Mason found Belle Newberry in her stateroom with Della Street.

  “How goes it, Belle?” he asked.

  “Okay so far,” she told him. “They questioned me up one side and down the other.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them they weren’t officers of justice,” she said, “but persecutors. I refused to answer any of their questions. I said that anyone who would accuse my mother of a crime like that was a monster.”

  Mason’s eyes were sympathetic. “I’m sorry I had to tell you to play it that way, Belle,” he said, “but for certain reasons it was the only thing to do.”

  “You mean that if I told them Carl’s real name, they’d find out about that lottery and—”

  “Something like that,” Mason said. “In order to build up a defense, I want a few hours during which no one will even suspect that Carl Newberry was really Carl Moar.”

  “Will a few hours be enough?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mason told her. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Celinda Dail has been trying to see her,” Della Street said. “She’s full of sympathy and—”

  “Keep Belle away from Celinda,” Mason said. “Tell everybody that Belle’s upset and isn’t to be questioned; that you’re sorry, but she can see no one.”

  “That’s what I’ve done,” Della Street said. “Of course, the officers insisted on coming in.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Mason,” Belle asked. “How about Moms? Is she holding up?”

  “She’s holding up,” Mason said.

  “What’s this about some witness having seen her on deck?”

  Mason made a gesture of dismissal. “Pay no attention to it, Belle. You can hear all sorts of stories.” He turned to Della Street. “Della, I want to find out who sent that note to Carl Newberry. The bellboy says he got it from the purser. The purser says he was doing some book work and when he looked up the note was lying on the glass shelf in front of his window. On the envelope had been written, ‘Please deliver immediately to Carl Newberry.’ The purser called a bellboy and told him to deliverr the note.”

  Belle said, “I think I know what was in that note, Mr. Mason.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “There was just three words scribbled on a piece of paper with a lead pencil. It said simply, ‘Promenade Port Okay,’ and there was no signature.”

  “Could you tell if it was a man’s writing?”

  “No. It was scribbled in pencil. I got the impression it was a woman’s writing. That’s why I didn’t say anything at the time. I knew Carl wouldn’t carry on an affair, but I thought perhaps Moms might get jealous.”

  Mason said, “It wouldn’t do any harm for you to give that information to the officers, Belle, but be absolutely certain not to tell them anything about your past, where you went to school, where you’ve been living, or anything about it. And, incidentally, do your hair differently. You look too much like Winnie Joyce with your hair done that way. The officers may trace you through that resemblance.”

  Della Street reached for a comb. “I’ll fix that,” she said.

  Chapter 7

  Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, was waiting at the dock. His long legs lifted his face, with its filmy, expressionless eyes, and droll grin, over the heads of the crowd which pushed against the customs barrier.

  Mason winked surreptitiously at the detective, rushed his baggage through customs, parried questions from a group of reporters, and pushed Della Street into a taxicab.

  Paul Drake, loitering at the curb, apparently an innocent bystander, popped into the cab just before the driver slammed the door.

  “Make time to the airport,” Mason ordered.

  Drake said, “I have a chartered plane waiting, Perry. … My gosh, you two had better take a vacation every six months. It’s taken years from you both. Della looks positively immature.”

  Mason grinned and said, “No go, Paul. She’s been kidded by experts since you’ve seen her. Spill the dope, and spill it fast.”

  “What’s this about the murder?” Drake asked.

  “I’ll tell you about that after you tell me about the Products Refining Company.”

  Drake pulled a notebook from his pocket. “There’s a shortage of twenty-five grand. It was discovered by C. Denton Rooney, the head auditor, a couple of days after Carl Moar failed to show up. Rooney accused Moar of embezzlement and wanted the company to have a warrant issued immediately, but the lawyer who handles things for the corporation is a conservative chap. There’s a nigger in the woodpile somewhere. I don’t know what it is. They’ve engaged outside accountants to make an audit of the books and hired a firm of private detectives to pick up Moar’s trail. So far, as nearly as I can understand, the detectives have drawn a blank.

