“If I negotiate a settlement, it will be all right. But I’m not going to settle on any such basis as you people have outlined.”

  Mason said, “I’m asking you definitely, do you own that oil lease?”

  “I represent all parties concerned.”

  “Have you assigned part of it?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

  “It has a lot to do with it,” Parker Benton said. “I’m not going to conduct any negotiations except with the real owners and all of the owners.”

  “Well,” Shelby blurted, “I have a partner. Someone who owns a half interest but she. … that associate is perfectly willing to accept any settlement that is okayed by me.”

  “The name of your associate?” Parker Benton asked.

  “Ellen Cushing,” Shelby said.

  Marion Shelby caught Mason’s eyes, then swiftly averted hers.

  “And you two own that lease?” Parker Benton asked. “You have the whole thing?”

  “The whole thing.”

  “There have been no other assignments?”

  “No.”

  “Just this partnership?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Will you accept four thousand dollars?” Benton asked.

  “Definitely, finally and absolutely no.”

  “What’s your minimum offer?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  Benton smiled. “Well, shall we go up to where we can have some dancing? I guess we’re getting no place.”

  “That’s a good lease,” Shelby said. “I can force the lessor to accept the back rental.”

  “I don’t care to discuss the legal aspects of the problem,” Parker Benton said. “As far as I’m concerned, tomorrow afternoon I’ll either drop the whole business or notify the title company that I’ll accept a limited certificate. I don’t know which.”

  Lawton Keller said somewhat anxiously, “Of course, if it comes to a showdown, I don’t want you to think that we’re …”

  “You’ve already given me your position,” Parker Benton interrupted, angrily.

  “Well, it may not be final.”

  “It’s final as far as you and I are concerned,” Benton told him. “If there are any more negotiations, they will be with Mason. But, as far as I’m concerned, I’m beginning to think I can find some property that will be equally satisfactory.”

  Abruptly Scott Shelby said, “If that’s the way you feel about it, sit tight. It suits me.”

  “And now,” Benton said, “to preserve that atmosphere of well-bred gentility which I had hoped would clothe our discussions, I think it will be well for us all to know where our staterooms are. Whether you prefer to stay in your rooms or to return for a little dancing is up to you. But, if you do return, please bear definitely in mind that we won’t discuss any business and we will be friendly. There are seven staterooms aboard this yacht. You’ll find in your staterooms a telephone system with a series of call buttons which will connect you with the steward, or with any one of the other rooms.”

  Parker Benton turned to the steward. “Please show our guests to their rooms,” he said.

  Lawton Keller said, “On second thought, I think it would be a good plan for Jane to sacrifice something in order to get out of a lawsuit. I’d be willing to go as high as two thousand …”

  “Not interested,” Scott Shelby snapped. “I’m not going to be pushed around either. I’m no cur to be ordered in and ordered out. The hell with all of you. Where’s my room? I’ll stay tonight on your damned yacht simply because it happens to be more convenient for me to stay aboard than go paddling around in a launch. But I’ll get off first thing in the morning, and as far as I’m concerned you have my personal assurance that the minute you try to build anything on this island, I’ll punch an oil well down in your front yard, whether I think there’s any oil there or not.”

  Parker Benton said coldly, “That remains to be seen. I don’t know how much money you have, but before you punch any wells in my front yard you’ll wish you’d never seen an oil lease. Good night, everyone. As far as I’m concerned, I am going to my room and read. There’ll be some confusion over the staterooms, I suppose, but the steward will get you bedded down—all those who wish to stay. The launch will take any of you ashore if you want to catch the eleven o’clock interurban. And now, once more, good night.”

  Chapter 9

  Perry Mason, propped up on snowy pillows in a comfortable bed, adjusted the reading light and settled himself with a book. He had read the first chapter when the telephone tinkled a somewhat tentative summons, far different from the strident mechanical ring of the telephone bells in the city.

  Mason picked up the receiver, said, “Hello,” and heard Della Street’s voice. “My gosh, Chief, isn’t it ghastly?”

  “Quite a difference all right in the social temperature from what it was before dinner.”

  “What do you suppose went wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Mason said. “I think Parker Benton resented Lawton Keller and then, of course, there’s always the chance that the two thousand dollars was the top limit that he intended to place on a compromise. … It’s quite possible he has some alternate piece of property, you know. He might feel there wasn’t more than two thousand dollars difference between the two properties.”

  “I suppose so, but somehow he doesn’t impress me as being that type. When he wants something, he wants it.”

  Mason laughed and said, “After all, we’re talking about our host, and it’s quite possible that others can tune in on the conversation.”

  “I don’t care … I’m trying to settle down with a book I got from the ship’s library.”

  “How is it?”

  “It’s supposed to be exciting but it can’t hold my interest. I keep thinking about the people aboard this ship. There are so many people on it who hate some of the other people, and this fog makes them stay all night. … Have you been on deck?”

  “I took a turn around before I rolled in …”

  “Isn’t that a thick and nasty fog?”

