“How do you know it was a woman’s handkerchief?” Kittering asked.
“I smelled it,” Baker announced, and once more a ripple of merriment ran across the courtroom.
“So what did you do?”
“I took the tray with the dishes, and beat it.”
“Did you lock the door behind you?”
“I pulled it shut. I think the spring lock was caught back so that the door didn’t lock, but I ain’t absolutely certain about that. I know I closed the door. If they didn’t want it locked, that was their business. If they did, they could lock it.”
“Now, are you certain as to the time?”
“Absolutely. We’ve got an electric clock down there, and I figured Conway — Milicant — might get sore if I didn’t get the grub up to him in time. So I noticed particularly the time when the order came in, and kept hurrying the cook up to get it out. You know, in a joint like that — I mean in a restaurant of that size — a waiter can’t take food out until he catches a slack time. We really ain’t equipped to handle much room service like that. The cook gets the stuff going, and then, in case you’re rushed, he keeps it in the hot oven until you get a chance to break away. That keeps the dishes hot, and the food hot. And you’d be surprised how much difference a hot dish makes, particularly when you cover it with a napkin and tablecloth.”
“And what time did you return for the dishes?”
“Almost exactly quarter ‘til eleven. I’d waited for a slack time — maybe sort of put it off. Then I almost forgot ’em. It was fifteen minutes before my quitting time, so I beat it up there fast.”