The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

“What’s that?” Carson asked, avoiding his eyes.

Mason said, “Why did Faulkner drive to his house before he notified the police?”

Carson said, “I suppose he was frightened and afraid to stop.”

Mason grinned.

“Oh, well,” Carson said impatiently, “your guess is as good as mine, but I suppose he wanted to see if his wife was home.”

“Was she?”

“I understand she was. She’d been quite nervous the night before and hadn’t been able to sleep. About three o’clock in the morning she’d taken a big dose of sleeping medicine, and she was still asleep when the officers went in to look the place over.”

“The officers went over there?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Faulkner didn’t make too good an impression with the officers. I think they thought he might have fired the shot himself.”

“Why?”

“Heaven knows. Faulkner was a deep one. Understand, Mason, I’m not making any accusations or any insinuations. All I know is that after a while the officers wanted to know if Faulkner had a gun, and when he said he did have one, the officers told him they’d go over and take a look at it.”

“He showed it to them?”

“I presume so. I didn’t go over with them. They were gone ten or fifteen minutes.”

“When was this?”

“A week ago.”

“What time?”

“Around ten o’clock in the morning.”

“What caliber is Faulkner’s gun?”

“A thirty-eight, I believe. I think that’s what he told the police.”

“And what caliber was the bullet that Faulkner dug out of the upholstery?”

“A forty-five.”

“How did Faulkner and his wife get along?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Could you make a guess?”

“I couldn’t even do that. I’ve heard him talk to her over the phone and use about the same tone he’d use to a disobedient dog, but Mrs. Faulkner kept her feelings to herself.”

“There had been bad blood between you and Faulkner before this?”

“Not bad blood, exactly — a little difference of opinion here and there, and some friction, but we were getting along with some outward semblance of harmony.”

“And after this?”

“After this I blew up. I told him either to buy or sell.”

“You going to sell out to him... to his estate, I mean?”

“I may. I don’t know. I’d never have sold out to that old buzzard at the price he wanted to pay. If you want to know something about him in a business deal, ask Wilfred Dixon.”

“Who’s he?”

“He looks after the interests of the first Mrs. Faulkner — Genevieve Faulkner.”

“What interests?”

“Her share in the realty company.”

“How much?”

“One-third. That was her settlement when the divorce went through. At that time Faulkner owned two thirds of the stock and I owned a third. He got dragged into divorce court and the judge nicked him for a half of the stock he owned and gave it to the wife. Faulkner’s been scared to death of divorces ever since that experience.”

Mason said, “If you hated him that much, why didn’t you and the first Mrs. Faulkner get together and pool your stock and freeze him out? I’m asking just as a matter of curiosity.”

Carson said frankly, “Because I couldn’t. The stock was all pooled. That was a part of the divorce business. The judge worked out a pooling agreement by which the management was left equally in the hands of Faulkner and myself. Mrs. Faulkner — that is Genevieve Faulkner, the first wife — couldn’t have any say in the management of the company unless she first appealed to the court. And neither Faulkner nor I could increase the expenses of the company past a certain point, and we couldn’t raise salaries. The judge also pointed out that any time the dividends on the stock fell below a certain point he’d reopen the alimony end of it and take another bite if he had to. He certainly had Faulkner scared white.”

“The stock’s been profitable?” Mason asked.

“I’ll say it has. You see, we didn’t handle things on a commission basis alone. We had some deals by which we took title in our own name and built houses and sold them. We’ve done some pretty big things in our day.”

“Faulkner’s ideas or yours?”

“Both. When it came to making money, old Harrington Faulkner had the nose of a buzzard. He could smell a potential profit a mile away. He had the courage to back up his judgment with cold hard cash and he had plenty of operating capital. He should have. Lord knows he never gave his wife anything, and he never spent anything himself, except on those damned goldfish of his. He’d really loosen up the purse strings on those, but when it came to parting with money for anything else he was like the bark on a log.”

“And Dixon?” Mason asked. “Was he appointed by the court?”

“No. Genevieve Faulkner hired him.”

“Faulkner was wealthy?” Mason asked.

“He had quite a bit of money, yes.”

“You wouldn’t know it from looking around his house,” Mason said.