“Faulkner fell down dead. When he fell, he upset the bowl of goldfish that was on the table in the bathroom. The bowl broke. One segment of the bowl contained a little water. One of the fish lived in there until he had exhausted the oxygen in the water, and then in his struggles, flopped out onto the floor. Taking the evidence of that goldfish, I’d say that the crime must have been committed somewhere around nine-thirty, and you’ll remember Faulkner said that he had an appointment at around that time.
“Wilfred Dixon and Genevieve Faulkner weren’t above rigging their books so that they had a twenty-five thousand dollar profit that wouldn’t show on their income tax. They weren’t above throwing the hooks into Faulkner and forcing him to sell out. They weren’t above getting the bullet Carson had tossed into the fish tank, proving that Carson must have put it there, and blackmailing Carson into letting go of his own holdings for a fraction of their value; but they weren’t the type that deliberately kill a man without any motive. Once they’d got Faulkner’s twenty-five thousand dollars, they certainly had no interest in bumping him off. They didn’t realize that keeping silent would doom Sally Madison — not at first. By the time they did, they were in so deep they had to carry on. Dixon couldn’t tell the truth without implicating himself and Genevieve Faulkner in a fraudulent transaction. So they decided to keep quiet. But they certainly weren’t the ones who followed Faulkner home and murdered him.”
“Then who the devil did?” Tragg asked.
“Use your head,” Mason told him. “Remember there’s a blot on the magazine, an ink smear. What makes an ink smear? A fountain pen that’s almost empty. And James L. Staunton had a written release from Faulkner which he showed you when you started crowding him, but which he didn’t show to me when I questioned him. Why didn’t he produce it sooner? Why didn’t he show it to me? Because the ink was hardly dry on it, and probably because a portion of the blot that had fallen from the almost empty fountain pen when Faulkner took it out of his pocket had stained one edge of the document.”
Tragg abruptly got up and reached for his hat. “Thanks, Mason.”
“Did that written statement have a blot on it?” Mason asked.
“Yes, on one edge. And like a damn fool I didn’t have the ink analyzed. I could have done it when I first saw the statement, and it would have shown that it had been written the night before, instead of at the time Faulkner brought the goldfish. I’m afraid, Mason, I’ve been so hypnotized by the fact that I was dealing with a girl who happened to have the murder gun in her purse, that I closed my eyes to everything else.”
“That’s the big trouble with being an officer,” Mason agreed. “You have the responsibility of getting the evidence which will support a conviction. Once you make an arrest, you have to put in all of your energies getting evidence which will insure the conviction of the arrested person. Otherwise you’re in bad with the D.A.”
Tragg nodded, then half way to the door turned and said, “How about that fingerprint — that F. P. No. 10?”
Mason said, “That fingerprint shows the danger of the lifting method. Every bit of evidence shows that Staunton was a shrewd man and a cunning man. Sergeant Dorset must have let it drop while he was out there with Sally Madison that they were lifting fingerprints at the scene of the murder. After they had left, Staunton, whom you will probably find knows something about fingerprinting, himself, knew that Sally Madison’s fingerprints would be on the glass tank where she had handled it while treating his goldfish. He simply lifted one of her fingerprints off of that tank and had it all ready, looking for a chance to slip it into the collection of lifted fingerprints. When Louis Corning came out to Staunton’s house to fingerprint the tank, it gave Staunton the opportunity he’d been anticipating. While Corning was taking fingerprints from the fish tank and completely absorbed in what he was doing, Staunton saw the collection of envelopes which Corning had so obligingly taken from his brief case, and slipped Sally’s fingerprint in where he thought it would do the most good.”
“I don’t believe he could have done that,” Tragg said.
“Ask him,” Mason said, grinning. “And when you ask him, tell him that you’ve found his fingerprint on the lift that carries Exhibit F. P. 10.”
“Why did Staunton kill him?” Tragg asked after he had thought over Mason’s suggestion for a second or two.
Mason said wearily, “Go find out. Good Lord, do you want me to do everything for you? Faulkner and Staunton had been secret partners in a mining deal. I’ll bet you ten to one that Faulkner had Staunton over the barrel. Faulkner had just been forced by Dixon to sell out his business for less than it was worth, and you’ll probably find that Faulkner was passing the bite on to Staunton. Hell, I don’t know, and I’m not paid to think about it. My job was to get Sally Madison out of jail and I’m getting her out of jail. Della Street and I are going out on the town. We’re going to eat. Maybe we’re even going to drink!”
“More power to you,” Tragg said. “Where will you be?”
Mason wrote the names of three night clubs on a slip of paper, handed it to Lieutenant Tragg. “We’ll be at one of those three places, but don’t try to reach us to report anything except a confession from Staunton and the time at which you’re going to release Sally Madison from jail. We don’t want to be disturbed over minor matters.”
20
The orchestra was playing one of the old-time waltzes. Lights had been turned down and blue spotlights shining on the dome above the dance floor gave the place the appearance of summer moonlight, showing the forms of couples waltzing slowly.
Mason’s lips brushed Della Street’s cheek. “Happy?” he asked.
“Yes, darling,” she said softly. “And it’s lovely not to be going to jail!”
A waiter came hurrying toward them, caught Mason’s eye, made frantic signals.
Mason guided Della Street over toward him, then, on the edge of the dance floor they ceased moving their feet but kept swaying to the rhythm of the music. “What is it?” Mason asked.
“A Lieutenant Tragg has called up. Says he’s from Homicide and to convey the message to you that you win all the way along the line, and that Sally Madison is to be released at midnight. He wants to know if you care to talk to him?”
Mason grinned. “He’s on the line?”
“Yes.”
Mason said, “Kindly give him my thanks — tell him that I’ll be there in time for the ceremonies, and that I’m too agreeably engaged at the moment to talk with anyone except my partner.”
The waiter turned away. Mason guided Della Street back toward the center of the dance floor.
“Poor Sally Madison,” Mason said, “she was willing to take a chance on the death chamber in order to save the man she loved.”
Della Street looked up at him. “You can’t blame her for that. It’s... it’s feminine nature.”
Mason said, “It surprises some people, Della, to think you find as much loyalty in the Sally Madisons of the world as you do in women who have followed all the rules.”
Della Street lowered her eyes. “It’s the way a woman’s made, Chief. She’ll do anything for the man she loves — anything.” Then she added hastily, “What time is it, Chief? We don’t want to be late getting to the jail.”
“We won’t,” Mason assured her, circling her waist with his arm, as the music ended. “I even think,” he added as the lights blazed into brilliance and they started back toward their table, “that Lieutenant Tragg might be grateful enough to delay things a few minutes for us. And the next time you go places with a golddigger, Della, take a look in the purse first.”