“He looks after the interests of the first Mrs. Faulkner — Genevieve Faulkner.”
“What interests?”
“Her share in the realty company.”
“How much?”
“One-third. That was her settlement when the divorce went through. At that time Faulkner owned two thirds of the stock and I owned a third. He got dragged into divorce court and the judge nicked him for a half of the stock he owned and gave it to the wife. Faulkner’s been scared to death of divorces ever since that experience.”
Mason said, “If you hated him that much, why didn’t you and the first Mrs. Faulkner get together and pool your stock and freeze him out? I’m asking just as a matter of curiosity.”
Carson said frankly, “Because I couldn’t. The stock was all pooled. That was a part of the divorce business. The judge worked out a pooling agreement by which the management was left equally in the hands of Faulkner and myself. Mrs. Faulkner — that is Genevieve Faulkner, the first wife — couldn’t have any say in the management of the company unless she first appealed to the court. And neither Faulkner nor I could increase the expenses of the company past a certain point, and we couldn’t raise salaries. The judge also pointed out that any time the dividends on the stock fell below a certain point he’d reopen the alimony end of it and take another bite if he had to. He certainly had Faulkner scared white.”
“The stock’s been profitable?” Mason asked.
“I’ll say it has. You see, we didn’t handle things on a commission basis alone. We had some deals by which we took title in our own name and built houses and sold them. We’ve done some pretty big things in our day.”
“Faulkner’s ideas or yours?”
“Both. When it came to making money, old Harrington Faulkner had the nose of a buzzard. He could smell a potential profit a mile away. He had the courage to back up his judgment with cold hard cash and he had plenty of operating capital. He should have. Lord knows he never gave his wife anything, and he never spent anything himself, except on those damned goldfish of his. He’d really loosen up the purse strings on those, but when it came to parting with money for anything else he was like the bark on a log.”
“And Dixon?” Mason asked. “Was he appointed by the court?”
“No. Genevieve Faulkner hired him.”
“Faulkner was wealthy?” Mason asked.
“He had quite a bit of money, yes.”
“You wouldn’t know it from looking around his house,” Mason said.
Carson nodded. “He’d spend money for his goldfish and that was all. As far as the duplex was concerned, I think Mrs. Faulkner liked it that way. After all, there were just the two of them and she could keep up this small duplex by having a maid come in a couple of days a week, but Faulkner certainly counted every penny he spent. In some ways he was a damned old miser. Honestly, Mr. Mason, the man would lie awake nights trying to work out some scheme by which he could trim you in a business deal. By that, I mean that in case you owned something Faulkner wanted to buy, he’d manage to get you in some kind of a jackpot where you’d lose your eyeteeth. He...”
The doorbell rang a strident summons, followed almost immediately by heavy pounding of knuckles and a rat-ding of the doorknob.
Mason said, “That sounds like the police.”
“Excuse me,” Carson said, and started for the door.
“It’s okay,” Mason told him. “I’m leaving. There’s nothing more I can do here.”
Mason was a step behind Carson when the latter opened the door. Lieutenant Tragg, backed by two plainclothes officers, said to Mason, “I thought that was your car out front. You certainly do get around.”
Mason stretched, yawned, and said, “Believe it or not, Lieutenant, my only interest in the case is over a couple of goldfish that really aren’t goldfish at all.”
Lieutenant Tragg was as tall as Mason. He had the forehead of a thinker, a well-shaped nose and a mouth which held plenty of determination but had a tendency to curve upward at the corners, as though the man could smile easily.
“Quite all right, Counselor. Quite all right,” he said, and then added, “your interest in goldfish seems to be somewhat urgent.”
“Frankly,” Mason told him, “I would like to chisel some money out of Harrington Faulkner’s estate. In case you don’t know it, at the time of his death a young woman named Sally Madison was holding his check for five thousand dollars.”
Tragg’s eyes studied Mason with keen appraisal. “We know all about it. A check dated last Wednesday for five thousand dollars, payable to Thomas Gridley. And have you perhaps talked with Thomas Gridley lately?”
Mason shook his head.
There was a hint of a sardonic smile playing around the corners of Tragg’s mouth. “Well, as you’ve remarked, Counselor, it’s late, and I take it you’re going home and go to bed. I don’t suppose there’s anything in connection with your interest in the case that will cause you to lose any sleep.”
“Not a thing,” Mason assured him cheerfully. “Good-night, Lieutenant.”
“And good-by,” Tragg said, entering Carson’s house, followed by the two officers, who promptly kicked the door shut behind them.
9
Perry Mason struggled up through an engulfing sea of warm languor which seemed to make it impossible for him to move. The lethargy of sheer fatigue kept lulling him back to the blissful inertia of slumber; the strident ringing of the telephone bell insisted upon pulling him back to consciousness.
More than half asleep, he groped for the telephone.
“Hello,” he said, and his tongue was so thick the word was little more than a meaningless jumble of sound.
Della Street’s voice at the other end of the line knifed his brain to consciousness. “Chief, can you get over here right away?”
Mason sat bolt upright in the bed, every sense alert. Something in Della’s voice was like the needle spray of an ice-cold shower.
“Where?” he asked.
“The Kellinger Hotel on Sixth Street.”
Mason’s sleep-swollen eyes glanced at the luminous dial of his wristwatch, then he realized there was enough daylight filtering through the windows of his apartment to rob the hands of their luminosity. “As quick as I can make it, Della,” he promised, and then added, “just how urgent is it?”
“I’m afraid it’s terribly urgent. Otherwise I wouldn’t have called you.”
“Is Sally Madison with you?”
“Yes. We’re in six-thirteen. Don’t stop at the desk. Come right up. Don’t knock. The door will be unlocked. I’ll be waiting just inside the door. Don’t make any noise. I...”
The receiver at the other end of the line was suddenly slipped into place in the middle of the sentence, cutting off Della Street’s words as neatly as though the wire had been severed with a knife.
Perry Mason rolled out of bed. Out of his pajamas, he was groping for clothes even before he switched on the lights in his apartment. Two minutes later he was struggling into a top coat as he ran down the hall.
The Hotel Kellinger was a relatively unpretentious hotel which evidently catered largely to permanent guests. Mason parked his car and entered the lobby, where a somewhat sleepy night clerk looked up in a casual survey which changed to a frown of thoughtful inspection as he tried to place Mason.
“I already have my key,” Mason said hastily, and then added somewhat sheepishly, “darn near missed out on a night’s sleep.”
The elevator was an automatic. Mason noticed there were seven floors in the hotel. As a precaution, in case the doubtful scrutiny on the part of the clerk below should have ripened into skepticism, Mason punched the button which took the elevator to the fifth floor, and then, walking down the corridor, wasted precious seconds locating the stairway. During that time he heard the automatic mechanism of the elevator whirr into activity as the cage was summoned back to the lobby.