“She’s not exactly impoverished,” Dail pointed out.

  “Thanks to the circumstances and to your newspaper interview, Dail, the Prosecution is holding all of her funds as evidence.”

  Dail abruptly arose and started toward the door. Half way there, he stopped and turned to Mason. “Ten thousand is too much,” he said.

  Mason said, “Evidently, Mr. Dail, you were aware of Moar’s identity when I first approached you to ask about your attitude in the event of a restitution. I further understand, from a remark made by Mr. Rooney, that detectives would have met the ship and arrested Mr. Moar at the gangplank, under circumstances which would have been exceedingly humiliating both to Mrs. Moar and her daughter. Taking all that into consideration, I think ten thousand dollars is exceedingly reasonable. In case you consider it unreasonable, you might take into consideration how promptly any promise you could have made me would have been broken.”

  “That’s the thing I can’t understand,” Dail said. “Why the devil did Moar offer to return twenty thousand dollars if he hadn’t embezzled the money?”

  “He made no such offer,” Mason said.

  Dail walked across to the door, opened it and paused on the threshold to say to Mason, “Understand this, Mr. Mason, when we were on the ship we were dealing at arm’s length. I was under no obligation to you to disclose that I knew Newberry’s real identity.”

  “Exactly,” Mason said, “and at the present time, we are still dealing at arm’s length.”

  Dail said, “All right, you have me. Fix up an agreement.” He stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Della Street regarded Mason’s grinning countenance with anxious eyes. “When you come right down to it, Chief, why did Moar want to return any money?”

  “He didn’t. Mrs, Moar did.”

  “Well, why did she want to?”

  “She thought he’d embezzled it.”

  “Do you think she really thought that?”

  Della turned to stare out of the window, her eyes focused on the gray, low-flung clouds which sent a drizzle of cold moisture trickling down the windowpanes. Abruptly, she turned back to Perry Mason. “Chief,” she said, “you’re clever when it comes to figuring evidence. You’re usually good when you figure character. But there are some things about this woman I don’t think you’ve taken into consideration.”

  “What?” Mason asked.

  “She’s attractive,” Della Street said, “and you can see by the way she throws her personality around that she’s been accustomed to rely on it. A woman who uses her charm to get the things she wants out of life becomes dangerous when she reaches the late thirties and early forties. I’m telling you, Chief, that woman is shrewd, clever and designing. She trapped Moar into marriage, not because she cared anything about him, but because she wanted a home for her daughter and a veneer of respectability for herself. Moar was sufficiently unsophisticated to be easy. You never did hear Moar’s side of this thing. Now you never will. It’s my opinion that if you’d ever heard Moar’s story, you’d have an entirely different slant on the whole thing. I think Belle realized that when she wanted you to talk with her father, and I think Mrs. Moar realized it and was willing to do absolutely anything to keep you apart.”

  Mason, studying her patiently, said, “Go ahead, Della. Tell me the rest of it.”

  “You’ve now established that Moar didn’t embezzle from the Products Refining Company,” Della Street said.

  “It still doesn’t account for where he got the money,” Mason pointed out.

  “What makes you think he had any money?” she asked.

  “Well,” Mason said, “an assistant accountant doesn’t suddenly give up a job and start traveling around the world without having something to use for cash, and a man who has eighteen thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars in cash in a chamois-skin money belt …”

  “Wait a minute, Chief,” she interrupted. “How do you know he had that?”

  “Why …” Mason said, “the captain counted it in my presence. He …” He stopped abruptly, to stare at Della Street. “Go on,” he said, “spill it.”

  “I haven’t anything to spill,” she said, “only I’m trying to point out that all the facts you have in this case came from Mrs. Moar. Suppose she was the one who had the sudden influx of wealth? Suppose she gave the money to her husband to finance the trip to Honolulu. Suppose she talked him into quitting his job. Suppose she was the one who suggested that it would make it much easier for Belle if they changed their names from Moar to Newberry.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mason interrupted. “How about that money belt?”