  “I haven’t met Rooney myself. I talked with Jackson, who had a talk with Rooney and got no place. Jackson hates him, says he’s a pompous little bantam rooster; that he’s absolutely incompetent and holds down a four hundred and sixty dollar a month job because he married the sister of the president’s wife.”

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” Mason asked.

  “You mean Dail’s wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, she’s dead. Rooney’s wife is very much alive. She rules Rooney with an iron hand. At home he’s nothing but a doormat. At the office he’s a dictator. You know the type.”

  “Yes,” Mason said. “What have you got on him, anything?”

  “He’s buying flowers for a blonde,” Drake said dejectedly. “That’s everything we can find out about him.”

  “Who’s the blonde?”

  “A Margie Trenton, who lives in apartment 14B, at 3618 Pinerow Drive. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing,” Mason said. “She doesn’t fit into the picture anywhere, so far as I know.”

  “Well, I put a man to work on her,” Drake said, “and got nowhere. Here’s a picture snapped with a candid camera.”

  Mason looked at the enlargement printed on glossy paper, which the detective handed him, grinned and said, “I’ll say it’s candid! Where was this taken?”

  “While she was sun-bathing at the beach.”

  “She looks expensive,” Mason observed, and, after a moment, added, “and interesting.”

  Della Street, studying the picture with that skeptical appraisal which one woman gives to another, said, “She spends money on herself, and she wasn’t wearing that suit to attract sunshine so much as attention. Notice that wrist watch?”

  Mason studied the wrist watch. “Any dope on it, Paul?” he asked.

  “I can probably get some,” Drake said. “Why?”

  Mason said, “We’re going to make a play on that wrist watch, Paul, and we’re going to have to work fast.”

  “What sort of a play?” Drake asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” Mason told him, “but we’re going to get Rooney in some sort of a jam. The only way he can get himself out is by giving us the low-down on that embezzlement and, using that as ammunition, we’ll scare the Products Refining Company into keeping its mouth shut.”

  Drake said, “I can tell you what I think is the joker, Perry. The Products Refining Company, and a couple of other companies, have an interlocking directorate and a holding company. There are a lot of accounts payable and accounts receivable. Some of the subsidiary companies pay in money and others borrow that money and give notes for the indebtedness. Then they gradually retire the notes, and that money is borrowed by another company, and everybody gets dizzy.”

  “You mean they’re dodging income tax?” Mason asked.

  “Sure. The holding company juggles cash around. The Products Refining Company is in on that. I think there’s a lawyer back of the whole business somewhere, but he isn’t coming forward to claim any laurel wreaths, if you get me.”

  “I get you,” Mason said with a grin. “Now, then, if Charles Whitmore Dail tries to double-cross me, I’ll bring the income tax people down on him like a ton of bricks.”

  “You’ve got to have a lot of dope before you can do that,” Drake said.

  “And we’ll get the dope from Rooney,” Mason assured him. “We’ll pin something on Rooney.”

  “What do you mean by ‘something’?” Drake asked.

  “Hell, Paul, we haven’t time to be particular. We’ll frame him. We’ll begin with the wrist watch and smoke him out into the open.”

  “Now wait a minute, Perry,” Drake remonstrated. “This chap, Rooney, is a respectable, influential citizen. If he’s playing around with a blonde, that’s his business. If you’re going to jail all the married men who buy flowers for girl friends, there won’t be enough citizens outside the jails to pay the taxes.”

  “There aren’t anyway,” Mason said, grinning.

  “Now listen, Perry, you’re going off half-cocked. That girl may have had that wrist watch from a mother or a sweetheart. Rooney may be just a casual acquaintance. … Hell, I’ve given you a button and you’ve sewed a vest on it. I tell you you’re playing with dynamite.”

  “Well,” Mason told him, “if engineers didn’t play with dynamite, they’d never build railroads, and, after all, it’s just as true to say that the vest is on the button as that the button is on the vest.”

