Chapter 1

Perry Mason stood leaning against the rail as an inky ribbon of black water widened between the side of the ship and the dock. The hoarse whistle bellowed into noise as spectators on the pier waved hats and handkerchiefs in farewell. Propellers churned the water into moisty foam, then subsided.

The strains of Aloha Oe, sung by the soft voices of Island women, reached the ears of suddenly silent passengers.

Minutes later, as the shore noises drifted astern, Mason, watching the Aloha tower shrinking into the background of city lights, could see the black outlines of the mountains rising in silent silhouette against the stars. The hiss of water streaming past the ship’s side became increasingly audible.

Della Street, his secretary, clasped strong fingers over the back of his hand where it rested on the rail. “I’ll never forget this, Chief. It’s big and quiet and solemn.”

He nodded, fingering the flowered leis which circled his neck with bands of red, white and purple.

“Want to stay?” he asked.

“No — but it’s something I’ll never forget.”

Mason’s voice showed his restlessness. “It’s been a wonderful interlude, but I want to start fighting. Over there,” — waving his arm in the general direction of Waikiki Beach — “is something which civilization has commercialized but can’t kill, a friendly people, a gentle warm climate, where time drifts by unnoticed. I’m leaving it to go back to the roar of a city, the jangle of telephones, the blast of automobile horns, the clanging of traffic signals, clients who lie to me and yet expect me to be loyal to them — and I can hardly wait to get there.”

She said sympathetically, “I know, Chief.”

The engines throbbed the big ship into vibrant speed. A breeze of tropical air ruffled the flower petals around their necks. Mason watched the fringe of lights along the dark shoreline, glanced down at the churned white of water where it streamed along the side of the boat.

From the lower deck, leis sped outward, to hang poised for a minute in circular color against the black of the water, then collapse and drop rapidly astern, as passengers sought to comply with the age-old Hawaiian custom.

Mason said, with the tolerance of one who has long since learned to accept human nature as an established fact, “Those are the newcomers, the malihinis. Those leis drift right back into the harbor. Passengers should wait until they’re opposite Diamond Head.”

Elbows on the rail, they looked down on the heads and shoulders of people leaning over the rails on the lower decks.

“There’s the couple we saw last night in the Chinese restaurant,” Mason remarked.

Della Street followed the direction of his gaze. “I’m to have her for a roommate,” she said. “She was in the cabin when my baggage came aboard.”

“Who is she, Della?”

“Her name’s Belle Newberry. Her father and mother are in three twenty-one.”

“Who’s her boyfriend?” Mason asked.

“Roy Amboy Hungerford,” Della Street said, “and he’s not her boyfriend.”

“Don’t fool yourself,” Mason told her. “I saw the expression in his eyes when he was dancing with her last night.”

“You’d be surprised at what men can do with their eyes in the tropics,” she told him, laughing. “Have you noticed the tall, brown-haired girl with blue eyes and the white sharkskin dress, who was weighted down with leis — the one who was standing with her father up there on the...”

“I noticed her,” Mason said. “What about her?”

“I think she has some claim on Hungerford,” Della Street said. “She’s Celinda Dail. Her father’s C. Whitmore Dail — if that means anything. They’re wallowing in wealth, have a big suite on A deck.”

“Well,” Mason said, smiling at her, “you do get around, don’t you? How about dropping our leis, Della?”

She nodded. “I’m going to save one for the night of the captain’s dinner. I’ll have the room steward put it in the ice box.”

They performed the ceremony of consigning their flowers to the dark waters. “Why is it,” Della Street asked, as Mason’s last lei vanished into the darkness, “that all of these things we’d consider superstitions on the Mainland seem so real here?”

“Because so many people believe them,” he told her. “Mass belief is a tangible psychic force. Notice the authenticated stories of persons who have violated Island beliefs and come to grief. Thousands of people have known of the violated tabu. Thousands of minds have believed some evil was going to befall the violator.”

“Like hypnotism?” she asked.

“You might call it that.”

“Here come Belle’s mother and father,” Della Street said. “I suppose they’ll want to be introduced.”

Mason turned to observe a slight, small-boned man of about fifty-five, with high forehead and piercing gray eyes. The woman at his side appeared much younger. She had retained a slender, graceful figure and walked with long, easy strides. Her dark brown eyes studied Mason’s face with interest, then swung to Della Street. She bowed and smiled. The man, hatless, did not so much as shift his eyes.

Mason watched them as they walked past, the man staring with preoccupation at the dark curtain of night beyond the ship, the woman frankly sizing up her fellow passengers.

“You’ve met her?” Mason asked.

“Yes. They were in the cabin for a few minutes.”

Mason once more stared down at the couple on the lower deck. “Celinda Dail,” he said, “had better hurry up and record her location notice or she’ll find someone’s jumped her claim — funny I can’t place that girl. I’ve seen her before somewhere.”

Della Street laughed. “You said that last night, Chief, and after you mentioned it I thought I’d seen her before. So I asked her about it tonight.”