  “It has settled down all right. How are you, Della, restless?”

  “I was. I’m getting calmed down now.”

  Mason said, “We can go up and turn on the radio, get some dance music and …”

  “Not unless you particularly want to, Chief. It’s cold and foggy and … I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice. I’m just a little frightened tonight.”

  “Frightened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of what?”

  “Darned if I know … I just don’t like to be closeted with all this hatred …”

  “Now,” Mason said, “I’m beginning to get you. You have worked too long for a trial lawyer who specializes in murder cases. … Better go back to your book, Della, and then get a good night’s sleep. It will probably be clear in the morning.”

  She laughed lightly, said, “After all, I guess I am getting susceptible to the creepy element in life. But, you do have to admit that it’s spooky out here, with all this hate and greed bundled up in a thick fog and with the cold river underneath us.”

  “You’ll feel better in the morning, Della. Night.”

  “Night,” she said and hung up.

  Mason returned to his book but suddenly found that the printed page could not hold his interest. He turned out the light, deliberately tried to compose himself to sleep. It was no use. The boat was shrouded now with a strange, oppressive silence, broken only now and again with little gurgling noises made by the water swirling past the hull. And from somewhere, a steady drip of fog-borne moisture, which had been almost inaudible as Mason had started to read, became now, with the increasing silence, a steady interminable “pink” … “pink” … “pink” … “pink” … “pink.”

  Mason twisted and turned restlessly, at length hunched the pillows into a back rest again and switched on the light and started reading.

  It was nearing midnight when Mason impatiently closed the book and put on his clothes.

  Out on deck, he found that the fog had thickened until it was impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction.

  The boat had its trim bow facing upstream. Standing up there near the bow of the boat, Mason could hear the sullen gurgle of cold water as the current swirled around the anchor chain.

  Slowly, thoughtfully, Mason moved aft, reached the stern of the vessel and saw a member of the crew, bundled up in a heavy mackinaw, standing motionless … a night watchman, caring nothing for the guests, simply waiting the night out, standing there as still as a statue.

  Mason walked back to the bow again. He stumbled over a piece of rope, kicked it to one side, walked back to a position amidships on the starboard side and stood for some ten minutes lost in thought. He was aroused by hearing from the vicinity of the bow, the sudden stabbing sound of a woman’s shrill scream, a sharp report followed almost instantly by a peculiar series of muffled splashes.

  Mason looked to the stern. The man who had been on duty as watchman was no longer there. He had, perhaps, run toward the bow, keeping to the port side.

  Mason turned to dash back toward the bow. He heard the soft patter of hurrying feet and then, almost without warning, a figure running rapidly down the deck collided with him.

  Mason felt the soft touch of damp silk. His nostrils caught the faint scent of perfume.

  The lawyer realized the woman he was holding in his arms was in a panic. He could feel the pumping of her heart, the tension of her muscles. Then as her hand moved and he caught the glint of faintly reflected light from some metallic object, he realized she was carrying a gun.

  From up near the bow of the boat came that cry which is so ominous to seamen the world over.

  “Man overboard! MAN OVERRR-BOARD!!”

  From the river there came a series of thumping noises against the side of the yacht, as some struggling kicking object was swept past by the current on the side of the ship opposite to that where Mason was standing.

  There followed an instant of silence. There was no more splashing, no more banging against the side of the yacht. Then there was the noise of confusion as doors opened and closed. There was the sound of tense voices, hurrying feet.

  “Please,” the woman said, in a voice that was husky with emotion, “please, let me go.”

  Mason saw then that he was holding Marion Shelby in his arms.

  “What happened?”

  “No, no, please, please!”

  Mason reached for the gun. “What’s this?” he asked.

  Abruptly he felt the muscles tighten. With a swift convulsive motion which involved her entire body, she squirmed around, pressed herself tight against him.

  Abruptly she let her knees sag, dropped almost to the deck of the yacht. The lawyer clutched at her but the smooth silk of the nightdress slid along her skin. Before he could get a firmer hold, she had slipped her head under his arm. His fingers clutched the silk of the nightdress. He heard the sound of tearing cloth and then she was running down the deck.

  A few moments later the deck was flooded with illumination. Someone threw over a life preserver with a carbide canister attached and a brilliant white light spread out over the surface of the water, illuminating the life preserver, the water around the yacht, and throwing against the heavy wall of fog a strange, distorted shadow of the yacht.

  The current bore the life preserver smoothly, gently downstream.

  Mason felt Parker Benton’s hand on his arm, turned to see the yachtsman, dressed in pajamas and slippers, bundling a robe around him.

  “What happened?” Benton asked.

  Mason said, “I heard someone shout ‘Man Overboard’ and a splash.”

  “Did you hear a shot?”

  “I heard an explosion of some sort.”

  Benton called out, “Rig up that searchlight.”

  A man from the top of the pilothouse said, “I’m getting it, sir.”

  The canvas cover was ripped off the searchlight. A moment later the arc sputtered into brilliance and then a long shaft of light pushed itself against the opalescent fog to be swallowed up in milky nothingness.

