The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

Erle Stanley Gardner The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

Dedication

This book was started amidst the Mayan ruins in Yucatan, and was finished in Colombia. Much of the plot was worked out while I was in a plane gliding smoothly over an interesting terrain of mountain and jungle. In between sessions at my dictating machine, I enjoyed meeting some of the most cultured and interesting people I have ever encountered — and much of my life has been spent in an association with keen minds and unusually interesting characters. Our Latin American friends are proud, independent, liberty-loving and intelligent. Too little has been written about the cultured, wide-awake citizens of these countries. Instead, we writers have been too prone to search for that which is “quaint.” We too have poverty. Our poor are crowded together in slums. To the south, the poor live in houses which are far more adequate, so far as healthful shelter is concerned, but because of the temperate climate, seem flimsy, if picturesque, to our northern eyes. Doors of the Latin American aristocrats don’t swing open to the casual tourist who has no other introduction than mere curiosity. They are perhaps as difficult to open as doors in our exclusive residential suburbs. Hence the “turista” has invaded the helpless privacy of the rural peon.

The problems of the next generation will undoubtedly deal with how to give the laborers of all nations a fair share of the wealth and leisure they help create, and at the same time preserve individual initiative. These problems will also include an attempt to bring about a lasting peace. To the extent that these problems are solved fairly and with justice will depend the wealth and happiness of a hemisphere. Within a very short time, travel facilities will be such that even the average man may board a plane and be whisked safely and comfortably from snow and ice to orchids and tropical fruits. Then we will be in a fair way to become in truth “good neighbors.” People don’t make friends with governments. They make friends with people. You can’t buy friendship, and you can’t command friendship. You can only cultivate friendship.

I went to Mexico and South America to gather material for magazine articles. I hope to return there to renew some of the most pleasant, some of the most intellectually stimulating associations I have ever formed.

And so I dedicate this book to those who helped to make its writing such a pleasant task—

TO THE FRIENDS I HAVE FOUND

“SOUTH OF THE BORDER”

1

Perry Mason, seated at the restaurant table, looked up at the tense, nervous face of the man who had deserted his spectacular companion to accost him.

“You said you wanted to consult me about a goldfish?” Mason repeated blankly. His smile was almost incredulous.

“Yes.”

Mason shook his head. “I’m afraid you’d find my fees were a little too high...”

“I don’t care how high your fees are. I can afford to pay any amount within reason, and I will.”

Mason’s tone contained quiet finality. “I’m sorry, but I’ve just finished with a rather exacting case. I have neither the time nor the inclination to bother with goldfish. I...”

A tall, dignified gentleman gravely approached the table, said to the man who was regarding Mason with an expression of puzzled futility, “Harrington Faulkner?”

“Yes,” the man said with the close-clipped finality of one accustomed to authority. “I’m engaged now, however, as you can see. I...”

The newcomer’s hand made a quick motion to his breast pocket. There was a brief flash of paper as he pushed a folded oblong into Faulkner’s hand.

“Copy of summons, and complaint, case of Carson versus Faulkner. Defamation of character, a hundred thousand dollars. Here’s the original summons — directing your attention to the signature of the clerk and the seal of the court. No need to get sore about it. It’s all in the line of work. If I didn’t serve it somebody else would. See your lawyer. You have ten days to answer. If the other fellow isn’t entitled to anything he can’t get it. If he is, it’s your hard luck. I’m just the man who serves the papers. No good getting mad. Thank you. Good night.”

The words rattled along with such staccato rapidity that they sounded like a sudden, unexpected burst of hail on a metal roof.

The process server turned with quick, self-effacing grace, and merged himself into a group of diners who were just leaving the restaurant.

Faulkner, acting like a man who is in the middle of a bad dream and is being swept helplessly along by the events of his nightmare, pushed the papers down into a side pocket, turned without a word, walked back to his table and rejoined his companion.

Mason watched him thoughtfully.

The waiter hovered over the table. Mason smiled reassuringly at Della Street, his secretary, then turned to Paul Drake, the private detective who had entered a few minutes before.

“Joining us, Paul?”

“A big coffee and a slab of mince pie is all I want,” Drake said.