  “Can’t you see,” Della Street said, “she never intended to let her husband reach shore alive. She intended to make his death look like suicide. Until you told her differently, she didn’t realize that the life insurance policy wouldn’t pay on suicide. When she did realize it, it was too late. She had to go through with the plan. If her husband had apparently committed suicide, later on she could have “found” the money belt. The fact that he’d removed the money belt and placed it under the mattress would have been perfectly consistent with his going up on deck to commit suicide. All Mrs. Moar had to do was to swear she hadn’t been on deck with him. She might have made it stick if it hadn’t been for Miss Fell’s testimony and the search the captain made of her stateroom closet.”

  “Has it occurred to you,” Mason asked, “that this theory you’re outlining presupposes, that Mrs. Moar had been deliberately planning her husband’s death for some time?”

  “Of course it has.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Mason said.

  “Think it over,” she told him. “It makes plenty of sense. It makes the facts all fit together. She knew that Evelyn Whiting knew Carl Newberry was really Carl Moar. She had reason to believe Celinda Dail also knew. By setting the stage with you, she thoroughly convinced you Moar had been guilty of embezzlement. Under the circumstances, if he’d gone on deck, shot himself, and gone overboard, it would have looked like suicide.”

  “That,” Mason said, “doesn’t coincide with my idea of Mrs. Moar’s character.”

  “I know it doesn’t,” Della Street said quietly, “but it coincides with mine.”

  “Look here,” Mason told her, “has it ever occurred to you that if the testimony of Aileen Fell doesn’t stand up, the Prosecution hasn’t a leg to stand on?”

  “There’s the circumstantial evidence that Mrs. Moar had been on deck with her husband: her wet dress, wet shoes, and the money belt.”

  “All right, suppose she did go on deck with her husband. That doesn’t mean she killed him.”

  Della Street stared thoughtfully at the carpet. “Chief, if you can break down Aileen Fell’s testimony, can you get her off?”

  Mason nodded. “With Aileen Fell’s testimony out of the way, a jury will figure it was as apt to have been suicide as murder.”

  “What makes you think you can get Aileen Fell’s testimony out of the way?”

  “Because of the statement she made to her cabin-mate. It doesn’t coincide with what she’s saying now. Remember this, she’s rather a morbid personality. She was on deck, standing by herself, thrilling to the storm. I noticed her earlier in the evening. She was seated by herself over at one of the tables, wearing a blue dinner gown, and attacking her food with grim efficiency.”

  “She’ll be a hard woman to cross-examine,” Della Street said.

  “Why?” Mason asked.

  “She won’t have too much regard for the facts. She’ll consider the cross-examination as a personal duel between herself and the attorney for the Defense. She’ll get more and more positive as you seem to doubt her word. She’s just that type.”

  Mason grinned and said, “Don’t worry about her, Della. She’s going to fold up on cross-examination.”

  “You seem to be certain, Chief.”

  “I am,” he said, grinning—“that is, if Paul Drake gets that picture of her in her dinner dress.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  Mason chuckled. “It’s a secret.”

  The telephone rang.

  Della Street picked up the receiver, received a message from the desk, and said, “Oscar’s downstairs. He wants to see you.”

  “Oscar?” Mason asked.

  She nodded. “Remember, the chap who waited on our table.”

  Mason said, “Oh, yes. Go on out and talk with him, Della. If he’s broke and wants a loan, give him twenty-five bucks and my compliments. If he has some information, bring him in.”

  Della Street glided from the room. Mason started pacing the floor, his head bowed in thought, hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets.

  After a few moments, he paused by the window, stared moodily at the rivulets of rain which made patterns down the windowpane. He turned as a door opened and Della Street escorted the table steward into the room.

  “Hello, Oscar,” Mason said.

