The Case of the Postponed Murder

Chapter 4

Mason, relaxed from a hot shower, clad in thin, silk pyjamas and sprawled out in a reclining chair, was immersed in a mystery story. Ominous thunderheads, which had been gathering all afternoon over the high mountains to the north and east, had begun to drift toward the city, and the rumble of distant thunder became increasingly audible as Mason turned the pages of the book.

Abruptly the telephone rang.

Mason, without taking his eyes from the book, stretched out his arm and completed a groping search by closing his fingers around the instrument. He lifted it and said, “Mason speaking. What is it?”

Della Street’s voice said, “I think you’d better come down here, Chief.”

“Where?”

“My apartment.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I have a couple of rather excited clients here.”

“You’ve talked with them?”

“Yes.”

“And think I’d better come?”

“If you can.”

“Okay, Della. Be there in fifteen minutes. Remember, apartment walls are thin. Excited voices always attract attention. Put a muzzle on them until I get there.”

She said, “The place is under gag rule right now. I figured you’d want to hear the details firsthand.”

“Good girl,” Mason said. “I’ll be right over.”

He telephoned the night man at the garage to have his car waiting, dashed into his clothes, and beat his promised schedule by a minute and five seconds.

In Della Street’s apartment he found his secretary clothed for the street, a raincoat over her arm, her hat on, a shorthand notebook and a purse under her arm.

Seated side by side on the davenport across from her, looking very white faced and big eyed, were Harold Anders and Mae Farr.

Mason nodded his approval at Della Street’s preparedness and said to Anders, “Well, I see you’ve found her.”

Mae Farr said, “You mean that you really did know all along?”

“About you being Mae and not Sylvia?” Mason asked.

She nodded.

Mason said casually, “Of course. That was all that interested me in the case in the first place. What’s the trouble?”

Anders started to say something. She placed her hand on his forearm and said, “Let me tell him, Hal. Penn Wentworth is dead.”

“What happened?” Mason said.

“Someone shot him.”

“Where?”

“On his yacht, the Pennwent.”

“How do you know?” Mason asked.

“I was there.”

“Who killed him?”

Her eyes faltered.

“I didn’t,” Anders said.

“No,” she said hastily, “Hal didn’t.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did it happen?”

She said, “I was struggling with him, and someone leaned down through the open skylight in the cabin and shot him.”

Masons eyes narrowed. “You looked up?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“See anyone?”

“No. The flash and the shot made me a little goofy, I guess. I didn’t see— Well, I could see a shadowy figure. That was all.”

Mason, frowning, stared steadily at her.

“You see,” she explained hastily, “it was light there in the cabin. This figure was standing against the darkness up above. The skylight was open because it was so airless and — well, I had my hands full. Penn was trying to... trying to—”

“Okay,” Mason said. “You don’t need to draw me a diagram. What happened?”

“I’m not certain whether it was Penn who said something, but I heard someone say something. I couldn’t tell just what the words were, and Penn looked up.”

“What was your position?” Mason asked.

“I was twisted around. My hips were on the cushion in one of the seats in the cabin. His knee was in my stomach. His right hand was trying to choke me. I had twisted my shoulders around so I could bite at his wrist and keep him from getting a good hold on my throat. Both of my hands were clawing at his bare arm.”

“Bare?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“Did he have any clothes on?”

“Just his underwear.”

“What happened?”

“Someone called something, and I think Wentworth must have looked up at the skylight, and then... then bang, it happened.”

“Kill him instantly?”

“He rolled off the cushioned seat, doubled up with his hands over his face, and ran aft out of the cabin.”

“Then what?” Mason asked.

“I looked up and could see someone moving. I heard steps on the deck. I ran back to the door that goes to the after cabin. I called out to Penn to ask if he was hurt. He didn’t answer. I tried to open the door. He must have been lying against it. I couldn’t push it open.”

“It opened into the after cabin?”

“That’s right.”

“Then what?” Mason asked.

“Then I ran up on deck.”

“Where did you meet Anders?”

“On the deck,” she said, shifting her eyes quickly.

Mason scowled and glanced at Anders.

Anders said, “Here, let me tell this, Mae.”

“By all means,” Mason said.

“I distrusted this man, Wentworth. I thought he might know where Mae was or that Mae might try to get in touch with him. I went down to the Yacht Club where he keeps his boat.”

