Erle Gardner - The Case of the Half-Wakened Wife

“I thought not.”

“We’ll be back late this evening?” Mason asked.

Benton pursed his lips, then smiled. “Frankly, Mr. Mason, I don’t think we will. But the others won’t know that. We’re going up to the island. At this season, whenever there’s a hot day, a fog usually drifts in at night. We can’t come back in a fog. Get me?”

“I get you,” Mason said.

“That’s fine, then. Bring a bag with overnight things — and don’t be surprised if you meet a strange assortment of people.”

The yacht glided smoothly up the bay, a hundred and thirty feet of sleek luxury. The throb of the big Diesel motors and the thrust of the twin propellers gave a sense of power underneath. The teakwood decks, mahogany trim, and comfortable deck chairs gave the passengers a sense of luxury, a quiet enjoyment of the good things of life.

As Mason let Parker Benton pilot him around to meet the various guests, the lawyer realized that the millionaire could hardly have selected a more propitious occasion for compromising a potential lawsuit. Not only did the environment make for friendly good feeling, but in the background there was always a suggestion of financial power on the part of the host.

Mason acknowledged the introduction to Jane Keller and to Lawton Keller, caught in Lawton Keller’s eyes a glimpse of latent hostility. The brother-in-law didn’t relish the idea of having lawyers checking up on him.

Benton had gone the limit to have everyone aboard who was at all interested, even to Martha Stanhope and her daughter.

Scott Shelby, definitely ill at ease, tried to cover his feelings by trying to be popular and friendly. His effort was just a little too obvious.

It was with agreeable surprise that Mason met Marion Shelby, a woman about twenty-five with dark brown, almost black, hair, gray-blue eyes and a friendly unspoiled manner. Her manner gave the impression that she knew nothing of the business background which made the trip so significant. To her mind an influential business acquaintance of her husband’s was being nice and she was enjoying it immensely.

Parker Benton saw that cocktails were served. “No business of any kind, please,” he warned. “Not until after dinner. Then we’ll sit down at the big table in the cabin and talk. In the meantime let’s relax and enjoy life.”

Following which he took his guests around on a tour of the yacht, showing them the various staterooms, mechanical gadgets and lounging rooms.

Some time later, Mason moved over to stand at the rail, letting the brisk breeze tingle him into a feeling of physical well-being.

They had left the bay behind and were now within the confines of the river. The banks were less than a mile apart and the pilot was guiding the boat between spar buoys which marked a rather treacherous channel. The yacht was moving forward at half-speed skimming through the water as smoothly as a game fish in a cool pool.

The day had been hot, dry, cloudless, but now there was just a suggestion of fog drifting in from the bay, although the sky above remained a clear, deep blue.

Mason heard motion behind, then Scott Shelby’s voice said, “I wanted to talk with you, Mr. Mason... alone.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think that Benton’s plan is for us to talk everything over all at once after dinner, not piecemeal.”

“This is about something else.”

“What?”

“Your friend Sergeant Dorset. He put in quite a bit of time asking me about what your business had been.”

“He’s an inquisitive chap.”

“Rather a peculiar thing happened.”

“Don’t tell me about it unless you want to.”

“I want to.”

“I’m representing Jane Keller. I can’t represent you.”

“I understand that.”

“Why talk to me then?”

“I just wanted to talk about Sergeant Dorset. I don’t like him.”

“Lots of people don’t.”

“I think he’s trying to cook up something — to frame something on somebody.”

“What and on whom?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.”

“I’m not a mind reader.”

“I was poisoned a few days ago.”

“Indeed.”

“I thought it was a simple case of food poisoning, but apparently it wasn’t. Anyway that’s what Dorset says. He wants to make a lot of trouble.”

There was a moment of silence while the sound of water slipping past the sides of the boat was plainly audible, then Mason said, “I’m listening. That’s all.”

“My wife and I had dinner in this place. We didn’t both eat the same thing. I had red wine; she had white wine. I had prime ribs of beef cooked rare and French fried potatoes; she had fried oysters and vegetables. We both had the same dessert. We both became ill about half an hour after eating. She was only slightly ill. I was quite ill — a typical case of food poisoning, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s right.”

“You mean it was?”

Mason grinned. “I mean I wouldn’t say.”

Shelby looked at the lawyer with manifest irritation in his restless dark eyes, then abruptly averted his glance.

Mason stood with his elbows over the rail looking down at the rippling water which curled up against the sides of the vessel, splashed over into little foam-crested ripples and then fell rapidly astern.

There was silence for several seconds, then Mason said abruptly, “Apparently we’re headed for the island.”

“I suppose so,” Shelby said, and then after a moment added, “I was talking about this poisoning.”

“So you were.”

“I was pretty sick. I called a physician. This same physician treated my wife. I explained to him that it was food poisoning, probably something that had been canned because there was a burning metallic taste in my throat.”

“I see,” Mason commented.

“And do you know what happened?”

“No.”

“Your friend Sergeant Dorset shows up yesterday afternoon and tells me that I had been poisoned by arsenic — and apparently wants to make something of it.”

“Such as what?”

“Well, he asked me a lot of questions about what enemies I had and all that sort of tripe. Good Lord, I don’t want the newspaper notoriety of anything like that, particularly right at this time. I’m putting across several important business deals.”

“How did Sergeant Dorset think the arsenic got in the food?”

“That’s just the point. He wanted me to tell him. Why doesn’t he go to the restaurant? It must have been the cook at the restaurant.”

“Anyone else poisoned?”

“Dorset said that there had been no other complaints.”

Mason raised his eyes. The sun was setting and a thin moist haze seemed to be rising from the water.

Carlotta Benton came along the deck, said cheerily, “Oh, there you are. My, you look serious. I hope you haven’t been spoiling your appetite by talking business.”

Mason said, “On the contrary, Mr. Shelby was telling me about an illness.”

Shelby kicked Mason on the ankle.

“Food poisoning,” Shelby interposed. “Something I ate in a restaurant.”

“One can’t be too careful these days. I hope you’re all right now?” Carlotta Benton said.

“Fit as a fiddle,” Shelby told her.

“You look rather pale.”

“I’m always that way.”

“Well, I’m rounding up the guests for cocktails. Dinner will be served in about thirty minutes and Parker says he wants to give the cocktails time to take hold.”

“Do you,” Mason asked casually and with no intimation he already possessed information not shared by the others, “know whether we’re headed for some fixed destination, or are we just cruising?”