The speedometer needle of Mason's car quivered at around seventy miles an hour. Della Street, in the front seat beside him, lit a cigarette with the electric lighter, took it from between her lips and proffered it to Mason.
"No, thanks, Della," he said, "I'll drive now and smoke afterwards."
Paul Drake, in the back seat, yelled, "Take it slow, Perry. There's a curve ahead."
Mason said grimly, "When you were at the wheel, you looped the loop on this curve and thought it was funny. Now I'm driving, and you'll take it and like it."
The car screamed into the curve, lurched, straightened, skidded and then, as Mason depressed the foot throttle to the floorboards, came out of the turn and into the straightaway. Drake heaved a sigh of relief and let go his hold of the robe rail. Della Street, exhaling cigarette smoke, said, "Do they know whether he died from drowning or from the gunshot wounds, Chief?"
"If they know, they aren't saying," he told her. "It'll probably take a fairly complete post-mortem to tell."
"And you've already pointed out to them what they're up against," she said. "If he died by drowning, they can't convict Stella Kenwood of murder. Just what could they do to her?"
"Prosecute her for assault with a deadly weapon with intent to commit murder. However, having guessed wrong on the crime the first time they made a pass at it, it isn't going to be so easy to get a conviction in front of a jury. Burger will realize that, so he'll move heaven and earth to make a perfect case now."
"And if he died of the gunshot wounds?" she asked.
"That'll make a murder case out of it," Mason said, "only then they've got to prove how the car happened to be driven over the edge of the wharf, and that's not going to be so easy, because, regardless of what the autopsy surgeons say, if Renwold Brownley was able to drive the car off the wharf, a jury won't think he was dead when he went over the edge. And there'll be a lot of sympathy with Stella Kenwood. Then, if Brownley was killed by the bullets, someone must have driven the car over. That someone would have been an accomplice."
"Of course," Della Street pointed out, "he could have recovered consciousness and started to drive the car. He could have put it into low gear and, in a half-conscious condition, driven along the pier thinking it was a road. Then he could have died with the car still in gear, and the weight of his body depressing the foot throttle…"
Mason interrupted with a laugh and said, "That's something that could have happened. Remember that a district attorney has to prove to a jury beyond all reasonable doubt what actually did happen."
Drake yelled, "For God's sake, Della, quit talking so much and let him drive the car. That truck almost sideswiped us! It was the hand throttle which sent the car over the pier. You're a swell secretary, but don't try to make a detective out of yourself, because women can't develop the type of minds detectives need to have-and don't distract Mason's attention with a lot of arguments, or we'll all be corpses!"
Della said, "It's your cold that makes you such a grouch, Paul. Don't think just because you're a man, God gave you a corner on detective ability."
"That isn't what I meant," Drake explained. "I don't want to argue it now; but being a detective means you have to remember thousands of details and automatically fit any theory into the facts. You illustrated the point just now by forgetting about that hand throttle."
Mason grinned and said, "Don't argue with him, Della. He's got a cold and he's full of dope, fever and egotism."
Della Street lapsed into frowning silence. Drake closed his eyes. Mason, devoting his entire attention to driving the car, sent the speedometer needle shivering upward.
"Did Mr. Burger arrange to have both Janice Brownley and Philip Brownley come down to identify the body?" she asked at length.
Mason nodded.
"Why?" she wanted to know.
Mason said, "We'll know more about that when we get there. Incidentally, Paul, I'm getting a theory about this case. It's never going to be really solved until we've found out about that stuttering bishop. Is Harry Coulter going to be there?"
"Yes. He got the flash, and should be there before we arrive, or get there right afterwards."
"I want him to look over that car of Janice Brownley's," Mason said. "It's a yellow Cadillac. I want him to see if there's anything about it he can recognize."
Drake nodded, and Mason slowed as he approached the more congested district of the harbor.
"Her alibi's pretty air-tight," Drake pointed out, as Mason made a boulevard stop. "Paul Montrose has a pretty good reputation. He's a notary public working in a real estate office. He swears that Stockton got him out of bed to come in and join the party."
"Why did he do that?" Mason asked, throwing the car into second and stepping on the throttle.
"Because Stockton wanted some disinterested witness to back up his testimony."
"He had his wife," Della volunteered.
"Yes, but he wanted someone else," Drake said wearily.