  “There’s no use arguing with him, Paul,” Della Street said. “His mental system is deficient in mystery vitamins, and fighting calories, and he’s out to balance his diet all at once.”

  Mason looked at his wrist watch and said to the cab driver, “Squeeze a little more speed out of it, buddy.”

  Drake said dejectedly, “This is a hell of a time to try a murder case in San Francisco, Perry. Baldwin Van Densie had a hung jury the other day which looked suspicious to the district attorney. He started men working on a couple of chaps who held out for acquittal, and it looks as though he’s going to get enough evidence to hook Van Densie on jury bribing. It’s thrown a scare into jurors and you can’t get a juryman to vote not guilty now, even on a tentative first ballot. He’s afraid someone will think he’s been bribed. The district attorney is rushing all of his important cases to trial and getting convictions in one-two-three order.”

  “That’ll blow over in a week or so,” Mason said. “It always does.”

  “Not this time it won’t,” Drake said. “The Bar Association is after Van Densie. They’re having a clean-up on all criminal lawyers. They’re investigating Van Densie’s hung juries and—”

  “They can investigate my juries as much as they damn please,” Mason said. “If I can’t get a client acquitted by using my wits, I’ll let him rot in jail.”

  “Van Densie hasn’t any wits to use,” Drake said.

  “Has anyone said anything about me?” Mason asked.

  “Well,” Drake said, “the district attorney has made some remarks about spectacular methods used by an attorney with a statewide reputation which have turned the administration of justice into a burlesque.”

  Mason grinned and said, “In other words, Paul, you’re trying to talk me out of making a fast play on that wrist watch.”

  “Well,” Drake said, “I’d hate to see you go to jail as soon as you get off the ship.”

  Mason said, “We’re fighting a combination that stacks the cards against us, Paul. Newberry, who was murdered on that ship, is really Carl Moar. His stepdaughter is in love with the son of a millionaire. And in addition to that, she’s a darn nice kid. The newspapers will be on the street with her picture this afternoon. By night, the district attorney will know that her stepfather was C. Waker Moar instead of Carl Newberry. When Rooney finds that out, he’s going to cover up his bookkeeping mistakes by heaping disgrace on a dead man. And if there’s been any juggling of funds in order to avoid income tax they’ll push a lot more dirty linen in Moar’s coffin. I’m going to beat them to the punch.”

  Della Street smiled across at the detective. “It’s no use, Paul, unless that chartered airplane falls down and goes boom, Margie Trenton is going to have a disagreeable afternoon.”

  Drake groaned and said, “And to think that fifteen minutes ago I was actually glad to see you.”

  Chapter 8

  Drake slid his car to a stop, regarded the imposing façade of the apartment house and said, “This is the place—3618 Pinerow Drive.”

  “It costs something to keep up these apartments,” Mason observed. “What have you found out about her past, Paul?”

  “Not a darn thing,” Drake says. “She passes for twenty-five, is probably around thirty, wears her clothes well and has plenty of clothes to wear. Somewhere she had some sort of a past, but so far we can’t find it. She popped up here as Marjory Trenton.”

  “Jewelry?”

  “Quite a bit.”

  “And you’re sure about the wrist watch?”

  “Yes. My man reports she’s had it just about six weeks.”

  “You haven’t been able to find out where it was purchased?”

  Drake said, “Hell, no, Perry. You had me telephone my office from the San Francisco airport. That wasn’t over three hours ago. A private detective can’t do the things the police can. In the first place, he hasn’t the organization. In the second place, he hasn’t the authority. In the third place …”

  Mason opened the car door and said, “Keep your shirt on, Paul. I know what you’re up against. That’s the problem we have to lick. A person is accused of crime, and immediately the whole law-enforcement machinery gets busy unearthing evidence to prove he’s guilty. When he tries to get evidence to prove he’s innocent, he runs up against a brick wall. The authorities are sullen, indifferent or downright hostile. He has to hire his investigators, and naturally he can’t hire a whole police force, no matter how rich he is. That’s why I have to resort to what it has pleased the district attorney to refer to as ‘spectacular practices which have made a burlesque of justice.’”

