Judge Knox, who had acquired a great respect for Perry Mason’s courtroom technique, by presiding over the preliminary hearing in what the press had subsequently referred to as “The Case of the Stuttering Bishop,” gazed down on the crowded courtroom, and said, “Gentlemen, in the Case of the People of the State of California versus Alden Leeds, accused of the murder of John Milicant, sometimes known as Bill Hogarty, also referred to as L. C. Conway, the defendant has previously been advised of his constitutional rights. This is the time heretofore fixed pursuant to stipulation for the preliminary hearing. Are you ready?”
Bob Kittering, of the district attorney’s office, a thin, nervous individual with restless eyes, answered, “Ready on behalf of the People, Your Honor.”
“Ready for the defendant,” Mason said.
“Proceed,” Judge Knox instructed.
The deputy coroner was the first witness. He testified at length concerning the finding of the body, introduced photographs showing its position on the floor of the bathroom, showing the fatal knife which protruded from the back, just above the left shoulder blade. He also produced photographs showing the state of the apartment with the evidences of hasty search. Under further questioning by Kittering, he produced an envelope which contained the personal possessions of the decedent which had been taken from the pockets of his clothes.
Kittering said, “I observe that there is a fountain pen, a handkerchief, a jackknife, six dollars and twelve cents in loose change found in the trousers pocket of the deceased, an envelope with no return address, addressed to L. C. Conway, and containing scribbled memoranda. There is a pigskin key container, a watch, a cigarette case, and a pocket lighter. I call your attention to the fact that there is no wallet, no driving license, no business cards, and no currency, and ask you if you are absolutely certain that these items and these items alone were all that you found in the clothes of the deceased.”
“That is correct,” the deputy coroner said.
“No wallet was found in the clothing, and none was subsequently found in the apartment?”
“So far as I know, that is correct. No wallet was ever discovered.”
“Take the witness,” Kittering said.
“No cross-examination,” Mason announced urbanely.
The autopsy surgeon was called and testified at some length. He commented on the fact that from the state of the body, as he had discovered it, death had been caused by a downward thrust of a long-handled carving-knife which was still imbedded in the wound. This instrument had been inserted on a downward slope, clearing the left shoulder blade and penetrating the heart.
Death, in his opinion, had been instantaneous.
The time of death he fixed as approximately from eight to fourteen hours prior to the time he had made his examination.
Kittering produced a bloodstained carving knife. “I call your attention to this knife, Doctor, and ask you if this is the knife which you found imbedded in the body of the decedent?”
“It is,” the doctor said.
Kittering asked that the knife be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit A.
“No objection,” Mason drawled.
“Can you,” Kittering asked, “fix the time of death any more definitely than that, Doctor?”
“Not in relation to the time when I examined the body, but I can fix it very definitely in regard to the contents of the stomach.”
“What do you mean, Doctor?”
“I mean that in examining the contents of the stomach, and submitting them to an examination for the purposes of detecting the possible presence of poison, we found that the person in question had died approximately two hours after a meal consisting primarily of mutton, probably in the form of chops, green peas, and potatoes, had been consumed... In order to explain my answer, I may state that while the time of death as fixed in postmortem depends upon various elastic factors such as rigor mortis, the cooling of the body, etc., and is, therefore, subject to a certain amount of individual variation, the processes of digestion are more uniform; and by examining the state to which those digestive processes have progressed prior to death, we can, when there is food in the stomach, fix the time of death with much greater nicety.”
“Can you,” Kittering asked, “fix the exact time of death?”
“In view of the evidence,” the doctor said positively, “I fix the time of death definitely as not before ten o’clock in the evening preceding that of the day in which the body was discovered and not later then ten-forty-five on the evening of said day.”
“How do you fix that time?” Kittering asked.
“By an examination of the extent to which the digestive processes had functioned, in connection with the time at which the last meal had been consumed.”
Kittering said triumphantly, “You may inquire.”
Mason said to the court, “Of course, Your Honor, I could move to strike out this entire testimony on the theory that it is predicated upon facts which are beyond the doctor’s knowledge.”
“This testimony will be connected up,” Kittering said.
“Well,” Mason observed, “to save time, I won’t make the motion, but to get the record clear, I’ll ask a few questions... How do you determine the time of death when you are performing a post-mortem, Doctor?”
“Under circumstances such as this,” the doctor said, with acid hostility, “there are various methods. An examination of the stomach content where there is food in the stomach and data available as to the time of ingestion is by far the best method.”
