The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

“Can you remember that, no matter what happens?”

Once more she nodded.

“And if they tell you Tom has confessed in order to save you and that you shouldn’t let the man you love take the rap and go to the death-house because he’s simply trying to save you, what are you going to say?”

“See my lawyer,” she told him.

Mason nodded to the matron. “That’s all,” he said. “My interview is finished.”

14

Genevieve Faulkner lived in a small bungalow that was within half a dozen blocks of the place where Wilfred Dixon maintained his sumptuous bachelor residence.

Mason parked his car, ran up the steps and impatiently rang the bell.

The door was opened after a few moments by Genevieve Faulkner herself.

Mason said, “You’ll pardon me for disturbing you, Mrs. Faulkner, but there are one or two questions I must ask you.”

She smiled and shook her head.

Mason said, “I’m not fishing now, Mrs. Faulkner. I’m hunting.”

“Hunting?” she asked.

“For bear,” Mason said, “and I’m loaded for bear.”

“Oh! I’m sorry I can’t invite you in, Mr. Mason. Mr. Dixon says I’m not to talk to you.”

Mason said, “You paid Sally Madison two thousand dollars for a bullet. Why did you do that?”

“Who says I did that?”

“I can’t tell you that, but I’m stating it as a fact.”

“When am I supposed to have paid her that sum of money?”

“Last night.”

Mrs. Faulkner thought for a moment, then said to Mason, “Come in.”

Mason followed her into a tastefully furnished living room. She invited the lawyer to sit down, promptly picked up a telephone, dialed a number and said, “Can you come over here right away? Mr. Mason is here.” Then she dropped the receiver into place.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“Smoke?” she inquired.

“Thank you, I have my own.”

“A drink?”

“I’d like an answer to my question.”

“In a few minutes.”

She settled down in the chair opposite Mason, and the lawyer noticed the supple grace of her movements as she crossed her knees, calmly selected a cigarette from a humidor and struck a match.

“How long have you known Sally Madison?” Mason asked.

“Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“A little cool for this time of year,” Mason said.

“I thought so, but then on the whole it’s nice. You’re sure you don’t want a Scotch and soda?”

“No, thank you, I just want an answer to that one question, and I warn you, Mrs. Faulkner, that you aren’t playing around with blackmail any more. You’re mixed up in a murder case up to your ears and if you don’t tell me the truth here and now, I’m going really to turn on the heat.”

“There’s been quite a bit of rain. It’s really nice to see the hills as green as they are now. I suppose we’ll have rather a warm summer. The old timers seem to expect it.”

Mason said, “I’m a lawyer. You’re evidently relying for advice on Wilfred Dixon. Take a tip from me and don’t do it. Either tell me the truth or get a lawyer, someone who knows the ins and outs of law and the danger you’re running if you suppress facts in a murder case.”

“It was really unusually cold around the first of the year,” she said calmly. “Some of the people who have studied weather tell me that doesn’t mean anything, but that if it’s unusually cold around the middle of January it invariably means a cold summer. Personally I can’t see any sense to that. I...”

Brakes sounded as a car slid to a stop out in front of the house. Mrs. Faulkner smiled benignly at Mason, said, “Excuse me, please,” and crossed the room to open the door.

Wilfred Dixon came hurrying in.

“Really, Mr. Mason,” Dixon said, “I had hardly thought that you would stoop to this.”

“Stoop to what?” Mason asked.

“After I told you that I didn’t care to have you interview my client.”

“To hell with you,” Mason told him. “You’re not a lawyer. You’re a self-styled business counselor or investment broker or whatever you want to call yourself. But this woman is mixed up to her ears in a murder case. She isn’t any client of yours as far as murder is concerned and you have no right to practice law. You go sticking your neck out and I’ll push it back.”

Dixon seemed completely nonplussed at Mason’s belligerence.

“Now then,” Mason went on, “Mrs. Faulkner bribed my client, Sally Madison, to get into the office of Faulkner and Carson and extract a bullet from a fish tank. Last night she gave Sally Madison two thousand dollars in cash for that bullet. I want to know why.”

Dixon said, “Really, Mr. Mason, these statements of yours are most reckless.”

“Play around with fire,” Mason told him, “and you’re going to get your fingers burned.”

“But, Mr. Mason, surely you aren’t making these accusations on the unsupported word of your client.”

“I’m not making any accusations,” Mason said. “I’m stating facts and I’m giving you just about ten seconds to come clean.”

“But, Mr. Mason, your statement is absolutely unfounded. It’s utterly ridiculous.”

Mason said, “There’s the telephone. Want me to call Lieutenant Tragg and let him ask the questions?”

Wilfred Dixon met his eyes calmly. “Please do, Mr. Mason,” he said.

There was a moment of silence.