“Apparently, he was a strong swimmer, and had removed his coat, shirt, collar, tie and pants. He couldn’t get off his shoes because they were high-laced shoes. The knot on one was jammed as though he’d tried to get it off. He evidently died within fifteen or twenty minutes of the time he reached the life ring. It’s funny they didn’t see him from the ship.”
Mason said, “There was such a sea running and such a driving rain it was impossible to make any thorough search. The ship was bobbing around like a cork, and the rain was coming down in torrents. It seemed to bolt up the light from the searchlights.”
“Well, Drake said, “here’s something else: He was shot with a thirty-eight caliber bullet, but that bullet wasn’t fired from the revolver they found on deck.”
Mason snapped to startled attention. “It wasn’t?”
“The ballistics expert says it wasn’t.”
“And he was only shot once?”
“That’s right. Just the one wound which entered in the back on an angle. That probably was the shot which was fired into him as he was balanced on the rail.”
“Wait a minute,” Mason said, “there were two shots fired. Aileen Fell says she heard two shots, and there were two exploded chambers in the gun.”
“That’s right,” Drake said. “But the bullets from that gun didn’t kill Carl Moar. He must have been killed by a bullet fired from another gun.”
“Then there should have been three explosions,” Mason said.
Drake nodded.
Mason abruptly got to his feet, pushed his thumbs through the armholes of his vest and started pacing the floor. After several minutes, he turned to stare thoughtfully at them.
“I know what may be a solution,” he said. “It makes sense, and it’s the only thing which does make sense. But I can’t unscramble it until I can get Eves and Evelyn Whiting into court.”
“Well, you can’t get them into court,” Drake said. “I’ve had men running down every clue, Perry. It’s hopeless. Eves is no amateur. He knows the ropes, and he’s gone into hiding. It would take the concerted efforts of an organized police force to land him.”
Della Street said, “Chief, couldn’t you go to the district attorney and tell him what you have in mind and have him put the police on the job?”
“Not so you could notice it,” Mason said. “If Scudder thought he could help me dig up witnesses to prove Mrs. Moar innocent, his lack of enthusiasm would be utterly astounding.”
“Well,” Della Street said, “he showed plenty of enthusiasm when it came to finding me.”
Mason nodded. Suddenly a twinkle appeared in his eye. “Now, Della,” he said, “you’ve given me a real idea.”
“What?” she asked.
“We’ll make Scudder think that I’m concealing Eves and Evelyn Whiting. Once he gets that idea, he’ll move heaven and earth to uncover them.”
“And just how are you going to make him think you’re concealing them?” Drake asked.
Mason looked at his watch. “Got a set of skeleton keys, Paul?” he asked.
Drake said, “Oh, my Lord! I should have known better than to have brought this up in the first place.”
Mason grinned, “Get your burglar’s outfit, Paul. We’re going to do a little high-class house breaking.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Has it ever occurred to you,” Mason asked, “that we’ve overlooked the most significant clue in this entire business?”
“What?” Drake inquired.
“The fact that the woman in the picture shop mentioned that Evelyn Whiting had purchased a picture frame, an oval desk frame which would take a picture which had been trimmed down from an eight-by-ten print?”
Della Street grabbed his arm. “Chief, do you mean that she was the one...”
Mason grinned at Paul Drake. “I’m commencing to feel natural again, Paul,” he said. “Scudder has been so smug and complacent throughout this entire business that it’s time we exploded a dynamite bomb under him.”
“And I take it,” Drake said, “we’re going to violate a law?”
“Well,” Mason told him, “the legality of our position is going to be rather technical, Paul. We’re going to break and enter, but not for the purpose of committing a felony.”
“For what purpose, then?” Drake asked.
“For the purpose of leaving a choice assortment of fingerprints,” Mason told him.
Drake said, “Good Lord, Perry. If you only knew how nice and peaceful it was when you were in Bali!”
Mason climbed the wooden stairs which led up the back of the flat on Stockton Boulevard. Behind him, Paul Drake was a silent shadow. Della Street, seated in a rented car, with the motor running, was parked in the alley.
Drake muttered, “I don’t like this a damn bit, Perry. If we get caught it’s a felony, and if he comes in he’ll spray us full of lead.”
Mason whispered, “You have a cheerful mind, Paul.”
They climbed to the service porch on the rear of the third-story flat. Fog which drifted in from the ocean blanketed the city, lowering visibility, distorting sounds. The mournful drone of fog signals could be heard at intervals. Fog-bred moisture dripped from the eaves.
Mason inserted a skeleton key. The lock clicked back. Mason gently opened the door.
Drake said, “If he should be in there, Perry—”
His voice trailed into silence. The men stood waiting.
Mason took a flashlight from his pocket. “Come on, Paul.”
The beam of the flashlight sent a long, white pencil of illumination stabbing through the darkness. It showed a kitchen, with its windows tightly closed. An odor of stale cooking and rancid frying fat clung to the room.
Mason led the way through the kitchen to a dining room and living room, then into a bedroom. His flashlight showed a wheel chair. “That’s Cartman’s wheel chair, Paul,” Mason said. “And you’ll notice that someone did some hurried packing here. Notice the way things have been pulled from the drawers. Look at the empty coat hangers in the closet. See the imprint on the bed where a suitcase has been placed.”
“Well,” Drake said, “Eves had a lot of baggage and his wife had been over in Honolulu—”
“His wife,” Mason said, “wasn’t living here with him. She’d been living with her sister. Her clothes weren’t the ones which were taken from those hangers... Hello, what’s this?”
The beam of his flashlight reflected from a rounded strip of wood enameled and polished to a high brilliance. The bit of wood was perhaps an inch and a half in length, splintered at both ends and partially curved.
Drake inspected the piece of wood and said, “A piece of wood from a molding somewhere. He probably—”
Mason abruptly dropped to his knees, sent the beam from the flashlight sliding along the floor. “Look for splintered pieces of glass, Paul,” he said. “See if you can find—”
“Here’s one,” Drake said, picking up a small fragment of glass.
“And here’s another,” Mason told him.
“What’s the idea?” Drake said. “Do you think there’s been a fight here, or—”
Mason said, “Let’s take a look at the garbage can on the service porch, Paul.”
Drake said, “Listen, Perry, I don’t like this. I don’t know what you’re getting at, but we’re going at this thing all wrong. We’re—”
Mason walked toward the service porch, taking the flashlight with him. Drake, perforce, followed, Mason lifted the lid from the garbage can, took out several opened tin cans, some halves of orange peel, then a long sliver of glass. “We’re on the right track, Paul,” he said, and a moment later handed-up a long, curved segment of enameled, rounded wood.