The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

“Frankly,” Mason said, “I’ll be darned if I know. I guess there’s no question but what that was Faulkner’s handwriting on the check stub.”

“I understand there’s a handwriting expert who will swear to it,” Drake said.

“A good one?”

“Yes.”

“What I can’t understand,” Della Street said, “is why the man should write out the stub of a check and then tear the check out. Of course, Faulkner was equal to anything, and he may have intended to have it appear he had given Tom Gridley a thousand-dollar check.”

“But it wouldn’t make any difference if his books had shown he’d given Gridley twenty one-thousand dollar checks. Not until Gridley cashed the check would there be any actual payment of money. There’s something a lot deeper here than appears on the surface. And I’ve really overlooked a bet.”

Paul Drake said, “I’ve just found out something, Perry. I don’t know whether it will help or not, but somewhere around eight-thirty, the night of the murder, someone rang up Tom Gridley. He said he wanted to talk a little business, but wouldn’t give his name. He said he wanted to ask just one or two simple questions. He then went on to say that he understood Gridley was having a dispute over some money matters with Harrington Faulkner and that Faulkner had offered Gridley seven hundred and fifty dollars for a settlement.”

Mason’s eyes were alert with concentration. “Go on, Paul. What did Gridley say to that?”

“Said he didn’t know why he should discuss his affairs with a stranger, and the man’s voice said he wanted to do Tom a favor, that he’d like to know if Tom would settle for a thousand.”

“Then what?”

“Then Tom, being sick and irritable, said that if Faulkner had a check for one thousand dollars in his hands before noon of the next day he’d settle, if it meant anything to anyone, and slammed up the phone and went back to bed.”

“To whom has he told this?” Mason asked.

“Apparently to the police. He hasn’t held anything back with the police and they’re giving him what breaks they can. They tried for a while to fit that conversation in with the thousand-dollar check stub. Their best guess was that someone was acting as intermediary and had already got the thousand-dollar check from Faulkner and was trying to clean things up.”

“But why?” Mason asked.

“Search me.”

“And that conversation was around eight-thirty?”

“There we run into a snag. Tom Gridley had been in bed with fever. He was terribly nervous and all worked up over his dealings with Faulkner, and Faulkner buying the pet store and all that stuff. He had been just dozing off, and he didn’t notice the time. A while later, after he’d thought things over a bit, he looked at his watch, and it was then around nine ten. He thinks the call was around a little more than half an hour before he looked at his watch. That’s a poor way to fix time. It might have been right around eight-twenty, or it may have been quite a bit later. The point is that Gridley swears it wasn’t before eight-fifteen because he’d looked at his watch at eight o’clock and then had been awake for several minutes before he dozed into a light slumber.

“That’s the story, Perry. The police didn’t think much of it after they found they couldn’t tie it in with the check for one thousand dollars, and particularly since Tom wasn’t certain of the time.”

“It wasn’t Faulkner, Paul?”

“Apparently not. Tom said it was a strange voice, the voice of a stranger to him. The man seemed rather authoritative, as though he knew what he was doing, and Tom had thought it might have been some lawyer Faulkner had consulted.”

“It could have been, at that,” Mason said. “Faulkner had those lawsuits which demanded attention. But why wouldn’t any lawyer have come forward? Hang it, Paul, the conversation must have taken place right about the time Faulkner was murdered.”

Drake nodded, said, “On the other hand, it may have been someone who thought he had a chance to settle things, someone whom the wife had consulted, or perhaps someone Carson had asked to get things straightened out.”

“I prefer the wife,” Mason said thoughtfully. “It sounds like her. By George, Paul, it must have been someone the wife consulted! I’d certainly like to know where she really was the night of the murder.”

Drake said, “I’ve had men nosing around, but we can’t find a thing. Sergeant Dorset gave her the chance to frame that alibi, and the police are taking it at its face value.”

“I’ll bet Tragg smells a rat,” Mason said.