The Case of the Postponed Murder

Chapter 6

Mason entered his office to find Paul Drake and Della Street in conference.

“Hello, gang,” he said, scaling his hat onto the bust of Blackstone by the door. “Why the gloom?”

Drake, looking at the lawyer with eyes that were expressionless, said, “Wentworth is dead.”

“The deuce he is,” Mason observed cheerfully. “Well, that would seem to simplify matters as far as Mae Farr is concerned.”

“Or complicate them,” the detective said.

Mason walked over to his desk, sat down on the swivel chair, flashed a swift glance at Della, and received by way of reply a cautious wink.

“Well,” Mason said, “let’s take a look through the mail. Anything important, Della?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.”

Mason riffled through the stack of letters and shoved them to one side of his desk. “Well, Paul,” he said, “what’s the dope? How did Wentworth die?”

“Brain haemorrhage,” Drake said.

Mason raised his eyebrows.

“Caused,” Drake continued, “by a bullet that went into the right side of the head, struck some of the blood vessels so that there was profuse bleeding, and apparently caused a slow haemorrhage into the substance of the brain, which was the cause of death.”

“Death instantaneous?” Mason asked.

“Apparently not.”

“Who did it?”

“No one knows.”

“When?”

“Sometime last night. They haven’t established the exact time.”

Mason turned to Della Street so that his face was partially concealed from the detective. “Did you notify our client?” he asked.

“I gave her a ring,” Della said. “She wasn’t available.”

“Where is she?”

“No one knows. She doesn’t answer the telephone at her apartment.”

“Now that,” Mason said slowly, “is something.”

“You don’t know the half of it yet,” Della said significantly, with a slight gesture of her head toward Paul Drake.

“Okay, Paul,” Mason said, “let’s have the other half. You do all the talking for a while, and after I have all the facts I’ll do a little thinking.”

Drake coiled himself up in the big leather chair and fed three sticks of chewing gum into his mouth. His eyes remained veiled and expressionless. The rapid motion of his jaws as he chewed the gum into a wad furnished the only indication of any nervousness.

“Wentworth,” he said, “has a yacht, the Pennwent. It’s around fifty feet, rather an elaborate affair, with lots of gadgets, including an Iron Mike. In case you don’t know about an Iron Mike, Perry, it’s a device by which the skipper of a boat can link the steering mechanism up with the compass. It enables the ship to be placed on a certain compass course and kept on that course with a very small margin of deviation. The manufacturers claim that a boat is steered by that mechanism a lot more accurately than is possible when there’s a man at the wheel.”

“Uh huh,” Mason said. “I know something about them. Go ahead, Paul.”

“About daylight,” Drake said, “somewhere off San Diego, the Coast Guard picked this yacht up.”

“Why the Coast Guard?” Mason asked.

“Well, it’s quite a story,” Drake said. “A tanker, headed up the coast, had to change course to avert a collision. This yacht ignored signals, seemed to have no lookout aboard, and was running full speed. The skipper of the tanker was considerably peeved. He radioed in a report. A Coast Guard cutter that happened to be cruising in the vicinity picked it up. An hour or so later it saw the yacht ploughing along through the water. The cutter signalled it without getting any response, and finally, by a clever piece of navigation, managed to get a man aboard. He found Wentworth’s body in the main cabin. Apparently, Wentworth had tried to stop the flow of blood without success. He’d been able to get to the after cabin and returned to the main cabin. He finally keeled over, became unconscious, and died.”

“Police find the bullet that did the job?” Mason asked, his voice showing only a casual interest.

“I don’t know,” Drake said. “I haven’t a whole lot of details.”

Mason whistled a few bars of a tune, drummed with his fingertips on the edge of his desk. “No one else aboard the yacht, Paul?”

“No.”

“Any evidence that anyone had been aboard the yacht?”

“Apparently not. They will, of course, take fingerprints and then they’ll know a lot more about it — perhaps.”

“Any estimates on how long he’d lived after the shot was fired?” Mason asked.

“Not yet. Anyway, long enough to wander around a little.”

“Find the gun?”

“No.”

“Where did he keep the yacht?” Mason asked. “Do you know?”

“Yes. He had a berth at the Yacht Club. It would have taken him about twenty minutes to have cleared the harbour from that berth.”

Mason continued to drum with the tips of his fingers on the edge of the desk. Della Street avoided his eyes. Paul Drake, chewing gum rapidly, kept his eyes fastened on the lawyer.

At length Drake asked, “What do I do, Perry? Call the whole thing off or stay on the job?”

“Stay on the job,” Mason said.

“Doing what?”

“Getting all the dope you can about that death. Any chance it was suicide?”

“Apparently not,” Drake said. “The police don’t think so.”

“Of course, if he lived long enough to move from cabin to cabin,” Mason pointed out, “he could also have tossed the gun overboard.”

“There were no powder burns,” Drake said, “and the angle of the shot pretty well rules out suicide.”

