Mason said, “Primarily, I’m interested in finding out what I can about Harrington Faulkner.”
“So I gathered. But the reason for your interest is not apparent. Doubtless, many people would like to know something of the affairs of Mr. Faulkner. There’s a difference between a casual curiosity, Mr. Mason, and a legitimate interest.”
“You may rest assured I have a legitimate interest.”
“Mr. Mason, I merely wanted to know what it was.”
Mason smiled. “I shall probably be the attorney for a claimant against the Faulkner Estate.”
“Probably?” Dixon asked.
“I haven’t as yet definitely accepted the case.”
“That makes your interest rather — shall we say, nebulous?”
“I wouldn’t say so,” Mason said.
“Well, of course, I wouldn’t have a difference of opinion with an attorney who has such an established reputation, Mr. Mason. So perhaps let us say you have your opinion and I shall try to keep an entirely open mind. I’m perfectly willing to be convinced.”
Mason said, “With two-thirds of the stock and complete control of the corporation, Faulkner, I guess, controlled the corporation with an iron hand?”
“There’s no law against guessing, Mr. Mason, none whatever. There are times when I find it a rather interesting occupation, although of course one hardly dares to reach a decision predicated solely upon a mere guess. One prefers to have facts to justify one’s opinion.”
“One does, indeed,” Mason said. “Therefore, one asks questions.”
“And receives answers,” Dixon told him suavely.
Mason’s eyes twinkled. “Not always the most definite answers that one would want.”
“That’s quite right, Mr. Mason. That’s something I myself have found repeatedly in my business dealings. For instance, you’ll remember I asked you about your interest in the unfortunate death of Harrington Faulkner. You stated, I believe, that you were considering representing a person who had a claim against the estate. May I ask the nature of that claim? I don’t think you told me.”
Mason said, “It involved a claim based upon a formula that was worked out for the cure of a fish disease.”
“Oh, Tom Gridley’s formula,” Dixon said.
“You seem to know a good deal about the business, Mr. Dixon.”
“As the person who represents a client whose financial eggs are virtually all in one basket, Mr. Mason, it behooves me to know a great deal about the details of the business.”
“Now, to go back,” Mason went on. “Faulkner was in the driver’s seat until suddenly, and I presume out of a clear sky, Genevieve Faulkner sued him for divorce. Quite evidently she must have had the goods on him.”
“The evidence in that case has all been introduced and a decision long since reached, Mr. Mason.”
“That decision must have been gall and wormwood to Harrington Faulkner. In place of controlling the corporation, he suddenly found that he was in the position of being a minority stockholder.”
“Of course,” Dixon pointed out somewhat smugly. “Since under the laws of this state man and wife are presumed to be partners, if the marriage is dissolved it becomes necessary for some sort of a settlement to be made.”
“And I presume,” Mason went on, “that with the constant threat being held over Faulkner’s head that you would go back into court and ask the judge to reopen the alimony settlement in the event of any failure on the part of Faulkner to accede to your wishes, you must have incurred Faulkner’s enmity.”
Once more the eyebrows went up. “I merely represent Genevieve’s investments. Naturally, I represent her interests to the best of my ability.”
“You talked with Faulkner occasionally?”
“Oh yes.”
“He told you many of the details of the business?”
“Naturally.”
“Did he come to you and tell you the details voluntarily, or did you ask him?”
“Well, of course, Mr. Mason, you’d hardly expect a man in Mr. Faulkner’s position to run to me with every little detail about his business.”
“But you were interested?”
“Quite naturally.”
“Therefore, I take it you asked him?”
“About the things I wanted to know, yes.”
“And that included virtually everything?”
“Really, Mr. Mason, I couldn’t say as to that, because naturally I don’t know how much I didn’t know. I only know the things I did know.”
And Dixon beamed at the lawyer with a manner that indicated he was trying his best to cooperate in giving Mason any information that was available.
“May I ask you when you last talked with Faulkner?” Mason asked.
Dixon’s face became as a wooden mask.
“Of course,” Mason said, “it’s a question that the police will ask sooner or later.”
Dixon carefully placed the tips of his fingers together, regarded his nails for a moment.
“I take it,” Mason said, “that you talked with him sometime yesterday evening.”
Dixon raised his eyes. “Really, Mr. Mason, what is the ground for that assumption?”
“Your hesitancy.”
“I was deliberating.”
Mason smiled. “The hesitancy may have been due to deliberation, but it was nevertheless a hesitation.”
“A very good point, Mr. Mason. A good point, indeed. I’m frank to admit that I was deliberating and therefore hesitating. I don’t know whether to answer your question or whether to reserve my answer until I am interrogated by the police.”
“Any particular reason why you shouldn’t tell me?”
“I was debating that with myself.”
“Anything to conceal?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then why conceal it?”
“I think that’s unfair, Mr. Mason. I am not concealing anything. I have answered your questions fully and frankly.”
“When did you last talk with Faulkner?”
“Well, Mr. Mason, as you have so shrewdly deduced, it was yesterday.”
“What time yesterday?”
“Now, do you mean when I talked with him personally, face to face?”
Mason said, “I want to know when you talked with him personally and I want to know when you talked with him over the telephone.”
“What makes you think there was a telephone conversation?”
“The fact that you differentiate between a conversation with him face to face and another conversation.”
Dixon said, “I’m afraid I’m no match for you, Mr. Mason. I’m afraid I’m in the hands of a very shrewd lawyer.”
“I am,” Mason said, “still waiting for an answer.”
“You have, of course, no official right to ask that question.”
“None whatever.”
“Perhaps I wouldn’t choose to answer it. What then?”
“Then,” Mason said, “I would ring up my friend, Lieutenant Tragg, tell him that you had seen Harrington Faulkner on the day he was murdered, perhaps on the evening he was murdered; that you had apparently talked with him over the telephone. And then I would hang up, shake hands with you, tell you I appreciated your cooperation, and go away.”
Once more, Dixon put his fingers together. Then he nodded his head, as though he had reached some definite decision. But he still remained silent, a chubby figure with a mask-like countenance, sitting behind a huge desk, slowly nodding his head in impressive acquiescence with himself.
Mason waited silently.
Dixon said at length, “You make a very powerful argument, Mr. Mason. You do indeed. You would make a good poker player. It would be hard to judge what was in your hand when you shoved your chips into the pot — very hard indeed.”