by which the management was left equally in the hands of Faulkner and myself. Mrs. Faulkner—that is Genevieve Faulkner, the first wife—couldn’t have any say in the management of the company unless she first appealed to the court. And neither Faulkner nor I could increase the expenses of the company past a certain point, and we couldn’t raise salaries. The judge also pointed out that any time the dividends on the stock fell below a certain point he’d reopen the alimony end of it and take another bite if he had to. He certainly had Faulkner scared white.”

  “The stock’s been profitable?” Mason asked.

  “I’ll say it has. You see, we didn’t handle things on a commission basis alone. We had some deals by which we took title in our own name and built houses and sold them. We’ve done some pretty big things in our day.”

  “Faulkner’s ideas or yours?”

  “Both. When it came to making money, old Harrington Faulkner had the nose of a buzzard. He could smell a potential profit a mile away. He had the courage to backup his judgment with cold hard cash and he had plenty of operating capital. He should have. Lord knows he never gave his wife anything, and he never spent anything himself, except on those damned goldfish of his. He’d really loosen up the purse strings on those, but when it came to parting with money for anything else he was like the bark on a log.”

  “And Dixon?” Mason asked. “Was he appointed by the court?”

  “No. Genevieve Faulkner hired him.”

  “Faulkner was wealthy?” Mason asked.

  “He had quite a bit of money, yes.”

  “You wouldn’t know it from looking around his house,” Mason said.

  Carson nodded. “He’d spend money for his goldfish and that was all. As far as the duplex was concerned, I think Mrs. Faulkner liked it that way. After all, there were just the two of them and she could keep up this small duplex by having a maid come in a couple of days a week, but Faulkner certainly counted every penny he spent. In some ways he was a damned old miser. Honestly, Mr. Mason, the man would lie awake nights trying to work out some scheme by which he could trim you in a business deal. By that, I mean that in case you owned something Faulkner wanted to buy, he’d manage to get you in some kind of a jackpot where you’d lose your eyeteeth. He . . .”

  The doorbell rang a strident summons, followed almost immediately by heavy pounding of knuckles and a rat-ding of the doorknob.

  Mason said, “That sounds like the police.”

  “Excuse me,” Carson said, and started for the door.

  “It’s okay,” Mason told him. “I’m leaving. There’s nothing more I can do here.”

  Mason was a step behind Carson when the latter opened the door. Lieutenant Tragg, backed by two plainclothes officers, said to Mason, “I thought that was your car out front. You certainly do get around.”

  Mason stretched, yawned, and said, “Believe it or not, Lieutenant, my only interest in the case is over a couple of goldfish that really aren’t goldfish at all.”

  Lieutenant Tragg was as tall as Mason. He had the forehead of a thinker, a well-shaped nose and a mouth which held plenty of determination but had a tendency to curve upward at the corners, as though the man could smile easily.

  “Quite all right, Counselor. Quite all right,” he said, and then added, “your interest in goldfish seems to be somewhat urgent.”

  “Frankly,” Mason told him, “I would like to chisel some money out of Harrington Faulkner’s estate. In case you don’t know it, at the time of his death a young woman named Sally Madison was holding his check for five thousand dollars.”

  Tragg’s eyes studied Mason with keen appraisal. “We know all about it. A check dated last Wednesday for five thousand dollars, payable to Thomas Gridley. And have you perhaps talked with Thomas Gridley lately?”

  Mason shook his head.

  There was a hint of a sardonic smile playing around the corners of Tragg’s mouth. “Well, as you’ve remarked, Counselor, it’s late, and I take it you’re going home and go to bed. I don’t suppose there’s anything in connection with your interest in the case that will cause you to lose any sleep.”

  “Not a thing,” Mason assured him cheerfully. “Good night, Lieutenant.”

  “And good-by,” Tragg said, entering Carson’s house, followed by the two officers, who promptly kicked the door shut.

  Chapter 9

  Perry Mason struggled up through an engulfing sea of warm languor which seemed to make it impossible for him to move. Fatigue kept lulling him back to the blissful inertia of slumber; the strident ringing of the telephone bell insisted upon pulling him back to consciousness.

  More than half asleep, he groped for the telephone.

  “Hello,” he said, his tongue thick.

  Della Street’s voice at the other end of the line knifed his brain to consciousness. “Chief, can you get over here right away?”

  Mason sat bolt upright in the bed, every sense alert.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “The Kellinger Hotel on Sixth Street.”