“So you found her?”

“Yes. About nine thirty she drove up to the Yacht Club.”

“What happened?” Mason asked.

“She left the car and went aboard, and I... well, I...”

“Go ahead,” Mason said impatiently. “What did you do?”

“I lost my nerve,” Anders admitted. “I thought she’d gone aboard voluntarily and... and that perhaps she’d thank me to keep out of her business.”

“A wise assumption,” Mason said. “Let’s have the rest of it.”

“Well, I sat there, feeling like a heel, lower than a snake’s belly, and—”

“For the love of Mike,” Mason interrupted. “I know how you felt. I know the thoughts that were going through your mind. I want facts! We may have to move fast. What happened? Give it to me straight from the shoulder and fast.”

“I heard Mae scream,” Anders said. “I jumped out of the car and started toward the yacht. She screamed again. The yacht was tied to a float. There’s a walk running the length of the float, and then a lot of U shaped stalls...”

“I know all about that,” Mason said. “You don’t need to go into those details.”

“No, but it’s important,” Anders insisted. “You see, Mr. Mason, my eyes were blinded by watching the lights on the yacht, and I was running fast—”

“—and he fell in,” Mae Farr interposed.

“I fell in,” Anders said.

Mason looked from one to the other and said grimly, “The hell you did.”

“That’s right. I fell in, and it must have been just at that moment when the shot was fired. You see, I didn’t know anything about it. It happened while I was in the water.”

“You swim?” Mason asked.

“Oh yes. I’m a good swimmer.”

“A champion swimmer,” Mae Farr amended.

“Well, I’ve won a few events, no big competition, just interscholastic stuff.”

Mason looked at his dry clothes and said, “What happened to your clothes?”

“I changed them,” Anders said, “while Mae was telephoning your secretary.”

“Where?”

“In the car.”

“Carried an extra suit with you in the car?” Mason inquired skeptically.

Anders said, “I was — wearing overalls.”

“Don’t you see?” Mae Farr explained. “He was trying to shadow Penn, and he thought he needed a disguise. Penn had already seen him, you know. So Hal put on some overalls and one of those round caps that workmen wear, and—”

“And your other clothes were in the car?” Mason interrupted.

Anders nodded.

“Did you have a gun in that car?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“Where is it now?”

“I— We threw it away.”

“Where?”

“Driving back from the Yacht Club.”

“When?”

“About thirty or forty minutes ago.”

Mason shifted his eyes to Mae Farr. “You called the police?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Why not?”

“Because no one except Hal knew I was aboard the yacht, and... well, finding Hal there with his clothes all wet, it would have been impossible.”

“Why did you go aboard the yacht?” Mason asked.

“I wanted to try and make Penn listen to reason.”

“You’d tried before, hadn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Get anywhere?”

“No — but you don’t understand.”

Mason said, “All right then. Go ahead and make me understand.”

“Penn,” she said, “wanted to... Well, he wanted me.”

“I gathered as much,” Mason said.

“But he was willing to do anything. You know, he wanted to marry me.”

“And you said ‘no’?”

She nodded.

“Ever say ‘yes’?” Mason asked.

“No,” she said, with an indignant shake of her head.

Mason said, “Well, you’ve made a sweet mess of it now.”

“I know,” she said, blinking her eyes rapidly.

“Cut it,” Mason ordered sternly. “Don’t start bawling.”

“I’m not going to,” she said. “I don’t cry. Tears are a confession of weakness, and I hate weakness. I hate it.”

“That vehemently?” Mason asked.

“A lot more than that.”

Mason noticed that Anders seemed distinctly uncomfortable.

“Who knew you were going down to the yacht to see Wentworth?” Mason asked.

“No one.”

“No one at all?”

“No.”

“Where’s your car?”

Sudden dismay showed in Mae’s eyes. “My God,” she said, “we left mine down there. Hal rushed me over to his car and—”

“Your car or one you’d rented?” Mason asked.

“One I’d rented from a drive yourself agency,” Anders said.

Mason’s eyes narrowed. “All right,” he said, “let’s get going. We drive back to that Yacht Club. You go aboard the yacht. Disarray your clothes the way they were during your struggle... How was this struggle? Any bruises?”

“Good Lord, there should be. We fought enough.”

“Let’s take a look,” Mason said.

