The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

“Yes. He produced a written authorization from Mr. Faulkner to keep the fish.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then Sergeant Dorset went back to Faulkner’s house and took me with him.”

“Then what?”

“Then after an hour or so, he told me I could leave.”

“So what did you do?”

“Well, one of the men — I think he was a photographer — said that he was going downtown to police headquarters to get some films developed and I could ride along with him if I wanted. You know, said he’d give me a lift.”

“So you went with him?”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“Then I telephoned Della Street.”

“Where did you find a telephone?”

“In an all-night restaurant.”

“Near where this photographer let you out?”

“Yes, within a block.”

“Then what?”

“Then Miss Street told me to call her back inside of fifteen minutes.”

“So what did you do?”

“Had a cup of coffee and some scrambled eggs and toast.”

“Can you remember where this restaurant was?”

“Yes, of course I can, and I think the night man in the restaurant will remember me. He was a man with very dark hair and I remember he had a limp when he walked. I think one leg had been broken and was quite a bit shorter than the other.”

“All right,” Mason said, “that has the ring of truth. You went back to Faulkner’s house with Dorset. He kept you there for awhile and then decided he didn’t need you any more and this photographer gave you a lift uptown. Did you talk any with him in the automobile?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Tell him what you knew about the murder?”

“No. We weren’t talking about the murder.”

“What were you talking about?”

“Me.”

“Was he making passes at you?”

“He wanted my telephone number. He didn’t seem to be interested in the murder. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry he said he’d have gone to the restaurant with me. He asked me if I wouldn’t wait there for an hour or so until after he’d developed his films.”

“That sounds natural,” Mason said. “You’re giving out stuff that has the ring of truth now. How long were you in the restaurant?”

“Just about fifteen minutes. I called Miss Street as soon as I went in and then she told me to call back in fifteen minutes, and in fifteen minutes I called back and she told me to go to the Kellinger Hotel.”

“Then what?”

“Then I got a taxi and went to the Kellinger Hotel.”

“You told the police this?”

“Yes, all of this.”

“It’s in your written statement?”

“Yes.”

“Were there any other customers in that all-night restaurant when you were there?”

“No. It’s just a little place — just a little lunch counter. Sort of a hole in the wall with a night man who does the cooking and then serves the food at the counter. It’s just a little short-order place.”

“And you got a good look at this man behind the counter?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And he got a good look at you?”

“Yes.”

“And you called Della Street twice from that restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“Now then,” Mason asked, “did you make any other calls?”

She hesitated.

“Did you?”

“No.”

“That doesn’t have the ring of truth,” Mason said.

Sally Madison was quiet.

Mason said, “You got a taxicab there?”

“Yes, right near there.”

“And went directly to the Kellinger Hotel?”

“Yes.”

Mason shook his head. “From your description of where you were, the taxi ride to the Kellinger Hotel shouldn’t have taken over two or three minutes at that hour of the night, and the meter should have been considerably less than a dollar.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?”

“Della Street got there first,” Mason said. “She had a lot farther to go than you did.”

“Well, I... It took me a little while to find a taxicab.”

“You didn’t have one come to the restaurant?”

“No. I went out to look for a taxi stand. The restaurant man told me there’d be one right around there somewhere.”

Mason said, “When Della Street got to the Kellinger Hotel, she sat in the lobby waiting for you. She saw you when you drove up in the taxicab. She saw you pay off the driver. You didn’t open your purse. You had a bill all ready in your hand.”

“That’s right.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because, Mr. Mason, I had that gun in my purse and that big roll of bills, and I was afraid the taxi driver might see... well, you know, might see the gun or the roll of bills, or both, and think perhaps I was a stickup artist and... well, you know how it was?”

“No, I don’t know. How was it?”

“Well, I didn’t want anyone to see what was in the purse, so I took this bill out of the purse when we were three or four blocks from the hotel, and I knew how much the meter was going to be.”

“What was it,” Mason asked, “a one-dollar bill?”

She started to say something, then instead of speaking, simply nodded.

Mason said, “Della Street said the man looked at the bill in rather a strange way, then said something to you and laughed and put it in his pocket. I don’t think he’d have done that if it had been a one-dollar bill.”

“What do you think it was?”

“A two-dollar bill,” Mason said.

She said, “It was a one-dollar bill.”

“Did you make any statement to the police about that?”

“No.”

“Did they ask you?”

“No.”