Mason glanced inquiringly at Della Street. She gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head. Mason said, “What is it, Oscar?”
The man stood somewhat ill at ease. “Well, Mr. Mason, I don’t know as I’m doing right in this thing, but you see, we went through a bit of a blow coming into port, and then there was this business of all the commotion on the upper deck, and the boats being made ready to lower, and all that. Well, the next morning, come daylight, they sent us up to get the canvas covers back on the boats and get everything shipshape. One of the men found a gun up there and the first officer took charge of it.”
“What sort of a gun?” Mason asked.
“A thirty-eight caliber blued-steel revolver. I couldn’t see the make. It looked like a pretty good gun.”
“Anything else?” Mason asked.
“Yes, sir.”
The man fumbled in his pocket, produced a folded piece of paper and said, “I found this, sir. I asked the first officer if it was important and he said no, to pitch it overboard. You know, the first officer’s in command, but I felt perhaps... Well, I thought I’d save it. And then when I heard you were Mrs. Moar’s lawyer — I thought I’d bring it in and let you have a look at it.”
He took from the paper a long, irregular piece of blue silk print. “I found this stuck on one of the cleats, sir.”
Mason took the bit of cloth. “Looks like a piece torn out of a woman’s dress.”
Oscar nodded.