“Never give a sucker a break,” she said. “Frank, I suppose I’m a frightful nuisance. You’ve had enough to put up with, with Gramps messing around, but I want to do this.”
“It’s okay, babe.”
“You aren’t mad — or bored at my tagging along?”
“No. I’m getting a kick out of it.”
“What’s wrong with this boat?” she asked, stopping in front of a skiff which was tied up to the float.
“No oars, no oarlocks,” he pointed out.
“There’s one up ahead,” she said.
“Not so loud,” he warned.
They walked quietly along the float to where the painter of a skiff had been wound around a cleat.
Duryea said, “We’ll take a chance. Hop in.”
She jumped into the skiff. Duryea untied the painter and pushed off. “What I don’t know about handling a boat,” he apologized, “would fill my whole law library.”
She watched him with a critical eye. “You play a swell game of tennis, Frank.”
“Uh huh.”
“And you ride well.”
“Uh huh.”
“I know now why you played tennis and took me riding with you while you were courting me. You never did take me rowing.”
“My father was a smart man, too,” he admitted modestly.
“He must have been. Think of how history might have changed. Watch out, you’re going to hit that other yacht. Pull on that — no, the other oar. The other one! My gosh, don’t scare me like that again... Is that the Gypsy Queen?”
He turned his head, said, “Uh huh. Thought I was headed for it.”
“Why don’t you get up in the bow so you can take the painter and jump aboard, and let me row?”
“Don’t you like my rowing?”
“I’m crazy about it, but I would so like to get home before daylight. And it looks as though we’ll never make it.”
He laughed and moved up to the bow of the skiff. She slid into the rower’s seat, braced the heels of her shoes, picked up the oars, and swept them back in a long, clean stroke which sent the little skiff fairly boiling through the water.
“Been holding out on me, eh?”
“I won a race once — for women. That was in college. Now listen, landlubber, when I come up on the beam of that boat, grab that painter and jump aboard, and don’t miss it.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“There should be a landing ladder on the thing somewhere.”
“It’s on the other side.”
“Don’t say ‘other.’ Say ‘starboard.’ ”
“Starboard.”
“That’s better. Which side is port?”
“That’s easy.”
“I bet you don’t know.”
“Why, of course I do. It’s the exact opposite of starboard.”
“All right, which side is starboard?”
He laughed, then suddenly peered out over the bow of the boat and said, “It’s the side the landing ladder is on the Gypsy Queen. That’s the right side. That means port is left.”
She gave one last quick sweep of the oars, sent the skiff alongside the Gypsy Queen II. Duryea jumped up to the deck, started to tie the painter.
“Not there,” she said. “From the stern. And I’d better watch the knot you tie, because it would be unhandy to swim back.”
Duryea raised his hand in a salute. “Aye, aye.”
She fastened the painter with a quick, deft twist of the rope.
“Where did you learn so much about seamanship?” he asked.
“Girl and woman,” she said, “come this Michaelmas, I’ve sailed on yachts for nigh onto two weeks, stranger.”
“I’ll have to look into this. Aren’t yachting parties pretty wild affairs?”
She said demurely, “You’ll have to ask Gramps about that.”
“One of these days, I’m going to become very, very suspicious of that Wiggins strain in your blood.”
She sighed. “As though I didn’t know that. Why do you think I’ve been keeping Gramps away from you all these years?”
“That is an idea,” he admitted.
“You have a key to this padlock?”
“Supposed to have. I’d hate to think we’d made this voyage across the briny deep in vain.” He fumbled through his pockets.
She said, “Don’t tell me it’s in your other pants.”
He triumphantly produced a key and fitted it to the padlock which held the sliding doors at the entrance to the companion-way in place. A few moments later they were in the pilothouse cabin. Duryea opened an unlocked door, and they descended into the lower cabin where the murders had taken place.
He said, “I hope this will get you over this idea of yours that crime is something romantic. The place stinks of death, and in case you’re interested, that’s dried blood on the carpet.”
“Gosh, Frank,” she said, “the... the darned thing really does fascinate me.”
“What’s fascinating about it?”
“I don’t know. The idea of trying to deduce what’s happened from little clues that have been left behind. Was there anything in the position of the bodies to support this murder and suicide theory?”
“It’s a pretty fair inference that Stearne died first. A part of Right’s body lay across Stearne’s legs.”
“Were they both killed with the same gun?”
“Apparently. I haven’t a complete report from the post mortem yet. Dr. Graybar wanted to have some assistance. A friend of his has been called up from Los Angeles, a Dr. Petterman. He’s something of an authority.”
“Was this where the bodies were found?”
“Right there. You’re standing just about where Addison Stearne’s body lay.”
She looked down at the bloodstained carpet, said, “How interesting. I suppose you wanted me to jump or give a little scream, didn’t you?”
“I’m afraid you’re a bloodthirsty wench.”
“Jumping and squealing wouldn’t bring him back to life,” she said. “If it could do any good, it might be different. And you think he dictated that letter to Right, do you?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“And Mrs. Right feels her husband wrote a long statement on the typewriter, confessing what he’d done, and telling all the reasons? Was there a typewriter near the bodies, Frank?”
“I think there was. The photographs show it. It was moved when they... There it is, on that little taboret in the corner.”
“Oh, yes. A portable. Did the sheriff examine it for fingerprints?”
“Oh, yes. He told me he went over everything he thought would be important. He would... Hey, wait a minute! There’s something on that platen!”
Milred said, “There is... a string of letters? No, it’s...”
“Let’s take a look,” Duryea said, dropping on his knees in front of the typewriter. “Don’t touch it, Milred. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What’s this?”
She bent over his shoulder.
Duryea gave a low whistle.
Milred said indignantly, “How do you suppose Sheriff Lassen could possibly have overlooked that?”
“I don’t know. Of course, he’s no Sherlock Holmes. To tell you the truth, Millie, I probably should have done a little more looking around here, but I just can’t stomach scenes of violence. I took over the examination of the witnesses, and left it up to the sheriff and Bill Wiegart to make an investigation of the cabin itself.”
“That’s a new platen on the typewriter,” she pointed out. “And, of course, that could have been written at any time.”
“Of course,” he said, “only the yacht has either been guarded or locked ever since the discovery of the bodies.”
“This Moline girl hasn’t a key?”
“No. The sheriff bought the padlock. There were only two keys to it. The sheriff has one, and I have the other. I was supposed to keep mine in my office. I intended to put it in the safe. To tell you the truth, I forgot all about it until those people came.”