The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

“Four. That room is our executive office where we have our desks. Then there’s another room which we use as a filing room. We fitted up the kitchen so there’s a little bar and an electric icebox. We can fix a customer a drink if the occasion seems appropriate. I’ll go and look through those other rooms and see if I can find where anything’s been disturbed. But I’m certain I’ll find everything in order. The man who stole those fish opened the front door with a key and walked right in. He knew exactly where to go, what to get and just what he was doing.”

“Better not go in there until the police come,” Mason warned. “They might not like it.”

The sound of a siren cut through the foggy darkness outside and throbbed ominously. Faulkner jumped up, ran to the front door and stood on the porch, waiting for the police car.

“Going in?” Drake asked Mason.

Mason shook his head, said, “We stick right here.”

Tom Gridley moved uneasily. “I left a couple of plastic panels out in my car,” he said. “They were painted and all ready to insert in the tank. I...”

“Your car locked?” Mason asked.

“No, that’s the point, it isn’t.”

“Better go out and lock it then. Wait until after the police get in. I take it you’re taking every precaution to keep your formula secret?”

Tom Gridley nodded. “I shouldn’t have even told Rawlins I had a remedy.”

Authoritative voices sounded from the outside. Harrington Faulkner by this time had regained control of his emotions and his voice was once more precise in its articulation. Steps moved across the porch. The door to the other house opened and closed.

Mason nodded to Gridley. “Better take advantage of this opportunity to run out and lock your car,” he said.

Paul Drake grinned across at Mason. “The great goldfish case!”

Mason chuckled. “Serves me right for letting my curiosity run away with me.”

“Wait until the police find out you’re here,” Drake said gleefully.

“And you,” Mason retorted. “Particularly when they report the call to the press room.”

The grin faded from Drake’s face. “Hang it, I feel sort of sheepish.”

“There’s no reason why you should,” Sally Madison said. “These goldfish mean as much to Mr. Faulkner as though they were members of his family. It’s just the same as if he had had a son kidnapped. Is that someone coming?”

They listened, heard the sound of a car, then quick steps, and a moment later the front door opened.

The woman who stood on the threshold was a blonde somewhere in the middle thirties and making a valiant attempt to preserve a figure which had begun to fill out. The curves were still attractive, but were becoming ample, and there was a girdled smoothness about the fit of her skirt, a conscious elevation of the corners of the mouth, a determined effort at holding the chin high — all of which combined to give an effect of static immobility. The woman seemed somehow to have robbed herself of all her natural spontaneity in an attempt to stay the hand of time. Her every move seemed to have been rehearsed in front of a mirror.

Sally Madison said almost under her breath, “Mrs. Faulkner!”

Mason and Drake jumped to their feet. Mason moved forward. “Permit me to introduce myself, Mrs. Faulkner. I’m Perry Mason. I came out here at the request of your husband who seems to have encountered some trouble in the real estate office next door. This is Miss Street, my secretary, and Miss Madison. And may I present Mr. Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency.”

Mrs. Faulkner swept on into the room. From the doorway a somewhat embarrassed Tom Gridley stood uncertainly as though debating whether to enter or to turn and seek refuge in the car.

“And,” Mason observed, swinging around to include Gridley in his introduction, “Mr. Thomas Gridley.”

Mrs. Faulkner’s voice was well-modulated. It had a slow, almost drawling quality that was deep-throated and seductive. “Do make yourselves right at home,” she said. “My husband has been very much upset lately and I’m glad that he has finally consulted a prominent attorney. I have been suggesting that he do so for some time. Do be seated, please. Would any of you care for a drink?”

She waited a few moments, then said, “Oh, I think I’ll get some Scotch and soda anyway. You people look as though you could use a drink.”

“Perhaps,” Della Street suggested, “I could be of some help.”

Mrs. Faulkner turned wary, appraising blue eyes upon Mason’s secretary, regarded her for a moment, then her face softened into a smile. “Why yes,” she said graciously, “if you’d like to. It would be very nice.”

Della Street followed Mrs. Faulkner out through the dining room into the kitchen.

Sally Madison turned to Mason. “See what I mean?” she asked cryptically, and then added parenthetically, “Goldfish.”

Tom Gridley moved over to Sally Madison, said apologetically, “Of course, I could have kept Rawlins waiting on coating those other panels until after I’d put these panels in Faulkner’s tank. I suppose I should have insisted.”