The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

“I dare say it does,” Mason agreed calmly. “There’s a lot of blackmail in the world.”

Faulkner said bitterly, “I suppose she’s played upon your sympathies. After all, her face and her figure are her biggest asset, and how well she knows it!” And then he added somewhat bitterly, “Personally, I don’t see what people can see in that type.”

Mason merely grinned. “Personally,” he announced, “I have never collected goldfish.”

3

A thick pea-soup fog had settled down upon the streets of the city until it seemed that Mason’s automobile was swimming slowly through a sea of watered milk. The windshield wipers were busily beating a monotonous rhythm of cold protest against the clammy surface of the windshield. Some fifty feet ahead, the red taillight of Harrington Faulkner’s automobile served as a guiding beacon.

“He’s a slow driver,” Della Street said.

“An advantage in weather of this kind,” Mason agreed.

Drake laughed. “Bet the guy never took a chance in his life. He’s a cold-blooded, meticulous bird with an ice water personality. I almost died when I saw him kick through over there at the table with that golddigger. How much did she nick him for, Perry?”

“I don’t know.”

“Judging from the expression on his face when he took out his checkbook,” Della said, “it must have been just about what the girl asked for. She certainly didn’t waste any time once she got her hands on the check. She didn’t even wait to finish her dinner.”

“No,” Mason said, “she didn’t make any bones about it. Her interest in Harrington Faulkner was purely financial.”

“And when we get out to his house, just what are we supposed to do?” Drake wanted to know.

Mason grinned. “I’ll bite, Paul, but he feels that he has to show us the location of the goldfish tank before we can understand his problem. It seems that’s an important phase of the case as far as he’s concerned, and when he gets an idea, he gets it all the way. As I gather it, Faulkner and his wife live in a large duplex house. One side is their living quarters and the other is where Faulkner and his partner, Elmer Carson, have their office. Apparently, Faulkner has various goldfish tanks scattered around the place and this particular pair of Veiltail Moors that is the cause of all the excitement is in part of the building that was used as an office. For some reason, Faulkner wants us to see the tank and the fish, and he has to have things done just so or not at all. It’s just the way he’s made.”

Drake said, “Faulkner’s a self-contained little cuss. You’d think it would take more than an ordinary jolt to send him running to a lawyer, all steamed up. What I mean is, he’s the sort you’d expect to find making an appointment two days in advance and keeping that appointment to the exact second.”

Mason said, “He evidently thinks more of that pair of Veiltail Moors than he does of his right eye. However, we’ll get the details when we get out to his house. My own idea is there’s something on his mind other than these fish and the affair with his partner, but I’m not going to stick my neck out until I see what’s in the offing.”

The taillight of the car ahead veered abruptly to the right. Mason piloted his car around the corner. They drove down a side street, pulled to a stop in front of a house which showed in misty outlines through the fog. Mason, Della Street and Paul Drake jumped out of the automobile, watched Harrington Faulkner carefully lock the ignition of his car, then lock the car door, following which he walked completely around the automobile, trying each of the doors to make sure it was locked. He even tried the trunk to make sure that it too was firmly bolted. Then he moved over to join them, a precise, gray-headed little man with calm, unhurried demeanor and studied precision in every move he made.

Having joined them, he took a leather key container from his pocket, carefully slid the zipper around the edges, took out a key and said in the precise tones of a lecturer explaining something to an audience in which he had only an impersonal interest, “Now, Mr. Mason, you will notice that there are two outer doors to this house, the one on the left bears the sign ‘FAULKNER AND CARSON, INCORPORATED, REALTORS.’ The door on the right is the door to my house.”

“Where does Elmer Carson live?” Mason asked.

“A few blocks down the street.”

“I notice,” Mason pointed out, “that the house is dark.”

“Yes,” Faulkner said tonelessly, “my wife evidently isn’t home.”

“Now the particular fish about which you are mainly concerned,” Mason went on, “are the black Veiltail Moors which are in the tank or aquarium that is in the office?”

“That’s right, and Elmer Carson claims the tank is an office fixture and that the fish are a part of the office furnishings. He’s secured a restraining order keeping me from moving any fixture or even tampering with them.”

“The fish were raised entirely by you?”

“Correct.”

“Carson made no financial contribution?”