The Case of the Stepdaughter’s Secret

Chapter Eleven

The day was warm and sunny inland but a thick bank of white clouds stayed motionless in the west.

The helicopter pilot, moving at about five hundred feet above the ground, said to Mason, “I don’t like the looks of it, Mr Mason. We can skirt along the edges but I doubt very much if we can see anything.”

“You can fly low?” Mason asked.

“Sure, I can fly low. I can fly five feet over the water as far as that’s concerned, but I’m not going to go messing around there in a fog at low elevation without knowing what I’m getting into.”

“Do the best you can,” Mason said.

“Sometimes the action of the helicopter clears fog up quite rapidly,” the pilot said. “We churn up a lot of air and if we can get on the boundary between the clear air and the fog we may be able to get enough agitation to start things clearing. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Well, let’s try it,” Mason said.

The helicopter moved at a steady seventy-five knots an hour, moving toward the white bank of clouds which seemed to grow higher and thicker as the machine approached them.

“I’m afraid it’s no go,” the pilot said. “We can hang around on the edges of the fog and survey the situation but this isn’t going to do you much good. It’s a thick, pea-soup fog and it’s hanging on all day, apparently.”

“Can you get down right along the ground and see how far you can go?”

“I’ll try it but as soon as I lose visibility I’m going to backtrack.”

“Well, sometimes it’s lighter right along the water,” Mason said. “Let’s try it.”

The pilot lowered the helicopter until they were flying over fields at housetop level. Then the first tendrils of fog enveloped them. The action of the rotor on the helicopter caused the fog particles to swirl and for a moment the fog right around the machine seemed to lift. Then it settled down again and the pilot suddenly turned the machine, came back up and out.

“Nothing doing,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going into that stuff. This is the thickest I’ve ever seen it at this time of the day. There’s not a breath of air stirring. This is just like flying in milk.”

“We can get above it?” Mason asked.

“Sure, we can get above it but that won’t do you any good. You’ll be looking down on a solid white carpet.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “let’s go back. Hold yourself in readiness. As soon as the fog starts to lift I want to make a survey of the harbour.”

Mason turned to Bancroft. “It’s the best we can do, Bancroft,” he said. “I don’t know of any other way.”

“Nor do I,” Bancroft said.

Mason said, “I’m going to want to talk with your wife.”

Bancroft nodded. “She’s still under sedation,” he said. “I took it on myself to do that on my own responsibility. I gave her a heavy dose of sleeping pills. You can imagine she was—”

Mason gave a meaning glance at the pilot of the helicopter and Bancroft lapsed into silence.

Mason said to the pilot, “I want you to keep this thing chartered on an hourly basis all day. Just as soon as the fog lifts so we can get in over the harbour I want to go in. Do you understand?”

“I understand perfectly.”

“Call me the minute it starts to break,” Mason said.

“I’ll do it but it may not break all day, Mr Mason, having hung on this late.”

“You just sit there and wait,” Mason said. “If it breaks, we’ll go. Now, there’s a downtown heliport where you can be waiting?”

“Within a few minutes of your office,” the pilot said.

“Sit tight,” Mason told him, “and keep in touch with conditions at the harbour. Phone me the minute there’s any chance of getting in there.”

The pilot nodded and Mason was silent until the helicopter had landed.

Driving back to his office, Mason said to Bancroft, “Now, you know the yacht wasn’t at the place where your wife said she jumped overboard?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I drove down there.”

“There was a heavy fog?”

“That’s right, but I was able to drive along in the fog — just creeping along with my lights on and my windshield wiper going.”

“But your wife described the place?”

“Perfectly.”

“And you looked there?”

“Yes. I walked out on the fuelling wharf early this morning.”

“And the boat wasn’t there?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Mason said, “You should have gone to the police just as soon as your wife told her story.”

“I know, but I told you why I couldn’t afford to do it,” Bancroft said. “That was a chance I couldn’t take.”

“As I understand it,” Mason said, “the gun went off accidentally.”

“Phyllis was holding it, pointing it at this man and warning him and—”

“The gun went off accidentally,” Mason interrupted.

“Well, of course she—”

“The gun went off accidentally,” Mason interposed. “The yacht ran aground.”

“Not the yacht, the dragging anchor hooked on something and... well, there was a jar and the yacht swung around a bit.”

“And the gun went off accidentally.”

Bancroft thought that over a few moments, then said, “Yes. The gun went off accidentally.”

“And this man, this blackmailer, what was his name? Gillis?”

“Gilly,” Bancroft said.

“All right, Gilly flung up his hands and pitched forward on his face.”

“Yes.”

“Your wife dropped everything, ran to the rail and jumped overboard.”

“She dropped things after she jumped; that is, she thinks she did. She has a dim recollection of her purse sliding off her arm just as she jumped for the water.”

“She was frightened,” Mason said.

“Yes.”

“In fear of her life.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Hysterical,” Mason said. “A blackmailer had threatened her with death and she thought he was going to come rushing to the rail and start shooting at her.”

“Well... of course he had been struck by the bullet and—”

“She doesn’t know where the bullet struck,” Mason said. “It might have hit him in the shoulder, it might have hit him in the chest, but she was frightened. She thought he was going to run to the rail and start shooting.”

“Well... yes, I guess so.”

“Don’t guess,” Mason said. “It fits in with her actions and you’ve got to have a story that fits in with her actions.”

Bancroft thought that over for a moment, then slowly nodded.

Mason said, “I’ve got an important appointment at my office — one I can’t afford to miss. I want you to be waiting in readiness. Either you’ll have to hang around my office or be where I can reach you by telephone at a moment’s notice.”

“Why is it so important to locate the yacht?” Bancroft said.

“Because I want to get a look at it before the police do, if possible,” Mason said.

“Of course we have no idea where the yacht wound up,” Bancroft pointed out.

“Exactly,” Mason told him. “Your wife found Gilly hoisting the anchor, hand over hand. When he saw her, he made a half-hitch around the bitt with the anchor chain and came back to meet her.”

Bancroft nodded.

“The motor was running?” Mason asked.

“That’s right.”

“He threw the clutch in?”

“That’s right.”

“There’s a control on the front deck so he could do that?”

“Yes, it’s a special control, made so that one man can pull up the anchor and then get headway just as soon as the anchor is up. Sometimes I sail it all by myself and I had that forward control put in.”

“What time did the shooting take place?” Mason asked.

“Somewhere around eight-thirty to nine.”

“Where were you at that time?”

“Waiting for my wife.”

“Anybody know where you were?”

“No.”

Mason regarded Bancroft thoughtfully. “Of course, Bancroft,” he said, “if it should turn out the killing was with your gun on your yacht, the police could decide that you had been trying to protect your wife and had taken things into your own hands.”

Bancroft showed surprise. “You mean that they could claim I...?”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “Your story of giving your wife heavy sedation and not letting her go to the police—”

“Why, I was trying to protect her from questioning when she was emotionally upset, and—”

“And trying to keep the thing out of the newspapers,” Mason said.

“Well, yes.”

“You’ve gained a little time,” Mason said, “but by the time it breaks it’s going to be one hell of a story.”