  Smiles wreathed the man’s face. “Good morning, Mr. Mason. I don’t want to take up much of your time. I just wanted to run in and speak to you for a minute. You were so nice to me on the ship that I thought … Well, I thought perhaps I could help you.”

  Mason glanced inquiringly at Della Street. She gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head. Mason said, “What is it, Oscar?”

  The man stood somewhat ill at ease. “Well, Mr. Mason, I don’t know as I’m doing right in this thing, but you see, we went through a bit of a blow coming into port, and then there was this business of all the commotion on the upper deck, and the boats being made ready to lower, and all that. Well, the next morning, come daylight, they sent us up to get the canvas covers back on the boats and get everything shipshape. One of the men found a gun up there and the first officer took charge of it.”

  “What sort of a gun?” Mason asked.

  “A thirty-eight caliber blued-steel revolver. I couldn’t see the make. It looked like a pretty good gun.”

  “Anything else?” Mason asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man fumbled in his pocket, produced a folded piece of paper and said, “I found this, sir. I asked the first officer if it was important and he said no, to pitch it overboard. You know, the first officer’s in command, but I felt perhaps … Well, I thought I’d save it. And then when I heard you were Mrs. Moar’s lawyer—I thought I’d bring it in and let you have a look at it.”

  He took from the paper a long, irregular piece of blue silk print. “I found this stuck on one of the cleats, sir.”

  Mason took the bit of cloth. “Looks like a piece torn out of a woman’s dress.”

  Oscar nodded.

  “Any idea where it came from?” Mason asked.

  “No, sir, but it was on a cleat on the outside of the rail.”

  “On the outside of the rail!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Port or starboard?”

  “Port, sir, and a little aft of amidship.”

  Mason said, “Let’s get this straight. You mean the cleat was on the outside of the rail. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir. And from the way it was caught, I’d say this part of the hem caught on the cleat and then the rest of it ripped loose, leaving this triangular piece.”

  “How much of it was wrapped around the cleat?” Mason asked.

  “This hem part was wrapped around a couple of times, and about eight or ten inches up at this end was flapping in the breeze. Perhaps I should have reported it to the police, sir, but I was working under the first officer and he said to throw it overboard. So if I turn it in to the police and it should be important, the first offiver would have it in for me as long as I was on the run, so I’m handing it to you and asking that you’ll just keep it confidential, sir.”

  Mason smiled and said, “Oscar, thanks a lot. That’s appreciated. I’ll keep quiet about it and you do the same. Now you’ve been to quite a bit of trouble, coming in here and I’m wondering if you wouldn’t accept a …”

  “No, sir,” the man said hastily. “You were so nice to me on the ship that it’s a pleasure to do something for you in return. I thought I’d bring this up to you, and hope it might be some help.”

  Mason shook hands with him, escorted him to the exit door and said, “Well, Oscar, perhaps some day I’ll be able to do something for you.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I hope you sail with me again, sir.”

  Mason closed the door, came back, looked at Della Street and asked, “Well?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t place it, Chief. And yet I remember having seen it. Some woman wore that dress, but for the life of me, I can’t tell right now who she was. After all, there were a couple of hundred passengers in first class.”

  Mason took a small pair of scissors from his toilet case. He was cutting the cloth into three pieces as Paul Drake opened the door from his room and said, “Going into the dressmaking business, Perry?”

  Mason said, “Paul, here’s something: A piece of cloth torn from a woman’s dress. I want you to make a few quiet inquiries among the passengers and see if you can find out who had a dress of that description.”

  “Wouldn’t you know?” Drake asked. “You were on the ship.”

  “Good Lord, no!” Mason said. “I see that they have clothes on and that’s about all.”

  “I’ve seen it somewhere,” Della Street said, “but I can’t place it. It may come to me later.”

  Drake said, “I have a bunch of news, Perry.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “Mostly bad,” Drake said.

  “Go ahead,” Mason told him. “Spill it.”

