This Is Murder

Chapter Eleven

Moraine stepped on the throttle of his coupe, skidded for the corner, and, as the car straightened on the side street, coaxed it into speed and swung wide to make the next corner.

As the machine screamed its way around the corner, with sliding tires registering a protest, Moraine flashed a quick glance back down the side street.

There was no car in sight. Moraine ran the car for two fast blocks, then slammed on the brakes and took another turn to the left, doubled back around the block, and parked the car. He waited five minutes. There was no sign of activity on the street. No automobiles passed in either direction. There were no pedestrians.

Moraine got out of the car, locked it, walked a block and a half to an apartment house, scrutinized the names on the directory, and held his thumb with steady insistence against a bell button opposite the card bearing the name “Miss Natalie Rice.”

After almost a minute, Natalie Rice’s voice came to his ear through the speaking tube.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Sam Moraine,” he said.

“Do you want to see me?”

“Yes.”

“Give me a minute to dress, and I’ll come down.”

“No,” he told her. “I’ve got to see you up there. It’s important. Open the door.”

There was an interval of some ten or fifteen seconds before he heard the buzz which released the door catch. During this interval, Moraine leaned impatiently against the door, ready to shove it open as soon as the first buzz should announce the release of the catch.

He pushed his way into a poorly lit, stuffy corridor, found the automatic elevator, took it to the third floor, and saw a door cautiously open as he pounded his way down the corridor.

Natalie Rice was attired in pyjamas. Her feet were thrust into Chinese embroidered slippers, an embroidered silk kimono wrapped around her.

Moraine entered the apartment.

A wall bed had been let down and slept in. The apartment was cold, filled with that clammy atmosphere which comes to court apartments that get but little sunlight.

“What is it?” she asked.

Moraine kicked the door shut.

“Sit here,” she said, pushing forward a chair.

“No,” he told her, “I’ll sit on the couch.”

He walked over and sat on the couch, leaning back against a pillow.

“There have been some new developments,” he told her. “I figured you’d better be posted.”

“What new developments?”

“They pulled me out of bed.”

“Who did?”

“The district attorney and Barney Morden.”

“What for?”

“To question me about what I was doing in the vicinity of Sixth and Maplehurst between eleven o’clock and midnight.”

“How did they know you were out there?”

“They found the cab driver who took me out.”

“Then they know about... about...”

“Apparently,” Moraine told her, “they don’t. What they called me for, was to show me the body of Ann Hartwell. She’d been murdered.”

“Murdered!” Natalie Rice echoed.

“Yes, they found her body out at Sixth Avenue and Maplehurst. Right by the railroad tracks. They figured she could have been dumped from a train or from an automobile. They don’t think she was murdered there.”

Her eyes were wide with fright, her face colorless.

“They took me down and showed me the body under very dramatic circumstances,” Moraine said. “The probabilities are they’ll get in touch with you and question you. They may even take you down and show you the body. I wanted you to be prepared so that...”

He broke off, a peculiar expression on his face. He looked at the bed, then at the couch.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

He stared steadily at the bed. One blanket lay loosely rumpled in a ball at the foot of the bed. Moraine got up and jerked this blanket from the bed.

“Why, what’s the matter?” she asked.

Moraine placed his hand on the blanket, went over to the couch, placed his hand on the surface of the couch, and on the pillow.

“This is warm,” he said.

“What’s warm?”

“Don’t stall,” he told her, “the couch is warm. Someone’s been sleeping here.”

“Why,” she said, “why... whatever do you mean?”

Moraine’s eyes were hard.

“Listen,” he said, “it’s none of my business what you do with your time outside of office hours, but if I’ve been spilling conversation around here with someone listening to it, I want to know it.”

“I’m sure,” she told him, “I don’t know what...”

Moraine strode to the closet door and jerked it open. There was motion within the shadows.

Moraine doubled his fists, braced himself.

“Come out,” he said.

Natalie Rice ran to him, grabbed his arm.

Moraine shook her off, keeping his eyes on the closet.

“Come out,” he said, “or I’ll drag you out.”

Feet made noise on the closet floor as a heel was dragged along the boards, then a figure materialized from behind the long row of clothes which stretched from hangers on a rod running across the closet.

“Come on out,” Moraine said.

A white-haired man, very erect, with eyes that were deeply troubled, and a dead-white countenance, stepped into the light.

Moraine took one look at him, then turned to look at Natalie Rice.

“Your father?” he asked.

She nodded.

The older man walked over to the couch and sat down. He said no word. He placed his elbows on his knees. His shoulders bowed forward.

“When did you get out?” Moraine asked him.

