Drake said, "I sure as hell feel disguised. I hope none of the gang from headquarters sees me."
Mason chuckled. "If you don't smell too strong of moth balls you'll get by all right, Paul. You look like a rich playboy."
They took seats in the speed boat. A man blew a whistle, and the motor, which had been idling, roared into a staccato song of power, rattling out explosions which drowned all other sounds. The man on the float jerked loose a line, and Mason's head shot back with the thrust which swept the speed boat out of the lighted area into the dark waters. White-bordered waves curled up just back of the bow. Drops of spray peppered the windshield in front of the lawyer's face as though they had been buckshot. The small craft vibrated into greater speed, then raised its bow to skim over the long swells. Mason grinned at Paul Drake and yelled, "More fun than I've had for a month." His words were blown from his mouth.
The lawyer settled back against the cushions, turned to look back at the diminishing lights of the amusement pier, at the frosty glitter of the city lights, then peered ahead into the darkness. His nostrils dilated; he breathed deeply of the night air as his lips parted in a smile of sheer enjoyment.
The detective sat huddled in his overcoat, his face wearing the lugubrious expression of one who is submitting to a disagreeable experience which he has been unable to avoid.
At length, out of the darkness ahead, loomed the glitter of the gambling ship. The speed boat swept in a long circle. The motors slowed, and the nose of the frail craft seemed to be pulled into the water by some giant hand. A man standing on a grated landing-stage surveyed the boat with disinterested appraisal, looped a rope around a bit and yelled, "All aboard."
The passengers made the landing an occasion for much merriment. Women in evening dress held their long skirts well above their knees as they jumped. Two girls in sports outfits leapt unassisted to the landing and ran up the stairway. Mason and Drake were among the last to disembark. They climbed the swaying stairway to find a group of eight or ten persons held back from the steep incline by a taut rope between two stanchions. When the last of the incoming passengers had left the stairway, a man jerked the rope to one side and called out, "All aboard for the shore trip. Please don't crowd. There's plenty of room."
Mason led the way along the deck and into a lighted salon, from which came the sound of voices, the rattle of chips and the whir of roulette wheels. "Okay, Paul," he said, "do your stuff."
"You going to buck the tiger?" the detective asked.
"I think I'll watch for the time being," Mason said. "You start plunging. Try to attract plenty of attention."
Drake pushed his way toward a crowded roulette wheel, while Mason, strolling aimlessly about, sized up the general layout, lost a few dollars on roulette, recouped his losses playing the field numbers in a crap game, turned to the wheel of fortune and killed time by placing several small bets. He felt a touch on his elbow and Drake said, grinning, "I'm three hundred dollars to the good, Perry. What if I break the bank? Would I have to credit our expense account?"
"You won't break it, Paul."
"How about salting these winnings? I hate to credit a client with winnings."
"Okay, go to another table. Try your luck there. Keep drifting around. Don't keep much money in front of you. As soon as you run into a losing streak, buck the game hard. Then write a check. Soon as you do that, give me the high-sign and I'll come over."
Drake moved to a nearby table. The lawyer watched him quietly. Steady winnings augmented the stack of chips at first, then Drake started to lose. He increased the size of his bets, scattered money recklessly around the table. The croupier watched him with appraising eyes. It was from men who became angry as they lost that the gambling tables made the biggest winnings.
When the pile of chips disappeared, Drake emptied one of his trousers pockets of crumpled bills and silver. He gambled first with the silver, then changed the bills and flung them around the board. He stepped back from the table, pulled a checkbook from his pocket and scrawled out a check to "Cash" in the amount of five hundred dollars. He signed the check "Frank Oxman" and passed it across to the croupier. "How about this," he asked.
The croupier looked at the check. Drake caught Mason's eye and nodded. The croupier held up the check in his right hand. A man in a dinner jacket glided to his side. The croupier whispered in his ear. The man nodded, took the check and vanished.
Drake said, "How about it?"
"Just a minute, Mr. Oxman," the croupier replied suavely. "There'll be a few minutes' delay." He put the ball into play and devoted his entire attention to the table.
Mason strolled over to Drake's side. Two or three minutes passed while Drake fidgeted uneasily and Mason maintained the casual interest of a detached spectator. Then the man who had taken the check approached Drake. "Would you mind stepping this way a moment, Mr. Oxman?" he asked.
The detective hesitated, glanced at Perry Mason.
Mason said, "Okay, I'll go with you."
The man in the tuxedo favored Mason with an appraising stare from uncordial eyes.
"I'm with this gentleman," Mason explained. "Go ahead and lead the way." The man turned, crossed the gambling room to a door, in front of which lounged a guard in blue uniform, a gun ostentatiously strapped to his hip. A silver badge on his vest bore the words SPECIAL OFFICER.
The guide nodded to the officer, held open the swinging door and said, "This way, please." They followed him down a passageway which made an abrupt turn at right angles, to disclose an open door. The three went through this door and entered a reception room. Their guide crossed the room and stood expectantly in front of a heavy mahogany door.
A peephole slid back in the door. A bolt shot back and a man's voice said, "Okay."
The man in the dinner jacket held the door open for Mason and Drake. Mason, taking the lead, entered a sumptuously furnished office. A short, stocky man with a pasty face twisted his fat lips into an amiable smile. His eyes seemed as pale as the starched front of his shirt – and as hard and expressionless.
"This is Mr. Grieb," their guide said, and pulled the big mahogany door shut behind him as he stepped into the outer office. Mason heard the click of a spring lock. Grieb said, "Pardon me." He stepped to the door, pushed a lever which shot iron bars into place, then crossed the office and seated himself in a swivel chair behind a huge, glass-topped desk.