“Acting,” Mason said, “on the assumption that dinner was served and eaten at eight-ten?”
“Acting on the assumption that dinner was served at eight-ten. Yes, sir.”
“But,” Mason pointed out, “your only knowledge of when dinner was eaten is predicated entirely upon what has been told you. Isn’t that right?”
The doctor raised his voice. “There are witnesses to prove it.”
“If it should turn out the witnesses are mistaken in their time, then you are mistaken in your time. Is that right?”
“The witness isn’t mistaken,” the doctor said. “I’ve talked with him personally.”
“But all you know of your own knowledge, Doctor, is that you performed an autopsy on a body, that death had occurred from eight to fourteen hours prior to the time you made your examination and within approximately two hours of the time the deceased partook of a meal consisting of certain specific articles of food?”
“You can put it that way if you want to,” the doctor snapped.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Mason said with a smile. “I want to. That’s all. You’re excused.”
“Jason Carrel will be the next witness,” Kittering announced.
Carrel, poker-faced, steady-eyed, came forward, raised his right hand, and was sworn. He gave his name and residence.
“Did you,” Kittering asked, “see a body at the funeral parlors of Breckenbridge & Manifred?”
“I did.”
“When was that?”
“On the morning of Saturday, the seventh.”
“And did you identify that body?”
“I did.”
“Had you been acquainted with that man during his lifetime?”
“Yes.”
“Under what name did you know him?”
“Under the name of John Milicant, a brother of Emily Milicant.”
“And do you know whether this defendant, Alden Leeds, your uncle, also knew the deceased?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Under what name?”
“Objected to as calling for a conclusion of the witness,” Mason said. “He can’t testify as to what his uncle knows.”
“Sustained.”
“Did you ever hear your uncle call him by name?”
“I did.”
“Under what name did your uncle address him?” Kittering asked triumphantly.
“As John Milicant.”
“You may inquire,” Kittering said.
“You have no particular affection for your uncle, the defendant in this case?” Mason inquired conversationally.
“On the contrary, I really care for him,” Carrel retorted. “I care enough for him so that I realized he was in danger of being victimized by an unscrupulous adventuress, and took steps to prevent him being stripped of his property.”
“And by the unscrupulous adventuress, you refer to Emily Milicant, the sister of the deceased?”
“I do.”
“Now then,” Mason said conversationally, “suppose that it should appear that the defendant in this case was not your uncle. Would that make any difference in connection with your testimony?”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply this. Suppose that in the event of his death — either by natural causes or in the gas chamber at San Quentin — you stood no chance of profiting, in other words, that you were not a natural heir of his and, therefore, not in a position to share in his estate or contest his will, would you continue your efforts to prevent his marriage or regard the possibility that he might be convicted of murder with equal satisfaction?”
Kittering jumped to his feet. “Your Honor,” he shouted. “Your Honor, this is outrageous! This is uncalled for. This is unethical and unprofessional. It is quite on a par with the tactics that counsel has used in...”
Judge Knox interrupted calmly to say, “The question is not temperate. It may not be considerate. Doubtless, it is not courteous, but it is legal. I know of no law which requires counsel to be courteous, temperate, or considerate with witnesses who testify adversely. The question goes to show motivation, bias, and a possible reason. Therefore, it will be allowed.”
“Answer the question,” Mason said.
“I care nothing whatever about my uncle’s money,” Carrel said in a low voice.
“But you did have him strong-armed out of an automobile in order to place him in an institution when you thought he was about to marry Emily Milicant.”
“I did that for his own good.”
“And your own good, your own advantage, didn’t enter into the matter at all?” Mason asked suavely.
Carrel hesitated a minute, fidgeted uneasily, then raised sullen eyes, and said, “No.”
“And you didn’t discuss with the other two relatives who cooperated with you in that action, the advisability of having your uncle committed to an institution so that you could prevent his marriage, prevent him making a valid will, and thereby insure your participation in the fruits of his lifelong savings?”
Carrel again fidgeted, and then said without looking up, “No.”
“There was no conversation to that effect?”
“No.”
“The matter wasn’t mentioned in your presence by any of the others?”
Again there was a long silence. Again Carrel answered without looking up, “No.”
“Your action in kidnaping your uncle was actuated by the loftiest motives and without any thought whatever for your own financial interest?”