“He knows about you, father,” Natalie Rice said quickly.

“Yesterday,” the man said, in a toneless voice.

Moraine sat down on the edge of the bed. His eyes stared from father to daughter.

“Now let’s see,” he said, “there was some connection between you and Pete Dixon. You figured that Pete Dixon railroaded you to jail, didn’t you?”

The older man said nothing.

“Isn’t that right?” Moraine asked, turning to Natalie Rice.

She avoided his eyes.

Moraine got to his feet, walked to the window and stood with his back to them, staring moodily out at the blank wall on the opposite side of the court. A moment later he pulled down the window shade, turned to them and lowered his voice.

“All right,” he said, “tell me.”

No one said anything.

Natalie Rice broke that silence.

“Father,” she said, “I’m going to tell him.”

The older man looked at him. His face was gray and haggard.

Natalie Rice came straight to Sam Moraine, put her hand on his arm.

“I’ve felt awful about this ever since it happened.”

“Ever since what happened?”

“Ever since I lied to you.”

“You lied to me out there?”

She nodded.

“I wondered about that,” he said. “Somehow you gave me the impression of protecting someone. Now go ahead and tell me what happened, and tell me exactly what happened.”

She said, in a low voice, “I guess I left the office about nine forty-five. It took me about ten minutes to get out there. I went directly to Mr. Dixon’s residence, just as I told you, followed the butler upstairs, just as I said, and heard Mr. Dixon say he was expecting a young woman to call on him, and to see that the side door wasn’t locked.

“I tip-toed back down stairs, just like I told you, and, when the butler showed me out, I turned to the left at the gate and walked rapidly down the street. I heard a car stop down near the boulevard and then the car door slammed. A man’s voice called something and a girl answered him with a laugh. I didn’t want anyone to see me, so I stepped into a little area-way near the far corner of Dixon’s fence. A young woman came walking down the street toward the railroad track and turned in at Dixon’s place.”

“Did you get a good look at her?” Moraine asked.

“No, I kept my back turned. She had on a tight-fitting hat and a fur coat.”

“Was it a brown fur coat?” Moraine asked.

“It’s hard to tell color at night, but my impression is that it was a brown fur. She walked almost directly under a street fight and I remember giving her a swift glance and noticing how rich the coat looked in the street fight. I think it was brown. Why did you ask?”

Moraine shook his head and said, “Never mind that now. Go on with your story.”

“At first I had thought it might be better to burst in on Dixon and this young woman whom he had been expecting. Then I realized it might be a business visit. If that were the case, I figured she’d leave within a few minutes, so I waited.”

“Where did you wait?”

“Down by the railroad track.”

“Do you know exactly what time that was?”

“There was a freight train coming along about the time I got to the railroad track,” she said. “We might check up on the time from that.”

“Did the engineer or fireman see you?”

“No. I kept in the shadows by the corner of Dixon’s hedge. It seemed to take an interminable time to pass.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I stood there, watching the house. But it was frightfully cold in the wind. I decided I’d walk a little while.”

“So what?”

“So I walked up the street.”

“That was away from the railroad tracks?” he asked.

“Yes, why?”

“I just want to get it straight,” he told her. “Go ahead.”

“All of this really doesn’t make so much difference,” she told him, “it’s what I’m coming to...”

“Let’s keep it straight as we go along,” Moraine told her grimly. “It may make more of a difference than you realize.”

“Well, I walked up to the comer and then I turned the comer.”

“To the right or left?”

“To the right. I walked for a minute or two, and then realized that perhaps when the young woman came out she might walk down toward the railroad track instead of up toward the street intersection I was watching, so I walked back.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“An automobile was making a turn down by the railroad track just as I got to the comer. There wasn’t a very good place to hide, but there was a telephone pole there and I stepped in close to the telephone pole, and as the car went past, I kept moving around so that the pole was between me and the car. I’m satisfied no one saw me.”

“Go on,” he said.

“I kept walking up and down, waiting for the young woman to come out. She didn’t come out, so finally I decided to go in. I went through the gate, walked around to the side of the house and tried the side door. It was open, just as Mr. Dixon had said it would be. I went up to the room, and then things happened just as I told you. Only, after I’d telephoned you and gone back downstairs, I... I...”

“You what?” Moraine asked, as she ceased talking and seemed to be fighting back tears.

“I saw father,” she said.

“Where was he?” Moraine asked.

The white-haired man arose from the couch, with some semblance of dignity.

“Let me tell it,” he said.

Moraine turned to him.

The man’s voice was lifeless, and yet in contained a certain vibrant timbre as though at one time it had been accustomed to command. Now all of the command had gone from it.

