“Did the broken goldfish bowl mean anything to you?”
“It means a lot,” Mason said.
“How come?”
“Suppose Sally Madison isn’t as dumb as she appears. Suppose back of that poker face of hers is a shrewd, calculating mind that isn’t missing a bet.”
“I’ll go with you that far,” Drake said.
“And suppose,” Mason went on, “she reasoned out what had happened to the bullet that Faulkner had taken to the office. Suppose when Faulkner gave her the key there in the café at the time he made the deal with her and told her to get Tom Gridley and go out and treat his fish, Sally Madison went out instead and used the soup ladle to get the bullet out of the tank. Then suppose she very shrewdly sold that bullet to the highest bidder.”
“Wait a minute,” Drake said. “You’ve got something wrong there, Perry.”
“What?”
“According to all the evidence, those goldfish must have been gone when Sally got there. Faulkner must have given her a complete double-cross on that.”
“All right, so what?”
“So when she went there to get the bullet, she would have known that the goldfish were gone.”
“Not goldfish,” Mason said, “a pair of Veiltail Moor Telescopes.”
“Okay. They’re goldfish to me.”
“You won’t think so after you’ve seen them,” Mason said. “If Sally Madison went in there to get that bullet, the fact that the fish weren’t there wouldn’t have stopped her from getting what she was after.”
“And then she went back and got Tom Gridley and came out the second time?”
“That’s right.”
“Well,” Drake said, “it’s a theory, Perry. You’re giving that girl credit for an awful lot of sense.”
Mason nodded.
“I think you’re giving her too much credit,” Drake said.
Mason said, “I didn’t give her enough credit for awhile. Now I’m going to make my mistakes on the other side. That girl’s batted around a bit, Paul. She knows some of the answers. She’s in love with Tom Gridley. You take a woman of that type, when she falls for a man, it’s usually a combination of a starved mother instinct and a sex angle. My best guess is that that girl would stop at nothing. Anyway, I haven’t time to stay here and talk it over now. I’m on my way to see Dixon.”
“Be careful with Dixon,” Drake warned.
Mason said, “I’m going to be careful with everybody from now on, Paul, but it isn’t going to slow me down any. I’m going to keep moving.”
Mason drove to the address of Wilfred Dixon, found the house to be a rather imposing edifice of white stucco, red tile, landscaped grounds, a three-car garage and an atmosphere of quiet luxury.
Mason had no difficulty whatever in getting an immediate audience with Wilfred Dixon, who received him in a room on the southeast side of the house, a room which was something of a cross between a den and an office, with deep leather chairs, Venetian blinds, original oils, a huge flat-topped desk, a portable bar, and a leather davenport which seemed to invite an afternoon siesta. There were three telephones on the desk, but there were no filing cases in the room, no papers visible on the desk.
Wilfred Dixon was a short, chunky man with perfectly white hair, steel-gray eyes, and a face which was deeply tanned from the neck to the roots of the hair. His complexion indicated either considerable time spent on the golf links without a hat, or regular treatments under a quartz lamp.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Mason?” Dixon invited, after giving the lawyer a cordial grip with muscular fingers. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, and naturally it’s a pleasure to meet you, although, of course, I can’t understand why you should look me up. I presume it’s connected in some rather remote way with the tragic death of Harrington Faulkner.”
“It is,” Mason said, giving Dixon a steady look.
Dixon met his eyes with calm assurance. “I have, of course, managed the affairs of Genevieve Faulkner for some years. She was the first wife, you know. But of course you do know.”
And Dixon smiled, a disarming, magnetic smile.
“You knew Harrington Faulkner personally?” Mason asked.
“Oh yes,” Dixon said, as though stating a fact which must have been well known and perfectly obvious.
“Talked with him occasionally?”
“Oh yes. You see, it was a little embarrassing for Genevieve to hold business conferences with her former husband. Yet the first Mrs. Faulkner — I’ll call her Genevieve if you don’t mind, Mr. Mason — was very much interested in the business transactions of the firm.”
“That firm made money?” Mason asked.
“Ordinarily, Mr. Mason, I would consider that question involved Genevieve’s private affairs. But inasmuch as an investigation in connection with the Faulkner Estate will make the whole matter public, I see no reason for placing you to the inconvenience of getting your information through more devious channels. The business was immensely profitable.”
“Isn’t it rather unusual for a real estate business to make that much money under present conditions?”
“Not at all. It was more than a real estate business. The business was diversified. It administered various other businesses which had been previously used as investment outlets. Harrington Faulkner was a very good businessman, a very good businessman, indeed. Of course, he was unpopular. Personally, I didn’t approve of Mr. Faulkner’s business methods. I wouldn’t have employed them myself. I was representing Genevieve. I certainly was in no position to... well, shall we say, criticize the goose that was laying the golden eggs?”
“Faulkner was the money maker?”
“Faulkner was the money maker.”
“What about Carson?”
“Carson was an associate,” Dixon said suavely. “A man who had an equal interest in the business. One third of the stock was held by Faulkner, one third by Carson and one-third by Genevieve.”
“That still isn’t telling me anything about Carson,” Mason said.
With every appearance of candid surprise, Dixon raised his eyebrows. “Why, I thought that was telling you everything about Carson.”
“You haven’t said anything about his business ability.”
“Frankly, Mr. Mason, my dealings were with Faulkner.”
“If Faulkner was the mainspring of the business,” Mason said, “it must have galled him to do the bulk of the work and furnish the bulk of the capital, and then receive only one-third of the income.”
“Well, of course, he and Carson had a salary — a salary that was fixed and approved by the court.”
“And they couldn’t raise those salaries?”
“Not without Genevieve’s consent, no.”
“And were the salaries ever raised?”
“No,” Dixon said shortly.
“Was any request made to raise the salaries?”
Dixon’s eyes twinkled. “Several times.”
“Faulkner, I take it, didn’t feel too friendly toward his first wife?”
“I’m sure I never asked him about that.”
“I presume that originally Harrington Faulkner furnished most of the money which started the firm of Faulkner and Carson.”
“I believe so.”
“Carson was the younger man and Faulkner relied on him perhaps for an element of young blood in the business?”
“As to that, I couldn’t say. I only represented Genevieve after the separation and during the divorce.”
“You had known her before then?”
“No. I was acquainted with the attorney whom Genevieve employed. I’m a businessman, Mr. Mason, a business advisor, an investment counselor, if you wish. I try to be a good one. You really haven’t stated the object of your visit, why you’re here.”