Faulkner darted over to the telephone, snatched up the receiver, dialed Operator, and screeched into the mouthpiece, “Get me police headquarters quick! I want to report a burglary.”
Mason moved over to the telephone. “Look here, Faulkner,” he warned, “be careful what you say. You can call the police, tell them your story and let them reach any conclusions they want, but don’t go making accusations and don’t mention names. From a collector’s standpoint those fish of yours are probably of considerable value, but so far as the police are concerned, they’re just two more goldfish you...”
Faulkner motioned Mason to silence, said into the telephone in a voice that was tremulous with emotion, “I want police on the job right away. This is Harrington Faulkner. I’ve been robbed. My most priceless possession... Get the best detectives on the force out here right away.”
Mason moved back to join the others. “Let’s get out,” he said quietly. “If the police take this thing seriously they’ll want to take fingerprints.”
“Suppose they don’t take it seriously?” Drake asked.
Mason shrugged his shoulders.
Over at the telephone, Harrington Faulkner repeated his name, gave the address and hung up. “The police say to get everyone out of the room.” He fairly screeched in his excitement. “They told me...”
“I know, I know,” Mason interpolated soothingly. “I’ve just told everyone to get out and leave the place as it is.”
“You can come next door,” Faulkner said. “That’s where I live. We’ll wait there for the police.”
Faulkner ushered them out to the porch, across to the other door of the duplex house which he opened, and switched on lights. “My wife is out,” he explained, “but if you’ll just wait here... Make yourselves right at home, please. Just be seated. The police say it will only be a few minutes before they have a radio car out here.”
“How about the door to the other side of the house?” Mason asked. “You’d better see that it’s locked and that no one gets in until the police arrive.”
“There’s a spring lock on it. It locks when you pull the door shut.”
“You’re certain that the door was locked when you arrived?” Mason asked.
“Yes, yes. You saw me insert the key and open the door,” Faulkner said impatiently. “The door was locked and the lock hadn’t been tampered with.”
“How about the windows?” Drake asked. “Did you notice whether they were locked?”
“I noticed,” Mason said as Faulkner scowled in an effort to concentrate. “All the windows in that room at least were locked. How many rooms are in the place, Faulkner?”
“Four. That room is our executive office where we have our desks. Then there’s another room which we use as a filing room. We fitted up the kitchen so there’s a little bar and an electric icebox. We can fix a customer a drink if the occasion seems appropriate. I’ll go and look through those other rooms and see if I can find where anything’s been disturbed. But I’m certain I’ll find everything in order. The man who stole those fish opened the front door with a key and walked right in. He knew exactly where to go, what to get and just what he was doing.”
“Better not go in there until the police come,” Mason warned. “They might not like it.”
The sound of a siren cut through the foggy darkness outside and throbbed ominously. Faulkner jumped up, ran to the front door and stood on the porch, waiting for the police car.
“Going in?” Drake asked Mason.
Mason shook his head, said, “We stick right here.”
Tom Gridley moved uneasily. “I left a couple of plastic panels out in my car,” he said. “They were painted and all ready to insert in the tank. I...”
“Your car locked?” Mason asked.
“No, that’s the point, it isn’t.”
“Better go out and lock it then. Wait until after the police get in. I take it you’re taking every precaution to keep your formula secret?”
Tom Gridley nodded. “I shouldn’t have even told Rawlins I had a remedy.”
Authoritative voices sounded from the outside. Harrington Faulkner by this time had regained control of his emotions and his voice was once more precise in its articulation. Steps moved across the porch. The door to the other house opened and closed.
Mason nodded to Gridley. “Better take advantage of this opportunity to run out and lock your car,” he said.
Paul Drake grinned across at Mason. “The great goldfish case!”
Mason chuckled. “Serves me right for letting my curiosity run away with me.”
“Wait until the police find out you’re here,” Drake said gleefully.
“And you,” Mason retorted. “Particularly when they report the call to the press room.”
The grin faded from Drake’s face. “Hang it, I feel sort of sheepish.”
“There’s no reason why you should,” Sally Madison said. “These goldfish mean as much to Mr. Faulkner as though they were members of his family. It’s just the same as if he had had a son kidnapped. Is that someone coming?”
They listened, heard the sound of a car, then quick steps, and a moment later the front door opened.
The woman who stood on the threshold was a blonde somewhere in the middle thirties and making a valiant attempt to preserve a figure which had begun to fill out. The curves were still attractive, but were becoming ample, and there was a girdled smoothness about the fit of her skirt, a conscious elevation of the corners of the mouth, a determined effort at holding the chin high — all of which combined to give an effect of static immobility. The woman seemed somehow to have robbed herself of all her natural spontaneity in an attempt to stay the hand of time. Her every move seemed to have been rehearsed in front of a mirror.
Sally Madison said almost under her breath, “Mrs. Faulkner!”
Mason and Drake jumped to their feet. Mason moved forward. “Permit me to introduce myself, Mrs. Faulkner. I’m Perry Mason. I came out here at the request of your husband who seems to have encountered some trouble in the real estate office next door. This is Miss Street, my secretary, and Miss Madison. And may I present Mr. Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency.”
Mrs. Faulkner swept on into the room. From the doorway a somewhat embarrassed Tom Gridley stood uncertainly as though debating whether to enter or to turn and seek refuge in the car.
“And,” Mason observed, swinging around to include Gridley in his introduction, “Mr. Thomas Gridley.”
Mrs. Faulkner’s voice was well-modulated. It had a slow, almost drawling quality that was deep-throated and seductive. “Do make yourselves right at home,” she said. “My husband has been very much upset lately and I’m glad that he has finally consulted a prominent attorney. I have been suggesting that he do so for some time. Do be seated, please. Would any of you care for a drink?”
She waited a few moments, then said, “Oh, I think I’ll get some Scotch and soda anyway. You people look as though you could use a drink.”
“Perhaps,” Della Street suggested, “I could be of some help.”
Mrs. Faulkner turned wary, appraising blue eyes upon Mason’s secretary, regarded her for a moment, then her face softened into a smile. “Why yes,” she said graciously, “if you’d like to. It would be very nice.”
Della Street followed Mrs. Faulkner out through the dining room into the kitchen.