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"I don't know. I don't think so."
"Now, Sylvia came out of the casino and went right to the rail?"
"That's right… This man told her Frank was aboard and to beat it. Then she went right to the rail."
"And from the rail she went right down to the speed boat?"
"Yes."
"Now, who was this man?"
"I don't know. It was someone who'd followed Sylvia up from the casino. He stuck his head out of the door told her Frank was aboard and for her to beat it. Then he ducked back into the door and Sylvia crossed to the rail."
"You didn't see this man?"
"Only as a dim figure popping his head out of the door from the casino."
"Light was streaming through that door?"
"No, it opens from stairs and a curtained corridor. There was very little light."
"How was Sylvia dressed?"
"She had on a dark suit with a three-quarter length jacket."
"And a hat?"
"Yes."
"That was the same way she was dressed when you first saw her in the casino?"
"Yes."
"Now look here," Mason said, "she must have worn a coat over here."
"She has a very nice fur coat that…"
"I know she has," Mason said. "Now here's what I'm getting at: she must have checked that coat. Pretty soon the officers are going to come aboard. They'll get the names and addresses of everyone on the ship. After a while they'll let people go home. Then the check girl will report that someone has left a very valuable fur coat. The police will put two and two together. If Sylvia claims that fur coat, she'll be walking into a trap. If she doesn't claim it, it will be equivalent to a declaration of guilt. The police will trace that coat, and Sylvia will be in a sweet mess. Now do you suppose…"
She interrupted him and said, "Yes, I could go down to the girl at the checking counter, tell her I'd lost my coat check, give her a dollar tip and…"
"Could you describe the fur coat well enough to get it?" Mason asked.
"Yes. I bought the coat for Sylvia. There's a tag on the inside of the pocket with Sylvia's name printed on it and the number of an insurance policy. I could tell the girl I was Sylvia, and get the coat."
Mason surveyed the full-fleshed arms in rather critical appraisal. She nodded and said, "Yes, I can wear the coat. I wouldn't try to button it."
"That," Mason told her, "will leave your coat unaccounted for. You checked it?"
"Well, yes, but I can go down and present my check, get my coat, park it somewhere, then go back and make the stall about Sylvia's coat and go ashore with both coats. I'll go…"
"No," Mason interrupted, "you can't do that. The girl in the check room might remember you, and you haven't enough time to wait more than a minute or two in between trips. It's too dangerous."
"There's no other way out," she said.
"Give me your check," Mason told her, "and wait here."
She opened her handbag, handed the lawyer a printed oblong pasteboard, and remarked, "I like the way you're handling things. I'm going to show my gratitude in a substantial way."
"Yes," the lawyer told her, "you can send me pies and cakes while I'm in jail."
She stared at him with speculative eyes and said, "Apparently you don't mean that as a wise-crack."
"I don't," he told her. "When they check up on me, I'm going to be in a spot. Sylvia left me holding the sack. You wait here."
He walked down the passageway to the checking room, pushed the numbered pasteboard across the counter to the girl on duty and dropped a fifty-cent piece into her outstretched hand. "My wife's seasick," he explained. "Get me that coat in a rush."
"Seasick! Why there's hardly any motion…"
Mason made a grimace and said, "She thinks she's seasick. Suppose you go argue with her?"
The girl's laughter rang out merrily as she handed Mason the coat. Her brown eyes swept the lawyer's broad shoulders and clean-cut features in swift appraisal. "We hope you won't stop coming out," she said, "just because your wife gets seasick."
"I won't," Mason assured her, and took the coat to Matilda Benson. "Here you are," he said. "I'll leave it to you to get the other coat. You may have to…" He broke off as from the outer darkness came the sound of a speed boat roaring through the fog. "That," he said, "sounds like the officers. We'll have to hurry."
"Shall I give them my right name?"
"Not unless you have to," he told her, "but be careful. They'll probably want to see some identification, driver's license or something of that sort. You can tell what you're up against by getting a place near the last of the line-up. There are probably quite a few men and women on board who'd just as soon not give their right names. It'll be a tedious process weeding them out. Along toward the last, the officers may get tired and let down the bars a bit. Be careful you don't get caught in a lie."
She tilted her head back, squared her jaw and said with calm confidence, "I've told some whoppers in my time and made them stick. You'd better go out that door to the left, because I'm going out through the door to the right."
Mason said, "Happy landing," and walked out through the door to the left, into the casino. He was half way to the roulette tables when a man in a rubber raincoat which still glistened with fog and spray, called out, "Attention, everybody! A murder's been committed aboard this ship. No one's going to be allowed to leave. You will all kindly remain inside and not try to leave this room. If you'll co-operate with us, it won't be long. If you don't co-operate, you'll be here all night.
CHAPTER 7
PERRY MASON stood near the end of the long line which serpentined its way toward a table where two officers sat taking names, addresses, and checking credentials.
The deserted gambling tables were an incongruous reminder of the gaiety which had been stilled by death. Laughter, the rattle of chips, and the whirring roulette balls no longer assailed the ears. The only sounds which broke the silence were the gruff voices of the officers, the frightened replies of the patrons, and the slow, rhythmic creaking of the old ship as it swayed on the lazy swells of the fog-covered ocean.
Mason surveyed the line in frowning anxiety. He could find no trace of Matilda Benson, yet every person aboard the ship had been mustered into that line. It was certain that no one could have gone down the companionway without presenting a written pass signed by the officers who were conducting the examination.
In the executive offices, men were busy with the details incident to murder cases. Photographs had been taken showing the location and position of the body. The furniture was being dusted with special powders, designed to bring out latent fingerprints. Men came and went from the entrance to the offices, and the frightened line of shuffling spectators turned anxious faces to regard these hurrying officers with morbid curiosity.
A man emerged from the L-shaped hallway, approached the line and called out, "Where's Perry Mason, the lawyer?"
Mason held up his hand.
"This way," the officer said, turned on his heel, and strode back through the door. Mason followed him. He could hear the sound of voices as he walked down the corridor, voices which held the deep rumble of ominous interrogation. Then he heard the sound of Charlie Duncan's voice, raised in high-pitched, vehement denial.
Mason followed the officer through the door into the outer office. Grim-faced officers were interrogating Duncan. As Mason entered the room, Duncan was saying "…of course I had difficulties with him. I didn't like the way he was ru