The Case of the Postponed Murder

Chapter 5

A few scattering drops of rain spattered against the windshield when the car was halfway to the Yacht Club. Behind them, the stars were blotted out by great banks of clouds from which came the flash of lightning, the crash of thunder. By the time they reached the harbour, they had left the thunderstorm behind.

“Which way?” Mason asked the girl at his side.

“Turn right at this next intersection. Now go slow. You have to make another turn within a few hundred feet. It’s right along in here. It’s just by that fence. There it is. Turn here. There’s a place to park cars over on the left.”

“Where is your car parked?”

“Right over there.”

Mason said, “Wait a minute. Tell me your licence number and describe the car.”

“It’s a Ford convertible,” she said. “The licence number is WVM five, seven, four.”

Mason said, “Sit here for a few minutes.”

He switched out the lights, said, “Keep an eye on her, Della,” slid out of the car, and walked around the parked automobiles until he spotted the car Mae Farr had described. After a few minutes he came back and said, “Everything’s quiet along here. Let’s get aboard that yacht and look things over. Della, you’d better stay here.”

Della said, “Let me go. You may want to take some notes.”

“All right,” Mason said. “If you feel that way about it, come along. You show us the way, Mae.”

Mae Farr hung back, a trembling hand on Mason’s arm. “Gee,” she said, “I don’t know if I can... can face it.”

Mason said, in a low voice, “If you haven’t nerve enough to make the play, let’s not take a crack at it. I have no great desire to stick my neck out. As far as you’re concerned, it’s the only way you can save your boyfriend. Do you love him that much?”

She said very emphatically, “I don’t love him at all. He thinks he loves me. Perhaps he does. I don’t know. I put him out of my life when I left North Mesa. I was never cut out to be the wife of a rancher.”

Mason looked at her curiously.

She went on to say calmly, “I’m doing this for him because I think I owe him that much. I’d much prefer that he stayed home and minded his own business, but he did what he could to help me.”

Mason said quietly, “Do you think he shot Wentworth, Mae?”

Mae Farr tightened her grip on Mason’s arm. “I don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes I think... No, he wouldn’t lie about it.”

“All right,” Mason said. “I can’t hold your hand through the mess that’s going to come next. How about it? Do you want to go through with the thing the way I suggested or telephone the police and give them the whole story?”

“The way you suggested,” she said quietly, “but give me a minute to get my breath. I hate to go back in that cabin.”

Mason cupped his hand under her elbow. “If you’re going to do it, get started. If you’re not going to do it, say so.”

“I’m going to do it,” she said.

Mason nodded to Della Street. The three of them walked from the parking lot down to the long float where a miscellaneous assortment of boats were crowded into U-shaped stalls, a tangle of masts stretching up to where the edges of advancing clouds obscured the starlight.

“That thundershower’s catching up with us,” Mason said.

No one answered. Their feet sounded on the cross boards of the float. A vagrant breeze, springing up, sent little ripples of water slapping against the sides of the boats.

Mason asked, “Where is this yacht?”

“Down toward the far end,” she said.

They walked on. At intervals they passed yachts in which there were lights. From some of them came the sounds of merriment, from one, the tinkle of a guitar. From another, a girl’s voice, sharp with indignation, asked someone where he thought he got off, told him he was no gentleman but a four flusher, a cad, and a cheapskate.

Mason said, “Well, where the deuce is this yacht?”

“It shouldn’t be much farther.”

“Do you know it when you see it?”

“Of course. I’ve... I’ve cruised on it quite frequently.”

“A big one?”

“Uh huh. Pretty big, about fifty feet.”

“Motor and sail or just motor?”

“A motor sailer. It’s an old timer, what Penn called a ‘character’ boat, but the whole thing is the last word. Lots of electronic equipment and even what they call an Iron Mike.”

“What’s an Iron Mike?” Della asked.

“An automatic steering thing,” Mae Farr said. “You switch the thing on, and it’s connected in some way with the compass and the steering wheel. You set the course you want the yacht to travel, and it never gets off that course. As soon as it starts to veer, the compass sets an automatic mechanism into action. I don’t know the details, but it works perfectly.”

Mason said, “Well, there are three boats between here and the end of the landing. Is it one of those three?”

Mae Farr stood stock still, staring incredulously. “No,” she said, “it isn’t.”

“You mean we’ve passed it?” Mason asked.

“We couldn’t have — but I think we’ve come too far.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “let’s go back. Keep your mind on what you’re doing. Watch for the yacht carefully.”

They walked slowly back along the landing until they could once more see the parking lot. Mae Farr said, in a half whisper, “It isn’t here.”

“All right,” Mason said. “Let’s find out where it was. Can you remember what boats were next to it?”

“No,” she said, “I don’t think I can. When I came down, I just walked along here until I saw it.”

“Then it wasn’t near any of the large yachts?” Mason asked.

