"Yes."
"When?"
"From around seven fifteen or seven thirty to around nine o'clock."
"Where did you leave her?"
"At her apartment house—the St. James—out at 962 East Faulkner Street."
"Why did you leave her at that time?"
"We'd had a fight."
"What about?"
"About a man named Patton."
"That's the man she's accused of murdering," Mason said.
"What time was the murder committed?" Sanborne said.
"Around eight forty."
"She couldn't have done it," Sanborne said.
"You're positive?"
"Yes."
"Can you prove she was with you?"
"I think so, yes."
"Where did you go? What did you do?"
"We started out around seven twenty, I guess, and thought some of going to a picture show. We decided we'd wait until the second show. We went to a speakeasy, sat around and talked for a while, and then we got in a fight. We'd had a couple of drinks, I guess I lost my temper. I was sore about Patton. She was letting him drag her down. He thought of nothing except her body. She had won a leg contest, and Patton continually harped on that. To hear him talk, you'd think her legs were her only asset. She couldn't get anywhere working in choruses, posing as an artist model and having her legs photographed for calendar advertisements."
"That was what the fight was about?" asked Perry Mason.
"Yes."
"And then you went home?"
"Yes."
"Do you know anybody at the speakeasy?"
"No."
"Where is the speakeasy?"
Sanborne's eyes shifted.
"I wouldn't want to get a speakeasy into trouble," he said.
Perry Mason's laugh was mirthless.
"Don't worry about that," he said. "That's their lookout. They all pay protection. This is a murder case. Where was the speakeasy?"
"On Fortyseventh Street, right around the corner from Elm Street."
"Do you know the door man?" asked Perry Mason.
"Yes."
"Will he remember you?"
"I think so."
"Do you know the waiter?"
"I don't particularly remember the waiter."
"Had you been drinking before you went there?"
"No."
"When you first sat down what did you order?"
"We had a cocktail."
"What kind?"
"I don't know, just a cocktail."
"What kind of a cocktail? Martini? Manhattan? Hawaiian…?"
"A Martini."
"Both had a Martini?"
"Yes."
"Then what?"
"Then we had another one."
"Then what?"
"Then we had something to eat—a sandwich of some sort."
"What sort of a sandwich?"
"A ham sandwich."
"Both of you had a ham sandwich?"
"Yes."
"Then what?"
"I think we switched to highballs."
"Don't you know?"
"Yes, I know."
" Rye or Scotch or Bourbon?"
" Rye."
"Both had rye?"
"Yes."
"Ginger ale?"
"Yes."
"Both had ginger ale?"
"Yes." Perry Mason gave a sigh of disgust. He pulled himself up from the chair and made a wry face.
"I should have known better," he said.
"What do you mean?" Sanborne wanted to know.
"Evidently Thelma Bell had you primed before I telephoned this evening," Mason said. "When I said that I was at the Emergency Hospital you answered that test all right. Now you talk like a school kid."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, this business of both having the same thing. Both had Martinis. Both had ham sandwiches. Both had rye highballs with ginger ale. What a sweet witness you'd make to fix up an alibi in a murder case!"
"But I'm telling you the truth," Sanborne said.
Mason's laugh was mirthless.
"Do you know what Thelma Bell told the officers?" he asked.
Sanborne shook his head.
"They asked her all about the drinks," he said. "She said that you went to a speakeasy; that you had a Manhattan and she had an oldfashioned cocktail; that you'd had dinner before you went there, both of you; that you didn't eat a thing while you were there; that you got a bottle of wine, with two glasses, and had some of that, and that then you had your fight and went home."
Sanborne ran his fingers through his matted hair.
"I didn't know," he said, "they were going to ask us all about those drinks."
Perry Mason walked toward the door.
"Don't use your telephone," he said, "until morning. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand, but shouldn't I call —"
"You heard what I said," Mason told him. "Don't use your telephone until morning."
He jerked open the door, slammed it shut behind him and walked down the narrow corridor toward the elevator. His shoulders were slightly slumped forward in an attitude of dejection. His face, however, remained virtually without expression. His eyes were weary.
The cage rattled upward, came to a stop. Perry Mason climbed in.
"Find your party?" asked the elevator boy.
"Yes."
"If there's anything you want," began the boy, "I can —"
"No, you can't," Perry Mason said almost savagely, and then added, after a moment, with grim humor, "I wish to God you could."
The elevator operator brought the cage to the lobby and stood staring curiously at Perry Mason as Mason barged purposefully across the lobby.
"St. James Apartments–962 East Faulkner Street," said Perry Mason with a touch of weariness in his voice as he jerked open the door of the taxicab.
Chapter 11
Perry Mason pushed through the swinging door of the St. James Apartment house lobby. A colored boy was seated back of the desk, his feet up, his chair tilted back, his mouth open. He was making snoring noises.
The lawyer walked quietly past the desk, past the elevator, to the stairs. He climbed the stairs with slow, heavy tread, taking the three flights at a uniform pace, and without pausing to rest. He tapped with his knuckles on the door of Thelma Bell's apartment. At the third knock he heard the sound of the bed springs.
"Open up, Thelma," he said.
He heard her move to the door, then the bolt came back and she was staring at him with wide, startled eyes.
"What is it?" she asked. "What's gone wrong?"
"Nothing," he told her. "I'm just checking up. What happened with the cops?"
"They didn't notice the coat and hat at all," she said. "They came out here to ask me about an appointment I had with Frank Patton. They didn't let on that he was dead and I didn't let on that I knew it. I told them that I had an appointment with him for nine o'clock in the morning tomorrow morning, and that my friend, Marjorie Clune, had an appointment at the same time; that I hadn't seen Marjorie for some little time; that I didn't know where she was staying and didn't know how to get in touch with her."
"Then what?" he asked.
"I kept moving around so they could see the white coat and hat," she said, "but no one seemed to pay any attention to it."
Perry Mason squinted his eyes thoughtfully.
"I'll tell you what happened," he said. "They came out here because they saw that message on the table in Patton's apartment. They wanted to check up on you. They hadn't talked things over very much with the officer on the beat. They'll do that later, and then some one will remember about that white coat and hat and they'll be back."
"You think so?" she asked.
He nodded moodily and stood staring at her steadily.
"You're not worried about your alibi?" he said.
"Oh, no," she told him, "that alibi is all right. I tell you I wasn't there. I wouldn't lie about it."
"How well did you know Margy?" he asked.
"Not particularly well. That is, I've only known her a couple of weeks. I've sympathized with her a lot, and tried to do what I could for her."