“Has she ever been in the office?” Mason asked. “Or, perhaps, on one of my juries?”

“No,” Della Street told him. “It’s simply a case of a remarkable resemblance to—”

“To Winnie Joyce, the picture actress!” Mason exclaimed.

Della Street nodded. “There’s a natural resemblance,” she said, “and Miss Newberry accentuates it by the way she does her hair. I think she more or less consciously imitates Winnie Joyce in her manner. She’s a bit hypnotized by Hollywood.”

“Everyone is,” Mason grinned, “including Hollywood.”

“Well,” Della told him, “I’m going to hunt up a steward and have him put my lei in the refrigerator. See you in the morning, Chief.”

She walked rapidly forward, leaving Mason standing at the rail, watching the intermittent flashing of signal lights, inhaling the scents of the warm tropical air. The decks became silent and deserted, as passengers, fatigued by a strenuous last day in the Islands, the night sailing, and the strain of farewells, sought their cabins.

Mason turned abruptly as a woman mentioned his name.

“I’m Mrs. Newberry, Mr. Mason,” she said. “My daughter’s sharing the cabin with your secretary, so I know all about you. I saw you standing at the rail as we walked past— I— I want to consult you.”

“Professionally?” Mason asked.

She nodded.

Mason studied her with patient, appraising eyes. “What about?”

“About my daughter, Belle,” she said.

Mason smiled. “I’m afraid you misunderstood, Mrs. Newberry. I don’t handle a general law practice. I specialize in trial work, mostly murder cases. Surely Belle hasn’t done anything which would require my services.”

“Please don’t refuse,” she pleaded. “I feel certain you can help me. It wouldn’t take much of your time and it might make all the difference in the world to Belle.”

Mason noticed a hint of nervous hysteria in her voice and said, “Go ahead. Tell me about it. I’ll at least listen. Perhaps I can make some suggestions. What’s Belle been doing?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s my husband who’s been doing things.”

“Well, what’s Belle’s father—”

“He’s not Belle’s father,” she interrupted to explain. “Belle is the child of a former marriage.”

“She goes by the name of Newberry, however?” the lawyer asked, puzzled.

“No,” the woman said, “ we do.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s this way,” she went on, speaking rapidly “my husband’s name is Moar. Up until two months ago I was Mrs. Moar. Overnight, my husband changed his name. He ceased to be C. Waker Moar, and became Carl W Newberry. He simply walked out of his position as bookkeeper in the Products Refining Company. We hurriedly moved to another city, lived under the name of Newberry, then went to Honolulu, and have been there for six weeks. My husband gave strict orders that under no circumstances were any of us ever to mention the name of Moar.”

Mason’s eyes showed his interest. “He left his job rather suddenly?”

“Yes, without even going back to the office.”

“That,” Mason said noncommittally, “is rather peculiar.”

The woman came closer to him. Her hand rested on his wrist, and slowly the fingers tightened until the skin was white across her knuckles. “Belle,” she said, “suspected nothing. She’s a modern young woman, a strange mixture of sentiment and cynical acceptance of life. For more than a year she’d been wanting to take the name of Moar. She said that it was embarrassing to introduce her mother as Mrs. Moar and then explain that Carl was her stepfather. So when my husband said we’d take her name, she was overjoyed.”

“She gets along well with your husband?” Mason asked.

“She’s very, very fond of him,” the woman said. “Sometimes I think she understands him better than I do. Carl has always been something of an enigma to me. He’s undemonstrative and very self-contained. But he worships the ground Belle walks on. He never started complaining about any lack of opportunities in life until recently. Then he began to grumble. He couldn’t get enough money to give Belle a chance to meet the right sort of people. She didn’t have the clothes he thought she should have. She couldn’t travel...”

“You’re traveling now,” Mason observed with a smile.

“That’s just the point,” she said. “About two months ago we suddenly became affluent.”

“And that was when he changed his name?”

“Yes.”

“How affluent?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know. He carries his money with him in a money belt. I’ve never seen the inside of that money belt, but occasionally he goes to a bank and gets a thousand-dollar bill changed.”

She continued to clutch at the lawyer’s wrist, and now her hand was trembling with nervousness. “Naturally,” she went on rapidly, “I’m not a fool. I haven’t lived thirty-nine years for nothing.”

“Did you ever ask him any specific questions about the reasons for his actions, about where the money was coming from?” Mason asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me he’d won a sweepstakes — some lottery... But I don’t think he had. The newspapers publish the names of the winners, don’t they?”

Mason nodded. “Only sometimes persons buy tickets under fictitious names.”

“Well, he told me he’d won one of the sweepstakes. He said that environment had made our friendships, rather than natural selection. He said he wanted to begin life all over, take a new name, travel and have Belle meet people of the right sort.”

“You didn’t believe what he told you about winning the lottery?” Mason asked.

“I believed him at the time. Recently I’ve started to doubt him. Over in Honolulu someone from Los Angeles mentioned in my hearing that the Products Refining Company had employed auditors to go over its books. I’m worried... I feel certain... And then Belle...”

