There were many vacant chairs at the captain’s dinner. Sheeted rain lashed against the portholes. Those passengers who made merry with colored paper cups, balloons and pasteboard horns lacked spontaneity. Their merriment seemed merely a forced attempt to comply with maritime conventions. Waiters felt their way, a few steps at a time, half-filled dishes carried in deep serving trays.
Mason, dining with Della Street, looked across to where Carl Newberry and his wife and daughter were entertaining Roy Hungerford.
“Isn’t it about time you were getting something definite from them?” Della Street asked.
“Yes, ” Mason said, “I’ve warned Mrs. Newberry I must know where I stand before ten o’clock tonight. She told me to be in her cabin at nine-thirty and she’d have the money for me. Then I can go to Dail and make my proposition.”
“Moar — or I guess I should remember to call him Newberry — doesn’t seem particularly concerned,” Della Street said.
“No,” Mason admitted. “He seems to be having a good time. It’s fortunate for him that Evelyn Whiting has all of her meals in the stateroom with her patient.”
“Chief,” she said, “I have an idea Newberry’s reached an understanding with that woman.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I saw him coming out of her stateroom yesterday afternoon, and he was smiling.”
“You’re certain it was Newberry?”
She nodded.
“Perhaps,” Mason said, “that’s why he’s acting so carefree now. I’ve been wondering how he was going to manage it when the passengers went through customs and quarantine tomorrow. He’s almost certain to meet her face to face.”
“I think he’s figured that all out. After all, all he needed to do was to go to her, make some explanation and ask her to keep quiet.”
“The only trouble with that,” Mason pointed out, “is that she might indulge in gossip with some shipboard acquaintance and let the cat out of the bag. If Celinda Dail had any idea Evelyn Whiting knew anything about Belle’s father, she’d certainly move heaven and earth to find out what it was.”
Della Street said, “Belle, poor kid, realizes she could never get into Roy’s life.”
“Don’t you think he’ll try to keep in touch with her just the same?” Mason asked.
“He won’t have the chance, Chief. She’s going to tell him she’ll meet him at the Santa Anita Race Track next Tuesday. She told him her folks have a box there. She’ll never see him after she gets off the boat.”
Mason said, “If she’s in love with him I don’t see...”
“I understand exactly how she feels,” Della Street interrupted. “Taking things in her stride, mingling with him on terms of equality, she’s been able to interest him. But the minute he realizes she’s not in his set, the minute his friends start patronizing her, he’ll begin to lose interest in her. She and the Dail girl have been running neck and neck. Give Celinda Dail the handicap of being able to patronize Belle, and Belle will be entirely out of the running.”
“I’m not so certain,” Mason said.
“Well, I am,” Della Street told him. “That Dail girl is clever. She won’t rub it in. Instead, she’ll try and drag Belle out to all sorts of affairs where Belle will be among strangers but everyone else will know each other with that intimacy which comes of years of rubbing elbows and taking each other for granted. Belle will be completely out of place.”
“Well,” Mason said, “I think Belle should tell her mother exactly what she plans to do.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said, “if Belle’s going to step out of Roy’s life, there’s no reason why I should go to a lot of trouble trying to fix things up with the Products Refining Company.”
“Oh, yes, there is,” Della told him. “It would be the greatest tragedy of Belle’s life if detectives should meet her father at the gangplank tomorrow and snap handcuffs on his wrists. And particularly if he had embezzled money from a company operated by Celinda Dail’s father. Chief, you must stop that, no matter what happens. Can’t you see? She wants Roy to remember her as a woman of mystery, not pity her. And she could never bear to have Celinda Dail gloating in triumph over her.”
“Well,” Mason said, “I’ll meet Mrs. Newberry at nine-thirty. She’ll have a definite answer by that time. I’m going to take a turn on deck. How’d you like to go out and get a lungful of storm?”
