“I don’t think we carry their account,” Marquad observed haughtily.
Mason slightly squared his shoulders, pushed forward his jaw and said, “I’m not asking you about an account. I’m asking you if you weren’t at The Golden Platter last night.”
“Me?” the banker said, in indignant surprise. “At a resort of that nature? Surely, Mr. Mason...”
Mason glanced a sidelong interrogation at Paul Drake. The detective nodded. Mason said, “All right, Mr. Marquad, if you want it straight from the shoulder, I’ll dish it out. You were there with a cute little blonde trick.”
Marquad said with dignity, “Mr. Mason, I’m going to ask you to excuse me. This is indeed most insulting. There’s an officer on duty over there.”
Drake took a notebook from his pocket and said, “You left at eleven forty-five, Mr. Marquad. You drove the jane to her apartment at ninety-three sixty-two Phyllis Avenue. You parked the car and went up with her. She has apartment number nine hundred six under the name of Ruby Benjamin. You turned the lights on and pulled the shades down. At two forty-five A.M. you came out and...”
The banker looked around him in alarm, lowered his voice and said, “Hush! Please, gentlemen, hush!”
“All right,” Mason said, “what’s the answer?”
The banker moistened his lips with the tip of a nervous tongue. “What is this,” he asked, “blackmail?”
“No,” Mason said, “this isn’t blackmail. I’m trying to find out whether this man was at The Golden Platter some time around seven or eight o’clock in the evening. I think you would have seen him there. Now, think back and see what you can remember.”