“At eight-fifteen, Mr. Mason, I tuned in a radio program in which I was interested, so I’m quite certain of the time there.”
“There’s no question but what it was Harrington Faulkner with whom you were talking?”
“No question whatever.”
“I take it Faulkner didn’t keep his appointment with you?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“That caused you some concern?”
“Well, Mr. Mason,” Dixon said, running his chunky, capable fingers through his white hair, “I see no reason why I shouldn’t be frank with you. I was — disappointed.”
“But you didn’t call Mr. Faulkner back?”
“No indeed I did not. I was keeping myself in the position of — well, I didn’t want to show any eagerness whatever. The deal which I had previously outlined to Mr. Faulkner would have been quite profitable if it had gone through.”
“Can you remember exactly what Faulkner said over the telephone?”
“Yes, he said that he had planned on attending a rather important meeting that night and was just getting dressed to go out to it. That he would much prefer to attend that meeting, keep his appointment and conclude his deal with us some time today.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him I didn’t think that would be satisfactory to my client because today was Saturday. He then said he’d be here between ten and eleven.”
“Would you mind telling me the amount of the price you had fixed?”
“I don’t think that needs to enter into it, Mr. Mason.”
“Or the price at which Faulkner was willing to sell?”
“Really, Mr. Mason, I’m quite certain it would have no bearing on the matter.”
“How much of a difference was there between the two figures?”
“Oh, a very substantial amount.”
“When was Faulkner here personally?”
“About three o’clock in the afternoon, I believe it was — the last time — for just a few minutes.”
“You had already made Faulkner your proposition?”
“Yes.”
“And he had made you his?”
“Yes.”
“How long was the interview?”
“Not more than five minutes.”
“Did Faulkner see his wife — I mean his former wife?”
“Not at that interview.”
“Had he seen her at any other interview during the day?”
“I believe he did — the meeting was by chance. I think Mr. Faulkner called about eleven o’clock in the morning and, as I remember it, encountered his wife — that is, his former wife, on the porch.”
“And they talked for awhile?”
“I believe so.”
“Is it fair to ask what they talked about?”
“I’m quite certain, Mr. Mason, that’s between Genevieve and her husband.”
“And might I see Genevieve to ask her a few questions?”
“For a man whose interest in Faulkner’s estate is as nebulous as yours, if you’ll permit me to say so, Mr. Mason, you want to cover quite a bit of territory.”
Mason said, “I want to see Genevieve Faulkner.”
“Are you, by any chance, representing someone who is charged with the murder of Mr. Faulkner?”
“So far as I know, no one has been charged with the murder of Mr. Faulkner.”
“You are, however, aware of the probability that someone may be charged with such murder?”
“Naturally.”
“And that someone might become, or might even now be a client of yours?”
Mason smiled. “I might be tempted to represent some person who is charged with the murder of Mr. Faulkner.”
Dixon said quite definitely, “I don’t think I would like that.”
Mason’s silence was significant.
Dixon said, “Things which one would discuss without hesitancy with a lawyer who was planning merely to represent a claim against the estate of Harrington Faulkner are hardly the same things which one would discuss with a lawyer who was planning to represent a person who was going to be accused of the murder of Harrington Faulkner.”
“Suppose that person were unjustly accused?” Mason suggested.
“That,” Dixon said self-righteously, “is something that would be left to a jury.”
“Let’s leave it to the jury, then,” Mason said, grinning. “I should like very much to see Genevieve Faulkner.”
“I’m afraid that is impossible.”
“I take it that she has no interest in the estate.”
Dixon’s eyes abruptly shifted to his desk. “Why do you ask that, Mr. Mason?”
“Does she?”
“I would say she had none — unless Harrington Faulkner’s will provided otherwise — which is very unlikely. Genevieve Faulkner has no interest whatever in the estate of Harrington Faulkner. In other words, she has no possible motive for murder.”
Mason grinned. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
Dixon matched his smile. “That was, however, the answer I gave.”
Knuckles tapped lightly and in a perfunctory manner upon the door, and a half second later, without waiting for any answer, that door was opened by a woman who entered the room with all the assurance of one who belonged there.
A frown of annoyance crossed Dixon’s face. “I have no dictation today, Miss Smith,” he said.
Mason turned to look at the woman who had entered. She was slender and very attractive, somewhere in that vaguely indefinite period which is between forty-five and fifty-five. And, for a brief instant, Mason caught the flicker of a puzzled expression on her face as she stood looking from Dixon to the lawyer.
Mason was on his feet instantly. “Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Faulkner?”
“No, thank you. I... I...”
Mason turned to Dixon. “You’ll pardon me for reaching the obvious conclusion.”
Dixon admitted somewhat dourly that the name “Smith” had perhaps been a bit unfortunate. “Genevieve, my dear, this is Perry Mason, an attorney, a very skillful, clever attorney who has called on me to secure information about Harrington Faulkner. He asked permission to see you and I told him that I saw no reason for granting an interview.”
Mason said, “If she has anything to conceal, it’s bound to come out sooner or later, Dixon, and...”
“She has nothing to conceal.”
“Are you,” Mason asked of Genevieve Faulkner, “interested in goldfish?”
Dixon said, “She is not interested in goldfish.”
Mrs. Faulkner smiled serenely at Perry Mason and said, “It would seem that Mr. Mason is the one who is interested in fishing. And so, if you gentlemen will pardon me, I’ll retire and return when Mr. Dixon isn’t engaged.”
“I’m leaving right now,” Mason said, getting to his feet and bowing. “I wasn’t aware that Mr. Faulkner had had such an attractive first wife.”
“Neither was Mr. Faulkner,” Dixon said dryly, and then stood rigidly erect and silent while Mason bowed himself out of the room.
13
Mason called up his office from a drug store that was within half a dozen blocks of Dixon’s house. “Della,” he said when he had Della Street on the line, “get hold of Paul Drake at once. Tell him to look up all the evidence in connection with Harrington Faulkner’s divorce case. Somewhere around five years ago. I not only want all of the dope on the case, but I want a transcript of the evidence if we can get it, and I want to know what was actually behind it.”
“Okay, Chief, anything else?”
“That’s all. What’s new?”
She said, “I’m glad you phoned. I filed the application for a writ of habeas corpus and Judge Downey issued a writ returnable next Tuesday. They’ve now booked Sally Madison on a charge of first-degree murder.”
“I suppose they booked her as soon as they learned of the writ,” Mason said.