The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

“Mr. James L. Staunton?” Mason asked.

“That’s right.”

Mason said, “This is Sally Madison from the Rawlins Pet Store, and I am Perry Mason, a lawyer.”

“Yes. Oh yes. I was sorry I wasn’t in tonight when you called, Miss Madison. I wanted to tell you that the treatment you had given the fish proved to be a great success and I suppose you want the rest of your money. I have it here all ready for you.”

Staunton gravely counted out fifty dollars and, trying to make his voice sound very casual, added, “If you’ll just give me a receipt, Miss Madison.”

Mason said, “I think the matter has gone a little bit past that point, Mr. Staunton.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there’s some question about the ownership of the fish which you have. Would you mind telling us where you got them?”

Staunton drew himself up with a dignity so rigid that it might have been a mask to hide fright. “I certainly would. I don’t consider it any of your business.”

“Suppose I should tell you those fish had been stolen?”

“Were they stolen?”

“I don’t know,” Mason admitted frankly. “But there are some rather suspicious circumstances.”

“Are you making an accusation?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, it sounded to me as though you were. I’ve heard of you and I know you’re a very able lawyer, Mr. Mason, but it occurs to me you had better watch what you say. If you’ll pardon the suggestion, I’m quite capable of running my own business and it might be well if you’d devote your attention to your business.”

Mason grinned, took his cigarette case from his pocket. “Have one?” he asked.

“No,” Staunton said curtly, and stepped back as though to slam the door shut.

Mason extended the cigarette case to Sally Madison, said casually to Staunton, “Miss Madison asked my advice. I was about to tell her that unless you had some satisfactory explanation, I considered it was her duty to report the matter to the police. That, of course, might prove embarrassing. But if you want it that way, it’s all right with me.”

Mason snapped a match into flame, held it to the tip of Sally Madison’s cigarette, then to his own.

“That sounds very much like a threat,” Staunton charged, apparently falling back on a repetition of his previous charge.

By this time Mason was sure of his man. He blew smoke into Staunton’s face and said, “It does, doesn’t it?”

Staunton drew back in startled surprise at the lawyer’s insolent assurance. “I don’t like your manner, Mr. Mason, and I don’t care to stand here and be insulted.”

“That’s right,” Mason agreed. “But you’ve already missed your chance to do anything about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you hadn’t anything to conceal about those fish, you’d have told me to go to the devil five minutes ago and slammed the door. You didn’t have nerve enough to do it. You’re curious as to what I know, and afraid of what I’m going to do next. You’re standing there in a lather of indecision, wondering whether you dare take the chance of slamming the door, rushing inside, and telephoning the man who told you to take care of the fish for him.”

Staunton said, “Mr. Mason, as a lawyer, you’re doubtless aware that you’re defaming my character.”

“That’s right. And as a lawyer, I know that the truth is a defense to slander. So make up your mind, Staunton, and make it up fast. Are you going to talk with me, or are you going to talk to the police?”

Staunton clung to the doorknob for some two or three seconds, then suddenly lost the dignified shell which had been interposed as an ineffectual armor against the lawyer’s attack.

“Come in,” he said.

Mason stood to one side for Sally Madison to precede him into the house.

From a living room on the right, a woman’s voice called, “What is it, dear?”

“A business matter,” Staunton called, and then added, “some insurance. I’ll take them into the study.”

Staunton opened a door and ushered his visitors into a room which had been fitted up as an office, with an old-fashioned roll-top desk, a safe, a table, a half dozen steel filing cabinets, and a secretarial desk. On top of the filing cabinets was an oblong glass container filled with water. Two fish swam lazily about in this container.

Mason moved across to look at the fish, almost as soon as Staunton had switched on the light.

“So these,” Mason said, “are the Veiltail Moor Telescopes, sometimes referred to as ‘The Fish of Death’.”

Staunton said nothing.

Mason curiously regarded the dark fish, their long fins sweeping down in black veils, regarded the protruding eyes which were as black as the bodies of the fish. “Well,” he announced, “as far as I’m concerned, anyone who wants my interest in them can have them. There certainly is something sinister about them.”

“Won’t you sit down?” Staunton ventured, somewhat dubiously.

Mason waited for Sally Madison to seat herself, then stretched himself comfortably in a chair. He grinned over at Staunton and said, “You can spare yourself a lot of trouble and nerve strain if you’ll begin at the beginning and tell your story.”

“Suppose you ask me what you want to know.”