  “There’s another witness against your client, Perry.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know yet. The D.A. doesn’t know, either, but he’s hot on the trail. You see, the alarm of ‘Man Overboard’ wasn’t given by the Fell woman. She screamed and let it go at that, but some woman telephoned the operator from the social hall and told her to notify the bridge. That woman must have seen the man go overboard because she said to tell the bridge a man had been pushed overboard. The telephone operator says she’ll recognize the voice if she hears it again, and thinks she can place it. She’s going over the passenger list.”

  Mason grinned and said, “I’m not particularly worried about that witness, Paul.”

  “Why not?”

  Mason said, “I think it was Mrs. Moar who put in that call. That’s just between you and me, Paul.”

  Drake said, “Well, the operator reported she said a man had been pushed overboard. Suppose she recognizes Mrs. Moar’s voice when she gets on the witness stand, and swears Mrs. Moar said a man had been pushed Overboard?”

  Mason frowned. “That isn’t so hot,” he admitted.

  “They’ve identified the gun they found on the boat deck as being Carl Moar’s gun. They’ve also found Mrs. Moar’s fingerprints on the barrel.”

  “On the barrel?” Mason asked.

  “Yes.”

  “None on the butt of the gun?”

  “No.”

  “Anything else?” Mason asked.

  “That’s all the news. Evelyn Whiting’s sister is in her apartment if you want to go up there. So far, my men haven’t been able to locate either the nurse or the man with the broken neck. An ambulance was waiting for them at the dock and drove them away. We’ll locate that ambulance within an hour or two. In the meantime, do you want to talk with the sister?”

  “Might as well,” Mason said.

  Chapter 11

  The drizzle had developed into a cold drenching rain when Mason and the detective emerged from a cab in front of the Wavecrest Apartments.

  “Do you do the talking,” Drake asked, “or do I?”

  “I do,” Mason said.

  “Going to throw a scare into her or take it easy?” Drake inquired.

  “Take it easy if she’ll let me,” Mason told him, his eyes exploring the index of tenants on the front of the building. He found the name MARIAN WHITING opposite Apartment 1329 and pressed the button. A moment later an electric buzzer released the catch on the door, and Drake said, “Well, there’s a good index to her character. She’s on the up-and-up. If she’d been two-timing anybody, she’d have made whistles up and down the speaking tube.”

  Mason nodded. They took the elevator to the thirteenth floor, found the apartment they wanted, and tapped on the door. The woman who opened it had alert brown eyes, dark chestnut hair, a slightly upturned nose and delicate lips. She was wearing black and orange lounging pajamas. Sandals on her feet showed red painted nails.

  “Yes?” she asked. “What is it?”

  “I want to talk with you,” Mason said.

  She eyed the two men a moment in silent appraisal, then stood to one side and said, “Come in.”

  When they were seated, Mason said, “It’s about your sister.”

  “Oh, you mean Evelyn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you newspapermen?”

  “No,” Mason said, “we’re just gathering facts. I wanted to find out about your sister’s friendship with Carl Moar.”

  “Why?” Marian Whiting asked, her eyes suddenly defiant.

  Mason returned her stare, smiled and said, “You win. I’m Perry Mason. I’m a lawyer representing Mrs. Moar. I’m collecting facts.”

  “What does my sister have to do with it?”

  “I don’t know,” Mason said. “Probably nothing. I’m simply investigating.”

  “What did you want to know?”

  “How long ago did she first become acquainted with Carl Moar?”

  “Oh, heavens, I don’t know. It’s been … Let’s see … it must have been five or six years.”

  “How long did the friendship continue?”

  “Up until two or three months before Carl was married.”

  “You’re certain it didn’t continue up until the time of marriage?”

  “Of course I am,” she said. “Sis saw him on the street in Los Angeles two or three months ago, but it was just a casual meeting.”

  “Was there any particular reason why your sister terminated her friendship with Carl Moar shortly before his marriage?” Mason asked. “In other words, did any other woman come between them?”