The Case of the Substitute Face

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Perry Mason stood leaning against the rail as an inky ribbon of black water widened between the side of the ship and the dock. The hoarse whistle bellowed into noise as spectators on the pier waved hats and handkerchiefs in farewell. Propellers churned the water into moisty foam, then subsided.

The strains of Aloha Oe, sung by the soft voices of Island women, reached the ears of suddenly silent passengers.

Minutes later, as the shore noises drifted astern, Mason, watching the Aloha tower shrinking into the background of city lights, could see the black outlines of the mountains rising in silent silhouette against the stars. The hiss of water streaming past the ship’s side became increasingly audible.

Della Street, his secretary, clasped strong fingers over the back of his hand where it rested on the rail. “I’ll never forget this, Chief. It’s big and quiet and solemn.”

He nodded, fingering the flowered leis which circled his neck with bands of red, white and purple.

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