The President Monroe had blown its fifteen-minute whistle. One minute to go. All visitors had been ordered ashore. Dock-hands were standing at the gangplank, ready to take it up. The band was playing.
Clouds which had blanketed the bay earlier in the morning were lightening somewhat, with patches of blue sky showing through. Streamers of colored paper furnished ribbons of color which stretched from passengers on the upper decks to friends who had gathered on the dock to say farewell. The edge of the wharf was lined with people calling out good-natured banter to those who were standing at the ship’s rail.
The uniformed officer who was importantly directing the parking of cars stifled a yawn. Half an hour before, cars had been arriving by the score. Five minutes later, they would be leaving in droves. Right now he had nothing to do, save push his chest against his uniform and strut importantly up and down the pavement.
He looked up as he heard the sound of screaming tires, the roar of an automobile. He raised his whistle to his lips, then jumped to one side to avoid being struck as a car skidded sideways, swung half around, and lurched to a stop.
Mason jumped out, yelled at him, “Park that car somewhere,” grabbed Della Street, and, together, they raced up the gangplank just as the hoarse bellow of the ship’s whistle aroused echoes along the waterfront.
The gangplank was pulled away. Lines were cast off. The lawyer and his secretary, breathless from their mad scramble, stood by the rail, laughing, panting, and looking down across the widening strip of oily water at the sea of upturned faces.
Suddenly Mason said, “Look down there, Della, over against post number seven.”
Della Street followed the direction of his eyes. Rodney Cuff, Jimmy Driscoll, Rosalind Prescott, and Paul Drake were gathered together in a compact group. Drake spotted them just as Della Street looked. He said something to his companions, then raised his voice and yelled, “Perry! We burnt up the road to get here. A client of mine has a case he wants you to take. This is right down your alley. He has plenty of money and—”
“Not interested,” Mason called back.
“You can come back with the pilot,” Drake shouted, “and—”
“Not interested,” Mason interrupted, waving his hand. “I have a date in Singapore with a lady.”
Cuff shouted, “I wanted to congratulate you. You got out of the courtroom before I knew you were going. Wonderful work, Counselor.”
“Thanks,” Mason called. “Hey, Paul, tell your man to take Ms case to Rodney Cuff. Good-by! I’ll send you a card from Waikiki!”
The big engines throbbed into vibrations as the ship gathered speed. Drake yelled something which was unintelligible. The dock with its human fringe of waving figures slipped astern.
Mason turned to Della Street. “How’s that,” he asked, “for keeping a promise?”
Her face flushed, her eyes starry, she looked up at him, the fresh wind from the harbor blowing her hair about her flushed cheeks.
“Swell,” she admitted.
“Now,” he said, “we are confronted with the problem that all your baggage is initialed ‘D.M’ What are we going to do about that?”
“Can’t we have the initials erased?” she asked.
“Not very well,” Mason said, his eyes twinkling. “They’re stamped into the leather. I’ll tell you what you could do, though.”
“What?” she asked.
“If,” he said, “you became Mrs. Mason, the initials would be perfectly all right. They would then stand for ‘Della Mason’ instead of ‘Diana Morgan.’ ”
“Are you,” she asked, “proposing to me?”
He nodded.
She looked thoughtfully down into the water, then raised her eyes to face him frankly.
“As your wife,” she asked, “would I continue to be your secretary?”
“Hardly. I couldn’t give you orders. It wouldn’t set well with the clients. But you wouldn’t need to work. You could have a car of your own and—”
“That’s what I thought,” she interrupted. “We’re getting along swell the way it is. You’d establish me in a home somewhere as your wife. Then you’d get a secretary to help you with your work. The first thing you knew, you’d be sharing excitement and experiences with the secretary and I’d be entirely out of your life. No, Mr. Perry Mason, you aren’t the marrying kind. You live at too high speed. You’re too wrapped up in mysteries. I’d rather share in your life than in your bank roll.”
“But think of all that baggage,” he told her, sliding his arms around her waist. “It has those perfectly good initials, ‘D.M.,’ which we can’t let go to waste.”
She snuggled close to him. “No,” she said, “I think my hunch is right, Chief. I think it would be better for me to remain Della Street and have the baggage wrong than to become Della Mason and have everything else wrong. But — well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do — ask me again in Singapore.”
“It’s a long ways between here and Singapore,” he told her. “How about Waikiki?”
She laughed, flung back her head to catch the wind on her cheeks and forehead. “Always impatient,” she said. “Come on. Let’s walk the deck. I don’t think you need a wife. But I know damn well you need a secretary who’s willing to go to jail occasionally to back your play.”
Arm in arm they started walking the deck. “Have any trouble with that habeas corpus?” he asked.
“Nuh uh,” she said.
Another half turn in silence. “Happy?” Mason asked.
“Uh huh,” squeezing his arm.
Like two happy children, they walked the deck. “Dammit,” Mason said, frowning, “I wonder what it was that Paul Drake had. It’s the first time I’ve ever known him to get excited over a case. It must be a humdinger—”
She placed her fingers across his lips. “Stop it,” she ordered. “Quit talking about it, and quit thinking about it. If you so much as mention business on this trip, I’ll take a separate ship and leave you to your own devices.” Mason held up his hands in grinning surrender and said, “Kamerad! You win!”
Thereafter, passengers getting their last taste of the cold wind which came tanging in from the sea, hurrying toward their staterooms to lay out light weight tropical garments in anticipation of the warm cruise ahead, smiled tolerantly as they saw the tall, distinguished man, accompanied by the capable, good-looking young woman, parading around the deck, as though it was a ceremonial march, and, as they walked, whistling Hawaiian Paradise.