“Bleatie,” I said, “gave me the name of Morgan’s girl friend. I went to her and put on an act that we were going to drag her into the divorce action, and then shadowed the place. She led me to the Perkins Hotel She registered as Mrs. B. F. Morgan and got room 618. I bribed the bell captain to find out about what rooms were in the vicinity. He—”

“Yes, yes,” Cunweather interrupted. “We know all about that, Donald. We know everything you did from the time you got to the Perkins Hotel.”

“Then you know about serving Morgan Birks?” I asked.

“You didn’t serve Morgan Birks—you served somebody else.”

“The hell he did!” Bertha Cool interrupted. “He served Morgan Birks.”

“Where?”

“In the girl’s room—in 618.”

Cunweather and his wife exchanged glances. “There’s some mistake,” Cunweather said.

“No, there isn’t.”

“Morgan Birks didn’t go into room 618. We’re absolutely positive of that.”

“Don’t worry. He was in there all right,” Bertha Cool said. “I saw him myself.”

“How about it, m’love,” Cunweather said, turning to his wife, “shall we—”

“Let Donald finish his story,” she said.

Cunweather looked back at me. “Go on with your story, Donald.”

I said, “I got a room. Several people were with me. Sandra and Bleatie came in. Alma Hunter was there. I left them, and went out to a masquerade costume place, and got a bellboy’s uniform that would fit me. I had a telegram addressed to Mr. B. F. Morgan, care of Western Union. I waited around until the telegram came in, signed for it, and wrote in lead pencil on the envelope, beside the address, ‘Try Perkins Hotel.’ Then I got a notebook, forged a few signatures in it, went up to the hotel, and found the party in a hell of a stew because Morgan Birks had come in shortly after I’d left. I changed to the bellboy’s uniform, went out and knocked on the door of 618. When they wanted to know what it was, I said it was a telegram. They told me to shove it under the door. I shoved it far enough under the door so they could see the address, and that it was a telegram, but it was in the notebook, and the notebook was too big to go all the way under the door. I told them they had to sign a receipt. They fell for it and opened the door. I walked in, and Morgan Birks was lying on the bed. I served the papers on him. While I was doing that, Sandra got excited and came in. There was conversation back and forth. There was no question but what it was Morgan Birks.”

The fat man glanced for confirmation at Bertha Cool.

“That’s right,” she said. “I saw him, and I’ve seen his pictures in the newspaper. It was the same man.”