“Objected to,” Kittering snapped. “Assuming facts not in evidence. I object particularly to the use of the word ‘kidnaping.’”
“Sustained,” Judge Knox said.
Mason smiled. “You have admitted that you attempted to have your uncle declared incompetent and placed in an institution?”
As the witness hesitated, Mason opened his brief case, and said, “I have here a copy of your sworn statement if you wish to refresh your recollection, Mr. Carrel.”
“Yes,” Carrel said, “I did.”
“And you tricked him into entering the grounds of an institution where two male nurses, at your request, forcibly dragged him from an automobile and detained him against his will?”
“It wasn’t at my request.”
“Oh, you had nothing to do with that?”
“No.”
“You asked Dr. Parkin C. Londonberry to have that done, didn’t you?”
“I asked him to give my uncle proper treatment.”
“And explained to him that by proper treatment, you meant that your uncle should be confined?”
“Well, yes — in a way.”
“Now, are you acquainted with an Inez Colton?”
“No,” Jason Carrel shouted.
“You don’t know her?”
“No.”
“Have never met her?”
“No.”
“Do you know anyone who lives in the apartment house where this decedent resided and where his body was found?”
“No.”
Mason regarded him with narrowed eyes. “You’re aware that you’re under oath, and that this is a murder case?”
“Naturally.”
“And your answers still stand?”
“Yes.”
“That,” Mason announced, “is all.”
Judge Knox, in a manner which plainly showed his complete disbelief, said, “Mr. Carrel, do you wish this court to understand that during the time you and your relatives were discussing the steps you were taking to have your uncle, the defendant in this case, declared incompetent, there was never at any time in your presence any conversation whatever as to the material advantages which would result in behalf of any of the relatives from preventing your uncle’s marriage, preventing him from making a valid will, or prevailing in your action to have him declared incompetent?”
Carrel shifted his eyes, looked at Mason for a moment, then turned appealingly to Kittering. In an almost inaudible voice, he said, “There was never any such conversation.”
“That’s all,” Judge Knox said, his voice as ominously final as the closing of a steel trap.
Kittering seemed uneasy. “Of course, Mr. Carrel,” he said, “I take it that you might have casually mentioned that you were your uncle’s heirs, and were safeguarding his fortune for him.”
“Objected to as leading and suggestive,” Mason said.
“Objection sustained,” Judge Knox said.
Kittering said, “Well, did you discuss indirectly any financial benefit which might have occurred to you?”
“No,” Carrel said.
“Witness excused,” Kittering announced, his voice showing his impatience. “I will call Freeman Leeds to the stand.”
Freeman Leeds, a big, powerful man, whose face had set with age into lines of sullen defiance, took the oath, gave his name and address to the reporter, and took the witness stand.
“You are a brother of the defendant in this case?”
“Yes.”
“Have you at any time discussed with the defendant a person known as Bill Hogarty?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Upon two or three occasions. I can’t remember the exact dates.”
“And what did the defendant say about Hogarty?”
“Objected to,” Mason said, “as incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial.”
“I offer to connect it up,” Kittering said.
“On that understanding, the objection will be overruled,” Judge Knox said.
Freeman Leeds said, “Alden had been up in the Klondike. He told me something about his adventures up there. He’d struck it rich, and Bill Hogarty had been his partner on the claim when they struck it rich.”
“Did the defendant describe William Hogarty to you in any way?”
“He said Hogarty was younger than he was, but a strong lad,” Freeman Leeds said.
“Did he make any further statements about Hogarty?”
“Said Hogarty and he had some trouble.”
“Did he say what the trouble was?”
“I understood it was over a woman.”
“Not what you understood,” Kittering corrected. “Did he specifically say that?”
“Yes, he said it was over a dance hall girl.”
“Did he say anything more about the trouble?”
“At one time, he said that he’d been in a shooting scrape over a woman.”
“Did he say where that shooting occurred?”
“Up in the Klondike some place.”
“You may cross-examine,” Kittering said.
“May I ask,” Mason inquired, “the object of this examination? Is it the contention of the prosecution that this vague testimony goes to show that the body is that of Bill Hogarty?”
“That is our contention,” Kittering said. “Your Honor, we expect to connect this up. We expect to introduce evidence tending to show that this defendant forged the name of Bill Hogarty to various hotel registers, that when he left the Klondike he went for a time under the name of Bill Hogarty; that he took with him all of Bill Hogarty’s share in the mining claim, that this decedent is none other than Bill Hogarty, that Hogarty attempted to secure some financial adjustment from the defendant, and the defendant, rather than part with any of his fraudulent gains, planned to murder Hogarty. In that way, we expect to show motivation for the crime.”