Mason said, “I want to know a lot about this man, Wentworth, Paul. It may be important. I want to know about his friends and associates, his life, his liberties, and his pursuit of what he probably thought was happiness.”

“I’m getting quite a bit of that stuff lined up,” Drake said. “Part of it was routine that I handled in connection with the job I was on. Some of it is stuff I can get pretty easily, and I figured you’d want it.”

“How much of it do you have available now?” Mason asked.

“Not a great deal. He’d been married, and was having some domestic difficulties.”

“No divorce?” Mason asked.

“No, that was the rub. His wife is part Mexican — beautiful, olive complexion, streamlined figure, snappy black eyes.”

“And a hell of a temper,” Mason said.

“And a hell of a temper,” Drake agreed. “They separated over a year ago. They couldn’t come to terms on a property settlement.”

“Why didn’t she go to court and let the court give her a slice?” Mason asked.

“Wentworth,” Drake interrupted, “was too smart for that racket.”

“Lots smarter men than Wentworth have got hooked,” Mason said.

“But not such fast workers,” Drake said. “Wentworth knew his way around. Apparently, Juanita wanted to marry a man by the name of Eversel, Sidney Eversel. He cuts quite a wide swath. He hangs around with the yachting crowd, has a boat of his own, and takes in all the Catalina cruises and all that jazz. Juanita met him on a club cruise to Catalina. Evidently, it was something of a binge. Juanita became impulsive, and Wentworth objected. After that, Juanita and Wentworth didn’t jibe so well. Two months later they separated.”

“Had she been seeing Eversel in the meantime?” Mason asked.

Drake shrugged his shoulders and said, “Wentworth employed detectives. Juanita didn’t sue for a divorce. You can draw your own conclusions.”

“Where was Juanita when Wentworth was shot?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know,” Drake said. “That’s one of the things I’m working on.”

“What are the other angles?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “Wentworth got around quite a bit. You know, Perry, a man’s home is his castle, but his yacht is his own damn business. Down at the Yacht Club, the party has to get awfully rough before anyone says anything. The only people around are those who have their own boats or their guests. Watchmen of yacht clubs usually go to bed early and don’t have good hearing. They have poor eyesight and poorer memories, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean Wentworth entertained women aboard his yacht?”

“Scads of them,” Drake said. “I have a hunch that there was a party aboard the yacht before it pulled out. Of course, you can’t figure that Wentworth was shot and then started putting out to sea. On the other hand, if someone murdered him at sea, did the murderer just step off the yacht into the drink? It’s goofy no matter how you look at it. Just on general principles, I’m checking pretty carefully to find out who was aboard the yacht last night. I’m already working on a good lead. A young woman who had been aboard the Pennwent several times and was known by sight to some members of the club was down at the Yacht Club last night. One of the members saw her getting out of her car.”

“Know who she was?” Mason asked.

“He either doesn’t or says he doesn’t,” Drake said, “but the D.A.’s outfit hasn’t really started to work on him yet. When they do, they’ll probably get results. I also have some men working on it from another angle.”

Mason said, “I’m not so certain that angle is important, Paul.”

“I thought you wanted all the dope.”

“I do.”

“Well, this is part of it.”

Mason said, “It might get some innocent girl in an awful jam, Paul.”

“Why innocent?” Drake asked.

“Because I don’t believe that Wentworth would have taken the yacht out to sea after he’d been shot.”

“All right,” Drake said, “figure out how someone could have shot him on the high seas and then called a taxicab. Anyway, this girl is in it now right up to her neck. The D.A.’s office will identify her before they get done.”

Mason sighed. “Okay, Paul. You can’t find out anything sitting in here and gassing.”

“I’ve got five men on the job,” Drake said. “Do you want any more?”

“Use your judgment, Paul. I want the facts. I would like to get them in advance of the police if I could.”

“You can’t,” Drake said. “I can pick up crumbs here and there, but the big dish is being served to Homicide. They’re working on the case. They have the facilities. And they have the authority.”

“Just a minute,” Mason said. “How was he dressed when he was found?”

“You mean the color of clothes, or...”

“No. Was he fully clothed?”

“Why, yes, I guess so.”

Mason said, “Find out, will you, Paul?”

“Okay. I just took it for granted he was dressed because no one said anything to the contrary.”

“All right,” Mason said. “Get busy and keep me posted.”

Drake made no move to get up out of the chair. “You seem to be in a hell of a hurry this morning, Perry.”

Mason motioned toward the stack of mail and said, “I have to work for a living. Look at that mail.”

“I’m looking at it,” Drake said. “I’m also looking at you. This is the first time I ever saw you in such a stew to tackle a pile of correspondence. Let’s talk a little sense, Perry. Suppose it was Mae Farr who went aboard that yacht last night?”

Mason raised his eyebrows. “Why pick on her?” he asked.

“Why not?”

“For one reason,” Mason said, “she and Wentworth weren’t particularly cordial. Wentworth had her arrested on a forgery charge.”

“I know,” Drake said. “Miss Farr might have figured she could square that forgery rap if she had a few minutes alone with him.”

