“Would you have any ideas on the subject?”
“If Juanita Wentworth left the door open, Frank Marley would walk in,” she said.
“Why,” Mason asked, “do you hate him? Did he ever make a pass at you?”
“Lord, yes — and never got even halfway to first base.”
“Is that why you dislike him?”
“No.” She met his eyes steadily and said, “I may as well be frank with you. I don’t object to men making passes at me. I like it if they go about it in the right way. I don’t like it if they whine about it or try to appeal to my sympathies. I don’t like Frank Marley because of his dishonesty — no, not his dishonesty either. I don’t object to a man cutting corners if he is clever about it. I’ve known men who weren’t exactly honest. Some of them have fascinated me. What I don’t like about Frank is his sneaky, underhanded intrigue. You just can’t tell about him. He’ll be suave and friendly and reach around you as though to put a friendly arm around your waist, and there’ll be a knife in his hand. He’ll stick it in to the hilt, and never change expression. He never raises his voice, never bats an eyelash, never gets flustered. And he’s dangerous.”
Mason said, “Let’s talk about you for a while.”
“What about me?”
“Quite a lot of things,” Mason said, “for instance, about what happened on the Pennwent.”
“Well, what about it?”
Mason said, “When you told me about that, your boyfriend was with you.”
“Well?” she asked.
“Did you,” Mason asked, “sort of expurgate the account because he was there?”
She stared steadily at him and said, “No. It would take more than Hal Anders to make me lie. Look here, Mr. Mason, I’m going to tell you something about myself. I pay my own way as I go through the world, and I want the privilege of living my own life. I left North Mesa because I couldn’t do just that. I have my own code, my own creed, and my own ideas. I try to be true to them, all of them. I hate hypocrisy. I like fair play. I want to live my own life in my own way, and I’m willing to let other people live their lives in their way.”
“How about Anders?”
“Anders wanted me to marry him. I thought for a while I was going to. I changed my mind. I hate weak men.”
“What’s wrong with Anders?”
“What isn’t wrong with him,” she said bitterly, and then added, after a moment, “Oh, he’s all right, but he needs a lot of fixing. He can’t get along without having someone pat him on the back and tell him he’s doing all right, that he’s a wonderful young man, and all that stuff.
“Look at what happened in this case. You told him what to do. You told him particularly to go to his hotel and stay there until he heard from you. Did he do it? He did not. He never even got as far as the hotel. He had to have someone else give him advice. That’s the trouble with him. He’s never learned to stand on his own two feet and take things as they come.”
Mason said, “I’m not certain but what you judge him too harshly.”
“Maybe I do,” she admitted.
“Don’t you think perhaps he’s tried to advise you, tried to interfere with your life, and you resented that, but that you really care a lot for him and are trying all the harder to fan your resentment into flame because the fuel doesn’t want to burn?”
She smiled and said, “You may be right at that. I’ve always resented him because he was so darn good. Everyone pointed him out as a model young man. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t gamble, worked hard, was nice to old ladies, kept his lodge dues paid, his hair cut and his nails clean. He read all the best books, listened to the best music, raised the best stock, and got the best prices.
“Everything he ever does, is carefully worked out and programmed — and it’s always on the advice of someone else. The horticultural commissioner tells him about how to handle his land. His lawyer tells him about his contracts. His banker tells him about how to handle his finances. That’s what makes me so darn tired of him. He’s always attentive, always learning, always right, but he’s always right because he’s taken the advice of someone who knew. He has good judgment. He usually knows which is the best advice and he acts on it.”
“Don’t we all live our lives that way?” Mason asked. “At any rate, to a greater or lesser extent?”
“I don’t,” she said simply, and then added, with feeling, “and I don’t want to.”
“You resented his coming to the city to look you up?”
“Yes, I did. It was very decent of him to offer to pay the amount of that cheque, but I’m perfectly capable of living my own life. If I get into something, I want to get out of it through my own efforts. If I can’t, I want to stay there. I don’t want to have Hal Anders rushing into the city to lift me up out of the gutter, brush the mud off my clothes, smile sweetly down at me, and say, ‘Won’t you come home now, Mae, marry me, settle down, and live happily ever after?’”
“He still wants you to marry him?”
“Of course. He’s rather single minded when he gets an idea in his head.”
“You don’t intend to?”
“I do not. I suppose I’m an ingrate. I know I’m in a jam. I suppose he’ll come to my rescue with money and moral support, and I should be grateful and fall in his arms when it’s all over. Well, just for your personal, private information, Mr. Perry Mason, I’m not going to do anything of the sort.”
“All right,” Mason said. “Let’s talk about what happened on the yacht.”
“I’ve told you what happened.”
“You said Wentworth was wearing his underclothes.”
“He was.”
“When the body was found, it was fully clothed.”
“I can’t help that,” she said. “When he was shot, he was wearing his underwear, and that’s all.”
“How did it start?”
“Oh, he said he had to take a cruise that night and asked me if I’d excuse him while he changed his clothes and put on his overalls. He said he had some work to do on the motors. He went to the after cabin to change. He’d left the door open. I didn’t know it. I strolled back towards the engine room. I could look right in the cabin where he was changing. I guess that gave him ideas. He started working on me instead of the engines.”
“How loudly did you scream?”
“I didn’t know I screamed,” she said. “Hal says I did. I think he’s cockeyed. I think I did a little cussing, some kicking, and a little scratching and biting. If I screamed, I was screaming at Penn and not for help. I got myself aboard that yacht, and I could get myself off of it. I never was one to yell much for help.”
“Were you nervous, hysterical?”
“Me?” she asked in surprise.
“Yes.”
“Good Lord, no! I was being crowded into a corner,” she said, “and I was getting pretty tired. I didn’t know how much longer I was going to hold out. Look, Mr. Mason, I’ve fought men off before, and I’ll probably do it again.”
“Do you,” Mason asked, “inspire men to violence?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “A lot of men try caveman tactics because a lot of girls fall for them. I don’t. The minute a man starts pushing me around, I want to hit him with anything I can get my hands on. I think I have more trouble that way than most girls because I’m inclined to be independent, and men resent that. A lot of girls make a habit of saying ‘no’ in such a way they make the man like it. When I say ‘no,’ I say ‘NO.’ I don’t give a hang whether he likes it or doesn’t like it.”
“When did you see Frank Marley last?”
“Sunday, a week ago.”
“Where?”
“We went on a cruise — a bunch of us.”
“Was Wentworth along?”