“You have all of the proof necessary to show that?” Mason inquired blandly.
“We have all we need,” Kittering snapped. “Some of it we will prove by inference, but you don’t need to appear so surprised, Mr. Mason. Your ad in the personal columns of the Seattle paper shows that you...”
“That will do,” Judge Knox interrupted. “Counsel will refrain from personalities. You will proceed with cross-examination of the witness, Mr. Mason.”
Mason said, “Very well, Your Honor. Now, Mr. Leeds, I am going to ask you the same question that I asked Jason Carrel. Was there any conversation which took place in your presence or in the presence of Jason Carrel to the effect that it would be to your financial advantage, either directly or indirectly, to have Alden Leeds declared incompetent or committed to an institution?”
Leeds took a deep breath. “I’d rather not answer that question.”
“Go ahead and answer it,” Mason said.
“It’s a proper question,” Judge Knox ruled.
“Your Honor,” Kittering objected desperately, “if counsel wishes to impeach Jason Carrel, he must do it as a part of his own case, not by trying to force one of my witnesses into making the impeachment.”
“I don’t agree with you,” Judge Knox said. “This question goes to show bias on the part of this witness. It is quite obvious that if the defendant is convicted of a crime it will prevent the consummation of a marriage which apparently is and was objectionable to his relatives. You may answer the question, Mr. Leeds.”
“There was some talk about my being appointed guardian.”
“Any talk about any financial advantage to accrue from that appointment?”
Freeman Leeds became silent for several uneasy seconds. “No,” he said at length.
“And no talk about the possibility of any of you inheriting a part of the defendant’s fortune?”
Leeds hesitated. “No,” he said.
“The defendant is your older brother?”
“Yes.”
“How old were you when the defendant left home?”
“I was seven years old.”
“When did you next see him again?”
“About five years ago.”
“And you had no contact with him in the meantime?”
“No.”
“You didn’t hear from him?”
“No.”
“Didn’t know where he was?”
“No.”
“How did you know this defendant is your brother?”
“I recognized him,” Leeds said.
Mason smiled. “Would you,” he asked suavely, “have recognized him if he had been broke?”
A ripple of laughter swept the courtroom, swelled in one or two instances into a guffaw of mirth. Judge Knox, fighting to keep a smile from his lips, said, “The court will come to order. We’ll have no more laughter. The question is adroitly framed, conveying as it does, an entire argument by inference. However, the spectators will cease from giving any expressions of amusement or interrupting the order of proceedings. Answer the question, Mr. Leeds.”
Freeman Leeds said, “Of course, I’d have recognized him.”
“And if he’d appeared at your back door with a roll of blankets over his shoulder, ragged, unkempt, and asking for a meal, do you think you would have forthwith recognized him as your long-lost brother?”
“Yes.”
“Where did the meeting take place, Mr. Leeds?”
“Alden Leeds drove up to my house.”
“In a taxicab?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“He asked me if I didn’t remember him, and if I couldn’t place him. Then, after a while, he said, ‘Don’t you remember your own brother, Alden Leeds?’”
“I see,” Mason said with a smile. “There was some interval between the time when he asked if you didn’t know him and couldn’t place him?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“A minute or two.”
“And during all of that time, you failed to recognize him?”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly sure.”
“I see. And after Alden Leeds made the announcement, did you then recognize him?”
“Well, I told him to come in.”
“And the defendant entered your house?”
“Yes.”
“And talked for some time?”
“For an hour or so, yes.”
“And at that time, he told you that he had made a fortune in the Klondike?”
“Well, he said he was pretty well fixed.”
“And,” Mason said, “after he had made that statement, your recognition of him as your brother became positive, did it not?”
Leeds said, “That isn’t fair.”
“Why isn’t it fair?”
“I recognized him.”
“When?”
“As soon as I saw him.”
“Before he had entered the house?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But you didn’t call him by name, and you couldn’t place him during the time he was waiting for you to place him?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“And did you shake hands with him?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Was anyone else present at the conversation?”
“During the last part of it, yes.”
“And who was that?”
“Jason Carrel.”
“And did you introduce the defendant to Jason Carrel?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Do you remember exactly what you said?”
“That’s been five or six years ago,” the witness protested. “It’s hard to remember things over that length of time.”