“No,” she told him, “I’m going over and join the Newberrys for a minute. I promised Belle I would. It’s eight-thirty-five now. I’ll hunt you up around nine o’clock. That’ll give us time for a liqueur and then you can meet Mrs. Newberry at nine-thirty.”
Mason nodded, crossed over to pull back her chair, gave her arm a squeeze and said, “I’ll be over on the lee side, probably on the promenade deck.”
Mason went to his stateroom, put on a top coat, wound a light silk scarf around his collar, and went on deck.
Doors on the weather side were locked. On the lee deck, rain lashed down in torrents, spurting up into little geysers, where the big drops hit the planking. Electric lights, burning in glass-enclosed cages, shed reddish rays which reflected upward from the wet deck, and were swallowed in the enveloping maw of wind-swept darkness. The roar of troubled waters furnished a steady, ominous undertone of sound.
Mason found the promenade deck a little too exposed, so went to the deck below. He walked slowly, skirting a pile of deck chairs which had been folded back and lashed securely. Water soaked up through the thin soles of his dress shoes. Spray from the beating rain moistened his face and beaded his hair. He squared his shoulders, inhaled the driving freshness of the ocean gale, listened to the roar of the waves, the shrieking of the wind — and was content.
The ship’s bells clanged twice — nine o’clock. The wind whipped the sound and dispersed it, just as it snatched the smoke from the stacks of the steamer, tore it into black ribbons, and dissolved them into the night. On the port beam, a lighthouse winked intermittently.
The ship, rolling heavily, swung far over to port, paused, then, instead of righting itself, rolled still farther, until Mason, clinging to a stanchion for support, could look down the slanting deck to the dark, tossing waves.
He heard a faint scream, then an explosive sound. He stood still, listening. The scream was repeated. It seemed to come from two decks above him.
As the ship slowly righted, Mason ran to the rail, leaned over, and tried to peer upward. The rain flooded his eyes, beat down upon his coat, trickled in rivulets along his neck and down the angle of his jaw. He could see nothing.
The ship sluggishly swung over to starboard. The waves, as though concentrating in a surprise attack, crashed against her quivering hull. Mason heard the faint jangling of a bell somewhere, then the whistle blew five short, quick blasts. The ship heeled far over and was filled with thumping jars, as though it had been an automobile running on a flat tire.
Mason realized one screw had been reversed, while the other was going full speed ahead, swinging the ship in a quick turn.
Feet pounded along the boat deck. Mason saw a circular life buoy whirl out into the darkness. It struck the water, and almost immediately the inky darkness was dispelled by a bright flare of light which drifted back and to one side as the ship turned.
The big seas now struck on the beam. The ship rolled in the troughs. Mason held to a stanchion, then fought his way back to the door, which suddenly burst open. A uniformed officer shouted, “Get back inside!”
“What’s the matter?” Mason asked.
“Man overboard!” the officer yelled, and ran forward, clinging to a hand rail to keep from slipping on the wet, slanting deck.
Mason stamped water from his soggy shoes, ran to the stairway and started down it.
He made straight for Mrs. Newberry’s stateroom. The ship had turned enough to catch the huge seas on her bow, making the craft pitch and plunge.
Mason pounded on the door of the stateroom. There was no answer. He tried the knob. The door was locked. He banged with his fist, then, when there was no response, kicked with the toe of his shoe.
After a moment, he heard Mrs. Newberry’s voice. “Who is it?”
“Mason,” he said.
“Just a minute,” she told him. “I’ll let you in.”
Mason rattled the doorknob. “Open the door now,” he ordered.
She unlocked and opened the door, said, “Oh, well, come in if it’s that important.”
She was clad in stockings and peach-colored underwear. As Mason closed and locked the door, she slipped a dress over her head. “What is it?” she asked.
“Where’s your husband?”
She wiggled the dress down from her shoulders, smoothed it across her hips, frowned at the lawyer, and said, “He had to see a man. He promised he’d be back in five minutes. What’s the matter with your watch? It’s not nine-thirty yet.”
