“Close it up,” Mason said. “Give Phyllis Leeds a ring after a while just to let her know we’re on the job. Don’t tell her anything that she couldn’t read in the newspapers. Ask her if she knew John Milicant had a crippled foot, and see if she knows how it happened.”
Chapter 9
Perry Mason, sitting at the corner table in the Home Kitchen Cafe, surveyed the restaurant in shrewd appraisal.
A sign announced that the restaurant opened at seven o’clock A.M. and closed at seven-thirty P.M. Placards, placed on the wall, listed a series of tempting breakfast combinations. Particular inducements were made to secure regular patronage.
There was a lunch counter running half the length of the restaurant on one side. At the front end of this was a well-stocked cigar counter and a large cash register presided over by a genial, fat man whose lips were held in a good-natured grin of easy affability. His bald head shone like a freshly peeled onion in the light reflected from the plate-glass window at the front of the restaurant. His eyes were quick, and keen as those of a hawk.
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.