The blue eyes blinked a couple of times rapidly. Carson started to say something, then apparently either changed his mind or hesitated while he searched his thoughts for some suitable phraseology. Abruptly he added, “Where had his wife been?”
“I don’t know.”
Carson said, “Someone tried to kill him last week. Did you know that?”
“I’d heard of it.”
“Who told you?”
“Harrington Faulkner.”
“His wife say anything about that to you?”
“No.”
Carson said, “There’s something strange about that whole affair. According to Faulkner’s story, he was driving along in his automobile and someone took a shot at him. He claims he heard the report of the gun and that a bullet went whizzing past him and embedded itself in the upholstery of the automobile. That’s the story he told the police, but at the time he never said a word to me or to Miss Stanley.”
“Who’s Miss Stanley?” Mason asked.
“The stenographer in our office.”
“Suppose you tell me just what happened.”
“Well, he came driving up to the office and parked his car out in front of the place. I noticed him take out his knife and start digging at the upholstery in the back of the front seat, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”
“Then what happened?”
“I saw him go into his house — you know, the other side of the duplex. He was in there for about five minutes. He must have telephoned the police from there. Then he came over to the office and, except for the fact that he was unusually nervous and irritable, you wouldn’t have known anything had happened. There was some mail on his desk. He picked it up and read it, took the letters over to Miss Stanley’s desk and stood beside her while he dictated some replies directly to the typewriter. She noticed that his hand was shaking, but aside from that, he seemed perfectly normal.”
“Then what happened?” Mason asked.
Carson said, “As it turned out, Faulkner put the bullet down on Miss Stanley’s desk when he signed one of the letters she’d written for him, and then she’d placed the carbon copy of the letter over the bullet. But she didn’t notice it at the time and neither did Faulkner.”
“You mean that Faulkner couldn’t find the bullet when the police arrived?” Mason asked, his voice showing his keen interest.
“Exactly.”
“What happened?”
“Well, there was quite a scene. The first thing that we knew about any shooting was a good twenty minutes after Faulkner came in. Then a car pulled up outside, and a couple of officers came pushing into the office and Faulkner spilled this story about having been driving along the road, hearing a shot, and then hearing something smack into the seat cushion within an inch or two of his body. He said he’d dug out the bullet, and the police asked where the bullet was. Then the fireworks started. Faulkner looked around for the bullet and couldn’t find it. He said he’d left it on the top of his desk and finally as good as accused me of having stolen it.”
“And what did you do?”
“As it happened,” Carson said, “I hadn’t moved from my desk from the time Faulkner came in until the police arrived, and Miss Stanley could vouch for that. However, as soon as I saw what Faulkner was driving at, I insisted the police search me, and search my desk.”
“Did they?”
“I’ll say they did. They took me into the bathroom, took off all my clothes and made a thorough search. They didn’t seem too enthusiastic about it, but I insisted they make a thorough job of it. I think by that time they had Faulkner pretty well sized up as an irascible old crank. And Miss Stanley was hopping mad. She wanted them to bring out a matron to search her. The police didn’t take it that seriously. Miss Stanley was so angry she darn near took off her clothes right there in the office. She was white-faced with rage.”
“But the bullet was on her desk?” Mason asked.
“That’s right. She found it there late that afternoon when she was cleaning up her desk, getting ready to go home. She has a habit of piling carbon copies of stuff on the back of her desk during the day, and then doing all her filing at four-thirty. It was about quarter of five when she found the bullet. Faulkner called the police back again, and when they came, they told Faulkner quite a few things.”
“Such as what?”
“They told him that the next time anybody shot at him, he should stop at the first telephone he came to and notify the police at once, not wait until he got to his home and not go digging out any bullets. They said that if the bullet had been left in the car the police could have dug it out and used it as evidence. Then they might have been able to identify the gun from which it had been fired. They told him that the minute he dug that bullet out, it ceased to be evidence.”
“How did Faulkner take it?”
“He was pretty much chagrined over finding the bullet right where he’d left it, after making all that fuss and excitement.”
Mason studied Carson for several thoughtful seconds. “All right, Carson,” he said, “now I’ll ask you the question you’ve been hoping I wouldn’t ask.”
“What’s that?” Carson asked, avoiding his eyes.
Mason said, “Why did Faulkner drive to his house before he notified the police?”
Carson said, “I suppose he was frightened and afraid to stop.”
Mason grinned.
“Oh, well,” Carson said impatiently, “your guess is as good as mine, but I suppose he wanted to see if his wife was home.”
“Was she?”
“I understand she was. She’d been quite nervous the night before and hadn’t been able to sleep. About three o’clock in the morning she’d taken a big dose of sleeping medicine, and she was still asleep when the officers went in to look the place over.”
“The officers went over there?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Faulkner didn’t make too good an impression with the officers. I think they thought he might have fired the shot himself.”
“Why?”
“Heaven knows. Faulkner was a deep one. Understand, Mason, I’m not making any accusations or any insinuations. All I know is that after a while the officers wanted to know if Faulkner had a gun, and when he said he did have one, the officers told him they’d go over and take a look at it.”
“He showed it to them?”
“I presume so. I didn’t go over with them. They were gone ten or fifteen minutes.”
“When was this?”
“A week ago.”
“What time?”
“Around ten o’clock in the morning.”
“What caliber is Faulkner’s gun?”
“A thirty-eight, I believe. I think that’s what he told the police.”
“And what caliber was the bullet that Faulkner dug out of the upholstery?”
“A forty-five.”
“How did Faulkner and his wife get along?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Could you make a guess?”
“I couldn’t even do that. I’ve heard him talk to her over the phone and use about the same tone he’d use to a disobedient dog, but Mrs. Faulkner kept her feelings to herself.”
“There had been bad blood between you and Faulkner before this?”
“Not bad blood, exactly — a little difference of opinion here and there, and some friction, but we were getting along with some outward semblance of harmony.”
“And after this?”
“After this I blew up. I told him either to buy or sell.”
“You going to sell out to him... to his estate, I mean?”
“I may. I don’t know. I’d never have sold out to that old buzzard at the price he wanted to pay. If you want to know something about him in a business deal, ask Wilfred Dixon.”
“Who’s he?”