The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

“There isn’t any,” Mason said. “Go back to Mrs. Faulkner. Get her out of the bedroom. Call the Drake Detective Agency. Tell Paul Drake to get down here just as quick as he can, then, after you have done that, call police headquarters, get Homicide and ask for Lieutenant Tragg. Tell him you’re speaking for Perry Mason and that I have a murder to report.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all. Don’t touch anything in the room. Get Mrs. Faulkner out of the bedroom and into the living room, then keep her there.”

Mason waited until Sally Madison had left the room, then, moving backward away from the bathtub a few inches at a time, he carefully studied every part of the room, taking great care, however, not to touch any object with his hands.

On the floor, slightly to one side of the body, was a pocket magnifying glass consisting of two lenses, each approximately an inch and a half in diameter, hinged to a hard rubber case so that they would fold back out of the way when not in use. Back against the wall, almost directly under the washstand, were three popular magazines of approximately nine by twelve inches.

Mason bent over to notice the dates on the magazines. The top one was a current magazine, the one underneath that was three months old, and the bottom one four months old. On the top magazine was a smear of ink about half an inch in width by three or four inches in length and slightly curved in shape, trailing off almost to a point as it approached the end of the three-inch smear.

On a glass shelf over the washstand in the bathroom were two sixteen-ounce bottles of peroxide of hydrogen, one of them almost empty, a shaving brush, a safety razor, to the edge of which soapy lather was still adhering, and a tube of shaving cream.

The man had apparently been shot in the left side over the heart and had died almost instantly. When he fell he had apparently upset the table on which the goldfish bowl had been placed. One of the curved segments of broken bowl still held about half a cup of water.

On the floor, beneath the body of one of the goldfish was a pocket checkbook, and near by, a fountain pen. The cap of the pen lay some two feet away. The checkbook was closed, and bloody water had seeped against the edges of the checks. Mason noticed that about half of the checks in the book had been torn out, leaving the stubs of approximately half the checks in the front part of the book.

Faulkner had apparently been wearing his glasses when he was shot and the left lens had been broken, evidently when he had fallen, as the fragments of curved glass from that lens of the spectacles lay within an inch or two of the head. The right lens had not been injured and it reflected the bathroom light in the ceiling with a glitter which seemed oddly animate in the face of the death that tarnished the floor of the bathroom with its crimson stain.

Mason regarded the overturned table, stepping carefully backward and bending over to get a good look at it. There were drops of water on this table, and a slight blob of ink, partially diluted with water. Then Mason noticed something that had hitherto escaped him. A graniteware cooking pan of about two-quart capacity was in the bottom of the bathtub, lying on its side.

As Mason finished his careful inspection of the contents of the room, Sally Madison called to him from the bedroom. “Everything’s been done, Mr. Mason. Mrs. Faulkner is waiting in the living room. Mr. Drake is on his way out here, and I’ve notified the police.”

“Lieutenant Tragg?” Mason asked.

“Lieutenant Tragg wasn’t in, but Sergeant Dorset is on his way out.”

Mason said, “That’s a break,” and then added, “for the murderer.”

7

A siren, at first as muted as the sound of a persistent mosquito, grew in volume until as the police car approached the house it faded from a keen, high-pitched demand for the right-of-way to a low, throbbing protest, then lapsed into silence.

Heavy steps sounded on the porch and Mason opened the front door.

Sergeant Dorset said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Reception committee,” Mason announced briefly. “Do come in.”

Men pushed into the room, not bothering to remove their hats, gazing curiously at the two women; Sally Madison calm and collected, her face as expressionless as that of a doll, Mrs. Faulkner, her eyes red from crying, half sitting, half reclining on the davenport, emitting low, moaning sounds which were too regular to be sobs, too low in volume to be groans.

“Okay,” Sergeant Dorset said to Mason, “what’s the story this time?”

Mason smiled suavely. “No need to run a blood pressure, Sergeant. I didn’t discover the body.”

“Who did?”

Mason inclined his head toward the woman on the davenport.

“Who’s she, the wife?”

“If you wish to be technically correct,” Mason said, “and I’m certain you do, she’s the widow.”