“‘Want me to set the table?’” I asked.
“‘No,’ he said, ‘we’re in a rush.’”
“‘That food should be eaten right away,’ I told him. ‘I heated up the dishes before I left, but carrying it out in the air ain’t helped it none.’ And this guy said, ‘Yeah, I know. On your way, son. We’re busy.’”
“Did you know that man?” Kittering asked.
“I didn’t then. I do now. It was Guy Serle, the man that bought out Conway’s business.”
“You know about Conway’s business?” Kittering asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“What kind of business was it?”
“Objected to as incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial,” Mason said.
Judge Knox inquired of Kittering, “Is this for the purpose of showing the real identity of the murdered man, counselor?”
“Well, not exactly,” Kittering said, “but for the general purpose of showing the man’s background and...”
“Objection sustained,” Judge Knox said. “You can introduce evidence tending to prove the man’s identity. You have now introduced proof that the decedent was John Milicant, that he was also known as L. C. Conway, or Louie Conway. There has been some evidence concerning a Bill Hogarty, but so far there has been no evidence definitely establishing that the decedent and Bill Hogarty were one and the same. The court will give you every latitude in the matter, Mr. Deputy District Attorney, but in the face of objection, where there is no question of proving motive, malice, or opportunity by that line of interrogation, the court will not permit a collateral examination into the business affairs of the decedent. That, of course, is a general ruling. It may well be that, as your case opens up, the evidence will become pertinent. If you wish to connect it up, the court will receive it on your statement that it will be connected up and that it relates to some particular aspect of the case which it is incumbent upon the state to prove.”
“We’ll not try to connect it up for the present,” Kittering said, scowling across at Perry Mason.
“Very well, the objection is well taken and is sustained.”
“Did you go back for the dishes?” Kittering asked.
“Yes, that’s right. I went back about quarter of an hour before I was scheduled to go off duty.”
“That would be ten-forty-five.”
“Just about. They hadn’t called, so I went back.”
“And what did you find?”
“The door was slightly open. I don’t know who was in the bedroom. The door was closed. My dishes were empty and stacked on the tray. There was nothing for me to hesitate over. I’d had my tip, and, gosh, I don’t know... I had an idea maybe there was a jane in there. Well, you know what I mean — well, anyway, that he didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Do you know whether anyone was in the bedroom?”
“I think so, yeah. I think I heard someone in there. There was a jane’s handkerchief — I mean a woman’s handkerchief on the side of the table right by the napkin.”
“How do you know it was a woman’s handkerchief?” Kittering asked.
“I smelled it,” Baker announced, and once more a ripple of merriment ran across the courtroom.
“So what did you do?”
“I took the tray with the dishes, and beat it.”
“Did you lock the door behind you?”
“I pulled it shut. I think the spring lock was caught back so that the door didn’t lock, but I ain’t absolutely certain about that. I know I closed the door. If they didn’t want it locked, that was their business. If they did, they could lock it.”
“Now, are you certain as to the time?”
“Absolutely. We’ve got an electric clock down there, and I figured Conway — Milicant — might get sore if I didn’t get the grub up to him in time. So I noticed particularly the time when the order came in, and kept hurrying the cook up to get it out. You know, in a joint like that — I mean in a restaurant of that size — a waiter can’t take food out until he catches a slack time. We really ain’t equipped to handle much room service like that. The cook gets the stuff going, and then, in case you’re rushed, he keeps it in the hot oven until you get a chance to break away. That keeps the dishes hot, and the food hot. And you’d be surprised how much difference a hot dish makes, particularly when you cover it with a napkin and tablecloth.”
“And what time did you return for the dishes?”
“Almost exactly quarter ‘til eleven. I’d waited for a slack time — maybe sort of put it off. Then I almost forgot ’em. It was fifteen minutes before my quitting time, so I beat it up there fast.”
“And you are positive as to the time you delivered the food?”
“Absolutely. I left right around eight minutes past eight. I got up there at eight-ten on the dot. I’ll bet that doesn’t miss it ten seconds either way.”
“And this was an electric clock in the restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Cross-examine.” Kittering tossed the remark across to Perry Mason as though daring him to try to rattle this witness.
“Those electric clocks are always right?” Mason asked.
“Sure, that’s why they put them in.”
“Except when the power is temporarily interrupted?”
“Well, that sometimes happens,” the young man admitted.
“In this instance, how do you know that there hadn’t been a temporary interruption in power?”
“There’s a place on the clock that shows a signal when that happens.”
“And did you notice that place particularly?”
“Well, not particularly, but... Shucks, if it had been anything to notice, I’d have noticed it. I always go by that in telling the time.”
“But nevertheless you may have been mistaken?”
“Not one chance in ten thousand.”
“Then there is one chance in ten thousand that you were mistaken?” Mason asked.
“Well, if you want to play a ten thousand to one shot,” Baker said, “you’re welcome to. I don’t. Twenty to one is my limit.”
Again the courtroom stirred with a comment of whisper and suppressed laughter.
“Now when you returned to get these dishes, no one said anything to you?”
“No, sir.”
“You gathered the impression there were people in the bedroom?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you think one of those persons was Serle?”
“That handkerchief didn’t smell like it.”
“And you say the dishes were empty?”
“That’s right.”
“Nothing left?”
“Clean as a bone.”
“The men must have been hungry then?”
“Well, in taking a dinner out that way, you can’t carry too much. You can’t carry soup, and water, and all that stuff. You’re luck to pile the grub on the dishes, and get it there while it’s still warm. People don’t eat as much in a restaurant as they think they do. That’s because we bring them crackers and butter and go off and leave them for a while, and they munch on crackers. Then after a while, we bring them soup, and then we leave them alone, then bring them bread and butter. They don’t start eating the main order until anywhere from ten to twenty minutes after they sit down, sometimes half an hour. It depends on the crowd?”
“You mean you can’t wait on them as rapidly when there’s a crowd?”
“No,” the witness said, “that’s when we do wait on them. When there’s a crowd, it means the restaurant is losing money every time anyone finds the joint filled and goes away. So we always try to shovel the grub into the customers so we can clear out the tables. When business is slack, restaurants figure it’s a poor ad to look barren and deserted with just one or two people eating. So then we stall the customers along, and hold them just as long as we dare. That way people coming along the streets look in through the windows, and see a pretty fair crowd, and figure it’s a good place to eat.”