“And you mean that accounts for the rope?”

  “That accounts for the rope,” Mason said. “The best way to have done all that was to have looped a twenty-foot rope over the bow of the yacht. Then when he leaned over the side, he could manage to fall in just that peculiar manner. He could hit the water with a splash, but it would be a controlled splash. He’d have hold of the rope with his left hand and the gun would be held in his right hand. He’d fire the gun then let go one end of the rope and pull the rope down with him. Then he only needed to kick himself up against the current and the confused motions of a wounded swimmer would keep him in just the position he wanted until he looked up and saw his wife looking down at him. Then he could drift along the side of the boat.”

  “Gosh,” Drake said, “he really must have loved his wife.”

  “That’s the point,” Mason said, “I think he loved a nice little blond real estate agent by the name of Ellen Cushing. He’d been divorced twice and had had the bite put into him for alimony. He didn’t want any more of that; so he decided he’d die this time. But when a person dies, there are certain formalities that have to be taken care of before he’s marked dead officially. Someone has to see the body and identify it. So why not pass the buck to his wife? Why not let her be the one to identify the body? And just to make sure that she was kept thoroughly occupied, he’d leave her framed with a nice little murder rap.

  “You see the thing had all been planned for this weekend yachting party, but it wouldn’t have looked so good if he’d gone bye-bye overboard at a time when he was surrounded only by his own friends. Then along came this deal with Parker Benton, and, of course, Benton’s been known as a yachtsman for years—pictures of his yacht in all the yachting magazines. … If Shelby could get aboard that yacht and leave Parker Benton to do the explaining to the police … Get it?”

  “I’m beginning to, okay. But why didn’t he compromise his case, get the dough and … ?”

  “Because he could never in the world have got a dime out of Benton until the escrow was closed. Benton would have demanded a quitclaim deed from Shelby, then given Shelby an order on the escrow. So, by playing it this way, and leaving the case wide open, Shelby felt certain the true facts would never have been even suspected, let alone uncovered.”

  Drake ran his fingers through his hair, looked at Della Street, scratched the hair on top of his head, rubbed the palm of his hand along his temple, said, “Gosh, Perry, you almost convince me. I have to hand it to you. It’s the best story I ever heard to account for a woman running barefoot along a deck carrying a gun and saying, ‘Oh, dear, something terrible has happened. My husband has just been murdered, but I don’t know what happened to the murderer. And the similarity of my having a gun in my hand is purely coincidental. No resemblance to any murderer living or dead is intended.’ It’s a hell of a swell story, Perry, but remember I’m only listening to your side of it. Something seems to tell me that if I were on a jury, when the district attorney got up and began to make his argument, I would fall for it like a ton of bricks. I’d bring in a verdict of guilty of murder in the first degree. I can imagine that a good district attorney could pour on a lot of nice sarcasm and before he got done, the jurors would all be laughing at you.”

  “That’s just the point,” Mason said. “The district attorney has the closing argument. I think that’s what happened, but we’ve got to get some proof.”

  “And the proof?” Drake asked.

  “The proof,” Mason said, “lies in the fact that the man must have had an accomplice, someone to help him out, someone who was camped downstream with a rowboat anchored out of the deep channel but where the current was strong. Scott Shelby must have kicked past the side of the boat, then gone on downstream, swimming under water, come up to the surface, quit swimming, turned over on his back and floated until he saw the signal of his accomplice in the rowboat, probably a shielded flashlight. Then he climbed aboard over the stern of the rowboat and his accomplice promptly cut loose from his anchor and silently sculled the boat to shore where they had an auto waiting. They’ll be working according to a tight little schedule. Scott Shelby will be on an airplane headed for the East or perhaps some place in Mexico. He’ll show up under the name of Scott Cushing and after a while his blond wife will come to join him. Now that’s where you come in, Paul. I want you to get the best operatives money can buy. I want to get a whole flock of people scrutinizing the passengers who go out on airplanes. I want detectives to cover the morning outgoing trains at the depot. I want detectives to comb the river bank and see if they can find some trace of a blond girl who rented a rowboat. And above all, Paul, if the scheme worked out according to schedule, Scott Shelby must have changed from his wet clothes to dry clothes in the girl’s automobile. I want to get hold of her automobile and see if we can find Shelby’s wet clothes. That’s why I’m in a hurry and that’s why we’ve got to work fast.”

