The door opened. Evidently Spencer guessed who was wanted this time, for he pushed Bowker into the room. The steward of the President Tyler was bedraggled and bleary.
"Hello, Bowker," said the prosecutor. "Sober now, aren't you?"
"I'll tell the world I am," replied Bowker. "They've walked me to San Francisco and back. Can—can I sit down?"
"Of course," Greene smiled. "This afternoon, while you were still drunk, you told a story to Willie Chan, out at Okamoto's auto stand on Kalakaua Avenue. Later on, early this evening, you repeated it to Captain Hallet and me. I'll have to ask you to go over it again."
Bowker glanced toward Jennison, then quickly looked away. "Always ready to oblige," he answered.
"You're a steward on the President Tyler," Greene continued. "On your last trip over here from the mainland Mr. Jennison occupied one of your rooms—number 97. He was alone in it, I believe?"
"All alone. He paid extra for the privilege, I hear. Always traveled that way."
"Room 97 was on the main deck, not far from the accommodation ladder?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Tell us what happened after you anchored off Waikiki the night of June thirtieth."