  Mason’s sleep-swollen eyes glanced at the luminous dial of his wrist watch, then he realized there was enough daylight filtering through the windows of his apartment to rob the hands of their luminosity. “As quick as I can make it, Della,” he promised, and then added, “just how urgent is it?”

  “I’m afraid it’s terribly urgent.”

  “Is Sally Madison with you?”

  “Yes. We’re in six-thirteen. Don’t stop at the desk. Come right up. Don’t knock. The door will be unlocked. I’ll . . . ”

  The receiver at the other end of the line was suddenly slipped into place in the middle of the sentence, cutting off Della Street’s words as neatly as though the wire had been severed with a knife.

  Perry Mason rolled out of bed. Out of his pajamas, he was groping for clothes even before he switched on the lights in his apartment. Two minutes later he was struggling into a topcoat as he ran down the hall.

  The Hotel Kellinger was a relatively unpretentious hotel which evidently catered largely to permanent guests. Mason parked his car and entered the lobby, where a somewhat sleepy night clerk looked up in a casual survey which changed to a frown of thoughtful inspection.

  “I already have my key,” Mason said hastily, and then added somewhat sheepishly, “darn near missed out on a night’s sleep.”

  The elevator was an automatic. Mason noticed there were seven floors in the hotel. As a precaution, in case the doubtful scrutiny on the part of the clerk below should have ripened into skepticism, Mason punched the button which took the elevator to the fifth floor, and then, walking down the corridor, wasted precious seconds locating the stairway. During that time he heard the automatic mechanism of the elevator whirl into activity.

  Mason ran up the uncarpeted stairs, located the room he wanted on the sixth floor and gently tried the knob of the door. The door was unlocked. He swung it open noiselessly.

  Della Street, attired in a housecoat and slippers, held a warning finger to her lips and motioned toward the room behind her, then pointed to the twin bed near the window.

  Sally Madison lay on her back, one arm flung out from under the covers, her fingers limp and relaxed. The girl’s glossy dark hair streamed out over the pillow. The absence of shoulder straps and the curving contours which were visible indicated that she was sleeping nude. Her alligator-skin purse, which had evidently been placed under the pillow, had fallen to the floor and opened, partially spilling its contents.

  Della Street’s insistent finger pointed to the purse.

  Mason bent over to get a look at the articles which were illuminated by a bedside lamp which had apparently been lowered from its normal position on a small table between the two beds to a point on the floor, where the light would not shine in Sally Madison’s eyes.

  He saw a roll of bills fastened together with an elastic band. The denomination of the outer bill was visible and showed that it was for fifty dollars. Back of the roll of bills there was the dull gleam of blued steel, where the barrel of a revolver caught and reflected the rays of the electric light.

  Della Street glanced inquiringly at Mason. When she saw that the lawyer had fully appreciated the significance of the contents of the purse, she raised her eyebrows in silent inquiry.

  Mason looked around the room, searching for some place where he could talk.

  Della Street beckoned him around the foot of the bed and opened the door of the bathroom. She switched on the light, and, when Mason had entered, closed the door behind him.

  The lawyer seated himself on the edge of the bathtub, and Della Street started talking in a whisper. “She clung to that purse like grim death. I wanted to get her some night things but she said she’d sleep in the raw. She got out of her clothes in nothing flat, was careful to put the purse under her pillow and then lay there watching me while I undressed. I switched out the lights and got into bed. Apparently she couldn’t sleep at first. I heard her twisting and turning.”

  “Any sobs?” Mason asked.

  Della shook her head.

  “When did she get to sleep?”

  “I don’t know. I went to sleep first, although I had intended to stay awake and make sure she was asleep and all right before I closed my eyes.”

  “When did you see the purse?”

  “About five minutes before I telephoned you. Before she went to sleep she must have squirmed around so that the purse had worked over to a position near the edge of the bed—then when she turned in her sleep the purse fell out. I heard the jar and I was nervous enough so that I wakened suddenly and almost jumped out of my skin.”

  “Did you know what had wakened you?”

  “Not right away, but I turned on the light. Sally was lying there sound asleep, just about as you see her now, but she was twitching restlessly and her lips were moving. The words she was uttering were all mumbled together so you couldn’t distinguish anything. I could only hear some confused sounds.