“No. I remember it was between two rather small yachts. Oh, wait a minute. I think one of them was the Atina.”

Mason said, “Okay, let’s look for the Atina.”

They walked slowly back toward the end of the float, and Mason said, “There’s the Atina just ahead. There’s a vacant space next to it.”

Mae Farr stood staring, then turned to Mason. “I remember now,” she said, “that it was here. I remember that water barrel near the end of the slip there. She’s gone.”

Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Is there a watchman here?” he asked.

“Yes, he lives in that houseboat. I don’t know what they have him for except to answer the telephone and take out messages. I think they lock the place up around midnight. You know, that gate that we drove through. The club members have keys.”

Heavy raindrops began to spatter down on the landing and in the water.

Mason said, “All right. That thundershower is going to catch up with us. Get back to your car. I’ll drive into town. You drive right behind me. Now, how about this place where Anders tossed the gun? Do you think you can find that place?”

“Yes, I think so. I know about where it was.”

“All right,” Mason said. “When we come to that place, blink your headlights on and off. We’ll stop. I have a flashlight. We’ll get out and pick up that gun.”

“But what could have happened to the Pennwent?” she asked.

“Only one thing,” Mason said. “It was moved and probably under its own power.”

“Then that means — that someone — would have had to be aboard.”

“Exactly,” Mason said.

“Who could it have been?”

Mason stared at her with narrowed eyes. “How about this boyfriend of yours?” he asked. “Does he know anything about engines or yachts?”

“He... Yes, I think he does.”

“What makes you think so?”

“When he was going through college, he worked one summer up in Alaska on some fishing boats, and I think he’s been on at least one cruise from San Francisco to Turtle Bay.”

Mason said, “All right. Let’s get out of here. We’ll talk that over later.”

He piloted Mae Farr over to her car, said, “You’d better drive out first and keep the lead until we hit the main boulevard back to town. If anyone stops you, I’ll do the talking. After we hit the main boulevard, I’ll take the lead. If anything’s going to break, it will happen before then. Remember to blink your lights when we come to the place where Anders threw the gun.”

“I will,” she promised.

“Feel all right? Think you can drive the car?”

“Yes, of course.”

“All right. Get going.”

The rain was falling more rapidly now, the flashes of lightning were more brilliant, and, at intervals, thunder crashed.

Mason and Della Street climbed back into Mason’s car. The lawyer started the motor, switched on the lights, and followed Mae Farr out of the parking place, the windshield wiper swishing back and forth monotonously.

“Think she’s lying?” Della asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “She’s a woman. You should know more about it than I do. What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Della admitted, “but it seems that she’s keeping something back.”

Mason nodded absently, watching the red glow of the tail light on the machine ahead. “The more I think of it,” he said slowly, “the more I’m relieved that I didn’t get aboard that yacht.”

Della said, “I suppose there’s no use pointing out to you that you were taking an awful chance.”

“No use whatever,” Mason said with a grin. “I have to take chances. When I take on a case, my duty and loyalty are one hundred percent to my client. I do everything in my power to get at the facts, and sometimes I have to cut corners.”

“I know,” Della said quietly.

Mason glanced at her. “That’s no sign that you have to stick your neck out,” he said.

Apparently Della considered the statement called for no comment.

They drove along in silence for five or six minutes until they reached the boulevard. Then Mason swept on past Mae Farr’s car. Della Street asked, “Want me to keep an eye on her headlights?”

“No, I can watch them in the rear view mirror,” Mason said.

The rain was lashing down in torrents. Bolts of lightning zigzagging across the sky illuminated the landscape with weird greenish flashes followed almost instantly by deafening crashes of thunder.

After some fifteen minutes the lights behind Mason blinked on and off. The lawyer pulled his car over to the side of the road and stopped. Mason turned up the collar of his coat against the rain and sloshed back to where Mae Farr’s car was standing with idling motor, the windshield wiper clacking back and forth. The headlights showed the falling raindrops, turned them into golden globules.

Mae Farr rolled down the window as Mason came abreast of the car. “I think it was right along in here,” she said.

“How positive are you?”

“Pretty positive. I remember that hot dog stand across the road behind us. I think we’d passed it just about fifty yards.”

Mason looked back at the white building. “It’s dark now,” he said. “Was there a light in it then?”

“Yes.”

“What did he do?” Mason asked. “Stand here and toss the gun, or did he throw it, or did he just open the door of the car and drop it out?”

“No. He got out, stood by the car, held the muzzle of the gun in his hand, and threw it as far as he could throw it.”

“Over that fence?”

“Yes.”

Mason stared for a moment at the ditch which had already commenced to collect drainage water, and said, “All right. Wait here,” walked back to his car, took a flashlight from the glove compartment, climbed over the barbed wire fence, and started searching through the wet grass, playing the beam of his flashlight around in circles. Whenever other cars approached, he switched out the flashlight and remained motionless until they had passed.