  Drake said, “As far as that’s concerned, I’m not too happy about going through with these amateur theatricals. You’re certain we’re not going to wind up in jail?”

  “Reasonably certain,” Mason replied.

  “Well, you know the law,” Drake remarked dubiously.

  “It isn’t the law,” Mason told him, “it’s human nature. As far as the law’s concerned, we’re coming out on top. There’s a legal risk, but no practical risk.”

  “That’s what you think,” Drake said.

  Mason said, “The thing I want to be dead certain of is that we haven’t mistaken the type of girl we’re dealing with.”

  “Well,” Drake assured him, as they crossed the curb to the apartment house, “times have changed a bit since a girl could take only flowers, candy and books from a boy friend, but this girl knows which side of the bread has the butter.”

  Mason pushed open the door of the lobby. “She’s in, Paul?”

  “Sure,” the detective said, “I’ve had a man covering her ever since she got in this morning, about three-thirty, to be exact. That’s the chap in the roadster across the street. He gave me the ‘go ahead’ sign.”

  Mason approached the desk. “Will you ring Miss Trenton, please,” he inquired of a bored clerk, “and tell her that a Mr. Drake is very anxious to see her at once upon an important business matter?”

  The clerk plugged in a line, and, after a moment, said, “Two gentlemen in the lobby to see you, Miss Trenton. One of them is named Drake. … What? … A business matter. … Just a moment.” He turned from the mouthpiece to ask Mason, “Exactly what sort of business did you want to see her about?”

  “About some jewelry,” Mason said.

  The clerk was supercilious. “You’ll have to be more definite,” he said.

  Mason, raising his voice, so that it would be audible to the party at the other end of the line, said, “Tell her we want to see her about some jewelry; that it’s private and a personal matter; that if she wants to have it spread all over the apartment house, that’s her business. I’m giving her a chance to keep her private affairs to herself.”

  The effect was instantaneous. The receiver made squawking noises, and the clerk said, “Very well, Miss Trenton,” jerked the plug out and said, “Go on up, apartment 14B, on the fifth floor.”

  Mason and Drake crossed to the elevator. Mason said to the colored boy at the controls, “Five. Make it snappy.” The cage shot upward. Mason led the way down the corridor and pounded with peremptory knuckles on the door of 14B. The door promptly opened a crack, to disclose two appraising blue eyes, a head of blonde hair, a full-lipped, rosebud mouth, and a slender, white hand which clutched the negligee about the throat of the wearer. “I don’t know you,” Marjory Trenton said in a tone which implied the barrier was not insurmountable.

  Mason nodded. “That’s right, you don’t.”

  “Well, what is it you want?”

  “Want us to talk it over in the corridor?” Mason asked.

  “I’m certain I don’t intend to ask you in,” she said acidly. “I’m dressing, and I haven’t the faintest idea who you are nor what you want.”

  Mason raised his voice and said, “All right, we’ll talk it over right here. This is Mr. Paul Drake. His wife had a platinum wrist watch. That watch was stolen. You have that watch in your possession. We want to talk it over. Do you want to get tough or do you want to avoid publicity?”

  Her eyes grew apprehensive. “Why,” she said, “I … I … come in, please.”

  She held the door open. Mason pushed his way into the room, followed by Paul Drake.

  “Are you detectives?” she asked, closing the door.

  Mason said, “Never mind who we are. Let’s take a look at the wrist watch.”

  Sudden suspicion flared in her eyes. “You’ll do nothing of the sort!” she said. “Don’t think for a minute you’re going to come in here with some trumped-up story, and talk me out of a wrist watch. Say, what kind of a racket is this, anyway?”

  Mason motioned to the telephone and said, “It’s okay with me. Call police headquarters. I thought we could handle it just among ourselves, but if you want to have it done formally, we can do it formally.”