The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

Drake said, “On my way,” and walked back to his car.

Mason drove rapidly to the main boulevard, cruised along until he found an all-night lunch counter. He entered the place, had a cup of coffee, consulted the telephone directory and, to his chagrin, found that James L. Staunton had two telephones listed, one in his insurance office, one in his residence. Both at the same street address.

Mason then thumbed through the directory to find the residence of Elmer Carson and noted the address. It was exactly four blocks from Faulkner’s residence.

Mason debated for a moment whether to call Carson on the telephone, then decided against it. He paid for his coffee, got in his automobile and drove to Carson’s house. It was dark.

Mason parked his car, climbed to the porch and was ringing the bell for the third time when lights showed in the hallway. A man in pajamas, dressing gown and slippers was outlined for a moment against lights from an inner room. Then he closed the door, switched off lights in the hallway and, walking along the darkened passageway, reached a point where he could switch on the porch light.

Mason stood outlined in the brilliant illumination of the porch light, trying in vain to see through the curtained glass of the doorway into the darkened corridor.

From the inner darkness, a voice called out through the door, “What do you want?”

“I want to see Mr. Elmer Carson.”

“This is a hell of a time to come punching doorbells.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s important.”

“What’s it about?”

Mason, conscious of the fact that his raised voice was audible for some distance, glanced somewhat apprehensively at the adjoining houses, and said, “Open the door and I’ll tell you.”

The man on the inside said, “Tell me and I’ll open the door,” and then added, “maybe.”

“It’s about Harrington Faulkner.”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Mason — Perry Mason.”

“The lawyer?”

“That’s right.”

The porch light clicked off. A light was switched on in the corridor. Mason heard the sound of a lock clicking back, then the door opened, and for the first time Mason had a good look at the man who was standing in the corridor. He was, Mason judged, around forty-two or three, a rather chunky individual inclined to baldness at the top and at the back. Such hair as he had had been left long so that it could be trained to cover the bald areas. Now that the man had been aroused from slumber, the long strands of hair hung incongruously down over the left ear almost even with the man’s jawbone. It gave his face a peculiar one-sided appearance which was hardly conducive to the dignity which he tried to assume. His mouth was firm and straight. A close-clipped moustache was just beginning to turn gray. He was a man who wouldn’t quit easily and wouldn’t frighten at all.

Carson raised rather prominent blue eyes to Mason, said curtly, “Come in and sit down.”

“You’re Elmer Carson?” Mason asked.

“That’s right.”

Carson moved around to close the front door, then ushered Mason into a well kept living room, scrupulously clean, save for a tray containing cigarette stubs, a champagne cork and two empty champagne glasses.

“Sit down,” Carson invited, gathering the bathrobe around him. “When did Faulkner die?”

“Frankly, I don’t know,” Mason said. “Sometime this evening.”

“How did he die?”

“That also I don’t know. But rather a hurried inspection of the body leads me to believe that he was shot.”

“Suicide?”

“I don’t believe the police think so.”

“You mean murder?”

“Apparently so.”

“Well,” Carson said, “there were certainly enough people who hated his guts.”

“Including you?” Mason asked.

The blue eyes met Mason’s without flinching. “Including me,” Carson said calmly.

“Why did you hate him?”

“Lots of reasons. I don’t see any necessity to go into them. What did you want with me?”

Mason said, “I thought perhaps you could help me ascertain the time of death.”

“How?”

“How long,” Mason asked, “would a goldfish live out of water?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I’m sick and tired to death of hearing about goldfish or seeing goldfish.”

Mason said, “Yet apparently you spent some money on a lawsuit trying to keep a couple of goldfish in your office.”

Carson grinned. “When you start fighting a man, you hit his most vulnerable spot.”

“And his goldfish hobby was Faulkner’s most vulnerable spot?”

“It was the only one he had.”

“Why were you hitting at him?”

“Various reasons. What’s the length of time goldfish could live out of water got to do with the time Harrington Faulkner was bumped off?”

Mason said, “When I looked at the body, there were some goldfish on the floor, one of them gave a feeble flick of its tail. I picked it up and put it in the bathtub. It started to turn belly up, but I understand a few minutes later it had come to life and was swimming around.”

“When you looked at the body?” Carson asked.

“I wasn’t the first to discover it,” Mason told him.

“Who was the first?”

“His wife.”

“How long ago?”

“Perhaps half an hour, perhaps a little longer.”

“You were with his wife?”

“When we entered the house, yes.”