The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

Della Street looked to Mason for a signal.

Mason said, “I’m sorry your rest was disturbed, Sally. Drop into my office some time before noon.”

“Thank you, I will,” she said.

The officer, plainly impressed by her face and figure, said, “Sorry you were put to all this trouble, Miss. There isn’t any restaurant near here. Perhaps we could give you a lift down to where there’s a restaurant that’s open.”

“Oh no, thank you,” Sally Madison told him, turning on her charm. “I always like to walk in the morning. It’s the way I keep my figure.”

“Well,” the officer said approvingly, “you sure make a good job of it.”

Mason and Della Street stood watching Sally Madison walk briskly across the lobby and out through the door. The officer, watching the lines of the golddigger’s figure with evident approval, turned back to Mason only after the door was closed on Sally Madison. “Well, Mr. Mason, I’m sorry this happened, but it’s just one of those things.”

“Yes,” Mason said, “it is. I don’t suppose I could buy you a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks, we’re on patrol. We’ll be going. My partner’s out in the car.”

Mason moved his hand significantly toward his pocket. The officer grinned and shook his head, said, “Thanks all the same,” and walked out.

The clerk said to Mason, “The room’s all paid for. Go on back up if you want to.”

Mason grinned. “Just the two of us?”

“Just the two of you,” the clerk said dispiritedly. “My nose is clean. Stay as long as you want to — up until three o’clock this afternoon. That’s checking-out time. Stay longer than that and you’ll get charged for the room — double.”

Mason relieved Della Street of her overnight bag. “We’ll go now,” he said. “My car is outside.”

10

Mason and Della Street sat in a little all-night restaurant where the coffee was good. The ham was thin but had an excellent flavor and the eggs were cooked to golden perfection.

“Do you think we’re in the clear?” Della Street asked.

“I think so,” Mason said.

“You mean she’ll get rid of the gun?”

Mason nodded.

“What makes you think she’s going to do that?”

Mason said, “She was so anxious to get away. She certainly had something in mind. It doesn’t take more than six guesses, you know.”

“Didn’t she have an opportunity to get rid of the gun last night?”

“Perhaps not,” Mason said. “Remember that Sergeant Dorset took her out to see James Staunton. Did she tell you anything about the result of that interview?”

“Yes. Staunton insisted that Faulkner had brought him the fish. What’s more, he brought out a written statement to prove it.”

“The deuce he did!”

“That’s what she said.”

“A statement signed by Faulkner?”

“Yes.”

“What was done with the statement?”

“Sergeant Dorset took it. He gave Staunton a receipt for it.”

Mason said, “Staunton didn’t tell me about having any written statement from Faulkner. What was in it?”

“Something to the effect that Faulkner had turned over these two particular fish to Staunton. That he wanted Staunton to care for them and secure treatment for them; that he absolved Staunton of all responsibility in case anything should happen to the fish, either death from natural causes or theft or sabotage.”

“It was Faulkner’s signature?”

“Staunton insisted that it was, and apparently there was nothing about it to arouse Sergeant Dorset’s suspicions. He took the statement at its face value. Of course, I’m going by what Sally told me.”

Mason said, “Now why do you suppose Staunton didn’t produce that statement when I questioned him?”

“Probably because he felt your questioning wasn’t official.”

“I suppose so. But I thought I had him pretty well frightened.”

“But if Faulkner himself took those fish out of the tank, what was the reason for the soup ladle and the four-foot extension on the handle?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “I’ve already pointed that out to Sergeant Dorset. The ladle couldn’t have been used to take the fish out of the tank.”

“Why not?”

“In the first place,” Mason said, “the surface of the water in the tank was about seven and a half feet from the floor, and I don’t think the ceiling of the room was over nine and a half feet high. It’s one of those low-ceilinged bungalow rooms. Now take a four-foot handle on a soup ladle, try to bring it out of the tank, and you’ve got two feet of handle that remain in the tank after the top of the handle is against the ceiling.”

“But you can tilt the ladle, can’t you? That is, you can take it out on an angle.”

“Exactly,” Mason said, “and when you do that, you lose your fish.”

Della Street nodded, then frowned. She gave the problem thoughtful consideration.

“What’s more,” Mason went on, “I don’t think you could lift a fish out of a tank with a soup ladle. I don’t think the fish would stay in one position long enough to let you get him out. I think it would take something bigger than a soup ladle. Of course, I’m making allowances for the fact that these fish weren’t as active as they might have been. But even so, I doubt if it could be done.”

“Then what was the ladle used for? Was it just a blind?”