Opposite the lunch counter were tables capable of seating four, and along the wall were a number of booths. Fast-moving, capable waitresses in clean, starched dresses darted swiftly about. Everywhere was an atmosphere of well-oiled, clock-like efficiency.
A waitress approached Mason to take his order. The lawyer smiled, handed her two one-dollar bills, and said, “I’m giving you the tip before I eat. I’m waiting for a party. Do you happen to know a man named Serle?”
She hesitated over taking the tip.
“A tall, thin chap around forty,” Mason said.
Again she shook her head.
“He’s friendly with a waitress named Hazel.”
“Oh, I know the man you mean.”
“If he comes in for lunch,” Mason said, “tell him that Perry Mason, the lawyer, wants to see him and point me out to him.”
“Is that all?” she asked.
Mason said, “That’s all.”
She took the two dollars, and said, somewhat dubiously, “Suppose he doesn’t want to see you?”
“Then,” Mason said with a grin, “I’ll see him.”
She smiled and left him.
Not more than ten minutes later, Mason saw a man who answered Serle’s description enter the restaurant, nod to the proprietor, and start for a table. The waitress whom Mason had tipped glided swiftly toward him. Mason, turning his profile, devoted himself to a cigarette. A few seconds later, he turned around — casually.
Guy T. Serle was approaching his table.
Mason nodded without eagerness and indicated a chair with a wave of his hand.
“So you’re Mason,” Serle said, his eyes showing quick interest. “I’ve heard about you... I don’t need a mouthpiece.”
“I don’t solicit business,” Mason told him.
Quick comprehension showed in Serle’s eyes. “And I’m not talking about that other matter,” he said.
“Why not?” Mason asked.
“I’m a witness for the prosecution.”
“That doesn’t keep one from telling the facts.”
“It does me.”
“Been ordered not to talk?” Mason asked.
Serle shrugged his shoulders, caught the eye of a waitress, and beckoned to her. As she crossed over to the table, Serle asked, “Where’s Hazel?”
She said, “Hazel’s not here today.”
Serle frowned. “Her day off?” he asked.
The waitress shook her head.
“Well, where is she?” Serle demanded.
“I don’t know. I guess she’s gone. It was her morning to open up. She didn’t show, and the boss got sore. I wasn’t supposed to come on until eleven, and he got me up out of my beauty sleep. He telephoned Hazel’s rooming house, and they said she’d left before midnight last night, took a suitcase with her, and beat it.”
“Beat it?” Serle echoed.
“Uh-huh — and her room rent’s paid up until the first, and today’s payday. She has a week’s wages coming — fat chance she stands of getting them now. What’s your order?”
“Lunch,” Serle said shortly.
Placing silverware, a butter dish, and a glass of water before Serle, she glanced at the place which had been set in front of Mason at the table, and asked, “How about you? Ready to give your order now?”
Mason nodded. She handed him a menu, and Serle said, “If you want some good eats, just order lunch.”
Mason smiled. “Just bring me the lunch.”
When the waitress had left, Mason said, conversationally, “What were you and Milicant talking about?”
“Milicant?” Serle repeated questioningly. “Oh, yes, I keep forgetting his name was Milicant. I knew him as Louie Conway.”
“What were you talking about?” Mason asked.
Serle said, “Listen, Mason, I’m not foolish enough to talk my way into the cooler.”
Mason said, “The D.A. can’t square your rap.”
“I’ll take a chance,” Serle said. “Anyway, they have nothing on me. I have a legitimate business. I don’t know whether the people who buy stuff I sell are stage magicians or whether they intend to start gambling. I always warn them it’s a crime to introduce fraud into a gambling game. That lets me out. I’ve done my duty.”
“How about the lottery?” Mason asked.
“There wasn’t any lottery. I don’t know where you heard that.”
“The D.A. can’t square a federal rap.”
“What are you leading up to?”
“Where a man writes a letter and says, ‘I can’t deliver you the stuff you ordered by mail, but you’ll get it by special messenger,’ it’s the same as using the mails in the business.”
The waitress appeared with two bowls of pearl barley soup.
“What did you mean by that last crack?” Serle asked.
“Nothing,” Mason said, munching a cracker.
“Listen, Mason,” Serle said. “Get me straight on this. That lottery business is the bunk. I was closed up on a tip-off. It was a grudge tip-off. The D.A. doesn’t go for that stuff. He doesn’t use his office to settle private grudges. What’s more, you can’t convict a man on a tip-off. You’ve got to have evidence.”
“That’s right,” Mason agreed.
There was another long silence while Mason finished his soup. Serle watched him uneasily. Mason pushed the plate away and said, “Nice soup.”
Serle said, “Understand this, Mason, I don’t think Leeds killed him, but the D.A. thinks so, and the D.A. has a case so airtight you couldn’t punch a hole in it with a drill.”
“What makes it airtight?” Mason asked.
Serle said, “I’m not talking.”
“Is that the price you had to pay for squaring the rap with the D.A.?” Mason asked.
Serle said, “There isn’t any rap.”
The waitress brought a fruit salad, a plate of delicious meat pie made with tender squares of meat, rich, yellow carrots, new potatoes, walnut-sized onions, and steaming gravy.
“Certainly is fine grub,” Mason said, appreciatively inhaling the aroma of the food.
“Look here,” Serle said, “I’m not supposed to do any talking to anyone, newspapermen or anyone.”
“In return for having that lottery business squared?” Mason asked.
“Quit harping about that,” Serle said irritably. “There isn’t any evidence on the sale of any lottery tickets.”
Mason said, “If you don’t mind, Serle, I’m going to sop this bread in the gravy. Certainly has a wonderful flavor. Are all their dishes this good?”
“They specialize in home cooking. Look here, Mason, you can’t pull this stuff with me.”
“What stuff?” Mason asked.
“Trying to shake me down. Hell, don’t think I was born yesterday. All I’ve got to do is to step over to that phone, ring the district attorney, and tell him the defense lawyer is trying to tamper with one of his witnesses, and they’ll have you on the spot so fast you won’t have a chance to finish your dinner.”
Mason gravely handed him a dime. “There’s the phone,” he said. “Hop to it.”
“I’m not that kind,” Serle said. “I don’t squeal.”
Mason said, “Of course, if the district attorney wanted actual proof, I could see that he had the lottery ticket and the crooked crap dice which you delivered for twenty-five bucks to Paul Drake.”
Serle, who had been about to attack his meat pie, paused with the fork poised over the plate. “What the hell are you trying to pull?” he asked.
Mason speared a carrot, cut a corner from the rich crust of the pie, and conveyed it to his mouth. After watching Serle, Mason said, “Drake’s the head of the Drake Detective Agency. He was working for me.”
Serle said, “Oh,” tonelessly.
“We were trying to locate Conway,” Mason said. “We found out about the Conway Appliance Company, but it had moved. We couldn’t get the post office to kick loose with a forwarding address so we sent twenty-five bucks on a chance. The chance paid off.” He returned to his meat pie.