“All right,” Mason said gently, “tell me about Belle.”

“She took to this life like a duck takes to water. She’s naturally happy, vivacious, impulsive, and a good mixer. It gave her a great thrill to be thrown in contact with wealthy tourists, the people she calls ritzy. A few days ago she met Roy Hungerford at the Royal Hawaiian. He’s, the son of Peter Coleman Hungerford, the oil millionaire. It seems that he’s been dancing constant attendance on a Miss Dail, but since he’s met Belle he’s been putting in more and more time with her.”

“What does Miss Dail have to say to that?” Mason asked.

“She doesn’t say anything,” Mrs. Newberry said. “She’s far too clever for that. She’s apparently taken quite an interest in Belle — you know, some women do that. They become very friendly with their rivals.”

“And you think she considers your daughter a rival?” Mason asked.

“Yes, I think she does, Mr. Mason.”

“And,” Mason went on, “I suppose Miss Dail has been asking your daughter something about her background, where she has lived, and something about her father’s occupation?”

Mrs. Newberry said, “Yes. So far, Belle’s been clever enough to laugh it off. She says she’s only a Cinderella, playing at the party until midnight, and then she’ll disappear.”

“That might get by with young Hungerford,” Mason said, “but I presume it’s merely made Miss Dail more curious.”

“It has,” Mrs. Newberry assured him.

“How does your husband feel about that, now that his background and occupation have attracted so much interest?”

“My husband,” she said, “has almost gone into hiding, I had an awful time dragging him out for a single turn around the deck. He’s gone back to his cabin now and is staying there.”

Mason said, “Now let’s get this straight. You suspect that your husband has embezzled money from the Products Refining Company?”

“Yes.”

“Does your daughter have any suspicions?”

“No, of course not.”

“Where does she think the money came from?”

“She thinks my husband won it in a lottery, but that she must never mention that fact because the lottery was illegal and it might make trouble for him. She’s been too busy having a good time to do very much thinking about financial matters.”

“And,” Mason said, “I presume that nothing would suit Miss Dail better than to do a little amateur detective work and expose Belle as the daughter of an embezzler.”

Mrs. Newberry started to cry.

Mason placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “Take it easy,” he said. “Tears won’t help. After all, nothing’s apt to happen while you’re on shipboard. Why not let this matter wait until you reach the Mainland? By that time your daughter will have had an opportunity to become better acquainted with young Hungerford and...”

“I’m afraid,” she said, “it’s too late for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone stole Belle’s picture.”

Mason raised his eyebrows in silent interrogation.

“Someone stole her picture from my husband’s suitcase sometime after three o’clock this afternoon and before ten o’clock tonight.”

“Well,” Mason said, “what if they did? I don’t see what your daughter’s picture—”

“Can’t you see?” she interrupted. “The Clipper leaves Honolulu at daylight tomorrow morning. Someone could have stolen my daughter’s picture, sent it to the Mainland by air mail, and had detectives trace her, and find out everything about her.”

“But surely,” Mason said, “you don’t think Miss Dail would resort to any such tactics?”

“I don’t know what tactics she’d restort to,” Mrs. Newberry said. “She’s selfish, spoiled, rich, and ruthless.

“Why, she’s just a kid,” Mason exclaimed.

“She’s twenty-five,” Mrs. Newberry pointed out, “and she’s done lots of living. She’s a good polo player, holds an aviator’s license, has a yacht of her own, shoots par golf and... Well, a young woman of twenty-five these days is quite apt to have done a lot of living. I’d consider her capable of almost anything.”

“Tell me some more about the theft of the picture,” Mason said.

“We packed early,” she said. “I packed my husband’s suitcase. Belle had given him a picture inscribed, ‘To Daddy, With Love from Belle.’ I don’t know, Mr. Mason, whether you’ve noticed that my daughter resembles Winnie Joyce, the actress, but—”

“I’d already noticed and commented on the resemblance,” Mason said. “I believe she tries to accentuate that resemblance, doesn’t she?”

“Of course she does,” Mrs. Newberry agreed promptly. “People comment about it and it tickles her pink. She sent to the studio for a fan-mail photograph of Winne Joyce. Then she had a photographer take her picture in the same pose and with the same lighting effects. It was one of those pictures she inscribed and gave to my husband. It was in an oval desk frame. I personally packed that picture in his bag a little before three o’clock this afternoon. After the bag was packed, he locked it. It wasn’t unlocked again until ten o’clock tonight, half an hour before the ship sailed. I was unpacking the baggage in the stateroom and he took the keys from his pocket and unlocked it.”

“And the frame was gone?” Mason asked.

“No,” she said. “Belle’s picture had been taken from the frame and a picture of Miss Joyce substituted.”

She opened her purse, took out an oval desk frame and handed it to Mason. Mason held it so that the light from one of the deck lamps showed the photograph. “Notice the inscription, ” Mrs. Newberry said.

