MASON WAS the first to break the silence which followed the officer's dramatic accusation. "Come to think of it," he drawled, "I believe I was talking with a woman who answered that description."

"What was her name?" the sergeant demanded, frowning.

"I'm sure I couldn't give you her name, Sergeant."

"You mean you don't know who she was?"

"I mean," Mason said, "that I couldn't give you her name."

"But you won't say you don't know who she is."

Mason merely smiled.

"Look here, Mason, your conduct in this thing is open to a good deal of criticism," the sergeant said.

"So I gather from your remarks," Mason told him.

"You can't pull this stuff and get away with it."

"Pull what stuff?" Mason asked innocently.

"The stuff you're pulling."

"Well," Mason said, judicially inspecting the end of his cigarette with critical eyes, "since I've already pulled it, the only question between us is whether I can, as you term it, get away with it. That, I suppose, is a matter of opinion."

The sergeant said to the traffic officer, "Take this guy and lock him up. Don't let him talk to anyone, and don't let him see anyone. You stay in the room with him, and if he tries to talk with you or asks you questions, don't answer them."

"Of course," Mason said, "I'll want it understood that I'm protesting vigorously against such unwarranted and high-handed action."

"Protest and be damned," the sergeant told him. "I've had enough of your lip. Jerry, go ahead and take him out of here, and then I'll search this damned boat from one end to the other until I find that white-headed woman in the silver gown, and don't let anyone else go ashore, no matter whether they have passes or not. I'm going to sew this ship up until I find that woman. She might try to ditch that silver dress and put on men's clothes, or something. The way it looks right now, she's the one who committed the murder, and Perry Mason's her lawyer."

The sergeant turned to Bert Custer and said, "Now you're willing to swear that she came out on deck and threw an automatic out over the rail, aren't you?"

"Yes," Custer said.

Marilyn Smith interposed firmly to say, "No, he isn't. He can only swear that she and another woman were standing out on the deck at the time he saw a gun thrown overboard."

The sergeant said angrily, "That's what comes of letting this damned lawyer stay in here and raise hell with our witnesses! Take him out and lock him up, Jerry."

The traffic officer, his holstered gun ominously in evidence, clapped his left hand on Perry Mason's shoulder. "On your way, buddy," he said.

"But," Mason objected, "I protest…"

The traffic officer spun him around facing the door and said, "You've done too damn much protesting already. Do you want to go sensibly, or do you want to be taken?"

"Oh, sensibly, by all means," Mason said, smiling, and accompanied the officer down a corridor and into a room, where he was held for more than three hours.

It was still foggy when Mason was released from the room. A tall, raw-boned individual with a lazy drawl in his speech, a black sombrero on his head, and a manner of calm unhurried efficiency greeted Mason and said, "I'm the United States Marshal. What were you doing aboard the ship?"

"Visiting."

"Did you have business with Sam Grieb?"

"Yes."

"What was that business?"

"It was business I was handling for a client. I came aboard the ship to see Mr. Grieb. For all I know, he was dead when I got here. I didn't see him alive. I don't know who murdered him, and I'm not making any statement."

The marshal nodded and said, "You know I can take you before the grand jury and make you talk, don't you?"

Mason smiled and said, "You can take me before a grand jury. Whether you can make me talk is a matter of opinion. My personal idea is that you can't."

A slow smile of whimsical humor twisted the lips of the marshal. The sergeant who had been conducting the investigation said belligerently, "Well, we can hold you on suspicion of murder and stick you in a cell and…"

"I'm running this, Sergeant," the marshal interrupted. "That's all, Mr. Mason."

"When can I go ashore?" Mason asked.

"Any time," the marshal said.

"Did you find out anything?" Mason inquired.

The marshal merely smiled.

"Locate the woman in the silver gown?" Mason asked.

The marshal's smile became a grin. "Try reading the papers, Mr. Mason. You'll find a speed boat at the bottom of the landing-stage. Your coat and hat are over there on the table."

Mason struggled into the overcoat, turned up the collar, and silently walked along the hallway, through the deserted bar and casino to the deck.

There was virtually no motion to the ship. The fog had settled like a thick blanket. Moisture slimed the deck, the stairway, and the rope which served as a handhold. A speed boat was waiting at the foot of the landing-stage. Mason was the only passenger, and, so far as he could observe, save for the crew and the officers, no one remained aboard the gambling ship.

He took his seat near the stern of the speed boat, which immediately roared into motion. A moment later the hulk of the gambling ship was swallowed by the gray pall through which the speed boat roared on a compass course toward the shore.

The amusement pier was deserted when Mason landed. Contrary to his expectations, there were no newspaper reporters awaiting him. He found his car, climbed in it, and drove to his office building. He slid the car to a stop at the curb, entered the lobby and rang for the elevator. The night janitor brought up the cage, grinned at Mason, and said, "Pretty late for you to be working so hard, Mr. Mason. Your secretary's up in your office waiting for you."

Mason's face showed surprise. "Been there ever since around eleven o'clock," the janitor said.

Mason thanked him and signed the register while the elevator was shooting upward. His steps echoed down the deserted corridor. He turned a corner and saw lights in his office, transforming the frosted glass of the entrance doorway into a golden oblong, against which appeared in black letters:

Entrance

Mason passed by the door to the entrance room and went to his private office. He opened the plain mahogany door with his key and saw Della Street tilted back in his big swivel chair, her feet propped upon the desk, ankles crossed. She was sound asleep.

She looked up as the latch clicked into place when the door closed. Her eyes, swollen with sleep, blinked in the bright light. "'Lo, Chief," she said sleepily. She lowered her feet from the desk, rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, grinned and said, "I fell asleep after the midnight news broadcast. That's the last one."

She indicated the portable radio which she had placed on the corner of Mason's desk, stretched her arms, yawned, made a little grimace, stamped her feet, and said, "Gosh, my legs have gone to sleep. What time is it?"

"Half past two," he told her. She tried to walk, but swayed on her numb feet. The lawyer caught her in his arms as she staggered. "Steady," he told her, holding her close to him.

She smiled sleepily and said, "I'm all pins and needles from my knees down. Gosh, I've been asleep a long time. That's one of the best sleeping chairs I ever sat in."

He slid an arm around her shoulders while she pillowed her cheek against his coat and closed her eyes.

"Why did you come up here?" he asked.

"There was a news flash on the ten o'clock broadcast that Sam Grieb had been murdered on his gambling ship and that everyone aboard was being held pending a complete investigation, so I thought you might want something, or try to get some message to me, and I figured I could work things better from here than from the apartment house where I hang out."