Mason said, “Now, you purchased a picture frame on the seventh, Miss Whiting.”
“Yes,” she said, “Carl was very much attached to his stepdaughter. In order to keep from being called as a witness, it was necessary for him to pretend to commit suicide and he knew that it would be years before he could ever see Belle again. He wanted her picture to keep with him. But he didn’t want his wife to know he’d taken this picture because that might make her suspicious of the suicide. So he switched pictures in the frame. Unfortunately, Mrs. Moar found out the pictures had been changed almost as soon as Carl had made the switch.”
“And you were the one who sent Carl Moar the note on the evening of the sixth?” Mason asked.
“Yes. We had it all planned. You see, we rigged up a dummy which we could throw overboard, and I left it up in the ship’s hospital. On the night of the sixth I waited until Miss Fell had come out on deck. Then I sent word to Carl. He was to come on deck. We were to drag the dummy to the rail and fire a couple of shots from a revolver to attract Miss Fell’s attention. Then we were to pitch the dummy overboard and leave Carl Moar’s gun where it would be found on the boat deck. Carl was to come down to my stateroom, climb into bed and put on the goggles and head brace, which would make it almost impossible to recognize him, particularly since we’d made such a careful build-up.”
“And how did it happen your dress got caught on one of the cleats?” Mason asked.
She said without hesitation, “Mrs. Moar made a mistake, leaving her wet clothes where they could be found. It showed she’d been on deck. If they searched my stateroom, I didn’t want them to find my wet clothes as evidence. I threw my dinner dress out of the porthole. By that time, the ship had turned around and the wind was blowing a gale. It caught my dress, tore it out of my hand, and sent it flying up in the air. I suppose a part of it caught on the cleat and the rest tore loose.
“Miss Fell had seen me dragging the dummy across the boat deck and your secretary, Miss Street, happened to be standing just below. She looked up and saw me as I pushed the dummy overboard and fired the second shot. I knew that she had run in and telephoned that a man was overboard, and I knew that sooner or later she’d be made to tell what she’d seen. You see, she was looking up into the rain, and therefore couldn’t see my features, but I was looking down and could see hers. The rain was in her eyes. It wasn’t in mine.
“Please understand me,” she pleaded, “I was willing to help the man I loved because I thought he was innocent. Then this morning when I read the papers, I knew why he’d left me up there in the mountains. He’d gone back and tricked Carl to his death. He figured that would keep Carl’s testimony from ever being given and that the murder would be charged to Mrs. Moar. I was sick. I loved him — I still love him — I can’t protect him now, though I see him for what he really is — even — I can’t stand back of him anymore— Tell me, Mr. Mason, since you seem to know all about it, he did — kill Carl, didn’t he?”
Her eyes, pleading and anxious, hoping against hope, rested on the lawyer’s face.
“Yes,” Mason said, “and he made the fatal mistake of leaving high-laced shoes on Moar’s body. You see, when Carl Moar was supposed to have gone overboard, he was dressed in a tuxedo. As soon as I saw the high-laced shoes on Moar’s body I realized what must have happened. The fact that the bullet in the body had been fired from a gun other than Moar’s gun was further convincing evidence. I’m sorry, Miss Whiting, but that’s what happened. And I’m not altogether blameless. I should have deduced the truth sooner than I did. Knowing that Moar had been on a jury in Los Angeles, that he had been instrumental in getting the defendant acquitted that Baldwin Van Densie, a notorious jury briber, had been the attorney representing that defendant and discovering that Carl had come into the unexplained possession of approximately twenty-five thousand dollars immediately after the verdict had been returned, should have been all I needed, particularly when one adds to that the fact that Belle Newberry’s picture, had disappeared from a suitcase to which only Mr. Moar had the key, and the lock showed no evidence of having been tampered with. I’m afraid, Miss Whiting, that the peculiar manner in which the case developed threw me off the track and prevented me from saving Carl Moar’s life.”
She nodded. Her lips quivered. “I loved Morgan,” she said. “I believed in him. I... trusted him.” She started to sob.
Mason’s voice was filled with sympathy as he said to Judge Romley, “If the Court please, won’t it be more merciful to take a recess?”
Chapter 19
Mason, Della Street, Paul Drake, Mrs. Moar, Belle Newberry and Roy Hungerford sat in Mason’s suite at the hotel, champagne glasses on the table, the neck of a ceremonial bottle of champagne protruding from a bucket of cracked ice.
“What I don’t see,” Hungerford said, “is how the devil you ever figured it out.”
Mason shook his head and said, “It will always be a matter of humiliation that I didn’t figure it out sooner. Marian Whiting told us her sister had seen Carl on the street in Los Angeles. Evelyn Whiting said she hadn’t seen him for years until she recognized him on the ship. She said he had told her he was going to commit suicide when she met him on deck. Della Street said she had seen him coming from Evelyn Whiting’s cabin. Mrs. Moar, herself, told me that whenever Evelyn Whiting appeared on deck with her patient in a wheel chair, Carl Moar was nowhere to be found. You, Belle, told me that your stepfather had been on one of Van Densie’s juries in Los Angeles and had been able to swing the jury into a verdict of acquittal. You said that had been two or three months ago, and it was at just about that time Carl suddenly became affluent. But, above all, I should have known the truth when Morgan Eves warned me there was a surprise witness who would jeopardize my case. Then, when I discovered Della was that witness, I should have known at once what had happened. Eves could only have known it through Evelyn Whiting and she could only have known it because she looked down and saw Della Street at the rail on the lower deck.
“Carl Moar tried to take the easy way. As is so often the case, it turned out to be the hard way, yet we must not judge him too harshly. He had confidence in Evelyn Whiting. He was a thinker, something of a dreamer. He didn’t have a great deal of what is known as worldly wisdom. He lived in an artificial world peopled largely by his own ideas and administered largely according to his own ideals. Evelyn Whiting had but little difficulty in convincing him that Morgan Eves was innocent. She had less difficulty because she herself really believed it. It looked like a good chance for Moar to do the right thing and at the same time pick up enough money to give Belle her chance...”
Belle Newberry, her eyes filled with tears, said simply, “I loved him.”
Mrs. Moar avoided Belle’s eyes. “I, too, loved him,” she said, “In a way. I don’t think I had a proper appreciation of his character. I was too ready to believe that he’d embezzled that money. But there was no other explanation I could think of. Carl loved Belle. I don’t think he loved me. I think he’d been a bachelor too long to ever fit into the give and take of married life. What he did, he did for Belle, to give her a chance to travel, to meet people of a different class... It was a terrible mistake — but he thought he was planning for the best.”
Mason pushed back his chair. “Well,” he said, “I don’t want to rush things, but Della and I must be leaving. My Los Angeles office phoned me an hour ago. A client is impatiently waiting to see me on a matter of the greatest importance. We’re flying down to Los Angeles in a chartered plane. How about it, Della, are you ready?”