  Paul Drake came out of bed with a bound. “Give me those pants, Perry … It’s all right, Della, sit still. I’ll dress in the bathroom … Tell you what you do, Della. You can save some time. Ring up the agency and tell the night telephone operator to call the list of numbers on the emergency card that she’ll find in my upper right-hand desk drawer. Those are some men I can depend on. Let’s see, Perry. I’d better start some of them out before we … Della, look up Ellen Cushing’s address first and leave word for three of the operatives to meet us there. The first thing we do is to take a look at that blonde’s automobile.”

  That’s the way I figure it,” Mason said.

  “Well, it will take those people probably an hour to get out of bed and assembled at the office. Okay, Della, you put through the call. I’ll dress.”

  Chapter 13

  The dawn was cold and chilly and Della Street drew her coat around her as the automobile slid to a stop.

  “What’s first on the program?” Drake asked Mason.

  Mason surveyed the apartment house standing on the silent residential street, as though waiting for the warm morning sunlight to bring it to life.

  “Like a sleeping horse standing on three legs with his head down,” Mason said. “You can’t believe this neighborhood is jammed with people.”

  “Another hour you’ll see curtains going up, smell the aroma of coffee, see the people dashing down the steps running for the streetcars,” Drake said.

  “I wish I were certain we had an hour,” Mason told him. “Well, there’s only one thing to do. Find out first where her apartment is and next where her garage is.”

  “That garage business may be tricky,” Drake protested. “Some early riser could be looking out of the window and …”

  “I know,” Mason said.

  “I hate to take chances that way, Perry.”

  “How would you go about it?”

  Drake thought for a while and said, “I’m darned if I know. But if you went to Sergeant Dorset …”

  “He’d laugh at me.”

  “How about Lieutenant Tragg then?”

  “Tragg would refer it to Dorset. He wouldn’t let me go over Dorset’s head, not the way things are now. Later on perhaps, but not now.”

  “Well, why not wait?”

  “Water,” Mason said dryly, “has a habit of evaporating. I want to take a look at that automobile before the cushions have had a chance to dry out.”

  “All right,” Drake said. “If you feel that way about it, let’s go. Every minute makes things that much more dangerous.”

  They left the automobile, walked up to the apartment house and by consulting the directory found that Ellen Cushing had apartment 16B.

  As they turned back to the car Mason said, “Now, Paul, you take the car, drive up the driveway, and we’ll pretend that we’re looking for a stall to put the car in. If there’s any trouble, we can claim that some friend told us we could use his garage for a couple of days because he was going to be away.”

  “And then if they ask us about the friend and where he lives,” Drake said, “it will be just another one of those things.”

  “We’ll just have to talk fast and try to talk our way out of it. Be a sport.”

  Paul Drake went back to the automobile, started it, backed into a half turn, then drove slowly up the driveway. Mason and Della Street walked ahead of him.

  The driveway went around to the back of the apartment house, where there was a large cemented yard flanked with garages.

  “Begins to look better,” Mason said. “Look, the garage doors even have the numbers of the apartments on them.”

  “And padlocks,” Della said dryly.

  Mason said, “We’ll leave that to Paul Drake. What’s a detective good for if he can’t pick a lock once in a while.”

  “Isn’t that breaking and entering?” Della Street asked.

  “It is,” Mason said, and then added, “I believe it’s a felony. I wouldn’t do it for a million dollars if there were any other way.”