"And," Mason said, frowning, "this was before Janice arrived, wasn't it?"
"Yes, about five minutes before, according to Montrose's statement."
"Well, we'll see what we'll see," Mason said, swinging the car to the right. "Hello, there are a lot of cars here."
"Mostly news photographers," Drake said. "Wait a minute, this cop is going to stop us."
A uniformed policeman stepped out, held up his hand and said, "You can't go out on the pier, boys."
While Mason hesitated, Drake, with the ready wit of a detective who has had to resort to extemporaneous prevarications on numerous occasions to crash police lines, pointed to Della Street and said, "We've got to go there. This is Janice Brownley. District Attorney Burger told her to get here just as fast as she could to identify the body of her grandfather."
"That's different," the officer admitted. "I had instructions about her, but I thought she was already there."
Drake shook his head and said, "Drive on, Perry. Be brave, Janice. It'll soon be over."
Della Street dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, and the officer stood to one side.
"Suppose Harry Coulter could get through all right?" Mason asked.
"Sure," Drake said, "it's a cinch. He probably couldn't get his car through, but you can leave it to Harry to think up some excuse which will get him past a cop who's as dumb as that one."
Mason said, "There's a yellow Cad coupe over there, Perry. Let's park in close to it, give it a once-over and see if it's Janice's car."
Mason swung his car in close to the big yellow coupe. Drake jumped from the rear seat, walked boldly to the side of the coupe, flung open the door, looked at the registration certificate and said, "Okay, Perry, it's her car."
Mason said, "There may be some distinguishing mark on it that Coulter might have remembered, perhaps a dented fender or… Hello, what's this?" He paused to look at a dent in the left front fender. "This has been done recently," he said.
"It's just a fender dent which might have been done in a parking lot," Drake observed, coming to stare at the fender.
Della Street, looking over the leather upholstery in the car, called out excitedly, "Chief, look here!"
They hurried back to join her, and she pointed out several reddish-brown spots on the deep leather-covered shelf which was just back of the front seat. For a moment the three of them stood staring at the stains. Drake said, "You've got a good eye, Della. Those things are all but invisible against this russet leather."
She grinned and said, "Just the feminine ability to observe things, Paul. A man wouldn't see them."
"And that's why they were overlooked," Mason said.
"Do you suppose Janice could have been at the beach and loaded her grandfather's body into the car and…?"
"Not much chance," Mason said. "Let's get away from here. Those bloodstains are evidence. They've been overlooked. If anyone knows we've discovered them, the stains will be removed before we can prove their significance."
"But what are they evidence of?" Drake asked.
"We'll figure that out later," Mason said.
They walked down the pier some twenty yards to where an ambulance had been drawn up. A group of men with cameras and flash bulbs were taking close-ups of Philip Brownley and Janice Brownley. Hamilton Burger nodded to Perry Mason. "It's the body all right?" Mason asked.
"Yes, it's Renwold C. Brownley. The body evidently spilled out of the car, and the tide washed it back under the pier."
"Did he die by drowning or by gunshot wounds?" Mason asked.
Burger shook his head.
"Can't tell or won't?" Mason asked.
"I'm not making any statements right now," Burger announced.
Mason looked over toward the ambulance. "May I see the body?"
"I think not, Perry. Julia Branner's out of it. You're not going to defend Stella Kenwood, are you?"
"No, one client in a case is enough for me."
Drake muttered in Mason's ear, "There's Harry Coulter. I'll get him to take a look at that yellow Cad."
Burger turned away, and Mason said, "Have him do his looking from a distance, Paul. Let's not show that we're taking any interest in that car. I want to figure out those bloodstains before we do anything more."
As Drake moved away, Philip Brownley came up to Mason and said, "Horrible, isn't it?"
Mason stared at him steadily. "No more horrible than it has been all along, is it?"
Young Brownley gave a visible shudder. "Finding Grandfather's body this way brings the tragedy of it all home to me so forcibly."
"You saw the body?"
"Yes, of course I had to identify it."
"How was he dressed?"
"Just as he left the house."
"How about the pockets of the coat, any documents?"
"Yes, there were some papers. They were pretty badly water-soaked. The police took them."
"Did you get to see them?"
"No, the police were very secretive about it… Tell me, Mr. Mason, you intimated when you were cross-examining me that if Grandfather didn't leave a will, and Janice isn't the granddaughter, I'd inherit the entire estate. Is that the law?"