“How long since you’ve seen him?”
“Five minutes ago. Our party broke up when my husband received a note. He said he had to see a man on some business.”
“And what did you do?”
“Came to my stateroom. I slipped my gown off, because I’d spilled some wine on it. Carl and I are going to have a showdown. He’ll be back any minute— What’s all the commotion about? The ship’s jumping around so I can hardly stand up. We haven’t run into anything, have we? Look, there’s a light over there on the water! And look at the searchlights!”
Mason nodded, watched her while she hooked up her dress, and said, “I’m particularly interested in finding out about where your husband went and what he did.”
“Look here, Mr. Mason,” she said, facing him, “I’ve been married twice. I’m not exactly a prude. But I’m not accustomed to having men burst into my room while I’m dressing. I let you in because your voice indicated you wanted to talk with me on a matter of the greatest importance. Now, if you’ll please explain...”
Mason said, “I heard the sound of a shot. An officer tells me there’s a man overboard. Does that mean anything to you?”
For a moment she stared at him with wide, frightened eyes, then she crossed to the drawer of a dresser, jerked it open and stood looking down at the empty interior.
“What is it?” Mason asked.
“Carl’s gun,” she said. “It’s gone.”
“Now let’s get this straight,” Mason said. “You and Carl were going to have a showdown?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell him what you wanted to talk with him about?”
“I told him that I wasn’t going to stand for a lot of vague generalities any longer; that I wanted to know exactly where he obtained that money, and that I wanted him to turn it over to me.”
“What did he say?”
“He said we’d talk it over later.”
“He wouldn’t discuss it then?”
“No. You see, just as we were finishing dinner, a bellboy handed him a note. Carl said he had to see a man on some business. That broke up our little dinner party. Carl and I came to the stateroom. I told him I was going to have things out with him, that for Belle’s sake I wanted that money. He said he’d be back within five minutes, but he simply had to see someone on a matter of the greatest importance.”
“There was a gun in that drawer?”
“Yes.”
“When did you see it last?”
“This afternoon.”
“It was Carl’s gun?”
“Yes.”
“How long has he had it?”
“About two months. When he started carrying large sums of money with him, he thought he needed a gun for protection.”
Mason said, “I happen to know that your husband has been in touch with Evelyn Whiting, the nurse. I think he’s tried to reach some agreement with her so she wouldn’t disclose his real identity. I don’t know what she told him. It’s a fine situation for blackmail-if she’s that type. Do you suppose he could have gone to meet her — and taken a gun with him?”
“I don’t know.”
Her hand clutched his arm. “Mr. Mason,” she said, “I want you to promise me that you’ll stand by me, will you? Please, for Belle’s sake.”
Mason hesitated a moment, then said, “Okay, I’ll see you through. Now, let me ask you some more questions before Carl gets here. Just how much have you told him?”
“I told him that Mr. Dail, the president of the Products Refining Company, was aboard. It seems that wasn’t any news to him. I told him Mr. Dail was willing to make some concessions if Carl made restitution. He told me I was absolutely crazy. He said that if I ever approached Dail with any proposition like that, he’d kill me. He said he hadn’t taken a cent from the Products Refining Company. So then I told him that Celinda Dail was looking for an opportunity to expose Belle... and that made him furious.”
“What else?” Mason asked.
“That’s all,” she said. “That’s all I had time to tell him.”
“Was that after he received this note, or before?”
Afterwards. We had left the others and entered the stateroom. I talked to him for just a minute or two. Then I stepped into the closet to get out another dress and I heard him slam the door.”
“And he told you he had to see a man?”
“Yes. He said he’d be back in five minutes and have it out with me.”
Mason said, “I think we’d better go on deck and find out what’s happened. You’re certain Carl took the gun?”
