Even in the short time that the journey had consumed, the cold had cramped Mason’s limbs, and it was with an effort that he jumped to the float, carrying the painter.
Cameron shut off the motor, took the painter from Mason and tied it to a ring in the float. “How you coming?” he asked Della Street.
“B-r-r-r!” she said and laughed.
The three of them walked down the float and Cameron opened the door of his snug little cabin. The welcome warmth from the stove enveloped them with a silent hospitality. The singing teakettle was as homelike as the purring of a cat in front of a fireplace.
Without a word, Cameron switched on the lights, poured hot water over spices, butter and sugar, in three cups, and added lots of rum.
“This,” Mason announced, “hits the spot.”
“This,” Della Street supplemented, “is saving my life. I thought I wouldn’t make it. Clothes don’t seem to be any good at all against that cold fog.”
Cameron lit his pipe. “Goes right through you,” he admitted.
He raised the lid of the stove, thrust in two sticks of heavy oak, and was refilling the teakettle when he paused, his eyes peering out through the window.
“Car coming.”
“What time is it?” Mason asked.
“Two-fifteen.”
“Seems like it’s been ages,” Della Street laughed.
Mason took pencil and paper from his pocket. “I want to look at your tide table,” he said. “I want to find out just how much difference there was between the tide tonight and the night of the murder. I...”
“Coming this way,” Cameron reported. “A couple of men. Look like officers.”
Feet pounded along the float with a strange booming note.
“Sounds like a drum,” Della Street said, and coughed nervously, “an ominous drum.”
Two men opened the door of the cabin without knocking. For the moment, they ignored Mason and Della Street, their eyes fastened on Cameron. “What was that explosion?” they asked.
“Burbank’s yacht blew up.”
“That’s what we thought. You take anyone out there tonight?”
Cameron gestured toward Perry Mason and Della Street.
“You can swear they were aboard the yacht?”
“That’s right.”
“How long after they left did the explosion, take place?”
“Between five and ten minutes. Not over ten minutes.”
The officer regarded Mason with square-jawed belligerency. “Get your things, buddy. You’re going to Headquarters.”
“Don’t be silly,” Mason told him. “I’ve got to be in court tomorrow. I’m Perry Mason.”
“I don’t give a damn if you’re Pontius Pilate, you’re going to Headquarters.”
Mason explained patiently, “There was a rowboat that came out to the yacht. I thought at the time it was someone who wanted to get something that was on the yacht, but that he became frightened when he opened the hatch and found there was a fire going in the cabin stove. I realize now that what he wanted was to plant a time bomb. He didn’t know just how soon we were leaving the yacht, and thought that was a good chance to blow up both us and the yacht. That business of opening the hatch and starting down to the cabin, then turning and running from the yacht and rowing frantically away into the darkness was just part of the stall to keep us from getting suspicious as to what he had really been after. He probably planted the bomb within a matter of seconds after getting aboard the yacht.”
“What did this man look like?”
“We didn’t see him.”
“What sort of a boat?”
“We didn’t see that.”
The officer grinned — a tantalizing, superior grin. “You’ve got to do better than that,” he said, and then added reproachfully, “And you a lawyer, too.”
Mason said, “For the love of Mike! Get Headquarters on your radio. Have them cover the entire waterfront. Try and pick up anyone who’s prowling around. See if you can’t locate that rowboat when the man comes ashore — if he hasn’t landed already.”
“And make a monkey out of myself falling for a story like that and turning the department upside down. No, Mason, I’m sorry, but as far as we’re concerned, you’re elected. You and this lady went out to the yacht. What did you go out there for?”
“To study the action of the tides.”
“Nice stuff,” the officer said sarcastically. “You carry along a time bomb. You wait until just when you’re leaving and then press the button and start the thing going. You’ve timed it so you can get clean away.”
“Don’t be silly,” Mason said. “Why would I want to blow up the yacht?”
“Why would anybody want to blow up the yacht? You’ve got more reason than anyone.” The officer turned to Cameron. “Did he come straight back, or did he make some excuse to hang around somewhere near the yacht until the thing blew up?”
Cameron hesitated.
“Go ahead,” the officer said.
“It wasn’t that,” Cameron finally blurted. “We were looking around in the fog for this rowboat, zigzagging back and forth.”
“Somewheres near the yacht?”
“About quarter of a mile.”
The officer exchanged glances with his companion, then sniffed audibly and looked at the empty cups. “What you got there,” he asked Cameron, “rum?”
“We did have,” Cameron said dryly, filling his pipe and making no move toward the rum bottle.
The officer jerked his head at Perry Mason. “Okay,” he said, “come along — you and the lady, both.”
Chapter 19
The light in the branch police station consisted of a single electric globe screwed into a porcelain reflector in the ceiling. It was a harsh, trying light that beat down upon tired eyes, yet furnished an insufficient illumination to show objects in the room clearly.
Perry Mason, his face bearing traces of strain and weariness, tilted back in his chair, put his feet on the corner of the battered table and looked at his watch. “Damn it,” he said, “I can take it. But you’re going to get some sleep, Della.”
She said, “There doesn’t seem to be anything we can do.”
“We’ll give them five minutes more and then we’re going to do plenty,” Mason said. “I...”
The door opened. The officer who had taken Mason into custody stood to one side while Lieutenant Tragg entered the room, then followed the Lieutenant in and closed the door.
“Now then,” the officer said, “suppose you tell the Lieutenant what actually happened. You...”
“I’ll do the talking, Medford,” Lieutenant Tragg interrupted, and turning to Mason asked, “What happened?”
Mason nodded toward the officer whom Tragg had addressed as Medford. “Your skeptical friend let the murderer slip through his fingers.”
“Tell me about it,” Tragg invited.
Mason, told about going to the yacht, about the visit of the rowboat and the explosion.
“What did you want aboard the yacht?” Tragg asked.
Mason said frankly, “I wanted to study the effects of the tide.”
“What about it?”
“I wanted to lie flat on the floor and see just how long after high tide the boat took enough of a tilt so I’d roll down to the lower side of the cabin.”
“What did you find out?” Tragg asked, his voice showing his interest.
“Four hours and one minute after high tide the yacht settled over enough so I rolled down to the starboard side.”
“How long after high tide?” Tragg asked incredulously.
“Four hours and one minute exactly,” Mason repeated and yawned. “It will be necessary to co-ordinate that time with the tidal differences in feet and inches. And now, my dear Lieutenant, Della Street and I are either going home, or someone’s going to have to swear out a warrant for us. Make up your mind.”