“Not for a man with your remarkable memory,” Mason said. “I believe you stated your age was sixty-five. You were, therefore, about sixty when you saw your brother. You had last seen him when you were seven years old, and yet you recognized him instantly over this lapse of fifty-three years. Isn’t that right?”
“Well... Well, yes.”
“Now specifically what did you say to Jason Carrel? Did you say, ‘Jason, this is my brother, Alden’?”
“Well, I can’t remember.”
“As a matter of fact,” Mason said, “didn’t you say words to this effect, ‘Jason, this man claims to be your Uncle Alden.’”
“Well, something like that.”
Mason smiled. “That is all,” he said.
Kittering frowned. “My next witness,” he said, “is Oscar Baker... The court will pardon me. I am not proving the corpus delicti in the regularly accepted order. Some of these witnesses have asked to be excused, and it will be necessary for me to connect some of these things up later.”
“You will have an opportunity to connect up your evidence,” Judge Knox said. “The court wishes to hear the fullest proof.”
“Oscar Baker,” Kittering said.
A sallow-skinned lad in the early twenties, whose clothes were the cheapest of ready-mades, yet cut in most extreme style, pinch-waisted his way across the courtroom, held up his hand, and was sworn. He gave his name as Oscar Baker, his occupation as a waiter, his age as twenty-three, his residence as in a rooming house.
“Where are you working?” Kittering asked.
“At the Blue and White Restaurant.”
“You are employed as a waiter there?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been so employed?”
“I’ve been there going on to six months,” Baker said.
“And you were so employed there as a waiter on the evening of the seventh of this month?”
“I was.”
“That was a Friday evening, I believe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time did you go to work?”
“At four o’clock in the afternoon.”
“At what time did you get off?”
“At eleven o’clock at night.”
“Were you acquainted with a John Milicant?”
“I was, yes, sir.”
“Had you seen him on several occasions?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“At his apartment house. It’s only a half a block down the street from the restaurant.”
“And what were the occasions on which you had seen him?”
“When I brought meals up to him.”
“He occasionally ordered meals in his apartment?”
“Yes.”
“These meals were ordered from your restaurant, and you took them up in the course of your employment as a waiter?”
“Yes, sir. That’s right.”
“Now, on the evening in question, did you so serve a meal?”
“Yes, sir. I did.”
“How was that order received?”
“Over the telephone.”
“Who ordered it?”
“Why, Mr. Milicant, I suppose.”
“What did he order?”
“He said he wanted dinner for two. He said he was very particular to get some mutton chops, peas and potatoes. He said to send out for the chops if I had to, but he wanted chops.”
“When was that order received?”
“At five minutes to eight.”
“How did you happen to notice the time?”
“Because I told him it might take a little time to get the mutton chops. I wasn’t certain we had any.”
“Did you have some?”
“Yes. When I went back to talk with the cook, I found out we did, although they weren’t on the bill of fare that night. He just had a few in the icebox, not enough to put on the menu, but he made up an order for two all right.”
“And you took this meal to the apartment?”
“I did.”
“That was John Milicant’s apartment?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now just explain to the court what happened when you took the food up there.”
“Well, I put the dishes on a tray, covered the tray with napkins and a folded tablecloth, and went into the apartment house. I knew the number of Milicant’s apartment — Conway, we called him.”
“That’s L. C. Conway?” Kittering interrupted.
“Yeah, Louie Conway. Well, I took the food up in the elevator, and knocked on the door. A voice yelled, ‘Come in.’ I opened the door and went in.”
“The door was unlocked?” Kittering interjected.
“That’s right, and the two guys — I mean men — were in the bedroom. I could hear them talking in there something about race horses, and I sort of kept my ears peeled because Louie Conway sometimes had some pretty good tips on race horses.
“Well, nothing came of it. I think they knew I was listening because the other guy said, ‘Wait a minute. The boy’s out there.’ And then he popped his head out the door, and said, ‘Just put it there on the table, son, and come back when we call you and pick up the dishes. How much is the check?’ And I said, ‘One-seventy-five.’ He handed me three one-dollar bills, and said, ‘That’ll pay you for coming up. Now beat it.’
“‘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.”
“In other words,” Mason said with a grin, “regardless of our own convenience, we customers are held as living advertisements when we enter a restaurant during the slack time.”
“Well, customers make swell window dressing if that’s what you mean,” Baker said.
