The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

Mason called up his office from a drug store that was within half a dozen blocks of Dixon’s house. “Della,” he said when he had Della Street on the line, “get hold of Paul Drake at once. Tell him to look up all the evidence in connection with Harrington Faulkner’s divorce case. Somewhere around five years ago. I not only want all of the dope on the case, but I want a transcript of the evidence if we can get it, and I want to know what was actually behind it.”

“Okay, Chief, anything else?”

“That’s all. What’s new?”

She said, “I’m glad you phoned. I filed the application for a writ of habeas corpus and Judge Downey issued a writ returnable next Tuesday. They’ve now booked Sally Madison on a charge of first-degree murder.”

“I suppose they booked her as soon as they learned of the writ,” Mason said.

“I guess so.”

Mason said, “All right, I’m going up to the jail and demand an audience with her.”

“As her attorney?”

“Sure.”

“You’re going on record as representing her without first knowing what she has to say?”

Mason said, “It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference what she has to say. I’m going to represent her because I’ve got to. I have no other choice in the matter. What have they done with Tom Gridley?”

“No one knows. He’s still buried somewhere. Do you want me to prepare an application for a writ of habeas corpus for him?”

“No,” Mason said. “I don’t have to represent him — at least not until I see what Sally Madison has to say. I’m on my way.”

“Good luck to you, Chief,” Della Street said. “Sorry I got you into this.”

“You didn’t. I got you into it.”

“Well, don’t pull any punches.”

“I won’t.”

Mason hung up, jumped in his car and drove to the jail. The excessive politeness with which the officers greeted him, and the celerity with which they arranged for an interview between Sally Madison and the lawyer as soon as Mason announced that he was going to represent her as her attorney, indicated that the police were quite well satisfied with the entire situation.

Mason seated himself at the long table, down the middle of which ran a heavy-meshed steel screen. And a few moments later a matron ushered Sally Madison into the other side of the room.

“Hello, Sally,” Mason said.

She looked very calm and self-possessed as she walked across to seat herself at the opposite side of the table, the heavy screen furnishing a partition between the prisoner and the visitor.

“I’m sorry I walked out on you, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said, “That’s only about half of what you need to be sorry for.”

“What do you mean?”

“Going out with Della Street when you had that gun and money in your purse.”

“I shouldn’t have done that, I know.”

“Where were you when Lieutenant Tragg picked you up?”

“I hadn’t walked more than four blocks from the time I left you. Tragg picked me up and talked with me a little while. Then he left me in the custody of a couple of officers while he went on a tour of the restaurants, looking for you and Miss Street.”

“Have you made any statement to the police?”

“Oh yes.”

“What did you do that for?”

“Because,” she said, “I had to tell them the truth.”

“You didn’t have to tell them a damn thing,” Mason said.

“Well, I thought I’d better.”

“All right,” Mason said, “what’s the truth?”

She said, “I held out on you, Mr. Mason.”

“Good Lord,” Mason groaned, “tell me something new — at least give me the same break you gave the officers.”

“You won’t be angry?”

“Of course I’m angry.”

“Then you won’t — won’t help me out?”

Mason said, “I have no choice in the matter. I’m helping you out because I’ve got to help Della Street. I’ve got to try to get her out of a jam, and in order to do that I’ve got to try to get you out too.”

“Have I made trouble for her?”

“For her and for me and for everyone. Go ahead. What’s the story?”

She lowered her eyes. “I went out to see Mr. Faulkner last night.”

“What time?”

“It was right around eight o’clock.”

“Did you see him?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing?”

“He was shaving. He had his face all lathered and he had his coat and shirt off. He was in his undershirt. There was water running in the bathtub.”

“The bathroom door was open?”

“Yes.”

“His wife was there?”

“No.”

“Who answered the door?”

“No one. The door was standing ajar, open an inch or two.”

“The front door?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“I walked in. I could hear him in the bathroom. I called to him.”

“What did he do?”

“He came out.”

“You’re sure the water in the bathtub was running?”

“Yes.”

“Hot or cold water?”

“Why — hot water.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. I remember there was steam on the mirror.”

“Was Faulkner angry at you?”

“Angry at me? Why?”

“For coming to see him that way.”

“I guess he was. But everything worked out all right.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said wearily, his invitation almost in the tone of a groan. “Let’s hear the rest of it.”

“Mr. Faulkner said he didn’t want to have any trouble with me; that he’d like very much to get things cleaned up. He knew that Tom would do exactly as I suggested, and he said that we might as well come to terms.”

“What did you say?”