Mason said, “Let’s walk out to the end of the boat landing.”
The lawyer strode out to the end of the landing, the boys jogging alongside to keep pace with his long-legged stride.
At the end of the landing pier Mason made a throwing gesture.
“Someone threw a bottle off here,” he said, “a small bottle. There are some lead shot in the bottle. I want to find that bottle. How deep is it out there — about twenty-five feet from the end of the landing?”
“About ten feet,” one of the boys said.
“What kind of a bottom?”
“Sandy.”
“Think you can find it?”
“Sure we can find it,” one of the boys said, adjusting goggles and putting rubber fins on his feet.
“All right,” Mason told them. “Go to it.”
The lawyer jumped back to avoid the splash as four youthfully enthusiastic bodies hit the water at almost the same time.
One boy came to the surface, threw his head back to get the wet hair out of his eyes, took a deep breath, then upended and shot down again into the depths. Another boy came up, then another, and finally the fourth. Then they all went down for second, third and fourth dives.
It was on the seventh dive that one of the youngsters emerged from the water to give a triumphant shout. In his hand was a small vial.
“You have it?” Mason asked.
“I have it.”
“Bring it in,” Mason told him.
The boy swam in to the pier. Mason grabbed the youngster’s wet, slippery hand to pull him up on the pier. The other boys, realizing that the quest was over, came swimming in somewhat dejectedly.
“What’s your full name?” Mason asked the boy.
“Arthur Z. Felton.”
“How old are you, Arthur?”
“Twelve, going on thirteen.”
“Where’s your home?”
The boy gestured toward the south.
“Do your folks know you’re here?”
“I came up with one of the older boys.”
“Do they have a telephone?”
“Yes.”
“Where are your clothes?”
“In the other boy’s car.”
Mason said, “Get your clothes. Get in the car with me. We’ll telephone your folks that you’re going to be detained for a little while — and oh, by the way, here’s your twenty dollars.”
The boy looked at him suspiciously. “My folks told me I wasn’t to go riding with anyone.”
Mason said, “I’m Perry Mason, the lawyer. This bottle is evidence in a case.”
“You’re Perry Mason, the lawyer?”
Mason nodded.
“Gee, I’ve heard about you.”
“And,” Mason said, “I think we’d better drive by your house and tell your mother where we’re going. I think perhaps that would be better than telephoning.”
“Okay, Mr. Mason. Here’s your bottle.”
“Not my bottle,” Mason said, “your bottle. Hang on to it, Arthur. Be sure that bottle doesn’t leave your possession. I don’t want to touch it. I don’t want anyone else to touch it. It’s yours.”
“Why?”
“It’s yours,” Mason said, “that is, you have it in your custody. It’s evidence. Now come on, let’s go get your clothes and get in my car.”
“Gosh,” Arthur Felton protested, “I can’t get in your car. I’m all wet.”
“That doesn’t make any difference,” Mason told him. “Just hop in,” and then he added enigmatically, “it may be that you aren’t the only one who’s all wet.”
Chapter Five
Hermann Korbel, the consulting chemist, wore a black skull cap on his high forehead, beneath which bright, twinkling eyes peered out from behind thick-lensed glasses. His full-moon face beaming with cordiality, he extended a hand in warm greeting to Perry Mason.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “It has been a long time since I have done work for you, no?”
“Not so very long,” Mason said. “A couple of years.”
“Too long. And what is it this time?”
Mason said, “Mr. Korbel, this is Arthur Felton. Arthur Felton has something he found. I’d like to have him tell you in his own words where he found it.”
“Yes, yes,” Korbel said, leaning forward. “And what have you, my little friend?”
Arthur Felton was just a little frightened but his voice was firm. Events had been moving fast for him and he was trying his best to take them in his stride.
“I and some other boys were swimming up at Twomby’s Lake,” he said, “and Mr. Mason came along and said he thought somebody had thrown a bottle off the end of the pier and he wanted us to find it.
“He gave us five dollars apiece to swim out and dive and the one who found it was to get twenty dollars.
“I dove down the seventh time, found it and got the twenty dollars.”
“And where’s the bottle?” Mason asked.
“I have it right here.”
“You took it out of the water with you?”
“Yes.”
“And where has it been ever since that time?”
“Right here in my hand.”
“You stopped at your home with me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And dried off and changed your clothes, that is, you got out of your swimming trunks and into your clothes?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“During all of that time what did you do with the bottle?”
“I had it right where you told me to keep it.”
“Where?”
“Right in my hand, right here.”
“That’s right. Now I want that bottle fixed so you’ll know it again.”
Mason glanced at Hermann Korbel.
Korbel reached in a drawer, took out a flask of colorless liquid and a small camel’s-hair brush. “Don’t get any of this on you,” he warned.
“Now then, my young friend,” Korbel said, “this flask has acid in it. Be very careful not to get any on your skin. Just dip the brush in here very carefully, bring it out gently, turn it around against the neck of the flask until you’ve got most of the acid out — just like that — let the brush smooth itself to a fine point — now we turn up this glass bottle and you write something on it — on the very bottom of this bottle you mark something, a figure, an initial, something you can remember, right on the bottom of the bottle.”
The boy marked the initials A. F. on the bottom of the bottle.
The acid turned the bottom of the bottle a milky white.
“Now, Korbel,” Mason said to the chemist, “if you’ll etch your own initials on that bottle so that you can always recognize it, I’d like to have you tell me what’s in it.”
“One thing I can tell you that’s in it — lead shot are in it.”
“Exactly,” Mason said. “What are the other things?”
“Some kind of white pills.”
“Find out what they are.”
“How soon?”
“Just as fast as you can.”
“And how do I reach you?”
“I’ll be telephoning you every hour until we find out.”
“In a matter of hours one can’t find out.”
“Perhaps if one is lucky?”
“If one is very lucky, yes.”
“Then,” Mason told him, “you’d better be very lucky because we haven’t much time.”
Mason drove Arthur Felton back to his home, detoured around the block, making certain no one was following him, then drove to Della Street’s apartment.
He rang the doorbell.
Della Street flung the door open.
“Any news?” she asked breathlessly.
“Some,” Mason said noncommittally.
Dr. Denair got up and came forward. “Perry, these damn laws of yours — they make me feel like a criminal.”
“Not the laws,” Mason said, “the police.”