Serle’s face showed alarmed dismay. “Why... I...”
“Remember,” Mason said, leveling a rigid forefinger at him, “you’re under oath.”
“Well, yes. I did call her, but not at the café.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“Objected to as incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial, and not proper cross-examination,” Kittering said.
“Sustained,” Judge Knox ruled. “You may fix the time of the conversation, counselor. The subject matter would seem beyond the scope of proper cross-examination.”
“Your Honor, I think this conversation is pertinent,” Mason said.
“I don’t, not as the question is asked at the present time. You are, of course, the cross-examiner, and, therefore, have the right to ask leading questions. If you think the conversation is pertinent, frame a question to show that fact.”
Mason, turning to Serle, inquired, “Isn’t it a fact that you told Hazel Stickland to pack her things, and leave town, that you would meet her, give her some money, and explain?”
“Same objection,” Kittering said.
Judge Knox frowned at Perry Mason. “Is it your contention, counselor, that this has anything to do with the crime?”
“Yes,” Perry Mason said. “This girl was a waitress at the Home Kitchen Cafe, and was quite friendly with this witness. On the night of the murder, Serle located Bill Hogarty, before Hogarty went to his apartment. He took Hogarty to the Home Kitchen Cafe for dinner, Hazel Stickland waited on them. The restaurant had two ‘specials’ for dinner that night. One was filet of sole and baked potatoes, the other roast lamb chops, peas, and baked potatoes. Serle and Hogarty had the meat dinner... I have here a menu from that restaurant showing the regular weekly dishes.”
“What time was this?” Judge Knox inquired, puzzled.
“Approximately six o’clock or six-fifteen,” Mason said.
“But this witness had dinner in the apartment with Hogarty the night of the murder,” Judge Knox pointed out. “There seems to be no question of that fact.”
“Look at his face if you think he did,” Mason said.
Kittering was on his feet. “I object to this colloquy between court and counsel, and I object to that statement on the part of counsel. I assign it as prejudicial misconduct.”
Judge Knox glanced swiftly at Serle’s white, drawn face, then looked back to Perry Mason. “The objection is overruled,” he said. “Answer the question.”
“Isn’t that a fact?” Mason asked. “Isn’t that what you told her?”
“No,” Serle said, in a strained, harsh voice.
“You tried to get Hogarty to come through with bail. He wouldn’t come through,” Mason said. “You knew that even if you were bailed out, you’d never be allowed to reopen your business. You were furious. You paid him money for that business. You demanded a return of the purchase price; and you also insisted that he must put up bail. He refused. You started brooding. You knew that he had the better part of twenty thousand dollars in his possession, probably on his person in a money belt. After you separated, you began to wonder whether it would be possible for you to murder him and get that money, but do it in such a way that you would have a perfect alibi. You knew something about how autopsy surgeons fix the time of death from the extent to which digestion has progressed. You knew that at six-fifteen, Hogarty had eaten, and exactly what he had eaten.
“Almost two hours later, you went to his apartment, and killed him. You paused long enough to order a restaurant in the block to bring you up food that was exactly the same as that which Hogarty had consumed in the restaurant. When the waiter arrived with the food you were in Hogarty’s bedroom, apparently engaged in a spirited conversation with him... but Hogarty was already dead. You were pitching your voice to two different tones, and doing all the talking yourself. Isn’t that right?”
“It’s a lie!” Serle shouted, his voice was strained and hoarse.
Mason went on calmly and remorselessly. “You waited until the plates had arrived, and then scraped all of the contents of the plates into the garbage chutes.”
“I did not.”
“Then you left, intent upon building up an alibi. You were careful to see that the door was locked. You didn’t know Marcia Whittaker had a key to that apartment. You left there after the murder and went to the pool room where you knew you could find several of your cronies, and took occasion to tell them that you were going to call Hogarty at around ten-thirty.
“Then, to clinch matters, and make it appear that the decedent had been murdered right after that telephone conversation, you pretended to dial the number and talk with him on the telephone. You pretended to be engaged in a conversation about bail. And from the pool room you went directly to the police station, figuring that that would be the safest way for you to clinch your alibi.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” Serle said with dogged persistence.
Kittering, who had recovered his composure, said, “Your Honor, I object to this. This is an attempt to browbeat the witness. It...”
“Objection overruled,” Judge Knox said. “Proceed, Mr. Mason.”
“Better think again,” Mason said, “because I’m going to prove what I say, Serle.”
Serle clamped his lips tightly together, and said nothing, but the skin across the top of his forehead began to glisten as it slimed with cold perspiration.
“Now,” Mason went on calmly, “let’s go back to the night of the murder. You went to the Home Kitchen Café. Hazel Stickland waited on your table. She...”
“I didn’t eat there the night of the murder,” Serle blurted. “I ate with Hogarty in his apartment. I tell you, I never was at the Home Kitchen Café any time that night.”
Mason said, calmly, “You were there, Serle. You and Bill Hogarty. You may have arranged to get rid of the waitress, but you perhaps failed to notice that two girls were seated at the table next to you, and that Hogarty was surreptitiously trying a pickup.” — Mason whirled abruptly to face the audience. “Miss Gertrude Lade,” he called out. “Will you stand up please?”
Gertrude Lade stood up.
Mason, pointing a rigid forefinger, said, “Look at that young woman, Serle. I am going to ask you if you have ever seen her before — if, as a matter of fact, she wasn’t seated at the table next to you when you were eating dinner in the Home Kitchen Café on Friday, the seventh of this month?”
Gertrude Lade said, “That’s him all right.”
The deputy district attorney jumped to his feet, spouting objections. Mason held up his hand, and said, “No, no, Miss Lade, not a word from you! Please! Your time will come later, you and the young woman who was with you. I just wanted to ask Mr. Serle to identify you, that’s all. Sit down please.”
Gertrude Lade sat down.
Serle’s face had turned a pasty green.
At that moment, the door of the courtroom opened, and two deputies escorted Emily Milicant into the room.
Mason met her eyes in a stony stare, whirled suddenly to face Serle once more. “You still insist that you ate dinner in the company of Bill Hogarty in his apartment and not at the Home Kitchen Café?” Mason asked.
Serle hesitated a moment, then blurted, “We ate two dinners. Once there and once in the apartment. He was still hungry.”
Mason smiled. “And were you so hungry,” he asked, “that you ate up everything off the plate?”
“Yes.”
“You want this court to understand that you ate the jackets from the baked potatoes?”
“Yes,” Serle said. “I always eat them.”
“And,” Mason observed, “you also swallowed the bones from the chops, did you not?”