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what evidently was a damp rag and — Wait a minute, what’s this?”

“What?”

“Over here in the corner, about two feet up,” I said.

“I hadn’t noticed it,” he told me, bending down.

“I’m satisfied you haven’t, but you’d better notice it now.”

“What is it?”

I said, “It’s a small, round hole with a very peculiar dark ring around the outer perimeter. It’s about the size of a thirty-eight-caliber bullet, and there’s a very, very faint reddish-brown streak here which looks as though it might be a piece of animal tissue which was adhering to the bullet and which was carried partially into the hole made by the bullet.”

John Carver Billings looked at me in silence.

“And now,” I went on casually, “if, as you said, you had an appointment with Bishop for Tuesday night at your house, how did it happen you went over to spend the evening with Mr. Waldo W. Jefferson? How did you know Mr. Bishop wasn’t going to be able to keep his appointment at your house?”

Billings looked as though I’d thrown a bucket of cold salt water in his face. He gave one gasp, then simply stood there, jaw sagging.

And in that instant I became conscious of sound.

It was a peculiar pounding sound, as though made by many feet. Very plainly the hum of voices became audible, voices which seemed to be right outside the yacht, but which were muffled by the walls of the cabin so that they registered only as undertones of rumbling conversation in heavy masculine voices.

John Carver Billings climbed the steps and slid back the hatch. “Who are you?” a voice asked.

Before Billings had a chance to answer, I heard the voice of the gateman saying, “That’s Mr. Billings, sir. John Carver Billings. He came aboard just a few moments before you arrived.”

“Going some place, buddy?” a heavy voice asked.

“Mr. John Carver Billings, the banker,” the watchman’s voice said.

The heavy voice said, “Oh.” The tone was deferential.

Steps moved on. The watchman remained behind to explain. “There’s been a bit of trouble, sir. I wanted to tell you about it but you didn’t have the time to listen. There seems to have been a body found aboard the Effie A. The night watchman was attracted by a very evident disagreeable odor. The owner of the boat, you know, is away on a vacation. It seems that someone forced the lock and — I’m afraid it’s going to make for a nasty bit of publicity, sir, but there was nothing the club could do except notify the police.”

“I see,” Billings said. “The owner of the boat isn’t here?”

“No, sir. He’s on a trip to Europe. The boat’s been closed up and—”

“No one’s borrowed it?”

“No, sir. No one.”

John Carver Billings said impatiently, “Well, go ahead, don’t let me interfere. See that the police are given every assistance.” He slammed the sliding panel shut and came back down to the cabin.

His skin was the color of stale library paste. He avoided my eyes.

I said, “I’m going to have to do a lot of work and I’m going to have to do it fast. I want some money.”

He pulled a wallet from his pocket, opened it, and started taking out hundred-dollar bills.

I said, “Your son stopped payment of a check that was given the partnership in Los Angeles, and—”

“I’m very, very sorry about that. That’s a matter which will be rectified at once, Mr. Lam. I’ll instruct the bank to—”

“Don’t instruct the bank to do anything,” I said. “Payment of the check was stopped. Let it stay that way. But you can add five hundred dollars to what you’re giving me as expense money.”

“Expense money?”

“That’s right. There’s going to be a hell of a lot of expenses. You can add the five hundred dollars onto the other.”

He merely nodded and kept on dishing out folding money.

Looking at the size of the wallet I knew then that he’d carefully prepared for just such an emergency. This was getaway money, and there was a terrific wad of it. That, the bullet hole in the yacht, and the new carpet told me just about all I needed to know.

Chapter Fourteen

I’d once done a favor for this broker, a favor he couldn’t very well forget, so when I called him at eight o’clock in the morning he was eager to see that my business received top priority.

I said, “I have thirteen hundred and fifty dollars in cash.”

“Yes, Lam.”

“I want you to invest three hundred and fifty dollars in stock of the Skyhook Mining and Development Syndicate.”

“Never heard of it, Lam.”

“Find out about it, hear about it. Locate the stock. I want it. I want it fast.”

“Yes. And the other thousand dollars?”

“The three hundred and fifty dollars,” I said, “goes in the name of Elsie Brand. I want one thousand dollars invested in the same stock and that will be in the name of Cool and Lam, a copartnership. I want you to locate that stock, and I want you to buy it the first thing this morning, and—”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I’m looking through a card index now — Wait a minute, here it is. That was one of those mail-order promotion things, Lam. It may take a little while to find out who the stockholders are, and—”

“There isn’t that much time,” I said. “It cleared through the corporation commission. The stock had to be placed in escrow for a year, during which time the purchasers of stock could back out if they wanted to, and during the year certain development work had to be made, otherwise the sales were invalid at the option of the purchaser.”

“Well?”

I said, “Get in touch with the escrow holder. Say that you’re in a position to offer his clients a reasonable profit, and that you’re looking for information. Don’t tell him who for or what. Tell him you can get that information either the easy way or the hard way. Then start working on the long-distance telephone and buy up stock.”

“How high shall I go?”

“Up to twice the par value. If you can’t get it for that, quit. And remember, there’s a note of the corporation that’s outstanding. The bank hasn’t done anything about it because Bishop was on that note. Now he’s dead, they’ll have to do something about it. The escrow holder should know that. The stockholders should know it. If they don’t, see that they do.”

“All right,” he promised. “I’ll get busy.”

“Real busy,” I insisted.

“Right now.”

I went back to the morning newspapers. They featured the story in big headlines.

Mining Man’s Body Found on Millionaire’s Yacht.

It was a natural, and the crime reporters really went to town on it.

Erickson B. Payne, the bachelor millionaire owner of the yacht, was on a vacation in Europe. There could be no question but that he had been out of the United States for the past four weeks, and, aside from the one duplicate key which was kept in the safe at the yacht club, there were no keys to his yacht. However, the police investigation disclosed that the padlock on the boat had evidently been smashed, and a new padlock had then been placed on the yacht so that the night watchman, in making his rounds, would not notice anything unusual.

Police acted on the theory that the mining man had been murdered at some other point and the body had then been transported to the yacht club, but how the body could have reached the yacht club was a major mystery.

I read the accounts for the third time while I waited in the office of Hartley L. Channing.

It was a nice office, with his name on the frosted glass, Hartley L. Channing,