The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

“All right,” Dorset said abruptly, “wait outside with Mr. Mason. But don’t you go away.” He strode to the door, jerked it open and said to a man in uniform who was on guard outside, “Mr. Mason’s going to wait outside for fifteen minutes. If I want him within that time I’ll call him. The girl is going to wait outside until I call her. She isn’t to leave.”

The officer nodded, said, “Fifteen minutes,” and looked at his watch. Then he added, “A private dick’s out here. I wouldn’t let him in. He says the lawyer called him.”

Sergeant Dorset glanced over to where Paul Drake was leaning against the side of the porch, smoking a cigarette.

“Hello, Sergeant,” Drake said.

“What are you doing here?” Dorset asked.

“Keeping the porch from falling over,” Drake drawled.

“How did you come — in a car?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Go on out and sit in it.”

“You’re so good to me,” Drake said humorously.

Sergeant Dorset held the door open until Sally Madison and Perry Mason had moved out to the porch, then slammed it shut.

Mason jerked his head toward Paul Drake and moved off toward the place where he had left his automobile. Sally Madison hesitated a moment, then followed. Drake joined them at the curb.

“How’d it happen?” Drake asked.

“He was in the bathroom. Somebody shot him. One shot. Dead center. Through the heart. Death must have been instantaneous, but the medical examiner hasn’t said anything yet.”

“Did you find him, Perry?”

“No, the wife did.”

“That’s a break. How did it happen? Wasn’t she home when you got here?”

“No. She drove up just as I was ringing the bell. You know, Paul, she seemed to be in one hell of a hurry. There was a peculiar smell to the exhaust fumes. Suppose you can get over and take a look at her car before the officers start questioning her and perhaps get the same idea I have?”

“What idea?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It isn’t definite enough to be an idea, but she certainly slammed that car around the corner and up into the driveway. I don’t know what gave me the idea, Paul, other than the smell of the fumes from the exhaust — but I wondered if she’d driven the car a long ways, or whether she’d been parked around the corner somewhere. I remember there was something peculiar about the way the motor sounded, and I got the smell of all but raw gasoline when she slammed the car to a stop. How about taking a look at the choke?”

“Well,” Drake said dubiously, “I can try.”

“They can’t hook you for trying,” Mason said.

Drake moved away, starting toward the front porch. The officer grinned, shook his head and jerked his thumb. “Nothing doing, buddy,” he said, and then added, “sorry.”

Drake veered off to one side, made a few aimless motions, then strolled quite casually over toward the automobile Mrs. Faulkner had driven up to the house. Acting very much as though this was the automobile in which he had driven up, the detective settled down in the front seat and after a moment took a cigarette from his pocket and lit a match, delaying its application to the end of the cigarette long enough to study the dashboard of the automobile.

“What do they mean by lifting fingerprints?” Sally Madison asked Mason.

“They dust objects with a special powder,” Mason said, his eyes on Paul Drake. “That brings out what are known as latent fingerprints. Sometimes they use a black powder, sometimes a white powder, depending on the surface. Mostly when they lift fingerprints they use a black powder to bring out the latent, and then take a piece of adhesive, place it over the developed latent, rub it smoothly until every bit of powder has had a chance to adhere to the adhesive, and then pull off the adhesive. That definitely lifts the fingerprint from the object on which it was found.”

“How long do fingerprints keep when they do that?”

“Indefinitely.”

“How do they know where they took the prints from?”

Mason said, “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

“I’m curious.”

“It all depends on the expert who’s doing the job. Some of them make marks on the object from which the print was lifted, number the adhesive and put a corresponding number on the object. Some of them put the numbers in a notebook with a sketch or a description of the place from which the print was lifted.”

“I thought they had fingerprint cameras and took photographs.”

“Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don’t. It all depends on who’s doing it. Personally, I’d photograph all latents, even if the women never got the use of the bathroom.”

Sally Madison looked at Mason curiously. “Why?”

“Because,” Mason said, “if there were a lot of latents, the man’s going to have a heck of a job keeping them all straight.”

“I don’t see the importance of that.”

“You would if they found one of your fingerprints.”

“What do you mean?”

“It might make a difference whether they found it on the doorknob or on the handle of the gun — a difference to you, anyway.”