Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Crooked Candle

Mason said, “I’m beginning to wonder about that myself. He’d hardly have been trying to remove something. Perhaps he knew we were aboard— Say, wait a minute. Perhaps we don’t want to go back to that yacht. He may have been...”

Off to the right and perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead, a sheet of flame mushroomed into an exploding pattern that ripped apart the night with a concussion that all but knocked them flat in the boat. A half moment later, the roar of sound crashed against their eardrums.

Instinctively the boatman shut off the motor. The boat drifted for a moment in a silence that seemed as a tangible wall blocking all sensation from their eardrums.

High overhead, there was a whirring sound in the air — a sound which grew in intensity and was followed by a splash some hundred yards off to the left. A moment later, other splashes sounded all around them.

“Falling debris,” Mason said.

Cameron shifted his pipe in his mouth. “That there explosion” he said, “must have been what you was thinking of when you changed your mind about going back.”

“And that’s that,” Mason said grimly. “Let’s get back.”

The outboard motor snarled into high speed. The little skiff fairly leaped ahead in the water then swung in a wide half circle. The particles of fog moisture misted against the faces of the passengers until the fog seemed to have turned to a drizzling rain. The cold damp chill which lay along the water penetrated through their garments to the very bone.

“Won’t be long,” Cameron said. “Just hope I’m not lost, that’s all.”

There followed an interval of several minutes during which the three persons in the little boat were too chilled and uncomfortable to do any talking. Then a sparbuoy loomed up out of the darkness almost dead ahead. Cameron swung the skiff so as to just miss the buoy, then after a few moments, swung the boat hard to port. A vague shadowy mass of land loomed against pale stars as the fog suddenly thinned. A light appeared ahead with a halo of moisture surrounding it. The little skiff swept around in a curve and, seemingly without warning, the darkness ahead resolved itself into mist-enshrouded outlines of yachts moored to the float at the yacht club.

Even in the short time that the journey had consumed, the cold had cramped Mason’s limbs, and it was with an effort that he jumped to the float, carrying the painter.

Cameron shut off the motor, took the painter from Mason and tied it to a ring in the float. “How you coming?” he asked Della Street.

“B-r-r-r!” she said and laughed.

The three of them walked down the float and Cameron opened the door of his snug little cabin. The welcome warmth from the stove enveloped them with a silent hospitality. The singing teakettle was as homelike as the purring of a cat in front of a fireplace.

Without a word, Cameron switched on the lights, poured hot water over spices, butter and sugar, in three cups, and added lots of rum.

“This,” Mason announced, “hits the spot.”

“This,” Della Street supplemented, “is saving my life. I thought I wouldn’t make it. Clothes don’t seem to be any good at all against that cold fog.”

Cameron lit his pipe. “Goes right through you,” he admitted.

He raised the lid of the stove, thrust in two sticks of heavy oak, and was refilling the teakettle when he paused, his eyes peering out through the window.

“Car coming.”

“What time is it?” Mason asked.

“Two-fifteen.”

“Seems like it’s been ages,” Della Street laughed.

Mason took pencil and paper from his pocket. “I want to look at your tide table,” he said. “I want to find out just how much difference there was between the tide tonight and the night of the murder. I...”

“Coming this way,” Cameron reported. “A couple of men. Look like officers.”

Feet pounded along the float with a strange booming note.

“Sounds like a drum,” Della Street said, and coughed nervously, “an ominous drum.”

Two men opened the door of the cabin without knocking. For the moment, they ignored Mason and Della Street, their eyes fastened on Cameron. “What was that explosion?” they asked.

“Burbank’s yacht blew up.”

“That’s what we thought. You take anyone out there tonight?”

Cameron gestured toward Perry Mason and Della Street.

“You can swear they were aboard the yacht?”

“That’s right.”

“How long after they left did the explosion, take place?”

“Between five and ten minutes. Not over ten minutes.”

The officer regarded Mason with square-jawed belligerency. “Get your things, buddy. You’re going to Headquarters.”

“Don’t be silly,” Mason told him. “I’ve got to be in court tomorrow. I’m Perry Mason.”

“I don’t give a damn if you’re Pontius Pilate, you’re going to Headquarters.”

Mason explained patiently, “There was a rowboat that came out to the yacht. I thought at the time it was someone who wanted to get something that was on the yacht, but that he became frightened when he opened the hatch and found there was a fire going in the cabin stove. I realize now that what he wanted was to plant a time bomb. He didn’t know just how soon we were leaving the yacht, and thought that was a good chance to blow up both us and the yacht. That business of opening the hatch and starting down to the cabin, then turning and running from the yacht and rowing frantically away into the darkness was just part of the stall to keep us from getting suspicious as to what he had really been after. He probably planted the bomb within a matter of seconds after getting aboard the yacht.”

“What did this man look like?”

“We didn’t see him.”

“What sort of a boat?”

“We didn’t see that.”

The officer grinned — a tantalizing, superior grin. “You’ve got to do better than that,” he said, and then added reproachfully, “And you a lawyer, too.”

Mason said, “For the love of Mike! Get Headquarters on your radio. Have them cover the entire waterfront. Try and pick up anyone who’s prowling around. See if you can’t locate that rowboat when the man comes ashore — if he hasn’t landed already.”

“And make a monkey out of myself falling for a story like that and turning the department upside down. No, Mason, I’m sorry, but as far as we’re concerned, you’re elected. You and this lady went out to the yacht. What did you go out there for?”

“To study the action of the tides.”

“Nice stuff,” the officer said sarcastically. “You carry along a time bomb. You wait until just when you’re leaving and then press the button and start the thing going. You’ve timed it so you can get clean away.”

“Don’t be silly,” Mason said. “Why would I want to blow up the yacht?”

“Why would anybody want to blow up the yacht? You’ve got more reason than anyone.” The officer turned to Cameron. “Did he come straight back, or did he make some excuse to hang around somewhere near the yacht until the thing blew up?”

Cameron hesitated.

“Go ahead,” the officer said.

“It wasn’t that,” Cameron finally blurted. “We were looking around in the fog for this rowboat, zigzagging back and forth.”

“Somewheres near the yacht?”

“About quarter of a mile.”

The officer exchanged glances with his companion, then sniffed audibly and looked at the empty cups. “What you got there,” he asked Cameron, “rum?”

“We did have,” Cameron said dryly, filling his pipe and making no move toward the rum bottle.

The officer jerked his head at Perry Mason. “Okay,” he said, “come along — you and the lady, both.”