“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 DistrictAttorney?” 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.”