The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

“I am,” Mason said, “still waiting for an answer.”

“You have, of course, no official right to ask that question.”

“None whatever.”

“Perhaps I wouldn’t choose to answer it. What then?”

“Then,” Mason said, “I would ring up my friend, Lieutenant Tragg, tell him that you had seen Harrington Faulkner on the day he was murdered, perhaps on the evening he was murdered; that you had apparently talked with him over the telephone. And then I would hang up, shake hands with you, tell you I appreciated your cooperation, and go away.”

Once more, Dixon put his fingers together. Then he nodded his head, as though he had reached some definite decision. But he still remained silent, a chubby figure with a mask-like countenance, sitting behind a huge desk, slowly nodding his head in impressive acquiescence with himself.

Mason waited silently.

Dixon said at length, “You make a very powerful argument, Mr. Mason. You do indeed. You would make a good poker player. It would be hard to judge what was in your hand when you shoved your chips into the pot — very hard indeed.”

Mason said nothing.

Dixon nodded his head a few more times, then went on to say, “I will, of course, be called on eventually by the police. In fact, I have debated with myself whether I should telephone the police and tell them exactly what I know. You will, of course, be able to get all this information sooner or later, else I wouldn’t be talking to you. You still haven’t told me your exact interest in finding out the facts.”

Dixon suddenly looked up at Mason, his attitude that of a man who is courteously awaiting a reply to a routine question.

Mason sat absolutely silent.

Dixon drew his eyebrows together, looked down at his desk, then slowly shook his head in a gesture of negation, as though after giving the matter thoughtful consideration, Mason’s refusal to be more frank had caused him to reverse his former decision.

Still Mason said nothing.

Dixon looked up abruptly and failed to surprise any expression on the lawyer’s face.

Suddenly the business counselor put both hands flat on the desk, palms down, the gesture of a man who has definitely reached a decision. “Mr. Faulkner conferred with me several times yesterday, Mr. Mason.”

“In person?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“That goes beyond the scope of your original question, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said, “I am more concerned with the question than with the reason for asking it.”

Dixon raised and lowered his hands, the palms making little patting noises on the desk. “Well, Mr. Mason, it’s asking for a good deal, but, after all — Mr. Faulkner wanted to buy out Genevieve’s interest.”

“And you wanted to sell?”

“At a price, yes.”

“The price was in dispute?”

“Oh, very much.”

“Was there a wide difference?”

“Quite a wide range. You see, Mr. Faulkner had certain ideas as to the value of the stock. To be perfectly frank, Mr. Mason, he offered to sell his stock to us at a certain figure. Then he thought that in case we didn’t want to accept that offer, we should be willing to sell our stock at the same figure.”

“And you weren’t?”

“Oh, definitely not.”

“May I ask why?”

“It’s rather elemental, Mr. Mason. Mr. Faulkner was operating the company on a very profitable basis. He was receiving a salary that had not been raised during the past five years. Nor had Mr. Carson’s. If Genevieve had purchased Mr. Faulkner’s stock, Mr. Faulkner would then have been at liberty to step out into the commercial world and capitalize upon his own very remarkable business qualifications. He could even have built himself up another business which might well have been competitive to ours.

“On the other hand, when it came to fixing a price for which Genevieve Faulkner would be willing to sell her stock, I was forced to adopt the position that the value of the stock, so far as she was concerned, was predicated upon the income she was receiving from it, and if she were to sell out, she would want to get a sum of money which would draw an equal return. And, of course, investments are not nearly as profitable as they once were, nor do they have the element of safety. That made a wide difference, a very, very wide difference, Mr. Mason, between our selling price and our buying price.”

“I take it that made for some bad feeling?”

“Not bad feeling, Mr. Mason. Surely not bad feeling. It was merely a difference of opinion about a business transaction.”

“And you held the whip hand?”

“I’d hardly say that, Mr. Mason. We were perfectly willing to let matters go on in status quo.”

“But Faulkner found it very galling to be working for an inadequate salary...”

“Tut, tut, tut, Mr. Mason. The salary wasn’t inadequate, it was the same salary he had been drawing when he owned a two-thirds interest in the corporation.”

Mason’s eyes twinkled. “A salary which he had fixed so that Carson wouldn’t be in a position to ask for any salary increases.”