“There was nothing to square,” Mason said. “It was a frame up.”

“I know,” Drake said, “but the question is did Mae know?”

“Of course she knew,” Mason said. “Her boyfriend was in here when we ripped Wentworth to pieces.”

Drake said, “She may have gone down there, Perry.”

“What makes you think she did?”

“The description fits.”

“Whose description?”

“The man who saw the girl getting out of the car. He knew she was Wentworth’s property.”

“Wentworth have a brand on her?” Mason asked.

“No, but you know how those yachtsmen are. They stick together. A good looking, unescorted girl, rubber necking around at yachts, wouldn’t have much difficulty finding some yachtsman who was willing to show her around, but when she belongs to one of the crowd, that’s different.”

“I don’t like that assumption of ownership,” Mason said.

“You know what I mean, Perry. A girl who’s coming down to call on some particular yachtsman.”

Mason said, “Mae Farr is our client.”

“I know,” Drake rejoined. “The ostrich sticks his head in the sand. You wouldn’t want to have any sand in my eyes, would you, Perry?”

Mason said impatiently, “Oh, get the hell out of here, and let me figure this thing, Paul. I’m worried because we can’t get in touch with Mae Farr.”

Drake said to Della, “Have you tried her boyfriend?”

Della shook her head.

“It might be a good thing to try him,” Drake said to Perry Mason.

“It might,” Mason agreed.

Drake sighed and began to uncoil himself. He got to his feet, stretched, yawned, and said, “Have it your own way, Perry. You know what you’re doing. I’ll keep you posted.” He walked slowly across the office, opened the exit door, and then turned as though about to say something, but he thought better of it and moved silently out into the corridor.

As the door clicked shut, Mason and Della Street exchanged glances.

Mason said, “All right, Della. You’re elected. Take your shorthand book.”

She picked up her shorthand book from the desk. “Long?” she asked.

“Very short,” Mason said.

“All right, I’m ready.”

Mason said, “Write ‘demand’ in caps at the head of the page and then put on a dateline and the words, ‘Demand is hereby made that you produce for the inspection of my attorney the original cheque purported to be signed by Penn Wentworth on which you have refused payment, claiming the same is a forgery. This is a cheque payable to the undersigned, Mae Farr, and purported to have been endorsed on the back thereof “Pay to the order of Stylefirst Department Store, (signed) Mae Farr.”’”

Della Street’s pen flew rapidly over the shorthand note book.

“Put a blank for a signature on that,” Mason said. “Type it out, then put on your hat, and go hunt up Mae Farr.”

“You mean go to her apartment?” Della Street asked.

“Go anyplace,” Mason said. “Find out all you can. Remember this Demand is your protection, in case anyone asks questions. You’re simply looking for her as a part of your duties as my secretary. I want this Demand signed by her so we can serve it on the bank.”

“You mean it’s just a stall?” she asked.

“Just a stall,” he said, “to protect you in case anyone starts checking up.”

“How long do I stay on the job?” Della asked.

“Until you find her,” Mason said, “or until I give you different instructions. Telephone in every hour or so and let me know what you’re doing. Try and get a line on her. Find out if anyone saw her come in or saw her leave. Find out where she keeps her car. Check up on it. In other words, I want everything you can dig up. Feed the facts to me as fast as you get them. If anyone tries to get rough, be wide eyed and innocent. I dictated this Demand to you and told you to get Miss Farr’s signature. You’re trying to get it.”

Della Street nodded. “On my way,” she said, and went out.

At eleven-thirty, Della Street telephoned her first report. “I’ve located her automobile,” she said.

“Where is it?”

“In the garage where she ordinarily keeps it.”

“Can you find out what time it came in?”

“Yes, about three o’clock this morning.”

“Who drove it in?”

“She did.”

“Find anything about her?”

“Not yet.”

Mason said, “Do everything you can on that angle, Della. Remember that’s one place where we’re ahead of the police. I want to get the information before they do.”

“I think,” she said, “I could work faster if I had one of Paul Drake’s men to help me.”

“No, that’s exactly what I don’t want,” Mason said. “We can trust Paul, but we can’t trust his men. As my secretary, you can be on the job getting a paper signed, and that’s all there is to it. If police ask one of Drake’s men why he happened to be looking for her, it wouldn’t be so good.”

“I get you,” Della Street said. “What time are you going to lunch?”

“Not until after you telephone again,” Mason told her. “Snoop around a little bit and see what you can find.”

“Okay, I’ll call you back.”

Her next call came in less than thirty minutes later. “Someone,” she said cautiously, “has taken the lid off the bean pot, and the beans are spilled all over everything.”

“What did you find out, Della?”

“Two men,” she said, “drove up about nine o’clock this morning and pounded on the door of Mae Farr’s apartment until she answered. The men walked right on in and didn’t take their hats off. The woman who has the apartment across the court saw that much.”

“That,” Mason said, “is all she needed to see. Come on back to the office, Della, and we’ll go to lunch.”