At the end of fifteen minutes, with the batteries in his flashlight running down, Mason climbed back over the fence, fought his way up the slippery embankment at the side of the road, and said to Mae Farr, “It’s no use. I can’t find it. I’m afraid to hunt any longer.”

“I’m quite certain it was right near here.”

“Well, we’ll know more in the morning.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Where have you been staying?”

“At the address I gave you, the Palmcrest Rooms.”

“And we have your telephone number?”

“Yes. I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Mason, that I tried to deceive you. You know, about telling you that I was Sylvia and...”

“You’ll have a lot of time to make those apologies,” Mason said, “when I’m not standing out in the rain listening to them. I feel a lot more forgiving when cold rainwater isn’t dribbling down the back of my neck and when my feet are dry.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Mason said, “You have Della Street’s telephone number.”

“No. We called the office and...”

“It’s all the same,” Mason said. “There’s a day number and a night number. The night number is Della Street’s apartment. I have an unlisted telephone. She’s the only one who has my number. You drive on back to town. Go to the Palmcrest Rooms and go to bed just as though nothing had happened. If anyone drags you out of bed and starts asking questions, don’t answer. Don’t say a word. Don’t admit, don’t deny, and don’t explain. Insist that you be allowed to call me. I’ll do all the talking.”

“And if... well, suppose no one does say anything?”

Mason said, “Get up, have breakfast, and get in touch with me in the morning. And for God’s sake, keep out of trouble between now and then.”

“What do you mean?”

Mason said, “Lay off of Harold Anders. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut.”

She placed her hand on his. “Thank you so much, Mr. Mason,” she said. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”

“That also can keep,” Mason said. “Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Mason.”

The lawyer turned and his wet feet pumped water with every step back to the automobile.

Della opened the car door for him. “Find it?” she asked.

Mason shook his head.

Mae Farr started her car, pulled around them, sounded her horn in two quick blasts by way of farewell, and accelerated down the black ribbon of road.

Della Street opened her purse and took out a small flask of whiskey.

“Where did this come from?” Mason asked.

“Out of my private cellar,” Della said. “I figured you might need it. Gosh, Chief, you’re soaking wet.”

Mason offered her the flask. She shook her head and said, “You need it more than I do, Chief. Drink it down.”

Mason tilted the flask to his lips, then handed it back.

“Better take some, Della.”

“No, thanks. I’m fine. You certainly were out there long enough.”

“I wanted to find that gun,” Mason said.

“Think she remembered just where it was?”

“She should have. That hot dog stand was her landmark.”

“It’s hard to find anything like that in the dark.”

“I know,” Mason said, “but I made a pretty thorough search, covered an area seventy-five paces wide by seventy-five long, and what I mean is, I covered it, darn near every inch of it.”

“Gosh, you certainly are sopping.”

Mason started the car and threw it into gear. “Well,” he said, “that’s that.”

“Make anything of it?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “not yet. That whiskey certainly was a lifesaver, Della.”

“Where do we go now?”

“To a telephone,” Mason said, “and call Hal Anders at the Fairview Hotel.”

They drove for miles in silence. The rain became a drizzle, then finally stopped. They found a telephone in an all night restaurant on the outskirts of the city, and Mason called the Fairview Hotel. “I know it’s rather late,” he said, “but I’d like to have you ring Mr. Anders. I believe he’s in room three nineteen.”

“Was he expecting a call?” the clerk asked.

“It will be quite all right if you ring him,” Mason said. “It’s a matter of business.”

There was an interval of silence, and then the clerk said, “I’m very sorry, but Mr. Anders doesn’t answer.”

“Perhaps he’s in the lobby,” Mason said. “You might have him paged.”

“No, he isn’t here. There’s no one in the lobby. I haven’t seen Mr. Anders since early this evening.”

“You know him?”

“Yes. I didn’t think he was in, but I rang his room to make sure.”

“Is his key there?”

“No.”

“Ring the room again, will you, please? Push down hard on the bell button. He may be asleep.”

Again there was an interval of silence. Then the clerk said, “No, sir, he doesn’t answer. I’ve called repeatedly.”

Mason said, “Thanks.”

He hung up as the clerk started to say, “Any message?”

Mason beckoned Della Street from the automobile. They had a cup of hot coffee at the lunch counter. “Any luck?” she asked.

“None whatever,” Mason said. “He wasn’t in.”

“Wasn’t in?”

“No.”

“But you told him particularly...”

“I know,” Mason said grimly. “He wasn’t in. I think I’ll have some ham and eggs, Della. How about it?”

“Sold,” she said.

Mason ordered the ham and eggs. While they were waiting for their order, they sat side by side in silence, sipping coffee. Della Street’s eyes were frankly troubled. Mason’s profile showed patience, grim determination, and thoughtful concentration.