Despite the fact that the arrangement was very advantageous to me from a financial standpoint, the time came when I simply couldn’t put up with it any longer. Day by day, Corrine Lansing became progressively worse. I had reason to believe she was completely unbalanced on some things. Carmen told me Corrine had threatened to kill me if I should try to leave her.

  Under the circumstances, I feared to have an open break lest she might become violent. In short, the woman had developed a fierce, passionate attachment for me and insisted that I be near her all the time. It was quite apparent that she was rapidly becoming a mental case. She wanted to monopolize me. There was a definite desire to dominate, which not only annoyed but frightened me. It seems she had a well-developed persecution complex and had decided someone was trying to poison her and that having me constantly with her was her only protection.

  I felt sorry for her, but I began to feel afraid for myself and I know Carmen Monterrey was equally afraid.

  It happened that events made it necessary for George Alder to fly to South America, bringing some papers for Corrine to sign, and on the day he was due to arrive and while she was at the beauty parlor I packed my bags and left a note for her saying I had been unexpectedly called back home by a telegram informing me a close relative was very ill and not expected to live. Anticipating that she would go to the beauty parlor before meeting her half brother, I had previously reserved passage on a Pan American airplane flying north.

  I fancied myself well free of an embarrassing entanglement and thought no more about it for weeks after my return. Then I read in the papers that Corrine was supposed to be dead, that she had disappeared on the afternoon of the day I had left and no one had ever been able to find so much as a trace of her.

  For a while it had been assumed she had merely wandered off in a fit of despondency. She had, it seemed, been much upset by the departure of “a friend,” and it was feared had gone to look for her. With the passage of time it was assumed she must have met with some fatal accident.

  Detectives were employed and searched without getting any tangible results. It was, however, definitely established that the woman was mentally unbalanced at the time of her disappearance.

  Naturally, upon reading this, I went to see George S. Alder and told him what I knew and offered to help in any way I could. I felt conscience-stricken because I knew Corrine had gone to search for me when she disappeared.

  Alder was at first very grateful, and then became friendly, and I am frank to admit that I was foolish enough to feel that perhaps there was something more to his friendship than just a desire to see that the evidence concerning his sister’s death was properly established.

  I had told George Alder I would take a cruise with him and had been looking forward to it with a great deal of pleasure. However, just before we embarked upon this cruise, I had occasion to go to the mental hospital at Los

  Merritos. I was leaving when in the yard I saw a woman whom I first thought to be a ghost.

  It was Corrine Lansing!

  I stood staring at her as though transfixed, and she looked at me with that peculiar gleam of an insane person in her eyes, but nevertheless she recognized me. She said, “Minerva! What are you doing here? Minerva, Minerva, Minerva!” and started screaming until an attendant rushed to her and told her she mustn’t excite herself. By that time, Corrine was hysterical and violent, and she was rushed to a room where she could be treated.

  By discreet inquiries I learned that this woman had been picked up on the streets of Los Angeles, wandering as in a dream. She seemed to know nothing about herself and had never been able to give a name, or the names of any relatives. At times she would claim to be one person, at times another, each time giving a different name. Then at times she could remember no name to give, but would sit helpless and distraught.

  Very much upset and completely unnerved, I hastened to find George Alder so I could tell him what I had found.

  George Alder was not aboard the yacht when I arrived, and no one seemed to know where he was. I waited for him to return, but, when he had not come aboard by ten o’clock, I left word that he was to call me, and went to my cabin to wait.

  I had had a fatiguing day. I stretched out on the couch and was soon asleep. I was awakened from that sleep by the sound of the engines and, from the motion of the yacht, realized we were at sea and that there was a heavy sea running. Moreover, the wind was howling about the yacht so that I knew a sudden storm had descended upon us.

  I rang for the steward and asked him, despite the lateness of the hour, to get in touch with George Alder, and tell him I must see him at once.

  George sent back word that a sudden terrific windstorm had descended upon us and that he was busy with the yacht, but would come just as soon as he could. It was just an hour ago, at two o’clock in the morning, that George came to my cabin.

  I told him what had transpired. He asked me several shrewd questions, and then asked me several times whether I had repeated what had happened to anyone.

  At the time I was too stupid to realize what he had in mind. I was rather proud of my reticence in keeping my own counsel until I could bring the news to George Alder because I knew how he disliked newspaper notoriety.

  I am now trying to make allowances for the fact that I have had a very trying experience, that the events of the last twenty-four hours have been such as to shock me greatly. But, despite all of my attempts to discount what has happened and account for it as being nerves, I am filled with apprehension.

  George Alder sat in my cabin after I had told him my story and looked at me with steady, appraising eyes.

  I began to feel uneasy. It was as though a snake were trying to charm a bird.

  “You’re sure you haven’t told anyone, Minerva?” he asked.

  “Not a soul,” I said. “You can trust my sense of discretion on that.”

