She nodded.
Mason dropped into the chair at her side.
“What’s new?” she asked, in a low voice.
“Della told you about Dail being the president of the Products Refining Company?”
“Yes. She said you were going to see him. I’ve been waiting here, hoping you’d show up.”
“Dail,” Mason said, “wants to get his hands on the money. He’s willing to promise anything. After he gets the money he’ll pass the buck to the board of directors and let them assume responsibility for the double-cross.”
“How can we prevent that?” she asked.
Mason said, “Let me get my hands on the money and I’ll handle it in such a way there won’t be any double-cross. Since I’m not representing your husband I’ll have more latitude than I otherwise would.”
“Was Celinda present when you talked with her father?”
“Yes, Celinda was there.”
“I don’t like that,” Mrs. Moar said. “I don’t like that girl. She’s nursing a deadly hatred for Belle.”
“All right,” Mason told her. “The thing to do now is to get some quick action. Find out how much money your husband has left, and get it in my hands. You can tell your husband what’s being done, but don’t tell him who’s representing you.”
“You won’t want him to talk with you?”
“No, I want to have no connection with him whatsoever. My connection is with you.”
“Ant’ how’ll you get the money?”
“He’il give it to you and you’ll give it to me. And when I get it, I don’t want to know that it’s embezzled money. It’ll simply be money which you have given me to pay over to the Products Refining Company under certain conditions. It must be your money, as between you and me. Do you understand that? I don’t want it to come from your husband. I don’t want it to be money which was embezzled from the Products Refining Company. I want it to be your money which you are giving to me to accomplish a certain specific thing. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” she said. “Look, Mr. Mason, there’s Celinda Dail watching us.”
Mason laughed heartily, picked up his cocktail glass, tilted the brim slightly toward Mrs. Moar as though proposing a toast and said in a low voice, “All right, don’t look so businesslike, and above all, don’t look apprehensive. Laugh and act as though we were having a casual cocktail.”
Mrs. Moar raised her glass. Her smile was patently forced.
“Have you,” Mason asked, “discussed this any further with your husband?”
“No.”
“Does your husband realize that Dail is president of the Products Refining Company?”
“Apparently not. Carl has made no attempt to avoid him. We’ve walked right past Mr. Dail and Celinda several times when we’ve been promenading the deck. But Carl’s taken every precaution to avoid that nurse. I think he has someone paid to watch her and let him know whenever she’s coming on deck because he always goes into hiding somewhere and doesn’t come out until after she’s gone.”
“Well,” Mason said, “the Products Refining Company is a big concern. It’s not surprising that the president of that company wouldn’t know a bookkeeper, but you’d think Carl would have had seen his picture, or heard his name mentioned often enough to know who he was.”
“Perhaps he does,” she said, “but feels safe because he knows Dail doesn’t know him except by name, whereas that nurse knows his real name is Moar, and would probably blurt it out if he met her.”
“Don’t look so businesslike,” Mason warned. “Celinda’s watching you. Laugh. Look around the room, and, pretty quick, look at your wrist watch, jump up and leave the table. Here, turn around so you’re not prompted to look over at her.
“Now here’s something else. It would be particularly unfortunate if Carl should be recognized now. Until I’ve reached an agreement with Dail his hands aren’t tied. If he found out the man he’s looking for was aboard this ship and had funds in his possession, Dail would have him arrested and laugh at me when I tried to get any concessions.”
“Then it would be better if Carl didn’t have the money in his possession?” she asked.
“Much better,” Mason said.
She glanced at her wrist watch, jumped to her feet and said, “Oh, I must be going.”
Mason arose, bowed, and said, in a low tone, “Laugh.”
Mrs. Moar gave a feeble attempt at laughter, turned and swept from the room.
Mason sat down at the table, twisted the stem of his cocktail glass in his fingers, glanced up at the door where Celinda Dail had been standing. She was no longer visible.
Chapter 4
Sunday afternoon, a wind, howling up from the south and west, caught the ship on the quarter, sent smoke from the funnels streaking down the sky, and kicked up a sea which made for a nasty roll. The weather deck was lashed by torrents of rain, while oily smoke and hot gas from the funnels made the deck untenable.
Mason, threading his way down the creaking corridor of C deck, confronted Belle Newberry as she swayed along the passageway, bracing herself from time to time with her hands.
“Hello,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Long?” the lawyer asked.
“All day.”
“I’ve been in my cabin, reading. Why didn’t you give me a buzz?”
She laughed, and said, “I wanted the meeting to appear casual.”
“And so you start out by telling me you’ve been looking for me?” he inquired, smiling.
She made a little grimace. “It’s ry candid nature. It’s always betraying me. I hate sham and hypocrisy. Come on into the social hall, I want to talk to you.”
Mason turned, took her arm, and, together, they swayed toward the stern of the ship. “Nasty weather for the captain’s dinner tonight,” Mason said.
“I think it’s fun,” she told him. “I get an awful bang out of it. If you go on deck and stand in a sheltered place, you can hear the wind howling around the masts. I thought it was only in wind-jammers you heard that sound.”
Mason said, “There’s quite a bit of rigging on a steamer these days. Did it frighten you?”
“No, I think it’s wonderful! There’s something fascinating and awe-inspiring about it. It’s a long-drawn-out, steady, hollow sound. You can’t describe it.”
“I know the sound,” Mason said, “and never tire of listening to it. I like storms.”
Belle Newberry’s eyes sparkled. “You would,” she said.
Mason said, “I think that’s a compliment, Belle. But you didn’t search me out to talk about storms, did you?”
“No. It’s about Mother.”
“What about her?” Mason asked.
“What’s she been telling you about Dad?”
“What makes you think that she’s told me anything about your father?” Mason asked.
She waited for an advantageous roll of the ship, then pushed him into a deep-cushioned chair. “Sit down,” she said, “and like it. I see this is going to be one of those interviews where I’ll ask you questions and you’ll answer with questions.”
“After all,” Mason told her, “if you want information, you could ask your mother.”
“I could,” she said, “but I’m not doing it.”
“Why not?”
“Because she... Wait a minute, I almost gave you a straight answer. I shouldn’t do it. I’ll have to think up a question... Why should I ask my mother?”
“Who else is there to ask?” he inquired.
“Would you tell me if you knew?”
“Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”
She laughed and said, “That’s fine. No one’s said