The Case of the Half-Wakened Wife

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 over board! 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.

“Mine,” Benton said. “I can communicate with the pilothouse, phone the engine room, the galley, and the lookout station on the crow’s-nest as well as the bow of the ship. I can, of course, also communicate on the other system with the various staterooms and with the steward. Scott Shelby could not have called his wife from the bow of the ship.”

Mason asked, “That box up there in the bow containing a telephone holds an instrument that can call only one stateroom?”

“That’s right,” Parker Benton said. “It is on the circuit which communicates with my stateroom, with the pilothouse, the engine room, the galley, etc. It can’t reach any stateroom other than mine.”

“Therefore?” Mason asked.

“Therefore,” Benton said positively, “if Marion Shelby received any such call as she says she did, it must have come from one of the other staterooms or from the steward’s desk.”

“Well?” Mason asked.

“The other staterooms,” Benton said dryly, “were all occupied.”

“And the steward’s office?”

“The steward on duty is a man who has been with me for some time, one whom I can trust absolutely. With that number of guests aboard the yacht I felt that it would be wise to have a steward stay on duty until two o’clock in the morning. This man volunteered to sit up. I saved his life once. His loyalty to me is almost a religion with him.”

“Was he asleep?”

“He was sitting at his desk reading when the thing happened. He didn’t hear the scream, but he did hear the sound of a shot and the sound of something bumping against the side of the yacht as the current swept it on past.”

“And so?” Mason asked.

“And so,” Parker Benton said, “I find myself in a very embarrassing position. Apparently one of my guests has disappeared. His wife tells a story which on its face is impossible.”

“I don’t see anything impossible about it,” Mason said.

“She says that her husband telephoned her from the telephone station at the bow of the yacht. You can see what happened. When I was showing my guests around, I pointed out that little boxed-in telephone at the bow. The guests naturally assumed that the telephones would have been connected on one circuit. It makes a nice story but it simply doesn’t stand up.”

Mason said, “Pardon me, Benton, I know something about evidence. You haven’t proved a falsity of the wife’s story.”

“No?”

“No,” Mason said crisply.

“What’s your theory?”

“Her husband may have told her that he was telephoning from the bow of the ship. It may have been the husband who had made the mistake about the telephone circuit. He was there when you showed the guests the phone.”

“In that event,” Parker Benton said dryly, “he was telephoning from one of the other staterooms or from the steward’s office. And I know he wasn’t telephoning from the steward’s office.”

Mason said, “That makes it a most interesting problem. What became of the gun Mrs. Shelby was carrying?”

“I thought I’d better take charge of it. The officers will want it. One of the chambers holds an empty cartridge case. The others are loaded.”

Mason said, “Some persons always keep a gun loaded that way — an empty shell under the hammer of the gun.”

“We’ll leave that for the officers,” Benton said. “You seem to be sticking up for Mrs. Shelby. Has she retained you?”

“Heavens no! I’m sticking up for her because I like her, and because I know absolutely what attitude the officers will take. They’ll crucify her. That’s why I’m trying to see if there isn’t some other factor we haven’t considered.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t.”

“You’re doing everything you can to locate the body?”

“Everything. I have both boats out and we’re combing the water. There isn’t the slightest chance the man is alive and swimming. He must have gone to the bottom, and it’s more than twenty feet deep right here.”

“Was the husband dressed or undressed. In other words, did you find his clothes in the stateroom?”

Benton said, “Shelby and his wife went to bed. There are twin beds in that cabin. She is rather a sound sleeper. Sometime after she got to sleep, Scott Shelby evidently got up and dressed. The peculiar thing is he didn’t put on his socks, or his underwear, just slipped on trousers, shirt, shoes and a coat and went up on deck.”

“Hat?” Mason asked.

“That’s the strange thing. He put on his hat, but he left his underwear, his socks, his tie and scarf. Apparently he had dressed in a great hurry, but no one knows. The last anyone admits seeing him was when he turned out the light after he had got into bed. His wife says that he was morose and angry. He had fully expected that we would make a satisfactory settlement.”

“On his own terms?”

“Apparently. He considered that four thousand dollars was ridiculously small and moreover he felt that I had caused him to lose face by the manner in which I approached the subject. I haven’t all the details as yet, but that’s the general sketch as his wife gave it to me.”

“And then what happened?”

“She was sound asleep. The telephone rang. She answered it, but says she was only half awake. Her husband’s voice poured an urgent message into her ear, to come at once to the bow of the ship, to take his gun from the top of the dresser and bring it to him. He shouted at her to hurry, to get up there as quickly as possible, not to try to dress. And then she heard someone whom she thinks was her husband, grunt, as though he had been making some great effort or had been struck by a blow. She thinks there was a sound such as the impact of a blow, but she can’t be certain. She was only half awake at the time.”

“And what did she do?”

“She says that without even stopping to think, she hung up the receiver, grabbed the gun, and dashed up to the deck, attired only in her nightdress.”

Mason said, “You’ll notify the police?”

“Just as soon as I feel I can spare one of the boats from the search.”

“When will that be?”

“As soon as I reach the conclusion it’s really useless to continue a search for the body — perhaps five minutes, perhaps ten. Then I’ll send the launch over to that town and telephone the sheriff’s office. In the meantime I’m going to make certain no one leaves this yacht.”

Mason nodded.

“You haven’t any suggestions?” Benton asked.

“No.”

“And no criticisms?”

“None.”

“Thank you. This is my first experience with anything of this sort, and I wanted you to see if my plan of procedure was proper.”

“I would say it was eminently proper.”

“Thank you,” Benton said, and moved away.