  And then suddenly I saw in his eyes that same look which I had seen in the eyes of his sister, the look of an insane person contemplating some peculiarly cunning means of attaining an end. He arose without a word, turned toward the door, paused in the doorway, fumbled with the lock for a moment, gave me once more that queer look, and then went out and slammed the door behind him.

  I suddenly felt myself filled with apprehension. I wanted to be put ashore. I wanted to communicate with someone. I ran to the door.

  It was locked. George had locked it from the outside as he went out.

  I flung myself against the door and pounded with my fists. I kicked. I pulled at the knob and I screamed.

  Nothing happened. The noise of the storm was howling about the yacht. The hull was creaking and groaning with the strains and stresses set up by the huge waves. Wind shrieked through the rigging. The crashing waves made my screams seem weak and puny.

  I have repeatedly tried ringing for the steward. Nothing happens. I have tried telephoning. The line is dead. I realize now that George has cut the wires leading from my cabin.

  I have looked around, trying to find some means of communicating my predicament, some way of reaching someone, but the noise of the storm, the lateness of the hour, and the fact that I am isolated in a rear guest cabin has made this impossible.

  I have one hope, and one hope alone. I have decided to write down everything that happened, seal it in a bottle, and toss that bottle out through the porthole. Then, if George should come back, I will tell him what I have done. I will tell him that the bottle will eventually drift ashore, and will most surely be found. In that way—well, at least I can hope that he will listen to reason, but I feel that the man, with the insane cunning which is apparently a family taint, intends to see to it that my lips will be forever sealed.

  (Signed) Minerva Danby

  Mason felt the girl’s fingers pressing into his arm. “I’ve got him!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “I’ve got him, I’ve got him, I’ve got him! Do you realize what this letter means? I’ve got him!”

  “It’s me you’re getting,” Mason pointed out. “I may want to use that arm again.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Just who is this Minerva Danby?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t know very much about her except what’s in this letter. All I know is that she was drowned. She was washed overboard from Alder’s yacht about six months ago. That was the story.”

  Mason said cautiously, “Since I now seem to have become an accessory after the fact to a full-scale burglary, you might tell me a little something about what happened.”

  She said excitedly, “Oh, I always knew that there was something fishy with this business about Corrine. I felt certain she wasn’t dead, and now … Oh, you can see what a terrific difference it makes.”

  “Just what difference does it make?”

  She said, “I’m related to Corrine, probably the only living blood relative she has. Oh, this is going to make a difference, a big difference.”

  Mason said, “Under the circumstances you’d better tell me a lot more.”

  “What more is there to tell? The letter speaks for itself.”

  “It doesn’t speak for you.”

  “Why should I speak?” she demanded.

  Mason said, “Let’s try being practical for a change. I’m a responsible citizen. I find you committing burglary and circumstances conspire to put me in a position of helping you out.”

  “You said you were a lawyer.”

  “All right, I’m a lawyer. It just might be that George S. Alder would very much enjoy being in a position to accuse me of having conspired with you to steal this evidence from his house.”

  “Can’t you see,” she said, scornfully, “that Alder can’t accuse anyone of anything? He doesn’t dare let this letter be made public.”

  “All right,” Mason said patiently. “What are you going to do with the letter?”

  “I’ll make it public.”

  “And just how will you then account for the fact that this letter came into your possession?”

  “Why, I’ll go to the newspapers. I’ll say that … ”

  “Yes, go on,” Mason said.

  “Couldn’t I say that I found the letter?”

  “Where?”

  “On the beach somewhere.”

  “And then Alder would introduce witnesses showing that the letter had been in his possession, that it had been taken from his house, and you’d be facing a perjury charge as well as a burglary charge.”

  There was dismay in her voice. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I was satisfied you hadn’t. Now suppose you tell me who you are, how you knew the letter was there, and a few other things.”

  “And suppose I don’t?”

  “There’s always the police.”

  “You haven’t told me anything about you” she flared.

  “That’s right,” Mason said dryly, “I haven’t.”

  She thought the situation over for several seconds, then said with sullen reluctance, “I’m Dorothy Fenner. I have a job as secretary to a broker. When my mother died she left me a little money. I came here from Colorado two years ago.

  “My mother was a sister of Cora Lansing. Cora married Jack Lansing. They had one child, Corrine. The marriage wasn’t a success. Cora Lansing married Samuel Nathan Alder. They had one son, George S. Alder. Corrine is five years older than George.

  “So you see that, despite the difference in ages, I’m Corrine’s full cousin. We were very close. Aunt Cora died ten years ago, then George’s father died and left the property in a sort of trust to Corrine, George and Dorley Alder, George’s uncle.”

  “How do you get along with the Alders?” Mason asked. “Not very well, I take it.”

  “I get along fine with Uncle Dorley. He’s a splendid man. I don’t get along with George Alder at all. No one does unless they let George dominate body and soul.”

  “And how did you know about this letter?” Mason asked.

  “I … I can’t tell.”

  “Better get your story ready,” Mason warned.

