“Please don’t refuse,” she pleaded. “I feel certain you can help me. It wouldn’t take much of your time and it might make all the difference in the world to Belle.”
Mason noticed a hint of nervous hysteria in her voice and said, “Go ahead. Tell me about it. I’ll at least listen. Perhaps I can make some suggestions. What’s Belle been doing?”
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s my husband who’s been doing things.”
“Well, what’s Belle’s father—”
“He’s not Belle’s father,” she interrupted to explain. “Belle is the child of a former marriage.”
“She goes by the name of Newberry, however?” the lawyer asked, puzzled.
“No,” the woman said, “we do.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s this way,” she went on, speaking rapidly “my husband’s name is Moar. Up until two months ago I was Mrs. Moar. Overnight, my husband changed his name. He ceased to be C. Waker Moar, and became Carl W Newberry. He simply walked out of his position as bookkeeper in the Products Refining Company. We hurriedly moved to another city, lived under the name of Newberry, then went to Honolulu, and have been there for six weeks. My husband gave strict orders that under no circumstances were any of us ever to mention the name of Moar.”
Mason’s eyes showed his interest. “He left his job rather suddenly?”
“Yes, without even going back to the office.”
“That,” Mason said noncommittally, “is rather peculiar.”
The woman came closer to him. Her hand rested on his wrist, and slowly the fingers tightened until the skin was white across her knuckles. “Belle,” she said, “suspected nothing. She’s a modern young woman, a strange mixture of sentiment and cynical acceptance of life. For more than a year she’d been wanting to take the name of Moar. She said that it was embarrassing to introduce her mother as Mrs. Moar and then explain that Carl was her stepfather. So when my husband said we’d take her name, she was overjoyed.”
“She gets along well with your husband?” Mason asked.
“She’s very, very fond of him,” the woman said. “Sometimes I think she understands him better than I do. Carl has always been something of an enigma to me. He’s undemonstrative and very self-contained. But he worships the ground Belle walks on. He never started complaining about any lack of opportunities in life until recently. Then he began to grumble. He couldn’t get enough money to give Belle a chance to meet the right sort of people. She didn’t have the clothes he thought she should have. She couldn’t travel...”
“You’re traveling now,” Mason observed with a smile.
“That’s just the point,” she said. “About two months ago we suddenly became affluent.”
“And that was when he changed his name?”
“Yes.”
“How affluent?” Mason asked.
“I don’t know. He carries his money with him in a money belt. I’ve never seen the inside of that money belt, but occasionally he goes to a bank and gets a thousand-dollar bill changed.”
She continued to clutch at the lawyer’s wrist, and now her hand was trembling with nervousness. “Naturally,” she went on rapidly, “I’m not a fool. I haven’t lived thirty-nine years for nothing.”
“Did you ever ask him any specific questions about the reasons for his actions, about where the money was coming from?” Mason asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me he’d won a sweepstakes — some lottery... But I don’t think he had. The newspapers publish the names of the winners, don’t they?”
Mason nodded. “Only sometimes persons buy tickets under fictitious names.”
“Well, he told me he’d won one of the sweepstakes. He said that environment had made our friendships, rather than natural selection. He said he wanted to begin life all over, take a new name, travel and have Belle meet people of the right sort.”
“You didn’t believe what he told you about winning the lottery?” Mason asked.
“I believed him at the time. Recently I’ve started to doubt him. Over in Honolulu someone from Los Angeles mentioned in my hearing that the Products Refining Company had employed auditors to go over its books. I’m worried... I feel certain... And then Belle...”
“All right,” Mason said gently, “tell me about Belle.”
“She took to this life like a duck takes to water. She’s naturally happy, vivacious, impulsive, and a good mixer. It gave her a great thrill to be thrown in contact with wealthy tourists, the people she calls ritzy. A few days ago she met Roy Hungerford at the Royal Hawaiian. He’s, the son of Peter Coleman Hungerford, the oil millionaire. It seems that he’s been dancing constant attendance on a Miss Dail, but since he’s met Belle he’s been putting in more and more time with her.”
“What does Miss Dail have to say to that?” Mason asked.
“She doesn’t say anything,” Mrs. Newberry said. “She’s far too clever for that. She’s apparently taken quite an interest in Belle — you know, some women do that. They become very friendly with their rivals.”
“And you think she considers your daughter a rival?” Mason asked.
“Yes, I think she does, Mr. Mason.”
“And,” Mason went on, “I suppose Miss Dail has been asking your daughter something about her background, where she has lived, and something about her father’s occupation?”
Mrs. Newberry said, “Yes. So far, Belle’s been clever enough to laugh it off. She says she’s only a Cinderella, playing at the party until midnight, and then she’ll disappear.”
“That might get by with young Hungerford,” Mason said, “but I presume it’s merely made Miss Dail more curious.”
“It has,” Mrs. Newberry assured him.
“How does your husband feel about that, now that his background and occupation have attracted so much interest?”
“My husband,” she said, “has almost gone into hiding, I had an awful time dragging him out for a single turn around the deck. He’s gone back to his cabin now and is staying there.”
Mason said, “Now let’s get this straight. You suspect that your husband has embezzled money from the Products Refining Company?”
“Yes.”
“Does your daughter have any suspicions?”
“No, of course not.”
“Where does she think the money came from?”
“She thinks my husband won it in a lottery, but that she must never mention that fact because the lottery was illegal and it might make trouble for him. She’s been too busy having a good time to do very much thinking about financial matters.”
“And,” Mason said, “I presume that nothing would suit Miss Dail better than to do a little amateur detective work and expose Belle as the daughter of an embezzler.”
Mrs. Newberry started to cry.
Mason placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “Take it easy,” he said. “Tears won’t help. After all, nothing’s apt to happen while you’re on shipboard. Why not let this matter wait until you reach the Mainland? By that time your daughter will have had an opportunity to become better acquainted with young Hungerford and...”
“I’m afraid,” she said, “it’s too late for that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone stole Belle’s picture.”
Mason raised his eyebrows in silent interrogation.
“Someone stole her picture from my husband’s suitcase sometime after three o’clock this afternoon and before ten o’clock tonight.”
“Well,” Mason said, “what if they did? I don’t see what your daughter’s picture—”
“Can’t you see?” she interrupted. “The Clipper leaves Honolulu at daylight tomorrow morning. Someone could have stolen my daughter’s picture, sent it to the Mainland by air mail, and had detectives trace her, and find out everything about her.”