The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

Dixon shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid, Mason, that you want us to play into your hands. On second thought, I’ve decided that I’m simply not going to have anything to do with this.”

Mason grinned. “You made a bluff, just as I did yesterday, and this time I’m calling it. When you called me, I actually telephoned Tragg. Now go ahead and be as good a sport as I was.”

“You’re too anxious,” Dixon said, and walked back to his chair.

Mason said, “All right, if you won’t do it, I’d do it.”

“Go right ahead.”

Mason moved over to the telephone, turned back over his shoulder and said, “That one-thousand dollar check to Tom Gridley is the payoff. You didn’t want to buy the business and have any possible claims outstanding that might involve litigation. So you telephoned Tom Gridley and asked him if he’d accept a thousand dollars by way of a complete settlement. Gridley said he would. So you had Faulkner sign a check for that amount right here, which you mailed to Gridley. But when you learned Faulkner had been murdered, you had to get that check back. At the time you didn’t realize you were gambling with Sally Madison’s life. You only knew that if you could keep it from becoming known that Faulkner had rushed out here, you would be in a position to keep twenty-three thousand dollars in cold, hard cash, and still have plenty of opportunity to buy the business at your own price from Faulkner’s estate.”

Dixon said, “Come, come, Mr. Mason. This is being said in the presence of a witness. Tomorrow I shall sue you for defamation of character. You must have something on which to pin such a fantastic story.”

Mason said, “I have the word of my client.”

Dixon smiled. “For a veteran lawyer, you’re most susceptible to feminine charm.”

Mason said, “And I also have some shrewd deduction. You got up this morning and went to the corner drug store for breakfast. You were there an hour. That’s a long time to eat a light breakfast at a corner drug store. When I drove up, I looked the drug store over. There’s a mail box in front of it. The hour of the first mail collection in the morning is seven forty-five. I think the mailman who collects the mail will be able to testify that when he opened the box you were there with a plausible story and a bribe. You had inadvertently mailed a letter to Thomas Gridley. It had a check in it, but there was a mistake on the check. You wanted to rectify it. You convinced the man of your identity, of the fact that you had mailed the letter. That is a hunch, but when I play poker, I play hunches. And now I’m going to call Lieutenant Tragg.”

Mason picked up the telephone receiver, dialed Operator, and said, “Get me the police. This is an emergency.”

For a moment the room was completely silent, then suddenly a chair overturned. Mason looked back over his shoulder to see the squat, athletic form of Wilfred Dixon coming at him with a rush.

The lawyer dropped the receiver, swung in a body pivot, and at the same time jerked his head to one side.

Dixon’s punch missed Mason’s chin, went harmlessly over Mason’s shoulder. Mason’s right hand sank into the pit of Dixon’s stomach. Then, as the business counselor folded up, Mason jerked back his arm, raised his shoulder, and caught the man a terrific uppercut.

Dixon dropped to the floor with a thud that was as inanimate as the sound of a flour sack falling to the floor.

Mrs. Genevieve Faulkner sat very calmly, her knees crossed, eyes slightly narrowed, an expression of concentration on her face. She said, “You’re a rough player, Mr. Mason — but I always did like men who could take care of themselves. Perhaps you and I could talk a little business.”

Mason didn’t even bother to answer. He picked up the dangling receiver, said, “Police headquarters? Get me Lieutenant Tragg of Homicide, and get him in a hurry.”

19

It was after seven o’clock when Lieutenant Tragg entered Mason’s office.

“Some people are born lucky,” Tragg said, grinning. “Others achieve luck, and others have luck thrust upon them.”

Mason nodded. “I did have to put it on a silver platter and dump it in your lap, didn’t I?”

Tragg’s grin faded. “I was referring to you. I’d really have hated to have done it to you, Mason, but you’ve slipped it over on us so often, that when you left yourself wide open, I wouldn’t have had any other choice. I was going to put the skids under you.”

“I know,” Mason said, “I don’t blame you. Sit down.”

Tragg nodded to Della Street. “No hard feelings, Della. It was all in the line of duty.” He sat down and said, “How about one of your cigarettes, Mason?”

The lawyer gave Tragg a cigarette.

“Well,” Tragg said, “we’ve got most of it in the bag. We’re going to turn your golddigger loose. I wondered if you wanted to be on hand for the ceremony.”

“Of course I do.”

“I don’t blame you. It’ll be impressive. The deuce of it is I haven’t got a really good case as yet.”

“Suppose you tell me just what you’ve found out,” Mason said.