  She said, “I heard about it.”

  “How?”

  “Well, if you want to know, Uncle Dorley gave me the hint.”

  “Indeed,” Mason said, his voice showing interest.

  “It was just a question he asked,” she said. “He told me he understood Pete Cadiz had picked up a letter Minerva Danby had written before she was washed overboard. He asked me if I knew anything about it; if George had said anything to me.”

  “Do you know Pete Cadiz?”

  “Sure. I guess all the yachtsmen know him. He’s a sort of beachcomber. Everyone knows who he is.”

  “Then Dorley knows about the letter?”

  “He knows something about it.”

  “And why didn’t you go to George Alder and ask him about it point-blank?”

  She said, “That shows how little you know George Alder. I think he was ready to destroy this letter. He’d have done it already, if perhaps he didn’t think Pete Cadiz or someone else knew what was in it.

  “All I wanted to do was to read it. I knew George Alder was having a big party tonight and I know his house pretty well. I thought I could get in there while the guests were at dinner, go to George’s study, get the bottle from his desk, read the letter, and see what was in

  “You probably wouldn’t know it, but he has the place trapped with all sorts of burglar alarms. There’s only one way to get into the house without being detected. That’s the way I used. I walked up to the point above the sandspit, undressed, put my clothes on my back and swam down to the island. I wore a dinner dress because if any one of the servants had seen me, they’d have taken it for granted George had invited me as one of the guests.”

  “You know the servants?”

  “Of course.”

  “How about the dog? You didn’t seem to know him.”

  “The dog double-crossed me,” she said bitterly. “There must be some instinct that enabled him to know I was taking something that didn’t belong to me. He was trained as a war dog and never got over it, and never will. Corrine picked him up after the Army finished with him. Carmen trained and fed him, and he loved her, but George took him over after Corrine’s disappearance.”

  “Do you have a camera aboard?”

  “No, why?”

  “I want to photograph this document.”

  She said, “I have a portable typewriter. We could copy it—but why do you want a copy when we have the original?”

  “You have the original,” Mason said. “In case I should ever be called upon to tell my story, I want to be sure that I tell it right. Now then, you’re going to get out your portable typewriter, copy that letter, keep one copy for yourself and give me one copy.”

  “And what do I do with the letter itself?”

  “Return it to George Alder, together with your apologies.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  Mason said, “Think it over. You make a copy of the letter. You and I compare the copy with the original. Then you take the letter back to Alder, smile very sweetly and tell him that you just wanted to read it, but in the excitement you carried it away with you. Then you ask him what he intends to do about that letter.”

  There was a long silence while she thought that over. “Say,” she said at length, her voice suddenly enthusiastic, “I guess you’re not so dumb, after all.”

  “Thank you,” Mason said fervently. “I was beginning to have doubts.”

  Chapter 2

  The canoe slid noiselessly down into the water.

  Dorothy Fenner said in a low voice, “Thanks for everything.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Mason told her. “I wish I knew who you were.”

  “Why?”

  “It would make me feel safer. You don’t know George S. Alder?”

  Mason said, “All you need to do is give him back that bottle and tell him a witness has seen the letter and has a copy.”

  She said dubiously, “It’s easy for you to say. You don’t know him.”

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think it over. I think perhaps if I keep the original letter I may have more of a hold over him.”

  “I’d advise you to read the law on blackmail,” Mason said. “However, I haven’t time to argue with you now. I’m hoping I can get to shore without being detected. Good night, Dorothy.”

  “Good night, Mr. Mysterious Whoever You Are. I like you—will you show up as a witness—in case I need you?”

  “One never knows,” Mason said, and shoved off.

  Mason leaned to the paddle and started for the lights on the landing at the canoe club.

  The sound of a heavy-duty motor transmitted by the layer of damp air immediately over the water sounded increasingly and ominously louder, ka-pooog … ka-pooog … ka-pooog … ka-pooog.

  Mason gave the paddle everything he had. The light canoe, barely skimming the surface of the water, hissed swiftly toward the landing.

  The canoe had been rented for the evening, the rental paid in advance, so Mason had only to tie it up at the float and walk away.

  To his surprise there were no special officers on duty at the landing, and beyond the ominous sound of the heavy-duty motor, he had seemed to have the bay all to himself.

  Now he hurried along the landing float, his hat pulled well down, the brim depressed, and walked rapidly to the place where he had left his car.

  Della Street, Perry Mason’s confidential secretary, was sitting in his car listening to the radio. She looked up and smiled as Mason opened the car door. She switched off the radio and said, “You must have had quite a trip.”

  “You get the telephoning done?” Mason asked.

  “Everything,” she said. “Then I came back here to wait. I’ve been here for nearly two hours.”

  “I had an adventure,” Mason confessed.

  “Didn’t hear anything of the burglary, did you?”

  “What burglary?”

  “Our friend George S. Alder’s house was robbed of fifty thousand dollars in jewelry.”

  “The devil!” Mason exclaimed.