  Drake brought the car to a stop, climbed out, and looked at the padlock. “I don’t like this, Perry.”

  “I don’t like it myself. Got those skeleton keys handy?”

  “Not for this job, Perry. There are times when you have to draw the line.”

  “Got those skeleton keys?”

  “I have … Yes, there are some in the car.”

  “All right. Get them for me.”

  Della Street said, “Let me do it, Chief.”

  “I’ll do it,” Mason said.

  “Look, Perry,” Drake pointed out, “the windows of those back apartments look out here on the court and …”

  “The longer you talk, the more chance there is someone will hear the discussion and look out to see what it’s all about. This is no time to get weak-kneed. We have to go ahead as though we owned the joint and we’re just putting the car in for the night. Get me those keys.”

  Drake walked back to the glove compartment of his automobile, reluctantly took out the bunch of skeleton keys, handed them to Mason, said, “These are the padlock keys.”

  Della, walking over to the door, stood so that her body shielded the large bunch of keys from any casual observer who might be looking out of the window. Drake took two lagging steps toward the door, then abruptly changed his mind and turned back to the automobile, apparently trying to disassociate himself from what was going on.

  It took five keys before Mason found one that would open the padlock.

  The lock clicked back and Della Street calmly opened the door and stood as though waiting for Drake to drive in.

  Mason moved inside of the garage, after a moment called out, “Oh, Paul, come here.”

  Drake hesitated a few moments, then reluctantly entered the garage.

  Mason had the sedan doors open, was feeling the seat cushions and the carpet on the floor.

  “Look at this rear cushion, Paul. Doesn’t that feel damp to you?”

  Drake put a reluctant hand on the cushion.

  “The left side,” Mason said.

  “It feels sort of damp,” Drake admitted.

  Mason frowned thoughtfully.

  “But it would have been soaking wet if your theory was right, Perry.”

  Mason hurriedly searched through the automobile. Disappointment showed on his face.

  “Clean as a hound’s tooth,” Drake said with relief in his voice.

  Mason said, “I guess we’re off on a wrong trail, Paul. The only thing to do is to get out of here fast. Hang it, I can’t get over that damp place in the seat cushion. What do you suppose caused it?”

  “Darned if I know, Perry, but if it had been what you think it was, it would have been wetter than that.”

  “I suppose so. Let’s take a look at the motor temperature.”

  Mason clicked on the switch and then looked at the electric gauge.

  “Cold as a cucumber,” Drake said.

  Mason flicked off the switch, said, “Okay, I guess we’re licked.”

  Della Street entered the garage. “No soap?”

  “No soap, Della.”

  “Do you suppose she could have used another car?”

  “Darned if I know. I just know there isn’t the evidence here to back up my theory, and if it isn’t here I don’t know where we’re going to look for it.”

  Drake said, “All right. Let’s get out and do our talking afterward. I never did like this idea in the first place.”

  Mason started for the door and Della Street, who had been making a quick survey of the garage, suddenly said, “Chief, look here!” Her voice was filled with excitement.

  “What is it, Della?”

  “Over here. Quick.”

  The tone of her voice brought Mason and Paul Drake to her side.

  Della Street was bent down over a dark corner which was under a workbench.

  “What is it?”

  Della Street straightened. She was holding an army blanket in her hands. “Feel this.”

  Mason felt of it, then whistled.

  “Soaking wet,” Drake exclaimed.

  “And look under here.”

  Della bent over and picked up a pair of men’s oxford shoes. “These,” she said, “were directly under the blanket.”

  The shoes themselves were soaking wet.

  Drake said to Mason, “You win, Perry. By gosh, I’ll hand it to you.”

  “Thanks to Della,” Mason said.

  “Well, what do we do?” Drake asked. “Take the evidence?”

  “No,” Mason said, “we put everything back the way it was, get out of here, and let the police make the discovery.”

  “Do you think they will?”