Mason deciphered, “Sincerely yours. Winnie Joyce.”

“Perhaps the photograph had been substituted before you packed,” Mason suggested.

“No. I noticed particularly. You see, my daughter’s happiness has been on my mind ever since I heard this about the Products Refining Company. I looked at her picture when I packed it and hoped that she’d always be happy and smiling as she was in that picture.”

“Well,” Mason said, “there’s no use beating around the bush. Go to your husband. Call for a showdown. After all, Mrs. Newberry, you may be alarming yourself needlessly. He may have won the money in a lottery.”

“But I have talked with him. It doesn’t get me anywhere. He simply says he won some money in a lottery. That’s all I can get out of him.”

“Did you ever accuse him of embezzling money from the Products Refining Company?” Mason asked.

“Not in so many words, but I intimated that I thought he might have.”

“And what did he say?”

“Told me I was crazy, that he’d won a lottery.”

“You don’t know what lottery?”

“He said something about a sweepstakes once, and the other times he said lottery.”

“Well, call for a showdown,” Mason said impatiently. “Ask him just what lottery it was. After all, you’re his wife. You’re entitled to know.”

She shook her head emphatically. “It would never do any good to talk with Carl that way. He’d lie out of it and it would simply make matters worse. When I have another talk with him, I want to have all the cards in my hand so I can play them. I want to know.”

“What do you want to know?” Mason asked.

“I want to be absolutely certain,” she said, “that he did embezzle that money. That’s where I want your help.”

“What did you want me to do?” Mason asked.

“Get in communication with your office,” she said. “Have your associates make a quiet investigation and find out whether Carl really embezzled the money.”

“And if he did, then what?”

“Then,” she said, “I’m going to take steps to protect Belle and safeguard her happiness as much as I can.”

“How?” Mason asked.

She started to say something, then checked herself. After a moment, she said, “I don’t know — yet. I’d want your advice.”

Mason leaned over the rail and looked down at the deck below. The figures of Belle Newberry and Roy Hungerford had moved close together until they appeared as one dark silhouette.

“Very well,” Mason promised. “I’ll see what I can find out,” and cut short her thanks to go to the wireless room.

Using his confidential code, Mason sent a wireless to Paul Drake, of the Drake Detective Agency in Los Angeles, asking him to investigate a C.W. Moar who had worked for the Products Refining Company to investigate the winners of all sweepstakes within the past four months, and find out if any might have been C.W. Moar, using either his own or a fictitious name, and added as an afterthought a request to ascertain if Winnie Joyce, the picture actress, had a sister.

Chapter 2

Sun sparkled from the crested tops of restless waves as Perry Mason paced the deck, enjoying the fresh air and the morning sun. His hands were thrust deep in the pockets of a double-breasted coat, his rubber-soled shoes trod lightly along the teakwood deck. The warm breeze ruffled his wavy hair. He had circled the deck for the third time when the heavy door from the forward social hall was pushed open an inch or two. Della Street shouldered it open, to stand with wind-whipped skirts while Belle Newberry stepped across the high threshold.

As they released the door and the wind pushed it against the automatic door check, Mason, walking up behind them, called “Ship Ahoy!” and, as they turned, said to Della Street, “The other side is less windy.”

Della nodded, the warm wind blowing tendrils of hair across her face. “Belle,” she said, “this is the boss. Chief, I’d like to have you meet Belle Newberry, my roommate. We’re working up an appetite for breakfast.”

“Let’s go,” Mason suggested.

With a girl on each arm, he started forward along the deck. Rounding the bow, the wind pushed them on down the sloping incline, into the lee of the deck. Belle Newberry put her hair back into place, laughed, and said, “That’s what’s known as a wind-blown bob. I’ve been hearing a lot about you, Mr. Mason.”

“If it’s bad,” Mason told her, “you can believe it, if it’s good, it’s slander.”

She faced him with laughing, dark eyes, full red lips, parted to reveal teeth which glinted like whitecaps in the sun. The silk blouse, open at the neck, disclosed the sweep of her throat, the rounded curve of her firm breasts. “I saw you and Moms talking last night,” she said. “I’ll bet Moms told you all about the family mystery.”

“Mystery?” Mason asked.

“Uh huh,” she said. “Don’t stand there and act innocent.”

Della Street flashed Mason a quick glance. “What’s the family mystery, Belle?” she asked.

“The disappearing portrait,” she said. “Mother packed my autographed picture in Dad’s bag and locked the bag. When they unpacked, my picture was gone from the frame, and someone had inserted one of Winnie Joyce, my double. Now, what do you know about that?”

“I,” Della Street said, glancing reproachfully at Perry Mason, “know nothing about it. What does your mother think about it?”

“She’s making it darkly mysterious,” Belle said. “Don’t deprive her of her thrill. If she tells you about it, look frightened.”

“You don’t take it seriously, then?” Mason inquired.

“Me?” she told him, raising her chin and laughing up into his face. “I don’t take anything seriously — life, liberty, or the pursuit of love. I’m the flippant younger generation, Mr. Mason — born without reverence — yet reared without guile, thank Heaven.”

