“But wouldn’t Carson have been in a position to profit by that? Wouldn’t he have stood more chance of getting the bullet if the tank had been moved?”
“Probably not. And you must also remember that he was running the risk of having the bullet discovered as soon as the tank was moved. Of course, once that bullet was discovered, it wouldn’t take very much of a detective to piece together what must have happened, and Carson would find himself in quite a spot.”
“I’d say he was in a spot anyway,” Della Street said.
“He was,” Mason told her. “And so it became necessary for him to take steps to prevent the goldfish tank from being removed from the office. That was the reason for his sudden flare-up of hostility and the filing of his initial action against Faulkner, the action which resulted in a temporary restraining order preventing Faulkner from removing the fish tank. Of course, Carson might have been left without a leg to stand on when he finally got into court, but that didn’t bother him. He knew that by filing the action against Faulkner he could at least delay things until he had a chance to get that bullet out of the tank.”
“That certainly sounds logical,” Della Street admitted, “and would account for some of the things Carson did.”
“And,” Mason went on, “in order to make the filing of that injunction suit seem logical, Carson had to play the part all the way along the line. Otherwise, his sudden concern over the goldfish tank would have been so conspicuous that it might have aroused suspicion.”
“So that accounts for his action for defamation of character?”
“Exactly.”
“But what about the earlier attempts to steal the goldfish?”
“There weren’t any. Carson had probably managed to get access to the fish tank for some rather limited period. At that time, he probably tried various methods of extracting the bullet and found that he was up against a tougher problem than he had anticipated. The size of the tank, the weight of the tank, and its position, made it something of a job to get that bullet out.”
“And I suppose that the forty-five bullet which was subsequently found on Miss Stanley’s desk was simply another bullet that had been deliberately planted.”
“So it would seem,” Mason said. “You will note that Miss Stanley vouched for the fact that Carson had not left the office before the police arrived, and that he had been seated at his desk during all of the time which had elapsed between Faulkner’s entrance and the arrival of the police, but it’s logical to assume that between the arrival of the police and the discovery of the bullet, Carson must have gone out — perhaps several times. He certainly must have gone out for lunch. He could easily have picked up another bullet then.”
Della Street showed her excitement. “Chief, you’ve got it all figured out. It must have happened in exactly that way. And if it did, then Carson must have been the one who killed Faulkner and...”
“Take it easy, Della,” Mason cautioned. “Remember that all I have at present is a beautiful theory, a logical theory, but nevertheless, only a theory. And remember that we’re in a jam.”
“How do you mean?”
“Sally Madison had a gun in her purse. Let’s hope she’s smart enough to either hide that gun where it won’t be discovered, or to wipe all the fingerprints off of it, or to do both. In the event she doesn’t, and if it should prove to be the murder gun, the police will find fingerprints on it and sooner or later they’re pretty apt to discover they’re your fingerprints. Then we’re up against a serious charge. It will be a simple matter for the police to prove that we took Sally Madison out of circulation during a crucial period in the investigation. And if we try to plead innocence, or pretend that we didn’t know she had the murder weapon in her purse, we will be confronted with your fingerprints on the gun. So, taken by and large, we’re up against it if Sally Madison is caught before she gets rid of that gun.”
“Chief, couldn’t you have telephoned the police as soon as we’d found out that she had a gun in her purse?”
“We could have,” Mason said, “and in the light of subsequent events, we undoubtedly should have. However, the police would have been skeptical, and at the time, it seemed like a better bet to wipe your fingerprints off the gun, wash our hands of Sally Madison, and step out of the case. The peculiar combination of circumstances which made that night clerk enter the room and decide to stay there couldn’t very well have been foreseen.”
“So what do we do now?” Della Street asked.
Mason said, “We keep our fingers crossed and...”
Abruptly, Mason lowered his coffee cup to the saucer. “Damn!” he said.
“What is it, Chief?”
“Don’t look startled and don’t act guilty,” Mason warned. “Leave the talking to me. Lieutenant Tragg has just entered the restaurant and is headed this way, and if you think Tragg isn’t the last person in the world I want to talk to just now, you’ve got another think coming.”
Della Street’s face changed color. “Chief, you keep out of it. Let me take the rap. After all, I’m the one whose fingerprints are on the gun. They can’t prove that you knew anything...”
Mason raised his head to look over Della Street’s shoulder and said, with every semblance of surprise, “Well, well, well! Our old friend, Lieutenant Tragg! What brings you out here so early in the morning?”
Tragg placed his hat on a vacant chair, drew up another one and calmly seated himself. “What brings you here?”
“Hunger,” Mason said, smiling.
“Is this your regular breakfast place?” Tragg asked.
“I think we’ll adopt it,” Mason told him. “The menu isn’t large, but it’s attractive. You’ll find the coffee excellent, and the eggs are well cooked. I don’t know about you, Lieutenant, but I particularly detest eggs that are fried in a pan so hot that a crust forms on the bottom of the eggs. Now, you take the fried eggs here, and they’re thoroughly delicious.”
“Exactly,” Tragg said, and to the man behind the counter called out, “Ham and eggs, and a big cup of coffee now, and another cup of coffee when you serve the eggs.”
Tragg shifted his position slightly, smiled at Mason and said, “And now, Counselor, since you’ve exhausted the subject of fried eggs, suppose we talk about murders.”
“Oh, but I haven’t exhausted the subject of eggs,” Mason protested. “A great deal depends on cooking them at just the right temperature. Now, the yolk of a fried egg should be thoroughly warm all the way through, not cooked almost solid at the bottom but runny on top. Nor should...”
“I agree with you entirely,” Tragg interrupted. “That also depends entirely on the temperature of the frying pan. But what do you think about Faulkner’s murder?”
“I never think about murders, Lieutenant, unless I’m paid to do so. And in the event I’m paid for my thoughts, I try to give only my client the benefit of them. Now you are in a different position...”
“Quite right,” Tragg interposed calmly, reaching for the sugar as the waiter served his first cup of coffee. “I am paid by the taxpayers to think about murders at all times, and, thinking about murder, I somehow find my thoughts turning to a certain Miss Sally Madison. What can you tell me about her?”
“A rather attractive young woman,” Mason said. “She seems to be devoted to her present boy friend who works in a pet store. Doubtless she has had other boy friends to whom she has been devoted, but I think that her present affair with Tom Gridley is, perhaps, more apt to result in matrimony.”