She hesitated for a moment, glanced at Anders.

Mason said, “Forget it. This is no time to be coy. Go in the bathroom if you have to, but I want to see those bruises.”

Mae took hold of her skirt on the left side and pulled it up midway on her thigh. “There’s one,” she said.

Mason nodded. “Any more?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go in the bathroom with her,” Mason said to Della Street. “Take a good look. I want to be damn certain she has bruises.”

As the girls went into the bathroom, Mason stared at Harold Anders and said, “Your story stinks.”

“It’s the truth.”

“It stinks just the same,” Mason said. “What are you holding back?”

Anders said, “Mae thinks I’m weak. She hates me for it.”

“Are you?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“What makes her think you’re weak?”

“Because I hung around there carrying a gun. She said a real man would have stepped out of the car and grabbed her before she’d gone aboard the yacht, or followed her aboard the yacht, or gone aboard and given Wentworth a damn good beating.”

Mason said moodily, “She may be right at that.”

The bathroom door opened. Mason had a glimpse of Mae Farr in flesh coloured underwear struggling back into her dress. Through the crack in the door, she saw Mason’s eyes on her and said, “Do you want to look, Mr. Mason?”

Mason glanced at Della Street. “Any luck?” he asked.

“Lots,” she said. “She’s been mauled all right.”

“No,” Mason said to Mae Farr. “Get your dress on.”

Della Street closed the bathroom door. Mason started pacing the floor. When Mae Farr emerged from the bathroom, Mason said, in a low voice, “All right, you two. Anders, you go to your hotel, have a chat with the night clerk, get him to notice the time. Tell him you can’t sleep. Stick around the lobby. Mae, you’re going back down to that Yacht Club with me. You’re going aboard the yacht. After looking the situation over to make damn certain there’s nothing that’s going to prove you a liar, you start screaming for help. You’ll run up on deck with your clothes disarrayed. Scream and keep on screaming until someone notices you. Then you tell your story.”

“You mean about coming here and...”

“Certainly not,” Mason said. “You were struggling with Wentworth. Someone shot him. He ran into the after cabin. You tried to follow. You were half unconscious from the struggle. You tried the door. His body was jammed against it so you couldn’t open it. You tried and tried. You don’t know how long — it seemed forever. Finally, you succumbed to hysteria and began screaming for help. Think you can do that?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Well,” Mason said, “it’s the only way you can get yourself out of the mess. Your car’s down there. Your fingerprints are all over the cabin. I don’t suppose you thought to wipe your fingerprints off, did you?”

She shook her head.

“Wentworth in his underwear. There are probably fingernail marks on his arm. Your clothes are torn and your body is bruised. The police won’t take more than two guesses to figure out what he was doing.”

“But why shouldn’t I try and get out of it?” she asked. “Why shouldn’t I wipe my fingerprints off the knobs, get my car, and...”

“Because they’ll start looking for the woman in the case, and then start looking for her boyfriend,” Mason said. “They’ll trace Anders and pin a first degree murder rap on him. As it is now, they’ll only ask for second degree or manslaughter, and if worst comes to worst, and you can make the story of that struggle sound realistic enough, we can get a justifiable homicide out of it. But you two try to cover the thing up, and here’s what’ll happen: The D.A. will claim you’d forged a cheque, that Wentworth was holding it over you, that you went down prepared to offer him almost anything to square the rap.”

“They can see,” she said, “that I was fighting for my honor.”

Mason stared steadily at her. “They can see it,” he said ominously, “unless they can prove that you’d already been his mistress, and if they can prove that, God help you.”

She stared steadily at the lawyer, her face utterly devoid of expression.

“All right,” Mason said, “let’s get started. We’ve wasted too much time already.”

“How about me?” Anders asked. “Do I stay at the hotel until — the police come?”

“No,” Mason said, “but stay there until I call. I want to look the thing over. I’ll telephone you before the police can possibly nab you. Then, probably, the thing for you to do will be to go to another hotel, register under an assumed name, and lie low, pretending that you were planning on taking other steps to get in touch with Mae, and didn’t want anyone to know what they were. I’ll give you a ring. Come on, Mae. Let’s go. Della, I’m playing with dynamite. You can keep out of it if you want to.”

“I don’t want to,” Della Street said, “not if I can possibly help.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “Come along.”