“Yes. I heard him slam the drawer in the dresser. I didn’t realize what it meant at the time. If... if somebody’s overboard, can they find him — her?”
“It’s a pretty slim gamble,” Mason told her. “There’s a heavy sea running. They might swing the ship broadside to the wind and launch boats in the lee, but I don’t think they’ll do it until they have something definite to go on. They’ll play searchlights on the water, throw flares overboard, and keep a sharp lookout. They certainly won’t risk men’s lives in an open boat unless there’s some indication the person’s still alive — and don’t forget that a shot was fired.”
“Do you suppose it could be Mr. Dail?” she asked. “Oh, Heavens! Carl wouldn’t have done that!”
“There’s no use speculating,” Mason told her. “Let’s get on deck. I want to find Carl.”
“And you’ll stand by me?” she asked.
“I’ll stand by you for Belle’s sake. But I’m not going to represent your husband.”
She nodded. “Come on, let’s go.”
As they were opening the door, Mrs. Newberry suddenly gave a gasp of dismay.
Mason turned to her. “What is it?” he asked.
“I just thought of something,” she said, in a voice which was hardly above a whisper.
“Go ahead,” Mason told her, “talk fast. What is it?”
“Carl,” she said. “Carl knew we were having a showdown. He knew he couldn’t keep up the pretense any longer, and he knew that Belle’s happiness depended... Oh, Mr. Mason, you don’t suppose he went up on deck and... and...”
“Committed suicide?” Mason asked.
She nodded.
“What do you think?” Mason asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m afraid... That would leave Belle in the clear, wouldn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“They couldn’t do anything about that embezzlement, could they?”
“They can’t arrest a dead man, if that’s what you mean.”
“Well, that’s what I meant.”
“If Carl left any money, they could go after that.”
“How about the insurance? Could they touch it?”
“How much insurance?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“In whose favor?”
“Mine.”
“Taken out when?”
“Two months ago.”
Mason said, “Look here, Mrs. Newberry, if it should appear your husband had embezzled money, would you want to make reimbursement to the company out of the insurance?”
“No, not unless I had to.”
“I asked the question,” Mason said drily, “to get your viewpoint. The policy doubtless contains a clause making it void if suicide takes place within one year from the date of the policy.”
There was dismay in her eyes. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Come on, Mr. Mason, let’s go up on deck. Please stay with me.”
Mason opened the-stateroom door. They started down the corridor and were nearing the stairs when Della Street swung around the corner and almost ran into them. A cloak over her shoulders dripped rivulets of water. Beneath the edge of a beret, tendrils of hair were plastered to the sides of her head.
“I’ve been looking all over for you, Chief,” she said.
“I was up on deck,” he told her, “but a man fell overboard and I came...”
“I know,” she interrupted. “Good Lord, I was frightened! You said you’d be up on the promenade deck, and I couldn’t find you. I suppose you dashed down to Mrs. Newberry?”
“Yes,” he said.
She raised her eyes to his significantly. “I wanted to see you first, Chief.”
An officer came running along the corridor. “Will the passengers kindly go to their cabins at once,” he called out, “and stay there until you’re summoned. A man’s overboard. We’re doing everything that can be done. Passengers will simply be in the way. The purser is making a roll call, to find out who’s missing.”
Mason took Mrs. Newberry’s arm and turned her back toward the cabin. “After all,” he said, “that’s probably the best thing to do.”
“But I can’t stand this suspense,” she told him. “I can’t simply wait in the cabin.”
Mason lowered his voice and said, “You don’t want Belle to be known as the daughter of an embezzler, do you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“How would you like it,” Mason asked, “if she were the daughter of a murderer?”
“But I don’t understand...”
“Can’t you see?” Mason interrupted. “You don’t dare do anything which would attract attention to Carl. So far as you’re concerned, you’re going to act just like any other passenger.”
She hesitated a moment, then turned and started back toward the cabin. Della Street crowded close to Perry Mason. “Are you going to represent her?” she asked. “If she’s mixed up in what happened on deck?”