Mason, staring at him steadily, said, "You'd like to squeeze Janice out of it, wouldn't you?"
"I'm just asking you what the law is. You know how I feel about her. She's an adventuress."
"I think," Mason told him, "you'd better consult a lawyer yourself. I don't want you for a client."
"Why not?"
Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, "I might want to take an adverse position."
"You mean representing Janice?"
"Not necessarily," Mason said.
"What do you mean then?"
"Figure it out," Mason told him.
The clanging gong of the ambulance called for the right of way. The car purred into slow motion, then, as it cleared the crowd, moved into greater speed. Drake took a few steps toward Perry Mason and nodded his head significantly. Mason moved over to join him.
"Harry says it looks like the car," Drake said, "but there are no distinguishing marks on it that he could remember well enough to swear to in court. If it isn't the car he saw, it's almost a dead ringer for it."
"And it was parked down near the place where Renwold Brownley kept his yacht?"
"Yes."
Mason touched Drake's arm and pointed across to where some yachts were moored. "Take a look, Paul," he said, "isn't the name on that yacht the Atina?"
Drake squinted his eyes and said, "It looks like it to me, Perry."
Della Street said positively, "Yes, that's the Atina."
"That's the yacht owned by the Cassidy who called on Bishop Mallory?"
Drake nodded.
Mason said, "Della and I are going places. I've got a hunch, Paul. Suppose you and Harry go take a look aboard the yacht."
"What for?" Drake asked.
"For anything you may happen to find," Mason said slowly.
"We may have some trouble getting aboard. There's a watchman, and it's a private mooring."
Mason said irritably, "For the love of Mike, do I have to tell you how to run a detective agency?"
"No, you don't," Drake drawled. "All I'm trying to find out is how strong we should go. How important is it that we get aboard that yacht?"
Mason, squinting his eyes against the sunlight which was reflected from the water of the bay, said, "Paul, I think it's damned important. You and Harry get aboard that yacht."
"That's all we wanted to know," Drake said. "Come on, Harry."
Mason motioned to Della Street. "Come on, Della," he told her, "we've got a job."
"What sort of a job, Chief?" she asked.
"Checking the records of receiving hospitals," he told her. "Let's go."
Della Street emerged from the telephone booth with a list of names. "These are the emergency cases you wanted to know about," she said, "together with the outcome. Numbers three, four and ten are dead. They were all identified. Number two is the only one who's still unconscious and unidentified."
Mason took the list, nodded and said, "Come on, we're going places." He snapped on the ignition, slammed the car into gear and started driving at high speed back towards Los Angeles.
"What did you think Drake was going to find aboard the Atina?" Della Street asked.
"Frankly," he told her, "I don't know."
"Why didn't you stay to find out?"
"Because," he said, "I doped out a theory of the case which may hold water."
"What is it?"
"I'll tell you," he said, "when I see whether it checks out. In solving a crime, a man has to figure out lots of theories. Some of them hold water, and some of them don't. A man who wants to build up a reputation for himself will keep his thoughts to himself until he knows that they check out."
Her eyes were tender as she studied his profile. "Do you want to build up a reputation for yourself, Chief?" she asked softly.
"And how!" he told her. They made the rest of the trip in silence. Mason brought the car to a stop before a hospital. Together they entered the office, and Mason said, "We want to look at the man who was picked up with a fractured skull on the morning of the fifth."
"He's not allowed visitors and…"
"I think," Mason said, "we can identify him."
"Very well. One of the internes will permit you to enter the room. He's still unconscious. You'll have to promise to remain absolutely silent." Mason nodded. The girl pressed a bell and said to a white-robed intern who appeared, "Please take these parties to 236. It's a matter of identification. They've promised to remain silent."
They followed the intern down a corridor and into a ward past long rows of beds to a cot which was in a corner hidden by screens from the rest of the ward. The intern folded back one of the screens. Della Street gasped, and her hand shot to her throat.
Mason stared down at the unconscious figure, then nodded to the intern, who replaced the screen. Mason pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. "See that this man has the best medical attention money can buy," Mason said. "Transfer him to a private room and give him a day and a night nurse."
"You know him?" the intern asked curiously. Mason nodded and said, "The man is Bishop William Mallory of Sydney, Australia."