  “As soon as I turned on the light, I realized what had happened, and, without thinking, reached down to pick up the purse. First, I saw the rolls of bills and started to put them back in the purse. Then the tips of my fingers touched something cold and metallic. I immediately lowered the light to the floor so I could see what it was all about. At that time the purse was lying just as you see it now, and I left the light right there on the floor by the purse.

  “Chief, I was just sick. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t dare to leave her alone and go down to the lobby. Finally I took a chance on telephoning you because I knew that was all there was for me to do.”

  “Just what did you do?” Mason asked. “I mean how did you place the call?”

  She said, “It was almost thirty seconds before I could get anyone to answer at the hotel switchboard, then I kept my voice just as low as possible and asked for an outside line. But the man downstairs told me all numbers had to go out through the hotel switchboard. And I saw then there was no dial on the telephone. I’d been so rattled I hadn’t noticed that before. So I gave him your unlisted number. It was the only thing I could have done under the circumstances.”

  Mason nodded gravely.

  “It seemed like an age before you answered,” she went on. “And then I started talking to you, keeping my eye on Sally Madison all the while, so I could hang up in case she started to wake up.”

  “Is that why you were cut off in the middle of a sentence?”

  “Yes. I saw her move restlessly and her eyelids fluttered. So I didn’t dare to keep on talking. I slipped the receiver back into place and put my head back on the pillow so in case she opened her eyes I could pretend to be asleep—although, of course, the purse on the floor and the light by the purse would have been a giveaway. If she wakened, I was going to call for a showdown, but if I could postpone it until you got here I thought it would be better to play it that way. Well, she rolled her head around a bit and said something in that mumbled voice of a person talking in her sleep, and then she heaved a long sigh and seemed to relax.”

  Mason rose from his seat on the edge of the bathtub, pushed his hands deep into his coat pockets, said, “We’re in a jam, Della.”

  Della Street nodded.

  “She’s supposed to be broke,” Mason said. “If she has a roll of bills like that she must have got them from Mrs. Faulkner. I guess I played right into her hands. I wanted to be alone there in Faulkner’s bathroom so I could take a good look at all the evidence. I didn’t want her checking up on what I was doing, so I told her to take Mrs. Faulkner out into the living room and kid her out of her hysterics. I guess while she was out there, she must have put the bite on Mrs. Faulkner. That means she must have uncovered some evidence that escaped me. Or else, Mrs. Faulkner propositioned her to ditch the gun, and the golddigger ran true to form and wanted some heavy dough. In any event it leaves us in a mess.

  “You can see what’s going to happen now. I thought we were getting her out of circulation so the newspaper reporters wouldn’t get hold of her, and so we could do something about building up a claim against the estate of Faulkner without having her spill any beans before we knew the lay of the land. That’s what comes of being big-hearted and trying to help a guy who has T.B. and a golddigging girl friend.

  “You’ve registered under your own name and under her name. If that gun happens to be the one with which the murder was committed, you can realize what a spot we’re in. Both of us. What did she tell you when she telephoned?”

  “She said you had told her to get in touch with me and had given her my number; that I was to take her to a hotel, stay with her and fix it so that no one would know anything about where she was until you got ready to let them find out.”

  Mason nodded. “That’s exactly what I told her to do.”

  Della Street said, “I was asleep and the telephone kept ringing. It wakened me out of a sound slumber and I guess I was a little groggy. Sally Madison gave me your message, and one of the first thoughts that flashed through my mind was where I could find a hotel. I told her to call me back in about ten minutes, and then I got busy on the telephone and called half a dozen hotels. I finally found there was a room with twin beds here at the Kellinger.”

  Mason slitted his eyes in concentration. “Then she called you back in fifteen minutes?”

  “I guess so. I didn’t notice the exact time. I had started to dress as soon as I located the room. I was rushing around and I didn’t notice the time.”

  “And you told her to meet you here?”

  “That’s right. I told her to come directly to the hotel, and if she got here first to wait for me in the lobby; if I got here first, I’d wait for her in the lobby.”

  “Which was the first one here?”

  “I was.”

  “How long did you wait?”

  “I’d say about ten minutes.”

  “She came in a taxi?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind?”

  “It was a yellow cab.”

  “Notice anything strange about the way she carried her purse?”

  “Not a thing. She got out of the cab and . . . Wait a minute, Chief, I do remember that she had a bill all ready in her hand. She didn’t have to take it out of the purse. She handed it to the cab driver and didn’t get any change. I remember that.”