“I was there,” he said.

“Where?” Moraine inquired.

“I was in the room, when I heard someone coming up the stairs. I slipped through the door and into a bedroom. I heard her come in. I heard her striking matches. Then I heard her dial a number on the telephone. I opened the door so I could hear whom she was calling.

“You can imagine how I felt when I heard my own daughters voice. I hadn’t heard it for months. The last time was when she came to visit me in prison, and I told her not to come back any more. I didn’t want her to be associating with criminals. I didn’t want her to get the stamp of the Big House on her. I’ve had it on me. I didn’t think it would ever get me, but it has. It’s ground me down, a bit at a time, like water wearing off the corners of a stone.”

Moraine nodded sympathetically.

“You spoke to her?” he asked.

“Not there. I followed her downstairs. I spoke to her in the yard.”

“Then what?”

“She told me you were coming out. I knew, because I’d heard her talk over the telephone.”

“Why did you kill him?” Moraine asked.

Moraine stared steadily and silently, but Alton Rice met his stare calmly.

“No,” he said, “I didn’t kill him.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I wanted to see him. I knew he wouldn’t see me unless I made him, so I decided to call on him unannounced.”

“Why did you want to see him?”

“I wanted to make him vindicate me.”

“What could he do?”

“He could see that the real facts were made public. The man who was his tool in the original embezzlement is dead now. Dixon could have handled it so he wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“What makes you think he would have done that — just as a favor to you?”

“No,” Alton Rice said patiently. “I intended to force him to do it.”

“How?”

“I had some information that he’d have been forced to consider.”

“You were going to blackmail him into giving you vindication?”

“You might express it that way.”

“What time did you get in there?”

“It was just a few minutes before Natalie came in.”

Sam Moraine moved over to the edge of the bed and sat down. He looked over at Natalie Rice.

“You know,” he said, “this is going to sound like hell in front of a jury.”

She nodded, wordlessly.

“It would never come to that,” Alton Rice said, with dignity, “because I would make a confession which would take the whole blame on myself, and then kill myself. I’d never let Natalie go through that.”

“But you didn’t kill him?” Moraine asked.

“No. He was dead when I got there.”

“What did you do?”

For the first time, Alton Rice let his gaze falter.

“I stole some statements,” he said.

“Some what?”

“Some documents, affidavits and things.”

“Where are they?” Moraine asked.

Rice indicated the closet by a nod of his head.

“You see,” he said, “I went in there with the idea of getting something that would vindicate me. I didn’t care for myself. I’ve served my time. But I did care for Natalie.

“It’s been a terrible ordeal for her., I wanted to spare her the disgrace if I could — the disgrace of going through life bearing the stigma of being the daughter of a convict.”

“You didn’t embezzle the money?” Moraine asked, and then said quickly, “Pardon me. I didn’t mean it that way. I was just trying to get the facts.”

“No,” Rice said, “I didn’t embezzle the money. I trusted people too far. Dixon was back of the whole thing. He didn’t care about sending me to jail; he wanted to get his man appointed to my office. You see, I was in a position to block a lot of his schemes. When he couldn’t beat me at election time he framed me and sent me to jail. That made the office vacant. His own man was appointed. After that Dixon did plenty. He made a clean-up.”

“Do these papers show that? Do they vindicate you?” Moraine asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why did you take them?”

“I thought they might, at the time.”

“What were they?”

“The safe was open,” Alton Rice said. “Things in the room were just the way you found them. The window was broken. He was lying on the floor with bullet holes in him. A piece of glass from the window was sticking out from under his body. The candle was blown out. Wind was whipping papers around the room. The safe was open.

“I struck a match and looked around. I saw this suitcase lying on the table. I opened the lid. It was filled with papers. I couldn’t read much by the light of the match, but I read enough to show me that the suitcase was crammed full of political dynamite.”

“What sort of dynamite?” Moraine asked.

Natalie Rice said rapidly, “It’s dynamite that will make a clean sweep of the county offices. There’s stuff on the paving contracts. There’s stuff against the Sheriff s office. There’s a whole lot of stuff about your friend, Phil Duncan.”

“What about him?” Moraine asked.

“Do you remember those prosecutions for the Better Home Building and Loan embezzlements?”

He nodded.

“You remember the files were missing from the district attorney’s office?”

“There was some talk about it,” he said.

“You remember the cases were dismissed; that they were never prosecuted?”

“Yes.”

“There was a reason for it,” she said. “Money changed hands.”

“Bosh,” he told her. “Phil Duncan wouldn’t do anything like that. He wouldn’t even consider it.”