“And how about your father?” Mason inquired. “How does he take it?”

“Oh, Dad takes it right in his stride,” she said. “Pops is a Thinker, carries the world on his shoulders. Only occasionally can I get him to set it down long enough to play with me.”

“That,” Mason said, “doesn’t answer my question.”

“Ooh, the Big Bad Lawyer!” she laughed. “I forgot I was being cross-examined. What shall we call this, Mr. Mason — ‘The Case of the Purloined Picture’?”

“It wasn’t purloined,” he said, “so much as substituted.”

“All right, then. ‘The Case of the Substitute Face.’ How will that do?”

“All right,” he said, “at least temporarily. What does your father say about it — and, incidentally, what are your theories?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have theories. I’m too young... You don’t mind being kidded a bit, do you, Mr. Mason? Because if you do, you only have to say so and I get worse... No, seriously speaking, Dad and I both think it’s just a joke someone in the hotel played. You know Moms. She swears that it was my picture in the frame when she was doing the packing, but Moms gets excited when we travel. You see. Miss Joyce and I look alike, even if Miss Joyce wouldn’t admit it. Ever since I started traveling, people in restaurants and night clubs have been staring at me, nudging each other and whispering.”

“You might capitalize on it,” Mason said. “A stand-in or something.”

“That’s what I claim,” Belle Newberry said, the banter instantly leaving her eyes, and her voice slightly wistful. “I think it would be a swell chance for me to go to Hollywood and look around, but Dad says nothing doing, that I stay with him until after I’m twenty-three, and that’ll be six months. My Lord! It seems as though I’ve been twenty-two forever... there I go, telling my age!”

Mason laughed. “You liked Honolulu?”

“Crazy about it,” she said. “Lord, how I hated to leave! I’d never even dreamt of such a glamorous, thrilling experience. I suppose I shouldn’t indulge in all those enthusiasms, but should be more like the society bud at the hotel who raised her eyebrows and made her face look like a stifled yawn whenever anyone asked her how she enjoyed the Islands. Then, after just the right interval, she’d say, ‘Oh, they’re quite nice, thank you.’ You know, that world-weary sophistication which comes to us blase twenty-year-olds.”

“Yes,” Mason laughed, “I’ve encountered it.”

“I’ve wallowed in it,” she said. “It surrounded me all through college.”

“Your first ocean voyage?” Mason inquired.

“Going to the Islands was not only my first ocean voyage,” she told him, “but positively and absolutely the first time I’ve ever been... well now, wait a minute, I hadn’t better make any confessions. After all, there’s nothing so disillusioning as a woman with a drab past, and you know, I...”

She broke off as the door on the lee side opened, and Roy Hungerford, attired in white flannels, stepped out to the deck and looked eagerly to the right and left. He caught sight of them, smiled, and came swiftly toward them. Belle Newberry hooked her arm through his and performed introductions.

Della Street said, “You two go walk up that appetite. I see that I have to go into a huddle with the boss. He has a businesslike look on his face. You shouldn’t have mentioned mysteries, Belle. Now you’ve reminded him that he’s returning to the office.”

Belle Newberry flashed her a grateful glance, and nodded to Roy Hungerford. They pushed forward into the wind, and Della Street looked up at the tall lawyer and said, “Okay, Chief, spill it.”

“Spill what?” Mason asked.

She laughed and said, “Go on, don’t pull that stuff on me. Tell me all about the family mystery — The Case of the Substitute Face.”

“You know about all there is to know about it,” Mason told her. “The photographs were switched.”

“Who did the switching, and why?” Della asked.

“I don’t know,” Mason admitted. “There are complicating factors. Come on up on the boat deck and I’ll tell you about them.”

They climbed the stairway, walked past the gymnasium, across the deck tennis court, and found a sheltered spot in the lee of the rooms used as ship’s hospital. Mason told Della Street of his conversation with Mrs. Newberry. “So,” she said when he had finished, “you sent a radiogram to Paul Drake.”

He nodded.

She laughed. “Well, that’ll be a good preliminary training for Paul. He’s had a rest while you were batting around the Orient. I’ll bet he missed the wild scramble of your work. How about breakfast?”

He nodded. “In a minute. What do you think of her?”

“Of whom?”

“Of your cabin-mate.”

“Oh, she’s a kick. She’s an observing kid, and chuck full of life. She’s modern, impatient of all sham and pretense, and isn’t too affected to show enthusiasm. She’s as full of bounce as a rubber ball.”

“Did she say anything about young Hungerford?”

“No. It’s really deep and serious with her. She treats the world in that light, flippant manner, but this is something she won’t treat that way. Come on. Chief, let’s eat. I’m starved.”