Mason nodded. “ She isn’t mixed up in anything. I won’t represent her husband, but I’ll see her through.”
“I wish you hadn’t told her that,” Della said.
Mrs. Newberry paused at the sound of their whispered voices. “Is there,” she asked, turning toward them anxiously, “anything I should know? Anything you’re keeping from me?”
Della Street smiled reassuringly and said, “No.”
Mason held the cabin door open and was about to go in the room after them, when he heard running steps, and Belle Newberry, holding the skirt of her evening dress up over her arm, came running into the corridor, staggered, swayed, was flung against the wall as the ship rolled, pushed herself upright, and came running once more.
“Oh, Mr. Mason!” she called. “Is Mother in there?”
Mason nodded, held the door open for her, and, when she had entered, closed it. “Oh, Moms,” Belle said, “someone’s overboard! I was so frightened. I thought perhaps... Where’s Pops, Mumsy?... I’m sopping wet, I ran out looking for him and couldn’t find him!”
“Oh, he’ll be along in a minute,” Mrs. Newberry said.
“Where is he now?”
“He went up to see someone — at the bar probably”
“But, Mumsy, someone’s overboard. He went upstairs, and I’ve dashed madly all over the ship, out on deck, and...”
Mrs. Newberry said, “Now, don’t be a foolish little girl, Belle. You know your father wouldn’t go out on deck in this weather, and, if he did, he’d be far too careful to fall overboard. It’s probably someone from the second class or the steerage, someone who’d been drinking too much.”
“Well, where is Pops? He should be here. They’re sending all passengers back to their staterooms.”
“Exactly,” Mrs. Newberry remarked, taking a carved ivory cigarette case from her purse. “And Carl is lost in the jam of people on the stairways. You know perfectly well he’s not one to elbow his way. No, thank you, Mr. Mason, I have a match. Don’t bother.”
She scratched a match with a deft motion and held it to the cigarette. Her hand trembled slightly.
Belle Newberry, standing in the doorway, said, “I wish Pops would come... Good Lord, where’s Roy?”
“In his stateroom, probably,” Mason said.
“I’ll be back,” she told them, and dashed out into the corridor.
Mrs. Newberry came over to join Mason and Della Street in front of the porthole. Searchlights sent beams crisscrossing out over the water. Floating flares tossed up and down on the angry waves. Mrs. Newberry put her hand on Mason’s shoulder. “I can’t bear to think of any human being out in that awful ocean. I... ” She broke off, choked back a sob and walked away.
Mason continued to stand at the porthole, staring moodily out at the tossing water. His legs, spread wide apart, braced his body against the motion of the ship.
With the slowing engines, sounds had been intensified, the creak of the ship, the rush of waves against the sides, the pound of feet running along the decks.
Della Street walked across the stateroom, to look down the corridor, and said, “The captain and the purser are coming this way, Chief... Here’s Belle... Was he all right, Belle?”
Belle Newberry nodded breathlessly. “... Lord, what a scare!... Yes... He’s sitting in his stateroom... Where’s Dad, Moms? ”
Her mother said, “He’ll be along any minute, Belle.”
The captain and the purser pushed past Della Street and into the cabin.
“I’m sorry,” the captain said, “I’m Performing an unpleasant duty. You people know why we’ve turned around, don’t you?”
“We’d heard there was a man overboard, ” Mrs. Newberry said.
“Yes,” the captain said. “When did you last see your husband, Mrs. Newberry?”
“Why, I left him right after dinner.”
“Where?”
“He came to the stateroom with me, then left almost immediately. Why, Captain? Tell me, you don’t... Have you... That is...”
The captain said grimly, “We think your husband’s missing. Do you know anything about it?”
“Why, what do you mean?”
The captain glanced at the purser. “Mrs. Newberry, are you absolutely certain you haven’t seen your husband since he left this stateroom?”