  “They will after we get done with them, Paul.”

  “Just put them back the way I found them, Chief?”

  “Yes, but first look on the inside of those shoes. See if there’s a manufacturer’s name. See if you can get his size.”

  Della Street said, “Do you want to read me the letters that are on the inside here, Chief? I’ll write them down.”

  Mason picked up the shoes, held them so the light shone down on the figures which were stamped on the lining. He read off the numbers and the name of the manufacturer.

  “Nothing to show the retail store which sold them?” Della asked.

  “Nothing,” Mason said. “Just the shoe. Eight and a half B as I interpret the meaning of these numbers. However, we’d better check up with a shoe man on that.”

  “And get out of here,” Drake said.

  “Okay,” Mason said. “Put the shoes back, Della.”

  Della Street put the shoes back, put the wet blanket over the shoes. Drake was the first out of the garage, Mason the last.

  Mason locked the door of the garage and once more Della Street shielded what he was doing with her body so that no one in the apartment house could see Mason wiping fingerprints off the padlock with his handkerchief.

  Mason helped Della Street into the car, then climbed in beside Drake.

  “Now what?” Drake asked, turning the car and going out of the driveway much faster than he had entered. “Do we call on Ellen Cushing?”

  “I don’t think we do,” Mason said. “I think that’s a job for the police.”

  “And how do we go about getting the police on the job?”

  “We first try to get more evidence. If we can get it we’re okay. If we can’t, we’ve got to take a chance.”

  “How do we get this evidence?”

  Mason said, “That’s where your operatives come in, Paul.”

  “I don’t get it. What do you think happened?”

  “Drive around the corner,” Mason said, “and we’ll park the car. Your operatives are on the way?”

  “They should be here almost any minute now.”

  “Okay,” Mason said. “Drive around where we can see the front of the apartment house and park the car.”

  Drake drove around the corner, backed up in a driveway, turned the car, came back to place it against the curb, and switched off the motor.

  Mason said, “I’ll give it to you in a nutshell, Paul. You can figure what must have happened. In the first place, Scott Shelby had everything all planned, down to the smallest detail. But he didn’t dare to sneak any of his clothes out of the house so he’d have a dry change.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the insurance company is going to make an investigation.”

  “Even if they pin it on Marion Shelby?”

  “No matter what they do, the insurance company is going to look into the thing. The murder story is improbable as hell, unless you look at it on the theory the wife bumped him off in order to get the insurance. It will be duck soup for the insurance company. They’ll start an investigation to try to get out of paying the policy.”

  “Naturally.”

  “All right. If in their investigation they should find anything that looks like collusion, then the fat will really be in the fire.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s this way,” Mason said. “As far as the police are concerned, they’re perfectly willing to make a murder out of it, pin the thing on the wife and get a conviction. But an insurance company is always afraid of a collusion between husband and wife, by which at the last minute the wife would pull something that would get her acquitted.”

  “Okay. So what?”

  “So the first thing the insurance company does is to start looking around for collusion. That’s their routine. Naturally they’re good at it.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “So they’ll start checking on every suit of clothes, every pair of shoes the guy had.”

  Drake nodded.

  “And if they find any of his clothing missing, they’ll want to know where that clothing is. They’ll then be off on the theory that maybe Shelby isn’t dead after all.”

  “And Shelby didn’t want that?” Drake said.

  “That was one thing he couldn’t afford to have happen. That was where he was most vulnerable. So he decided he’d get along with his wet clothes. So you see what happened. He went overboard. He fixed everything up so that he had framed a murder case on his wife. Then he climbed into a boat that was rowed by Ellen Cushing. She put him in her automobile. And she had taken along one or perhaps two blankets. She bundled him up in those blankets and drove just as fast as she could to get him to her apartment. They dumped one blanket in the corner of the garage, perhaps had another blanket around the outside where it didn’t get as wet. That’s why the seat cushion was only a little damp.”