The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

“You certainly have, Mr. Mason. Unfortunately for you, as I have pointed out, you are in no position to make any direct accusation, and even if you were, Mrs. Faulkner’s denial, supported by my corroborating statement, would effectually disprove the charges of this Sally Madison.”

Mason said, “I don’t give a damn what her past has been. I think she’s on the square now, and I think she’s genuinely in love with Tom Gridley.”

“I’m satisfied she is.”

“And,” Mason said, “when she told me she got the two thousand dollars from Genevieve Faulkner, her statement had the ring of truth.”

Dixon shook his head. “It’s impossible, Mr. Mason. It couldn’t have been done without my knowledge, and I assure you that it wasn’t done.”

Mason stood looking at the muscular figure of the chunky man, who met his eyes with such childlike candor. “Dixon,” he said, “I’m a bad man to monkey with.”

“I’m certain you are, Mr. Mason.”

“If you and Genevieve Faulkner are lying about this, I’m likely to find it out sooner or later.”

“But, Mr. Mason, why should we lie about it? What possible motive would we have? And why on earth should we want to pay two thousand dollars for — what did you say it was, a bullet?”

“A bullet,” Mason said.

Dixon shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry for Miss Madison. I really am, Mason.”

Mason asked abruptly, “And just how does it happen you know so much about her?”

“Mr. Faulkner bought an interest in a pet shop,” Dixon said. “He used funds of the corporation. Naturally, I investigated the purchase, and, in investigating the purchase, I investigated the personnel.”

“After he’d made the purchase?” Mason inquired.

“Well, during the time negotiations were pending. After all, Mr. Mason, my client is interested in the corporation and I like to know what’s going on — and I have my own way of knowing every move that’s made.”

Mason thought that over. “Oh, yes,” he said, “Alberta Stanley, the stenographer — I begin to see a lot now.”

Dixon hastily cleared his throat.

“Thanks for telling me,” Mason said.

Dixon looked up, met the lawyer’s eyes. “Not at all, Mason, not at all. It was a pleasure to be of assistance to you — but you can’t pin that two thousand dollars on us. We didn’t pay it and we won’t be lied about. Good day.”

Mason started for the door. Mrs. Faulkner and Wilfred Dixon stood watching him in silence. With his hand on the doorknob, Mason turned. “Dixon,” he said, “you’re a damn good poker player.”

“Thank you.”

Mason said grimly, “You’re smart enough to know that I can’t make any definite accusation that the two thousand dollars came from Mrs. Faulkner. I’m a good enough sport to admit that I made a bluff and you called it.”

A frosty smile twitched at the corners of Dixon’s mouth.

Mason said, “And I think it’s only fair that you should know where I’m going now.”

Dixon raised his eyebrows. “Where?” he asked.

“Out after another stack of chips,” Mason said, and pulled the door shut behind him.

15

Mason’s face was as grim as that of a football player backed up against his team’s goal line, as he entered Paul Drake’s office.

“Hello, Perry,” Drake said. “Did that information on Staunton do you any good?”

“Some,” Mason said.

“It’s just about the only question Staunton will answer. The police have sewed him up on a written statement, and he isn’t giving out any information whatever upon matters that are contained in that statement. As far as anything that transpired the night of the murder is concerned, Staunton is an absolute clam. And the same holds true of all the details concerning the delivery of the fish.”

Mason nodded. “I rather expected that. Look here, Paul, I want you to do something for me.”

“Shoot.”

“I want you to find out whether or not Sally Madison saw the first Mrs. Faulkner yesterday night. I want you to find out whether Mrs. Faulkner made any substantial withdrawal from her bank in the form of cash. I particularly want to find out whether she or Wilfred Dixon withdrew any cash from a bank in the form of fifty-dollar bills.”

Drake nodded.

“That isn’t going to be easy,” Mason said, “and I don’t expect it to be easy. I’ll pay you any amount of money that you need to get that information, Paul. Damn it, I started playing verbal poker with Wilfred Dixon. I made a bluff and he called it so cold and so hard that I feel like a spanked kid. Damn him, I’m going to back that bird in a corner if I have to spend every cent I’ve got in order to do it.”

“Dixon was there when you got there?” Drake asked.

“Yes. Why? Had he been out?”

Drake nodded. “I’m having him shadowed, not that it will do any good, but I’m working on every angle of the case. My man picked him up about eight o’clock this morning as he was coming from breakfast.”

“Where did he eat, Paul?”

“At the corner drug store. He must be an early riser. He’d been there since seven o’clock.”

“That’s fine, Paul. Keep it up.”

“He walked down there for his breakfast, then came right back, arriving home at eight-ten. I’ve got men watching the house. It’s about all there is to do.”