“Why, yes, of course.”
“And you came directly here to your stateroom after you left the dining saloon?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know where your husband went?”
“I think... I think he went up to the bar to see a man. I don’t know.”
“You didn’t go with him?”
“No.”
“You didn’t go up on deck with him?”
“Certainly not.”
Once more, the captain exchanged glances with the purser. “I remember when your party left the table, Mrs. Newberry. It was about eight-fifty, wasn’t it?”
“A little later than that, I would say,” she said. “About eight-fifty-five.”
“I think I can help you there, Captain,” Della Street interposed. “Mr. Mason left the dining room at eight-thirty-five. I then went over to the Newberry table. I was there for fifteen minutes. When the party broke up, I glanced at my watch, and it was eight-fifty-two.”
“Any particular reason for looking at your watch?” the captain asked.
“Yes. Mr. Mason was on deck, and I was to join him at nine o’clock.”
“Did you leave the dining saloon with the Newberrys?”
“No,” Della said, “I chatted with them for a while, then Mr. Newberry received a note from a bellboy. He said he had to see a man on a business matter. The party broke up then. I went to my stateroom.”
“What did you do?” the captain asked.
Her eyes showed surprise. “Why,” she said, “I put on a ram coat and beret, and went up to try and find Mr. Mason.”
“And he was on deck?”
“Yes.”
The captain regarded Mason thoughtfully for a few moments, then turned back to Mrs. Newberry. “I notice you’ve changed your dress, Mrs. Newberry.”
Her eyes flashed indignation. “Will you kindly tell me,” she demanded, “what business that is of yours, and if you know anything about my husband, please say so.”
The captain said doggedly, “I want to know why you changed your dress.”
“I shall report you for impertinence,” she said coldly.
The captain hesitated for a moment, then blurted, “I’m going to inspect your closet, Mrs. Newberry — with your permission.”
“Well,” she snapped, “of all the nerve! I most certainly won’t give you permission.”
“I’m sorry,” the captain said, “because I’m going to search it anyway.”
Mason stepped toward the closet door, regarding the captain with puzzled eyes. “Just a minute, Captain. I think we’re entitled to know exactly what it is you’re looking for. After all, the law makes a person’s property safe from unreasonable search.”
The captain said shortly, “I don’t care to hear any law, Mr. Mason. This is my ship. On board it I’m the law. I’m responsible for what I do. I’m going to look in that closet. Get back out of the way.”
For a moment Mason and the captain locked eyes, the captain’s weatherbeaten countenance showed dogged determination. Mason’s granite-hard features devoid of expression. Then Mason stepped to one side and said, “You’re taking the responsibility for this, Captain.”
“I’m taking the responsibility.”
Mrs. Newberry flung herself toward the closet. “You can’t do it! It’s an outrage! Mr. Mason, why don’t you stop him?”
The lawyer, trained from years of courtroom experience to make lightning-fast appraisals of character, said simply, “I can’t stop him, Mrs. Newberry. He’s going to search that closet.”
She stood with her back against the closet door, her arms outspread. “Well,” she said, “ I can stop him!”
The lawyer stared at her intently until her defiant eyes shifted to his.
“If anything significant should be in that closet, you’re not helping things any,” he warned.
“I don’t know what he’s looking for, and I don’t care,” she blazed. “It’s the principle of the thing. The captain should be out on deck, saving the man who’s fallen overboard, instead of snooping through my things!”
The captain said, “I’m going to search that closet.” He moved forward. “Will you get away from that door, Madam?”
Mason said, “Captain, will you please tell us what you expect to find in that closet?”
The captain shook his head. “It’s something I’m not going to discuss until I’ve seen if it’s in there.”
“Let’s get it over with,” Mason advised Mrs. Newberry.
