The Case of the Golddigger’s Purse

Over at the table Faulkner had vacated, Sally Madison completed her make-up, sat with a carefully cultivated expression of demure rectitude frozen on her face. She seemed to have no further interest in Harrington Faulkner or the party he had joined.

“You don’t seem to have any hard feelings,” Mason said.

“Oh, I don’t,” Faulkner hastily disclaimed. “She’s a very nice young woman — as golddiggers go.”

Mason said, “If you’re not going to read that complaint and summons, suppose you let me glance through it.”

Faulkner passed it across the table. Mason unfolded the papers, glanced through them, said, “It seems that this Elmer Carson says that you’ve repeatedly accused him of tampering with your goldfish; that the accusation is false and has been made with malice; that Carson wants ten thousand dollars as actual damages and ninety thousand dollars by way of punitive damages.”

Faulkner seemed to have only a detached interest in the claims made against him by Elmer Carson. “You can’t believe a word he says,” he explained.

“Just who is he?”

“He was my partner.”

“In the goldfish business?”

“Good heavens, no. The goldfish is just my own hobby. We have a real-estate business. It’s incorporated. We each own one-third of the stock and the balance is held by Genevieve Faulkner.”

“Your wife?”

Faulkner cleared his throat, said with some embarrassment, “My former wife. I was divorced five years ago.”

“And you and Carson aren’t getting along?”

“No. For some reason there’s been a sudden change in him. I’ve made Carson an ultimatum. He can submit a buy-or-sell offer. He’s jockeying around to get the best price available. Those are minor matters, Mr. Mason. I can handle them. I want to see you about protecting my fish.”

“Not about the slander suit?”

“No, no. That’s all right. I have ten days on that. Lots can happen in ten days.”

“Not about the golddigger?”

“No. She’s all right. I’m not worried about her.”

“Just about the goldfish?”

“That’s right. Only, you understand, Mr. Mason, the partner and the golddigger enter into it.”

“Why the concern about the goldfish?”

“Mr. Mason, I’ve raised this particular strain of Veiltail Moor Telescopes and I’m proud of them. You have no idea of the thought and labor that have gone into developing this particular fish, and now they’re threatened with extinction by gill disease, and that disease has been deliberately introduced into my aquarium by Elmer Carson.”

“He says in his complaint,” Mason said, “that you accuse him of deliberately trying to kill your fish, and it’s for that he’s asking damages.”

“Well, he did it all right.”

“Can you,” Mason asked, “prove it?”

“Probably not,” Faulkner admitted glumly.

“In that event,” Mason told him, “you might be stuck for a large sum by way of damages.”

“I suppose so,” Faulkner admitted readily enough, as though the matter held no immediate interest for him.

“You don’t seem particularly worried about it,” Mason said.

“There’s no use crossing bridges like that before you come to them,” Faulkner said. “I’m in enough trouble already. Perhaps, however, I haven’t made my position entirely clear. The things Carson does to annoy me don’t mean a thing to me. I am interested right now in saving my fish. Carson knows they are dying. In fact, it is because of him that they are dying. He knows that I want to remove them for treatment. So he has filed a suit, claiming the fish are the property of the corporation and not my individual property. That is, he claims the fish are affixed to the partnership real property and that I have threatened to and will, unless restrained, tear out the tank and remove the fish and tank from the premises. Because this constitutes a severance of the real property, he has flimflammed a judge into giving him a temporary restraining order... And hang it, Mason, he’s right. The confounded tank is affixed to the property... I want you to beat that restraining order. I want to establish tide to the fish and the tank as my own individual property. I want that restraining order smashed and smashed hard and quick, and I think you’re the man to do it.”

Mason glanced across to the girl at the table Faulkner had left. She seemed to be taking no interest in the conversation. A look of synthetic, motionless innocence was frozen on her face as painting is glazed on a china cup.

“You’re married?” Mason asked Faulkner. “I mean you’ve remarried since your divorce?”

“Oh, yes.”

“When did you start playing around with Sally Madison?” Faulkner’s face showed a brief flicker of surprise. “Playing around with Sally Madison?” he repeated almost incredulously. “Good Heavens, I’m not playing around with her.”

“I thought you said she was a golddigger.”

“She is.”

“And that she was putting the bite on you?”

“Indeed she is.”

Mason said, “I’m afraid you’re not clarifying the situation very much,” and then, reaching a sudden decision, added, “if you people will excuse me, and there’s no objection on the part of Mr. Faulkner, I think I’ll go talk to the golddigger and get her ideas on the case.”