“Hello, Mr Mason,” the man said. “I’m Dunston Chambers. This is Lorraine, my wife. I understand you want some skin-diving.”
Mason sized them up, young people radiant with vitality and health.
“Your hobby seems to agree with you,” Mason said.
Chambers grinned. “It does.”
“I have a diving job I want done, and I want to be sure that no inkling of it leaks out anywhere.”
“When?”
“Just as soon as it’s possible to get under water without being detected.”
“Where?”
“Down at Newport Harbour.”
“I understand there’s been a murder down there,” Chambers said.
“Your understanding is correct,” Mason told him.
“Does this have anything to do with the murder?”
“It has to do with the murder case.”
“Are we clean?”
“You’re clean.”
“Okay, we’re ready,” Chambers said.
“We’ll need a place to change,” his wife pointed out. “We can hardly do that in an open boat.”
“You do skin-diving on weekends?”
“Yes.”
“How do you change then?”
“We have a friend who has a cabin cruiser and—”
“Would he rent it?”
“Why... why, I suppose so.”
“If you used that boat, could you do your diving where no one would know what was being done?”
“They’d know we were diving, but they wouldn’t know where we were exploring. If the fog continues to hang on the water the way it’s doing now, no one would know we were diving.”
Mason nodded to the phone. “Get busy,” he said. “See what you can fix up. Where are your outfits?”
“In the trunk of our car.”
“And your car?”
“Downstairs.”
Mason grinned and said, “Come on, we’re going to hurry before that fog lifts.”
Chapter Seventeen
The thick blanket of fog clung to the calm surface of the water.
Chambers, at the wheel of the little cabin cruiser, said, “This is plenty thick, Mr Mason.”
“So much the better,” Mason said.
“Now, just where do you want us?”
“That wharf over there,” Mason said. “That oil and gas wharf. I want to arrange to tie up there and I want you to go overboard while we’re tied up. I want you to comb every inch of the bottom, starting at a point about fifty feet to the south of the wharf, stretching from a point even with the end of the wharf down to water so shallow that a person can stand up in it.
“Now then, if you find anything unusual on the bottom I want you to leave it right where it is, but come and report to me.”
“Okay,” Chambers said, “if you’ll take her in to the wharf, I’ll go down and join Lorraine getting my things on.”
Mason took the wheel and Chambers ducked down into the cabin.
Mason eased the boat alongside the wharf.
“Want gas?” the attendant asked.
Mason said, “I want to stay here for a little while.”
“We only have facilities for berthing boats while they’re putting on gas and oil.”
“I know,” Mason said, “you can put a gas hose out and fill the tanks. I’ll pay for whatever gas you put in and give you twenty dollars extra just to leave the hose in the tank and pretend that we’re still filling with gas.”
“Say, what’s the idea?” the attendant asked.
“Just making a survey,” Mason said, “but it has to be handled in strict confidence.”
“Okay,” the attendant said. “I don’t think many boats are going to be moving around in this fog. Gosh, it’s thick. It’s been bad for two — three days now.”
“All right,” Mason said. “Remember, no talking.”
“No talking,” the attendant said, with a grin.
A moment later Dunston and Lorraine Chambers appeared on deck, their tanks strapped to their backs. They adjusted their face masks, slipped over the side in the water.
Within ten minutes Dunston was back.
He climbed the ladder on the side of the yacht, took off the mask and said to Mason, “There’s a woman’s purse down there.”
“Anything else unusual?” Mason asked.
“A woman’s purse is all we found.”
“Did you open the purse?”
“We’re afraid something may float out of it if we open it.”
“Bring the purse here,” Mason said. “Leave your wife down there to mark the exact place. I want to look at the purse and then put it back.”
Chambers hesitated a minute, then said, “Okay, orders are orders.”
He again submerged and in a short time was back with the purse.
Mason squatted by the side of the rail. “Now, let’s look at this purse,” he said, “and inventory the contents.”
The lawyer opened the purse.
“Good Lord, a roll of bills,” Chambers said.
“Exactly,” Mason said.
“And what the hell! A driving licence. This is—”
Mason hastily interposed his hand between the card case and the diver’s eyes. “Never mind,” he said. “You’re not supposed to see anything except what I show you. Now notice, I’m taking out this roll of bills and I’m substituting another roll of bills.”
Mason took out the bills from the purse, took a roll of fifties and hundreds from his pocket, pushed it down into the purse and snapped the purse shut.
“Now then,” he said, “take the purse back, put it right where it was and then start looking around for anything else that’s unusual. Cover the floor of the bay for a space of a good hundred feet in every direction. What’s the nature of the ground there, muddy or sandy?”
“Sandy. Oh, there’s a little bit of ooze on top of it but for the most part it’s a sandy silt.”
“Okay,” Mason said. “When you have covered the ground thoroughly, come back.”
“And leave this purse down there?”
“Yes.”
“With all that money?”
“With all that money. Only be sure to squeeze the air out of the purse so that it stays in that one place and doesn’t float around any.”
“There’s enough junk in there, probably lipstick, keys and compact, to hold it down pretty well,” Chambers said. “It’s heavy.”
“That’s fine. Just squeeze the air out of it.”
“And then what?”
“After you’ve ascertained that there’s nothing else unusual on the floor of the bay there, come back.”
Fifteen minutes later they were back at the boat.
“Everything okay?” Mason asked.
“Everything okay.”
“Nothing else unusual?”
“That’s right. Nothing else unusual.”
“That’s fine,” Mason said. “Go on down in the cabin and change your clothes.”
Mason went over to the wharf, handed the attendant money for the gasoline, gave him an extra twenty dollars and said, “Thanks a lot. You can keep quiet?”
“Boy, can I keep quiet,” the attendant said. “I can keep quiet in sixteen different languages including Scandinavian.”
“English will be all you need for the time being,” Mason told him, grinning.
Chapter Eighteen
At four-thirty Bancroft was back in Mason’s office.
“Here,” he said, “is a chart showing the exact position of the boat when my wife jumped overboard. You see this wharf, here. That’s the oil and gas wharf. She estimates they were within thirty or forty feet of it when the anchor grabbed. The boat slued a little bit to the side and then started to drift. The tide was coming in at the time. She went overboard—”
“Which side?” Mason asked.
“The port side.”
“That was the one away from the wharf?”
“Yes.”