Slowly, and reluctantly, she moved away from the door, and came to stand at Mason’s side, her right hand resting on his arm. Mason, watching the captain, could feel her hand tremble. “He’d have done it anyway,” Mason said in an undertone. “It looks better this way. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said defiantly. “I hate to be shoved around, that’s all.”
The captain opened the closet door, fumbled around for a moment, then dropped to his knees to look on the floor. A moment later he backed out of the closet, straightened, and held up a wet black lace evening gown in one hand, a pair of wet black satin shoes in the other.
“This is the gown you wore at dinner, Mrs. Newberry?” he asked. “And these are your shoes?”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes.”
“And since you didn’t go out on deck, how did these articles get wet?”
Mason stepped forward and said, “You’ll pardon me, Captain, but here’s where I take a hand. What difference does it make whether she went up on deck or whether she went to her stateroom? As I see it, there’s no reason why she should be called upon to account for her actions.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mason,” the captain said, his eyes never shifting from Mrs. Newberry’s countenance, “but there are things about this you don’t know about.”
“Would it,” Mason inquired, “be asking too much if I asked you to tell me what they are?”
“Yes,” the captain said, “it would. Will you kindly explain, Mrs. Newberry, how it happened that your dress became soaking wet?”
Mason said, “All right, Captain, you were supreme in your field, I’m supreme in mine. As master of this ship, you took the responsibility of searching that closet. Now then, as Mrs. Newberry’s attorney, I’m taking the responsibility of telling you this has gone far enough. If you want Mrs. Newberry to cooperate with you, you’ll tell her exactly what you’re after and why you’re after it.”
“I’ve asked a question,” the captain said, his eyes fixed on Mrs. Newberry, “I’m going to have an answer.”
Mrs. Newberry, standing very erect, said, “I haven’t the slightest intention of answering.”
The captain nodded to the purser. “We’ll look the place over, Mr. Buchanan.”
“I take it,” Mason observed, “that means you’re going to make a further search.”
“It does,” the captain said shortly.
Mason circled Mrs. Newberry with his arm, the fingers gripping her wrist. Her flesh was cold to his touch. “Take it easy,” he cautioned.
Belle Newberry said, “Well, I’m not going to take it easy! I think this is an outrage and an insult to Mother and to me. I demand an explanation! And I want to know what you know about my father and why you think he’s missing.”
“I’m sorry, ” the captain said, facing her, “this thing may not have been an accident. Now do you understand?”
“You mean... that...”
Mason said, “Let’s get this straight, Captain. Are you insinuating that Mr. Newberry may have committed suicide?”
The captain’s eyes met those of Perry Mason. “I mean,” he said, “that we have information leading us to believe Carl Newberry was murdered.”
Mrs. Newberry stifled a half scream. Belle moved to her mother’s side.
Mason said, “Wouldn’t it be better, Captain, if you were to concentrate your efforts on trying to find the man who has gone overboard and postpone making this unwarranted search until later?”
“I’m doing everything in my power,” the captain said. “A man doesn’t stand much chance in this sea. I have a boat in readiness, with a volunteer crew at their stations. I’m not going to risk lives needlessly. We’re going back over our course. We’ve thrown out flares and life buoys. I don’t think there’s one chance in a thousand. I’ve told the first officer what to do, and he’s doing it. This investigation I’m making here is something I have to do myself. If you people will cooperate, it’ll be easier. If you won’t cooperate, I’m going ahead anyway, Now, if you will stand over there near the porthole, I’m going to search this cabin.”
He herded them into the comer by the porthole.
Methodically, carefully, the captain and the purser opened drawers, checked the contents, looked in bags and trunks. The purser raised the mattress of one of the twin beds. The captain said, “Wait a minute, Mr. Buchanan,” thrust his arm under the mattress, and dragged out a chamois-skin money belt. It, too, was wet. The contents bulged in the closed pockets.
“Can you tell us what this is, Mrs. Newberry?”
“Certainly,” she said, “it’s a money belt.”
