The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

Waiting only for Della Street’s nod and not so much as glancing at Faulkner, Mason left the table and crossed over to where Sally Madison was seated.

“Good evening,” he said. “My name is Mason. I’m a lawyer.”

Long lashes swept upward, dark eyes regarded the lawyer with the unabashed frankness of a speculator looking over a piece of property. “Yes, I know. You’re Perry Mason, the lawyer.”

“May I sit down?”

“Please do.”

Mason drew up a chair.

“I think,” he said, “I’m going to like this case.”

“I hope you do. Mr. Faulkner needs a good lawyer.”

“But,” Mason pointed out, “if I agreed to represent Mr. Faulkner, it might conflict with your interest.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“It might, therefore, cut down the amount of money you’d receive.”

“Oh, I think not,” she said with all the assurance of a person who occupied an impregnable position.

Mason glanced quizzically at her. “How much,” he asked, “do you want out of Mr. Faulkner?”

“Today it’s five thousand dollars.”

Mason smiled. “Why the accent on today? What was it yesterday?”

“Four thousand.”

“And the day before?”

“Three.”

“And what will it be tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. I think he’ll give me the five thousand tonight.”

Mason studied the expressionless countenance, heavy with make-up. His eyes showed he was taking a keen interest in the entire affair. “Faulkner says you’re a golddigger.”

“Yes, he would think so.”

“Are you?”

“Perhaps. I really don’t know. Probably I am. But if Mr. Faulkner wants to throw brickbats around, let him tell you about himself. He’s a tight-fisted, miserly, overbearing— Oh, what’s the use! You wouldn’t understand.”

Mason laughed outright. “I’m trying,” he said, “to make heads or tails out of this case. So far I don’t seem to be having very much success. Now will you please tell me what it’s all about?”

She said, “My connection with it is very simple. I want money out of Harrington Faulkner.”

“And just why do you think Faulkner should give you money?”

“He wants his goldfish to get well, doesn’t he?”

“Apparently, but I’m afraid I don’t see the connection.”

For the first time since Mason had seated himself, some expression struggled through the glazed make-up of her face. “Mr. Mason, did you ever see someone whom you loved sick with tuberculosis?”

Mason’s eyes were puzzled. He shook his head. “Go on,” he said.

“Harrington Faulkner has money. So much money that he’d never miss five thousand dollars. He’s spent thousands of dollars on his hobby. Heaven knows how much he’s spent on these black goldfish alone. Not only is he rich but he’s stinking rich, and he hasn’t the faintest idea of how to enjoy his money or how to spend it so it would do him or anyone else any good. He’ll just keep on piling it up until some day he’ll die and that granite-hearted wife of his will fall heir to it. He’s a miser except on his goldfish. And in the meantime Tom Gridley has T.B. The doctor says he needs absolute rest, freedom from worry, complete relaxation. How much chance does Tom stand of getting any of that while he’s working at twenty-seven dollars a week, nine hours a day, in a pet store which is damp and smelly... He hasn’t had a chance to get out in the sunlight except a few brief snatches he can get on Sundays. That, of course, isn’t enough even to help.

“Mr. Faulkner goes into spasms because a few black goldfish are dying of gill disease, but he’d watch Tom die of T.B. and simply ignore the whole thing as being none of his concern.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“That’s all there is to it.”

“But what,” Mason asked, “does Tom Gridley have to do with Harrington Faulkner?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“No.”

She sighed with exasperation. “That’s what he went over there to tell you about.”

Mason said, “Perhaps it’s my fault. I got off on the wrong tangent. I thought you were trying to blackmail him.”

“I am,” she said with calm candor.

“But apparently not the way I thought,” Mason explained.

She said, “Do you know anything about goldfish, Mr. Mason?”

“Not a darn thing,” Mason admitted.

“Neither do I,” she said, “but Tom knows all about them. The goldfish that are Mr. Faulkner’s most prized possession have some sort of a gill disease and Tom has a treatment that will cure it. The only other treatment is a copper sulphate treatment that quite frequently proves fatal to the fish, and is of doubtful value as far as the disease is concerned. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Tell me about Tom’s treatment.”

“It’s a secret, but I can tell you this much. In place of being a harsh treatment that shocks the fish, it’s a gentle treatment that is thoroughly beneficial. Of course, one of the problems of treating fish by putting things in the water is that the remedy has to be thoroughly mixed with the water, and then, the minute you let it settle, it is apt to concentrate in the wrong places. If the remedy is heavier than water it will settle to the bottom, or if it’s lighter it will rise to the top.”

“And how does Tom get away from that?” Mason asked, interested.