  “Try the stern, a little back of that life preserver,” Benton said.

  The searchlight swung out to play on the water around the flare that was attached to the life preserver. A small boat splashed into the water. There was the sound of oars and a boat rowed rapidly down the stream, then turned and came back against the current. A man standing in the bow bent down, searching the water by the aid of a beam from a five cell hand flashlight.

  Benton said, “Let’s get everyone on deck. Find out if anyone’s missing.” Then turning to Mason, “You were up and fully dressed … hadn’t gone to bed?”

  Mason said, “I’d gone to bed but hadn’t been able to sleep so I came up on deck for a breath of air.”

  “How long had you been here before you heard the commotion?”

  “I don’t know. Twenty minutes, perhaps.”

  “See anyone?”

  “A man standing in the stern. I take it he was one of the crew.”

  “See anything else?”

  “I saw a woman running down the deck, clad in her night clothes.”

  “Who was she?”

  Mason met his eyes. “I’m sorry but I can’t tell you that.”

  Benton regarded Mason thoughtfully. “Let’s get one thing straight, Mason. I’m running this ship.” Then he turned on his heel and strode away.

  The night was filled with sounds of hectic activity now. Opening and closing doors and frightened feet sounded in the passageways and on the companionways. The swift babble of voices kept up an incessant chatter; and cutting through all of the sounds of confusion, a crisp, authoritative voice was giving orders. The motorboat had been lowered to the water and the engines started. It cruised in a series of questing circles around the yacht.

  Some ten minutes later, Mason was up near the bow standing by himself when Della Street quietly joined him, her elbows sliding along the rail.

  “What is it, Chief?”

  Mason kept his eyes fastened on the dark surface of the water, said in a low voice, “I don’t know, Della. Take it easy.”

  She said, “Scott Shelby is missing.”

  “I thought he might be.”

  She said, “His wife was on deck. She says that …”

  “Here comes some man. It’s Parker Benton. He seems to be filled with grim purpose.”

  “I wonder if …”

  Mason said, “Beat it, Della. Circulate around and pick up the gossip.”

  Parker Benton walked with purposeful bearing to where Mason was standing. “Mason,” he said, “Scott Shelby is missing.”

  “So I hear.”

  “His wife was on deck. She’s the woman you saw.”

  “Is she?”

  “And couldn’t identify,” Benton said.

  Mason remained silent.

  “She says that her husband telephoned her. He seemed excited. He asked her to take the gun from the top of the dresser and bring it up to him on the deck, that he was telephoning from the bow of the ship and to come at once, that it was a matter of life or death.”

  “And what did Mrs. Shelby do?” Mason asked.

  “She jumped out of bed, grabbed the gun, and didn’t even wait to put a robe on. She came flying up the companionway and was just approaching the bow when she saw a vague figure swaying this way and that, apparently engaged in a struggle of some sort, but she saw only the one figure. The other must have been below the deck.”

  Benton stopped, studied Mason’s face.

  “Go on,” the lawyer said.

  “Just before she got there, the man lurched and fell overboard. She screamed as she heard the splash. Then there was the sound of an explosion and a series of splashing noises. By that time she had reached the bow, and could hear her name being called. She bent over the rail and could see the figure of a man in the water, a figure that was floundering around aimlessly as though badly wounded and trying to swim. Then the figure moved into the oval of light which came from a porthole in the forecastle and she could see the man’s face. It was the face of her husband. He seemed partially paralyzed. He called her name, tried to call out some message. She couldn’t hear what he said. His voice was almost inaudible. Then he abruptly ceased to struggle and was swept down by the current under the overhang of the bow. She thought he was coming down the starboard side and ran that way, but apparently he drifted down the port side.—She says that you stopped her. She was too excited to be coherent.”

  Mason said, “That story conforms substantially to the facts as I understand them.”

  “But,” Parker Benton went on, “it doesn’t conform to the facts as they must have happened.”

  “No?” Mason asked, with a rising inflection of surprise.

  “No,” Benton said, positively. “For one thing, he couldn’t have been telephoning from the bow of the yacht.”

  “Why not?” Mason asked. “There’s a telephone in a little waterproof box up there. When you were showing us around the yacht, you pointed that telephone out to us. Of course, I’m not saying anything about the probability of a husband telephoning his wife under such circumstances as you have mentioned, but I am interested in the possibility which is what you are discussing.”

  “Exactly,” Benton replied. “There’s a trick about that telephone.”

  “What?”

  “The system of telephones on this yacht is something of a makeshift. I didn’t want to have a switchboard which would require the services of a telephone operator. Therefore, I put in a call system. But the number of connections which I could get on it were limited. So I solved the problem by putting in two systems.”

  “Go ahead,” Mason said. “You interest me.”

  “The system which is in the guests’ staterooms has only certain outlets. The staterooms can all communicate with each other and with the steward, but they can’t communicate with any other part of the ship. In only one stateroom are there phones from both systems.”

  “Yours?” Mason asked.