“Can you tell us what’s in it?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Can you tell us how it got wet?”
“I can, but I won’t.”
The captain said, “I’m going to find out what’s in this money belt. Would you like to help me count the money, Mrs. Newberry?”
She stood defiantly silent.
The captain shifted his eyes to Perry Mason. “You are her lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Will you help me count this?”
Mason said tersely, “It’s your party, Captain.”
The captain nodded to the purser. “Very well, Mr. Buchanan, we’ll count the money.”
They opened the pockets of the money belt. The captain placed the contents of each pocket on the bed, where it was in plain sight of the people in the room. Somewhat clumsily, his sturdy, competent fingers separated the bills of large denomination. He and the purser added the total. “Eighteen thousand, seven hundred and fifty dollars,” the captain announced.
“This money is yours, Mrs. Newberry?” the captain asked.
Mason said, “Does it make any difference whether it belongs to her or to her husband, Captain?”
“It may,” the captain said. “I want her to answer that question.”
She said, “It’s...”
“You don’t have to answer any question you don’t want to, ” Mason warned.
“It’s my money,” she declared vehemently.
“Where did you get it?” the captain asked.
“That,” she said, “is something else which is none of your business.”
The captain frowningly regarded the money belt which he held in his hand. “How did this belt become wet?”
She remained silent.
“Can you tell me how long it’s been under that mattress?”
Again she made no answer.
The captain raised the mattress. “You’ll notice that the mattress isn’t wet, except for a spot or two where the belt touched it.”
Mrs. Newberry remained defiantly silent.
The captain lowered the mattress. “I’m sorry this was necessary, Mrs. Newberry. I’m taking over the custody of this money. The purser will give you a receipt for it and keep it in the ship’s safe.”
The purser took a notebook from his pocket, scribbled a receipt, signed it, and handed it to Mrs. Newberry. She snatched it from his fingers, tore it across, dropped the pieces to the floor, and stamped on them.
“You—!” she began, but Mason’s palm slid across her lips.
“Shut up,” the lawyer said.
For a moment they stood motionless, the woman’s body rigid. Then Mrs. Newberry clutched her fingers about Mason’s wrist, pulled his hand away from her mouth. Mason said, “Shut up.”
She controlled herself by an effort.
The captain said, “Come, Mr. Buchanan,” and led the way from the stateroom. He paused in the door, to turn and say to Mrs. Newberry, “I’m doing everything humanly possible to find your husband.”
He stepped into the corridor and pulled the door shut after him. Belle put her arms around her mother. “Mumsy, ” she pleaded, “what does this mean! What is it?”
Her mother shook her head. Her lips quivered. Mason guided her to the bed. She sat down, suddenly whirled, buried her face in the pillow, and started to sob. Belle knelt by her side, her hands stroking her mother’s hair. “Mumsy, Mumsy,” she pleaded. “Can’t you tell me?”
Mason nodded to Della Street. Together, they slipped from the stateroom.
Outside in the corridor, Della Street turned to Perry Mason. The ship, with the propellers turning only fast enough to give her steerage-way, rode slowly up the waves, then slid down to the troughs creaking with protest.
“Why didn’t you want me to help her?” Mason asked.
She hesitated for a moment, then raised her eyes to his. “Chief,” she said, “I don’t want you mixed up with that woman! Helping Belle was all right. I hate to see you mixed up with the mother.”
Mason laughed. “Good Lord, Della! Don’t let the captain’s attitude prejudice you. Frankly, I don’t know just what he’s trying to get at, but if he had an idea she carried her husband up to the deck and tossed him overboard, he’s having a pipe dream.”
She smiled. “Okay, Chief, let’s go to your stateroom and you can buy a drink.”
“Sold,” he told her, “and you’ll get over this silly prejudice against Mrs. Newberry.”
“As a client,” Della said, “I’m simply crazy about her. But... if she hadn’t been a client... Oh, well, skip it.”