The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

The last notes of the chimes were still sounding when the headlights of an automobile swung around the corner in a skidding turn. The car straightened, slowed abruptly as brakes were sharply applied, swerved into a right-angled turn, and headed up the driveway toward the garage. When the car was halfway up the driveway, the driver, apparently for the first time, saw Mason’s car parked at the curb and the two figures on the porch.

Abruptly, the car slid to a halt. The door opened. A pair of well-curved legs flashed in a generous display, then Mrs. Faulkner slid out from the seat, across the running board to the ground, adjusting her skirts well after she had alighted.

“Yes?” she asked anxiously. “What is it, please? Oh, it’s Mr. Mason and Miss Street. No, it isn’t. It’s Miss Madison. Isn’t my husband home?”

“Apparently not,” Mason said. “If he is, he’s a sound sleeper.”

“I guess he hasn’t returned yet. He said he’d be out until quite late.”

Mason said, “Perhaps we could wait for him.”

“I warn you, Mr. Mason, he won’t be in a good humor if he comes home and finds you waiting. Are you quite certain you want to see him tonight?”

“Quite certain — if it won’t inconvenience you.”

Mrs. Faulkner laughed melodiously, a laugh which seemed to have been practiced assiduously. She said, “Oh, well, I’ll let you in and if it’s that important we’ll have some drinks and wait for Harrington to come in. However, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She inserted a key in the latch of the door, clicked back the lock, turned on lights in the hallway, and in the living room, and said, “Do come in and sit down. You’re sure it isn’t anything that you could tell me, and then let me tell Harrington in the morning?”

“No. We want to see him tonight. He should be coming in soon, shouldn’t he?”

“Oh, I’m quite certain he’ll be home within an hour. Do sit down, please. Pardon me a moment and I’ll get myself organized.”

She stepped from the room, taking off her coat as she went through the door. They heard her moving around the bedroom. A door opened. There was a moment of motionless silence, and then her high-pitched, piercing scream knifed through the silence.

Sally Madison glanced inquiringly toward Mason, but the lawyer was already in motion. He crossed the room in four swift strides, jerked open the door of the bedroom and crossed the bedroom in time to see Mrs. Faulkner, her hands held over her face, stagger back from a bathroom which evidently communicated with another bedroom.

“He’s... he’s... in there!” she cried, and wheeled blindly, then lurched into Mason’s arms.

“Take it easy,” Mason said, his fingers gently pulling her jeweled hands away from her eyes.

As his fingers touched her flesh, he realized that her hands were icy cold. He supported her with one arm, moved toward the bathroom.

She pulled back. Mason released his hold, caught Sally Madison’s eye and nodded. Sally Madison took Mrs. Faulkner’s arm, gently piloted her toward the bed, said, “There, there! Take it easy.”

Mrs. Faulkner moaned, slid down on the bed, her head on the pillow, legs trailing over the edge of the bed so that her feet were dangling halfway between the bed and the floor. Her hands were once more over her eyes. She kept saying, “Oh... oh... oh...!”

Mason moved to the bathroom door.

Harrington Faulkner lay motionless in death. His coat and shirt had been removed, leaving him attired in trousers and undershirt, and the front of the undershirt was a mass of blood. Back of the head was an overturned table, and on the floor fragments of curved glass caught the rays of the bathroom light and reflected them. A thin layer of water which had seeped over the floor had carried blood in a crimson stain to the far corners of the bathroom. On the floor near the figure were perhaps a dozen motionless goldfish, but as Mason looked, one of these goldfish gave a tired, dispirited flap of its tail.

The bathtub was half full of water and in this water a lone goldfish swam energetically back and forth, as though in search of companionship.

Mason stooped to pick up the lone fish which had shown signs of life. Gently he lowered it into the water of the bathtub. The fish kicked about for a moment, then turned half on its side, floated to the top of the water and remained motionless, save for a slight motion of the gills.

Mason felt the touch of Sally Madison’s body, turned to find her standing just behind him.

“Get out,” Mason said.

“Is he... is he—?”

Mason said, “Of course he is. Get out. Don’t touch anything. Leave a fingerprint here, and it may make trouble. What’s his wife doing?”

“Throwing a fit on the bed.”

“Hysterics?”

“Not that bad, just a wild fit of grief.”

“Does it mean that much to her?”

“It’s the shock.”

“Was she in love with him?”

“She was a fool if she was. You never can tell. I thought she didn’t have any emotion at all. She had me fooled.”

Mason said, “You don’t ever show much emotion yourself.”

Her eyes regarded him thoughtfully. “What’s the use?”