Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Stepdaughter’s Secret

“Now, this is the tricky part of it, Paul. I want you to have a duplicate red coffee can. It will, of course, be empty. I want you to go past the can that Rosena drops so you can scoop it up with a landing net, but at exactly that moment, you drop the decoy coffee can into the water and keep right on going, so if anyone should be watching you, the action will be so fast that it will look as if you’ve simply cut in close to the floating coffee can but haven’t paid any particular attention to it.”

“That’ll take some doing,” Drake said.

“That’ll take perfect co-ordination, but it can be done,” Mason told him.

“You’ll be cutting figure eights and circles and you’ll have the surface of the lake all churned up with big waves. Have the girls water-skiing if they’re expert enough. That can will be up at the top of a wave, then down at the bottom. Anyone watching can’t be sure exactly what happens. I want you to have at least three, and preferably four, scantily clad girls in the boat. One of them can be a starlet who would like publicity. The others can be female operatives whose discretion you can trust.”

“And what do I do with the real coffee can when I get it?”

“You telephone me,” Mason said.

“And where will you be?”

“Della and I will be sitting on the porch of the country house of Melton Varas Elliott, that’s one of the mansions on the lake. Elliott has had me do work for him and will be glad to accommodate me in a matter of this sort. Once you get that coffee can in your possession, pop it into a bait box of some sort or a canvas duffle bag, so that anyone who is watching won’t see what you have.

“And after you’ve tossed out the decoy and have the real coffee can in your possession, get back to shore someplace where you can keep your eyes on that decoy coffee can. Some boat will come along to pick it up. I want to get the licence number of the boat, a description of the people who are in it, and I want to know where they go — but I don’t want them to know that they’re being followed. That’s where your girls are going to have to come in. They’ll be cutting all sorts of capers and you apparently will have your attention riveted exclusively on the girls.”

“Okay,” Drake said, “I’ll do my best.”

“Get started,” Mason told him. “Grab your car, get the girls and head for the lake. You don’t have much time. The probabilities are the delivery will take place sometime this afternoon.”

“On my way,” Drake said, leaving the office.

Mason turned to Della. “Ring up Melton Elliott, Della, and tell him that we want to use his house at Lake Merticito for the afternoon.

“In the meantime, Della, take this roll of film, or have Gertie take this roll of film over to Frank Stenter Dalton, the handwriting expert. Tell him to develop the pictures, make an enlarged print of the blackmail note, determine what make and model of typewriter was used in typing it, and then tell him to buy me a somewhat battered model of the same typewriter.

“Then get me three thousand dollars in tens and twenties,” he said, reaching for a chequebook; then added, as something of an afterthought, “you’d better take along a bathing suit, Della. It’s a hot day and you might like a swim.”

The palatial residence of Melton Varas Elliott was across the lake from Harlow Bancroft’s home and some distance to the south.

Mason and Della Street sat in the cool shade of the porch, the lawyer holding binoculars to his eyes.

At this hour of the afternoon on a weekday, there was little activity on the lake. Here and there a speedboat, carrying a graceful water-skier, cut smooth circles or long, graceful figure S curves. A gentle northerly breeze stirred small wavelets which interfered with the reflections.

A butler, who had been instructed over the telephone by Melton Elliott to see that his guests were given every comfort, brought them cooling drinks and hovered solicitously in the background.

Della, gazing toward the south, said, “I wonder if this is Paul Drake’s outfit.”

Mason turned the binoculars. Slowly a smile softened his features and he handed the binoculars to Della Street.

“Take a look,” he invited.

Della Street held the binoculars to her eyes.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, then passed the binoculars back to Mason. “I think you’ll enjoy the scenery more than I will,” she added dryly.

Mason watched the graceful lines of the speedboat and those of the three feminine figures within it. They were attired in the briefest of bathing suits.

“Looks like Paul Drake at the helm,” he said, “well disguised with dark goggles.”

“And,” Della Street observed, “ he’s getting paid for this — a generous salary and all expenses.”

“No doubt about it,” Mason said, “I took up the wrong profession.”

Drake’s boat turned in a burst of speed, came charging up the lake, swept past the Elliott house, then made a sharp turn.

The scantily clad young women screamed. Two of them clung to Drake for support.

“Is he grinning?” Della Street asked.

“I can’t even see his face,” Mason said, “there are too many girls.”

Drake abruptly slowed the boat to a trolling speed.

One of the young women produced water-skis, and Drake stopped the boat as she eased herself into the water, then, getting in the proper position, gave a signal.

Drake gunned the boat into speed and the young woman, gracefully coming to the surface of the water on the skis, executed a series of circling manoeuvres in back of the boat, crossing and recrossing the waves made by the wake.

“Don’t get so wrapped up in Paul Drake,” Della Street warned, “that you forget to look at the Bancroft residence. I think a boat just put out from there.”

Mason shifted the binoculars.

“It did, for a fact,” he said. “A boat with just one person in it. I had rather anticipated there’d be a water-skier.”

“Regulations provide for two people in the boat when a person is skiing,” Della Street said. “One person at the wheel and one person to watch the skier. Perhaps Rosena wants to handle this all by herself.”

Mason, studying the lake, said thoughtfully, “There’s a fisherman out there, apparently pole fishing with an anchor. There are some boats down nearer the south end of the lake, but no one else is around the Bancroft boat.”

“Can you see if she has a red can?” Della Street asked.

Mason shook his head.

Drake’s boat picked up speed and made a series of circles.

“Wait a minute,” Mason said. “I think she’s throwing something overboard. I got a glimpse of something going over, and — it looks as though there might be something red there... I can’t get a good look at it. There are too many waves, what with the wake of the boat and the waves generated by the wind.”

Abruptly, Drake’s boat shot into speed.

“Evidently Drake has seen it,” Mason said.

The water-skier was following in a straight line now, directly behind the boat, as Drake gunned the boat into power, rapidly shortening the distance to the boat which had put out from the Bancroft landing.

“Well,” Mason said, “he’s up to where he should be able to see the red coffee can if... Oh-oh, there’s an accident.”

The young woman who was water-skiing behind Drake’s boat tried to make a turn, evidently misjudged a wave and made a somersault into the water.

Drake promptly slowed the boat and circled.

“Damn!” Mason said.

Watching through the binoculars, Mason could see the boat circling to the rescue, saw the young woman in the water pick up the end of the rope Drake threw her, then slowly the boat jockeyed into position and as an arm flashed the signal, Drake once more gunned the boat and the water-skier came erect.