“It wasn’t Phil Duncan,” Alton Rice said, in that same low, patient voice. “It was the people who are associated with him. They sold him out. He doesn’t know it, even yet. But the documents are all there in that suitcase-signed affidavits, photostat copies of contracts and correspondence. There are even photostat copies of some of the papers that were missing from the district attorney’s file.”

Moraine’s voice was suddenly skeptical.

“And you want me to believe that Pete Dixon had obligingly gathered all of these documents into a suitcase where it would be convenient for you to take them; that he then got himself killed and left the side door open so you could come in and pick up this choice collection of documents, and walk out?”

Rice sighed, and said, “That’s what happened, but no one will ever believe it.”

“I’ll tell the world no one will ever believe it,” Sam Moraine said.

Natalie Rice met his eyes.

“I believe it,” she said, “and I want you to believe it.”

He stared steadily at her for a moment, then said, “Let’s see the suitcase.”

Alton Rice brought a heavy suitcase from the closet. He flung it up on the bed, snapped back the cover. Moraine started inspecting the contents. As he pawed through them, he gave a low whistle.

Abruptly he straightened and stared steadily at Natalie Rice.

“Know something?” he asked.

“What?”

“Dixon was sitting up there in his study, getting all this stuff together for one particular purpose. He was going to make it public — if your father’s story is true.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps through a newspaper. Perhaps some other way, but he was putting all this stuff in a suitcase so he could take it somewhere and deliver it.”

She nodded slowly.

“And,” Moraine said, “someone slipped in and killed him. Now, that someone must have entered the place after you heard Dixon talking to his butler, and before your father came in. That doesn’t leave very much time.”

“There was that automobile,” she said, “that came from some place, ran down to the railroad tracks, turned around and came back.”

“What kind of a car was it?”

“It was a coupe, I think. I didn’t get a very clear look at it.”

“Didn’t see the license number?”

“No.”

Moraine said, slowly, “Now, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s about Ann Hartwell. Her body was found down by the railroad track. She wasn’t killed there; she must have been killed either in Dixon’s house or as she came from Dixon’s house. That means the person who killed Dixon also killed the girl. Now then, I still don’t like your story about why you lied to me. It still doesn’t make sense. Why didn’t you tell me all this about seeing the girl walk down the street before?”

Natalie Rice stared intently at the tips of her fingers and said in a low voice, “I was protecting father.”

“Exactly,” he commented, “and the fact that you thought it was protecting your father not to say anything about seeing this girl means that...”

“Tell him, Natalie,” Alton Rice said wearily.

“When I came downstairs,” she said, “and found Father, he was holding a woman’s small brown hat in his fingers. There was blood on the hat. We struck matches and looked at the ground. There had been a struggle — there were bloodstains all over the ground. So Father dropped the hat back where he’d found it, a little to one side of the side door, and I was so frightened and upset I could hardly think straight. The body wasn’t there, you understand — just the hat and the bloodstains.”

Moraine gave a low whistle. “And,” he said, “they know that I went out there to Sixth and Maplehurst after you telephoned. They can prove where I went, even if they can’t prove you telephoned me.”

He stared moodily at the suitcase.

“You know what this means,” he told them, indicating it with a jerking motion of his head. “The person who has that suitcase in his possession is the one who draws a first degree murder verdict.”

“Then let’s start burning the stuff,” Natalie Rice said. “We can burn a few papers at a time.”

Moraine shook his head.

“Looking at it from another angle,” he said, “that suitcase, with the documents that are in it, is the only thing on God’s green earth that we can use as a club to keep from having the murder framed on us.”

He stared steadily at Natalie Rice. “You’re going to get dragged into it,” he said. “Cops are going to come out here and take you into custody. They’re going to get hard-boiled. Can you take it? Can you protect your father, and can you protect me? Can you tell them that you won’t betray by business secrets, that you won’t tell them where you went without first getting my permission? In other words, can you take it right on the chin?”

She faced him steadily. “I can take it,” she said.

Sam Moraine picked up the suitcase.

“How about Father?” she asked.

“I’m taking care of your father.”

Alton Rice sighed wearily. “No one’s taking care of me. I’m going to take care of everyone else.”

“What do you mean?” Moraine inquired.

“I mean,” he said, “that when it comes to a showdown I’ll confess to the murder of Pete Dixon and the young woman.”

Natalie Rice gasped. Sam Moraine, holding Alton Rice with his eyes, said slowly, “Did you kill them?”

“No, but I’m not going to let my daughter get dragged into it. My life is ruined; there’s nothing left for me. I’ll take the rap and that will let her out.”

“You,” Sam Moraine told him, “come with me.”