“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 rain 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 corner 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.”