They were half through breakfast when Drake’s first radiogram was received. It read simply:

PRODUCTS REFINING COMPANY ASSETS SHORT TWENTY-FIVE GRAND. PRIVATE DETECTIVES MAKING QUIET SEARCH FOR MOAR — VANISHED EMPLOYEE. NO COMPLAINT FILED AS YET. APPARENTLY NIGGER SOMEWHERE IN WOODPILE AND AUDITORS LACK SUFFICIENT PROOF TO MAKE DEFINITE ACCUSATIONS.

Della, taking the cablegram from Mason, said, “That’s fast work, Chief.”

“Uh huh. But remember, it’s later there than it is here. He’s been on the job for two or three hours.”

They were strolling the promenade deck, snapping colored photographs with Mason’s miniature camera, when Drake’s second message came. It read:

NO SWEEPSTAKE OR LOTTERY WINNERS NAMED MOAR. WINNERS LAST FOUR MONTHS ALL ACCOUNTED FOR.

And his third radiogram was received about noon:

WINNIE JOYCE HAS NO SISTERS. BETTER FORGET ROMANCE PERRY AND STICK TO BUSINESS. COME HOME. ALL IS FORGIVEN.

Mason, folding the message, said, “Damn him, I’ll get even with him for that.”

“Here comes Mrs. Newberry,” Della Street Said.

Mason returned Mrs. Newberry’s good-morning, and said, “I have some information for you.”

“Can you tell me now?” she asked, glancing dubiously at Della Street.

Mason said, “I have no secrets from Della. Do you want me to beat around the bush, or do you want it straight from the shoulder?”

“Straight from the shoulder.”

“All right. The Products Refining Company is about twenty-five thousand dollars short. Private detectives are looking for your husband. He didn’t win any sweepstakes.”

She kept her profile turned toward them, her eyes staring far out over the ocean. Weariness was stamped on her features. “It’s what I expected,” she said.

Mason said, “I think you’d better have a talk with your husband, Mrs. Newberry.”

“It won’t do any good,” she said.

“Perhaps,” he suggested, “if I sat in on the conference it would help.”

“Help what?” she asked.

“Help to make him tell the truth.”

“Well,” she said dejectedly, “suppose he tells the truth. What then?”

Mason was silent for several seconds. Then he said, “Look here, Mrs. Newberry, I won’t represent your husband in this business.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” Mason went on, “we may be able to reach an understanding. I would try to protect Belle if it were definitely understood I wasn’t representing your husband.”

She faced him then, her eyes showing a glint of hope.

“Your husband,” Mason pointed out, “has sailed under the name of Newberry. No one on board this ship knows him except as Newberry. On the other hand, he embezzled money from the Products Refining Company under the name of Moar. No one in the Products Refining Company knows him except as Moar. I might be able to capitalize on that. Now then, if I were representing your husband, and tried to patch matters up with the Products Refining Company, someone might claim I was trying to compound a felony. But if I had nothing to do with your husband and was representing you on behalf of Belle, I might be able to work out a deal by which he could make restitution of whatever money he has left and receive in return some concessions. In other words, the company might be willing to cooperate with us, perhaps to the extent of joining in an application for probation, and they would probably agree to keep you and your daughter free from any publicity. If we could do that, do you think your husband would be willing to surrender, confess and make what restitution he could?”

“He’d do anything to help Belle,” she said. “That’s the only reason he took the money in the first place.”

Mason said, “If I’m going to handle it that way, I want it distinctly understood I’m not representing your husband. I’m representing you, and you alone. Do you understand that?”

She nodded.

“And until I’ve brought matters to a head, I don’t want your husband to even know that I’m working on the case. I don’t want to talk with him. I don’t want him to try to talk with me.”

“That would be all right,” she said.

“Have you any idea how much money he has left?”

“No. He carries it all in a money belt.”

“Assuming that the original embezzlement was twenty-five thousand dollars, how much do you suppose you’ve spent?”

“In the last two months we’ve spent more than five thousand dollars,” she said. “I know that for a fact.”

“We could do a lot of trading with twenty thousand dollars,” Mason observed, staring out at the blue horizon.

Mrs. Newberry said, “There’s one other element of danger, Mr. Mason, something you’ve got to guard against.”

“What’s that?” Mason asked.

“Have you noticed the man with the broken neck?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “What about him?”

“It isn’t him,” she said. “It’s his nurse. Carl knows her.”

“Well?” Mason asked.

“Don’t you see what that means? He knew her before he married me. She knows him as Carl Moar. If she should see him and recognize him, she’d be sure to call him by the name of Moar.”

“Just what do you know about her?” Mason asked.

“Her name’s Evelyn Whiting. She’s... here she comes now.”

A young, attractive nurse, in a stiffly starched uniform, pushed a wheel chair along the promenade deck. A man lay in the wheel chair, his head cradled in a padded steel harness which was strapped to his shoulders. His eyes were protected from the sun by a huge pair of dark goggles.

Mrs. Newberry’s lowered voice was sympathetic. “Poor chap, he was in an automobile wreck. His neck’s broken. He may have to wear that harness for two or three years. He can’t turn his head, isn’t even supposed to talk. She asks him a question and then puts her hand in his. He squeezes once for yes and twice for no. He can’t use his legs. Think of not being able to even turn your head to avoid the glare of the sun.”

