"I saw the white-headed woman make some sort of a throwing motion. She did something with her hand, as though she was tossing something," Custer insisted doggedly.
"Bert, you never saw any such thing! You weren't even looking at her. You were looking at me. You had your arms wrapped around me, and you were..." She broke off with a giggle.
"Well," Custer said sullenly, "I could see her out of the corner of my eye, couldn't I?"
Marilyn Smith smiled at Perry Mason and said, "I saw the gun first. I saw it after it had been thrown over the rail. I grabbed Bert's arm, and said, 'Look, Bert.' That was the first he saw of it. You see, there was light streaming out of a porthole and the gun fell across the path of light."
"You were standing almost amidships and on this side of the ship?" Mason asked.
"Yes."
"Then it's possible you saw the gun as it fell across the path of light which was thrown from this porthole, isn't it?"
"Well... perhaps. This probably is the porthole. There's a bright light here, and the illumination sort of fans out into a cone. You could see the path of light in the fog."
"What sort of gun was it?" Mason asked. "Could you see?"
Custer beat her to the answer. "It was an automatic. I guess I should know. I worked in a hardware store and I've sold lots of guns. It was a blued-steel automatic with a wooden handle. Just judging from the size of it, I'd say it was a .38, but you can't tell. Some companies make a pretty heavy .32. And then there's one .45 that's not so much different in size from a .38. You know, just looking at it for a second or two that way, it's hard to tell."
"So," Mason said gravely, "you think it was a .38, if it wasn't a .45 or a .32. Is that right?"
"Yes."
"But it may have been a .45?"
"It might have been."
"Or it might have been a .32?"
"Yes."
"Don't they make a .22 caliber automatic with a heavy frame and a long barrel?"
"Well, yes, they do."
"Could it have been a .22?"
Custer frowned thoughtfully. Marilyn Smith laughed and said, "Just because you sold guns, Bert, you try to know too much about them. You couldn't tell what caliber that gun was. Why, we just saw it for a fraction of a second, as it went down through that shaft of light that was coming from the porthole."
Mason said, "Thank you, Miss Smith."
He stepped to the door of the inner office, and the plainclothesman said, "Don't go in there."
"I'm just looking through the door," Mason said.
The body had been removed. The glass top which had been on the desk was standing on edge, propped against the wall. Powder had been dusted on it to bring out hundreds of latent fingerprints, and near the center of the glass was the print of a whole hand, where apparently someone had leaned over on the glass. The imprint seemed to have been made by a woman's hand.
Mason casually moved over toward Arthur Manning. "Is this going to make quite a change for you?" he asked.
The uniformed special watchman nodded and said gloomily, "I'll say it is."
"Won't you get along okay with Duncan?"
"Well, you know how it is," Manning said. "They were both of them fighting. Duncan gave me my job, but Grieb handled most of the inside business and all the cash, and I naturally saw more of Sam Grieb than I did of Duncan. Grieb gave me orders and I tried to please him. So, the first thing I knew, I was in the position of sort of taking sides with Grieb. Not that I did, at all, but I know Duncan felt that way about me. Now that he's in charge, he'll let me out. He didn't like what I told the officers about the chairs."
Mason said, "I might be able to get you a job. At least a temporary job, with a detective agency."
Manning's eyes brightened.
"Think you'd like that?" Mason asked.
"I'd like any job that pays wages," Manning said, "and I've always wanted to get in a detective agency. I think I could make good in that business and perhaps work up."
"Well," the lawyer went on in a low voice, "suppose you drop into my office first thing tomorrow. Don't tell anyone about it, though. Just drop in on your own. Do you think you could do that?"
"Sure, unless they tie me up here so I can't get ashore. I don't know how long this investigation's going to last."
"Well, just drop in any time," Mason said. "Ask for Miss Street. She's my secretary. I'll speak to her, so you won't be delayed. It'll only take a few minutes. Just run in and I'll introduce you to the head of the detective agency that handles my business."
"Okay, Mr. Mason. Thanks a lot," Manning said.
The men who had been in the vault came back into the room. Duncan pulled the door shut, slammed the bolts into place, and spun the combination savagely. There was no trace of a smile on his face. The sergeant took a roll of gummed paper from his pocket, tore off two pieces, wrote his name across them, moistened them on his tongue, and stuck them across the edges of the vault door.
"Now, I don't want anyone opening that vault until after the Marshal gets here," he said. "You understand that, Duncan?"
"I understand it," Duncan blazed, "but it's a hell of a note when you seal up a man's place of business and say he can't get into it! Now, there's something wrong here. We're ninety-five hundred dollars short that I know of. You said you were going to take a complete inventory. Why don't you go ahead with it?"
"Because there's too much junk in there. It'd keep us busy until morning if we did that. I've sealed the vault door. That will hold things intact until..."
"Intact, hell!" Duncan blazed. "A man could steam off that paper, and..."
"Well, I'll put a guard on duty. How will that be?"
Duncan was mollified. "That might be okay," he conceded.
"Now, how about this ninety-five hundred? You said that was to have been paid in tonight. That might have been a motive for the killing."
Duncan stared at Perry Mason in somber appraisal and said, "I'm not making any statements just yet. Let's take a look through the desk."
"Now, I'll be the one who does that," the sergeant said. "You fellows keep away."
He opened the top left-hand drawer in the desk and exclaimed, "Here's your nine thousand five hundred, Duncan."
Duncan pushed eagerly forward. The sergeant's right hand pressed against the gambler's chest. "Keep away, Duncan, I don't want you touching things here."
He scooped the money from the drawer, slowly counting it. As the bills fell to the desk and the count mounted up, Duncan's lips twisted back in a smile so that his gold teeth were once more visible. Then, after the six-thousand-dollar mark was reached, Duncan's smile slowly vanished as his appraising eyes took stock of the bills remaining in the sergeant's hand. By the time the count was completed, Duncan's lips were once more pressed tightly together.