The desk was devoid of any papers save the check Drake had just written. It lay on a brown blotter, encased in a leather backer. Aside from this check, the blotter and the leather backer, there was nothing whatever on the glass-topped surface.
"Which one of you is Oxman?" the man behind the desk asked.
Drake glanced helplessly at the lawyer.
Mason stepped forward and said, "My name's Mason."
Grieb nodded. "Glad to know you, Mr. Mason," he said, and shifted his pale eyes to Paul Drake. "You wanted a check cashed, Mr. Oxman, and it's customary to ask a few questions to establish credit. Is this your first visit to the ship?"
Drake nodded.
"Know anyone out here?" Grieb asked.
"No," Drake said.
"Would you mind giving me your residence address, your occupation, and your telephone number, both at your residence and at your office?"
Mason said, "I think we can save you all this trouble, Mr. Grieb."
Grieb raised his eyebrows, and in a flat, toneless voice said, "How do you figure in this, Mr. Mason?"
"I'm with this gentleman," Mason explained, indicating Drake with a nod of his head.
"Friend of his?"
"I'm his lawyer."
Grieb interlaced fat hands across his stomach. Huge diamonds on his fingers caught the light and glittered scintillating accompaniment to the motion. "A lawyer, eh?" he said, almost musingly.
Mason nodded, moving closer to the edge of the desk.
"And just how did you propose to save us all this trouble?" Grieb asked, still in that same fiat voice.
Mason, smiling amiably, suddenly reached across the desk and picked up the check from the blotter. "You won't have to cash it," he said.
Grieb sat bolt-upright in his chair. His diamonds made a glittering streak of motion as he started to reach for the check, then caught himself, and sat with his finger-tips resting on the edge of the blotter. "What's the idea?" he asked.
Mason said, "My client isn't a very good gambler. He's rather a hard loser. He started to place a few casual bets, then won a little money, got into the spirit of the thing, and was swept off his feet. He's come down to earth now. He doesn't want any more money. He's finished gambling."
Grieb's eyes focused on Mason's face. "This little business matter," he said coldly, "is between Oxman and me."
Mason handed the check across to Drake. "Better tear it up," he said.
Drake tore it into pieces and shoved the pieces down deep into his trousers pocket. Grieb got to his feet. Mason moved so that he was standing between Drake and the gambler. "My client made a mistake in giving you this check," he said, by way of explanation.
"You mean there aren't any funds in the bank to cover it?" Grieb asked ominously.
"Of course there are," Mason said. "Telephone the bank tomorrow if that's what's bothering you. What I meant was that I don't want my client to have one of his checks cashed through this gambling ship. You see, we didn't come out here to gamble."
Grieb slowly sat down, eyed the two men for a moment, then indicated chairs with a glittering gesture of his right hand. "Sit down, gentlemen," he said. "I want to talk with you."
Drake looked to Mason for instructions. Mason nodded and seated himself on Grieb's left. Drake rather ostentatiously moved over to a chair nearer the door, farther from Grieb. The gambler still sat very erect, his fingertips resting on the edge of the blotter. "That check's good?" he asked.
Mason laughed. "I'll guarantee this gentleman's checks up to any amount he wants to write them."
"With that signature and on that bank?" Grieb persisted.
Mason nodded and said, apparently as an afterthought, "Or with any other signature."
Grieb's eyes studied Paul Drake, who, obviously ill at ease, returned the stare. Grieb shifted his eyes to Perry Mason and surveyed the granite-hard face of the lawyer. "So your name's Mason and you're a lawyer?"
Mason nodded.
"Tell me more about you."
"Why?" Mason asked.
"Because I want to know," Grieb said.
"I think," Mason told him, "our little business transaction is entirely concluded, isn't it, Mr. Grieb?"
Grieb shook his head. Suddenly a puzzled frown crossed his forehead. He said, "Say, wait a minute, you're not Perry Mason, are you?"
Mason nodded. Grieb swung half around in the swivel chair and put his right elbow on the blotter. "That," he said, "is different. Suppose we talk business, gentlemen."
Mason raised his eyebrows and said, "Business?"
Grieb nodded, turned suddenly to Drake and said, "If you didn't come out here to gamble, what did you come out here for, Mr. Oxman?"
Drake sucked in a quick breath, as though about to answer, then glanced at Mason and became silent.
Mason said easily, "Let me do the talking." He turned to the gambler and said, "I don't want any misunderstandings, Mr. Grieb. You don't know this man. He's offered you a check signed 'Frank Oxman.' That check's good as gold, but that doesn't mean this man is really Frank Oxman. It only means he has a banking account under that name. And if you should ever say that Frank Oxman won or lost a dime on your ship, you might get yourself into serious trouble. My client came out here, not for the purpose of gambling, but for the purpose of looking the place over."
"Why did he want to look it over?" Grieb asked.
"He wanted to find out something about the general background, what it looked like, and things of that sort."
"So now you claim he isn't Frank Oxman, eh?" Grieb asked.
Mason smiled affably. "No," he said, "I haven't made that claim."
"Then he is Frank Oxman."
"I won't even admit that," Mason said, smiling.
Grieb said slowly, "You two came out here to try and collect evidence."
Mason remained silent.
"You thought you could look the joint over, maybe strike up an acquaintance with one of the croupiers, stick around until the tables closed, get one of the men in conversation, and find out something you wanted to know," Grieb charged.
Mason took a cigarette case from his pocket, extracted a cigarette, and lit it. "After all," he said, "does it make any difference why we came out here?"