Mason studied the nurse. She was in the early thirties, attractive, well-figured, auburn-haired. She felt his gaze and turned eyes to his which showed a frank interest before they shifted solicitously back to her patient. She stopped the chair and said, “Is it a little too sunny for you here, Mr. Cartman? Would you like to go around on the other side of the deck?”

She pushed her hand under the light blanket which covered the thin figure, and Mason saw the blanket move as the man squeezed her hand once. She turned the wheel chair and sought the shady side of the deck.

“How does your husband expect to avoid her?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Newberry confessed. “He’ll only come on deck when she’s in the cabin. The fact that she’s nursing that man makes it easier for Carl.”

“Couldn’t he go to her and explain that he was using another name and—”

“I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Newberry said. “He tells me that he handled some money for her once on an investment. The investment didn’t turn out well and he thinks she might feel a little bitter about it-particularly if she saw that he seemed to have plenty of money now.”

Mason turned to Della Street. “Encode a wireless to my office, Della. Tell Jackson to find out what concessions the Products Refining Company would be willing to make if Moar should surrender and return intact approximately twenty thousand dollars of the embezzled money. Tell Jackson to have it definitely understood that he’s merely asking questions on behalf of an interested party, is not representing Moar, does not know where Moar is, and is at present only asking for information. Tell him to handle it diplomatically and report progress.”

Mrs. Newberry gripped his hand in thanks. After a moment she said, “I’ll go now. It’ll be better if I’m not seen with you too frequently. If you’re not going to have any contact with Carl... Well, I wouldn’t want Belle to suspect that I was consulting you professionally.”

Mason said, “It’ll probably take my office two or three days to get anything definite. In the meantime, you sit tight and don’t worry.”

He left her, to circle the deck. Celinda Dail, clad in a sun suit which showed her long, sun-browned limbs to advantage, was playing ping-pong with Roy Hungerford.

Chapter 3

The ship was scheduled to arrive in San Francisco late Sunday night, docking early Monday morning. On Saturday, Mason received a wireless from his office lawyer which read:

C. DENTON ROONEY HEAD AUDITOR OF PRODUCTS REFINING COMPANY IN CHARGE OF LOS ANGELES OFFICE HAS AGREED TO CABLE PRESIDENT NOW IN HONOLULU. ROONEY TEN DEGREES COLDER THAN FREEZING. OUTLOOK DISTINCTLY UNFAVORABLE. WILL KEEP YOU POSTED.

“Isn’t that rather an unusual attitude, Chief?” Della Street asked, when Mason had finished reading the message.

“I’ll say it is,” Mason said. “It’s the first time I ever knew a corporation to snub twenty thousand dollars.”

“But still. Chief, there’s the question of ethics. Perhaps they don’t want to establish a precedent—”

Mason laughed. “Don’t worry, Della. They usually hook the embezzler in the long run. But when he offers to make restitution they unhesitatingly make glittering promises. Even the police do it. Let them arrest an embezzler who has a few thousand dollars cached away and they’ll promise him probation, or a light sentence, or a chance to escape, or even that the charges will be dropped, if he’ll only show that he’s properly repentant by disclosing the hiding place of the money. Then, after they once get their hands on the money, they sing a different tune. It seems that the officer the crook was talking with had no authority to make the promises, or the judge refuses to cooperate, or something of that sort.”

“Then why did you give the Products Refining Company a chance to trap Moar that way?” Della Street asked.

“Because,” Mason said, “after they once make promises in this case, I’m going to see these promises are kept.”

“How?” she asked.

“You’d be surprised. I have a few tricks up my sleeve I can always use on chiselers.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to represent Moar?”

“That’s partially it,” he told her. “The other reason is that I don’t like to represent persons who are guilty. Of course, every person is entitled to a fair trial. That means he’s entitled to a lawyer. But I’d prefer that chaps like Moar would get some other lawyer. Of course, I can’t always pick innocent ones. For one thing, I have to reach snap judgments. I’m like a baseball umpire who has to call the plays as he sees them.”

“So what are you going to do now?” she asked.

“Right now,” he said, “you can encode another wire to Jackson, reading as follows:

“‘HAVE DRAKE DETECTIVE AGENCY PUT OPERATIVE ON ROONEY. DIG UP SOME DIRT WHICH WILL ENABLE ME TO BRING PRESSURE TO BEAR. QUIT PULLING YOUR PUNCHES AND GET RESULTS.’”

Mason grinned and said, “That’ll make Jackson hopping mad.”

“After all,” Della Street pointed out, “you can’t blame him. He’s doing the best he can.”

Mason shook his head. “Jackson’s a rotten fighter. He’s tagging along, taking what Rooney hands out. That’s not the way to get anywhere. A good scrapper keeps the other man on the defensive, trumps the first ace he plays, and after that never lets him get a chance to lead with the others.”

