The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

Mason said, “It could have been a blind. It could have been something else.”

“Such as what?” Della asked.

“It could have been a device to get something out of the tank other than fish.”

“What do you mean?”

Mason said, “Someone took a shot at Faulkner last week. At any rate he claims they did. The bullet missed him and embedded itself in the upholstery of the car. Of course, that bullet was valuable evidence. Police have worked out the science of ballistical detection now so that they can tell a great deal about the weapon which fired any particular bullet. And they can examine a bullet under a microscope and tell absolutely whether or not it was fired from any given gun.”

“And what does all this have to do with the goldfish tank?” Della Street asked.

Mason grinned. “It goes back to something Elmer Carson told me. He was in the office when Faulkner came in carrying the bullet with him.”

“The one he’d dug out of the car?”

“That’s right. He’d recovered the bullet from where it had embedded itself in the upholstery, and he’d notified the police, although he didn’t tell anyone in the real estate office about it.”

“And what happened?”

“The police came there and then Faulkner couldn’t find the bullet.”

“Oh, oh,” Della said.

“Now Carson points out that he never left his seat at his office desk, and the stenographer there, a Miss Stanley, apparently corroborated his statement. However, police searched him, also his desk.”

“So then what?”

“So then later on, along in the evening, when Miss Stanley was cleaning up her desk, she found a bullet under some paper on her desk.”

“You mean it wasn’t the same bullet?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I don’t think anyone else knows. It was simply a bullet. Everyone acted on the assumption that it was the same bullet Faulkner had brought in earlier in the day and had then misplaced. But as nearly as I can tell, there were no identifying marks on the bullet, so that it could not definitely be said to be the same one.”

“I don’t see just what you’re getting at,” Della Street said.

Mason said, “Faulkner thought that he had placed the bullet on the top of his desk when he came in. Then he’d gone over to dictate some correspondence, standing by Miss Stanley’s desk.”

“He must have been a pretty cool customer,” Della Street said. “If someone shot at me, I don’t think I’d dig out the bullet and then start dictating correspondence.”

Mason said, “As I gather it, Miss Stanley noticed that his hand was shaking a little, but, aside from that, there were no other evidences of emotion.”

Della Street looked at her employer as though trying to peer behind his eyes and penetrate his thoughts. “Personally I would have said that Faulkner was excitable. If someone had actually shot at him I’d think he would have been as nervous as a kitchen cockroach when a light is suddenly turned on.”

“He was rather a complex character,” Mason said. “Remember that night when the process server served the papers on him in Carson’s suit for defamation of character?”

“Yes, I remember the occasion quite distinctly.”

“Remember that he didn’t get the least bit nervous. Didn’t even read the papers, but pushed them down in his side pocket and kept his attention concentrated on the business of the moment — which was to get me to protect his precious goldfish by beating the temporary restraining order preventing him from moving the goldfish tank?”

Della Street nodded. “That’s right. He took the service of those papers right in his stride. They seemed to constitute only a minor irritation.”

“Despite the fact that the suit was for a hundred thousand dollars,” Mason pointed out.

“You’re getting at something, Chief. What is it?”

Mason said, “I’m simply sitting here sipping coffee and putting two and two together, trying to find out if perhaps someone may not have actually taken a shot at Faulkner while he was riding along in his automobile.”

Della Street said, “But Faulkner hardly impressed me as a man who would have forgotten where he placed that bullet after he’d dug it out. That doesn’t seem to be in keeping with his character.”

“It wasn’t,” Mason conceded readily enough.

“Chief, what are you getting at?”

Mason said, “Let’s consider another possibility, Della. A person seated at an adjoining desk, as Carson was, could have reached over to Faulkner’s desk, picked up the bullet Faulkner had left on the desk and hidden it where it would never have been discovered.”

“You mean without leaving his desk?”

“Yes.”

“But I thought you said they searched Carson and searched his desk.”

“They did.”

“I don’t see... oh! Now I get it! You mean he could have tossed it into the goldfish tank?”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “The goldfish tank was right back of Carson’s desk; was wide enough at the top so he could have tossed the bullet over his shoulder and been almost certain of having it light inside the tank, and then it would drop down to the bottom and be a relatively inconspicuous object among the pebbles and gravel at the bottom of the tank.”