“That’s what I mean,” Mason told him affably. “Thank you.”
“The next witness,” Kittering announced, “will be William Bitner.”
Bitner proved to be a handwriting and fingerprint expert who qualified himself as an expert in his profession, and started the long routine of introducing exhibits, photographs of latent fingerprints found upon doorknobs, bureau drawers, table tops, glassware.
Time droned on endlessly while the tedious process of identifying each photograph went on. Then when the photograph had been introduced, handed to counsel for inspection, and received as an exhibit, it was necessary to wait while the court made the necessary identification; and then the process went on again. Kittering, with a mind which reveled in detail, paused to make sure that the exhibits were properly numbered in numerical order.
When he had finished with some forty-two exhibits, he started exploding his bombshell, a bombshell which was legally powerful, yet which lacked dramatic force because of the long, drawn-out manner in which the details had been dragged through the record. “I show you a card containing ten fingerprints, and ask you who took the imprint of those fingerprints,” Kittering said.
“I did,” the witness answered.
“When did you take them?”
“Three days ago.”
“Where did you take them?”
“In the county jail.”
“And what are they?”
“Those are ink impressions made from the ten fingers of the defendant in this case. Those fingerprints are grouped into pairs in accordance with the accepted practice, and reduced to a fraction. That is, a number, representing certain figures used for classification, appears in the numerator, and another number, similarly taken, in the denominator.”
“Now then, I will direct your attention to People’s Exhibit C, and ask you if on this exhibit appears a fingerprint similar in any way to any of the ten prints shown on this card.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“Here, to the side of the bureau drawer. You will note the prints of the middle finger of the right hand. I have here an enlarged copy of that print, together with an enlarged copy of the print of the middle finger of the defendant’s right hand. I detected twenty-three points of similarity.”
“Will you please explain to the court these points of similarity.”
And so the afternoon droned on with the state remorselessly piling up an avalanche of fingerprint evidence against the defendant, with Alden Leeds sitting erect and dignified, without so much as batting an eyelash, Perry Mason and Della Street, fighting against the sheer fatigue of inaction, yet with nothing to which they could object, listening to the legal bricks being dropped into place in a wall which was designed to cut off all hope of the defendant’s escape.
At length, the hour came for the afternoon adjournment.
“How much longer will you be with this line of evidence, Mr. Deputy District Attorney?” Judge Knox asked.
“Probably all day tomorrow, Your Honor.”
“Very well, court will reconvene at ten o’clock. In the meantime, the prisoner is remanded to the custody of the sheriff.”
As court adjourned, Mason moved over to place a reassuring hand on Alden Leeds’ shoulder. His face, which was turned toward the courtroom, was wreathed in a confident smile, but the low-pitched words which came from his lips, and were only audible to the ears of the defendant, were far from reassuring. “It looks as though you’d been holding out on me,” Mason said.
Leeds faced him calmly. “I am not a young man,” he said. “I have but little to gain from an acquittal in this case, and less to lose from a conviction. I didn’t realize that I had left fingerprints in that apartment. I did not kill John Milicant. He... We can prove he was alive and well when I left.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed. “We can produce evidence to that effect,” he said, his lips still smiling reassuringly, “but that’s no sign a jury is going to believe it. One thing is certain. The judge is going to bind you over on a charge of first degree murder.”
“I had anticipated that,” Leeds admitted quietly.
“We hadn’t,” Mason observed. “We would have if you’d told us about these fingerprints.”
“I didn’t know about them.”
“You knew you’d searched that apartment.”
Leeds said nothing.
Mason, smiling broadly, patted him on the shoulder as a deputy sheriff approached.
“Okay, Leeds,” he said, loudly. “Things are looking fine. They don’t have a ghost of a chance of pinning this on you. Get a good night’s sleep now, and leave the worry to us.”
Out in the corridor, Della Street fell into step with Perry Mason.
“Those fingerprints,” she said, “don’t look so good, do they, Chief?”
“I’d more or less discounted them in advance,” he said. “I figured that Leeds must have been the one to search that apartment, although he said he hadn’t. What I was mainly counting on was that he’d been too smart to leave fingerprints. Apparently, he was in too much of a hurry to be careful.”
“What,” she asked, “would happen if tomorrow they show that his fingerprints are on the handle of the knife?”
Mason shrugged his shoulders.
“Let’s not worry about that in advance. He’s in bad enough right now. Let’s go to the office and see if Drake has uncovered anything.”