“I’m afraid,” she told him, tucking her shorthand notebook back in her purse, “that you’re simply spoiling for a fight.”

“I am,” he admitted, “but with bigger game than Rooney.”

“It’s too bad you didn’t know the president was in Honolulu.”

Mason said, “ That’s a thought. However, he’ll undoubtedly tell Rooney to go ahead and make any promises necessary to get the twenty thousand. Rooney is probably an officious nincompoop who wanted to put Jackson in his place— How’s the romance going, Della?”

“Well,” Della said, “outwardly it seems to be pretty much of a draw. He divides his time about evenly between Celinda Dail and Belle Newberry, but if you ask me, I think he has a lot better time with Belle than with Celinda. Celinda’s more of a duty. She’s in his social set. They have a lot of friends in common, and, above all, he doesn’t want to appear to be dropping Celinda simply because he met some girl for whom he cares more.”

“You’re biased,” Mason told her.

“Probably I am,” she admitted.

“How does Celinda Dail treat you, Della?”

Della Street smiled. “At first she didn’t know I was alive. Then when she found out I was Belle’s cabin-mate, she became very cordial. Whenever I’m with her, she tells me how much she likes Belle and what a fascinating girl she is, and then takes occasion to add it’s funny she’s never met her and wants to know if Belle doesn’t care for polo or yachting.”

“Trying to pump you about her background?” Mason asked.

Della nodded.

“Okay,” Mason told her, “put that message in code and send it to Jackson. We’ll have Paul Drake start work on Rooney. However, I don’t think we’ll have to exert much pressure. My best guess is the president will fall all over himself promising anything we want. Then, after he gets his hands on the twenty thousand he’ll step out of the picture and Rooney will gloatingly march into court and ask the judge to give Moar the limit.”

Mason was reclining in his stateroom reading a book when Della Street brought him Jackson’s reply late that afternoon.

ROONEY ADVISES CORPORATION WILL NOT MAKE TERMS WITH CROOK STOP INSISTS WILL PROSECUTE MOAR TO LIMIT WITHOUT ACCEPTING OR OFFERING ANY CONCESSIONS STOP CLAIMS HAS TAKEN MATTER UP WITH PRESIDENT BUT I THINK HE IS LYING STOP ROONEY ARROGANT SELF-IMPORTANT DETESTED BY ENTIRE FORCE HOLDS POSITION BECAUSE OF RELATIONSHIP BY MARRIAGE TO PRESIDENT OF COMPANY STOP PRESIDENT NOW ON VACATION IN HONOLULU NAME CHARLES WHITMORE DAIL ADDRESS ROYAL HAWAIIAN HOTEL SHALL I GET IN TOUCH WITH HIM THERE STOP HAD PAUL DRAKE PUT OPERATIVES TO WORK ON ROONEY SO FAR NO SUCCESS STOP WIRE INSTRUCTIONS

Mason finished reading the message, to reach for his telephone. “Get me Charles Whitmore Dail, ” he said to the operator. “He has a suite on A deck.”

While Mason held the line, waiting for the call to be completed, Della Street said, “Chief, have you stopped to consider that Celinda Dail may have found out Moar’s aboard and been in touch with Rooney?”

He nodded and said, “I’m calling for a showdown, Della— Hello — is this Mr. Dail? This is Mr. Perry Mason, Mr. Dail. I want to see you on a matter of business... sometime at your early convenience... I would prefer an earlier appointment if possible... Very well, at six o’clock then... In your stateroom. Thank you, Mr. Dail.”

Mason dropped the receiver into place, grinned at Della Street and said, “You never get anywhere postponing a fight, Della.”

“You mean if he knows all about Carl Moar and has found out who Belle really is you’re still going to try and help Moar?”

“Not Moar,” Mason said. “Belle.”

“Is there anything you can do, Chief?”

“I don’t know,” he told her. “One thing’s certain, I can smoke them out into the open.”

Della Street said dubiously, “I’m not certain that you can, Chief. Celinda Dail is nobody’s fool, if she was the one who got possession of Belle’s picture and sent it to Rooney, and they know about...”

“Why to Rooney?” Mason asked.

“Because Jackson’s wire says Rooney is related to the president by marriage. That means Celinda would have confidence in him and he’d probably be the one to whom she’d appeal. That would explain why Rooney is so set against allowing Moar to obtain any concessions by making a partial restitution.”

Mason grinned and said, “Well, we’ll find out within a couple of hours. Wireless Jackson that Dail’s aboard and that I’ll handle it from this end. Tell him to have Paul Drake keep a couple of operatives on Rooney and let me know if they uncover anything interesting.”

Charles Whitmore Dail, looking ponderously dignified in his tuxedo and stiffly starched shirt, said, “Come in and sit down, Mr. Mason. I believe you have met my daughter?”

Celinda Dail wore a dark evening dress, which revealed the long, slender lines of her athletic figure. The black coral bracelets which circled her right wist emphasized the creamy smoothness of her skin. She smiled at the lawyer with her lips. Her eyes were blue, wary and watchful.