This Is Murder

Chapter Fourteen

Natalie Rice’s face was gray with fatigue. She looked up as Sam Moraine pushed his way in through the door, hung up his hat and coat and grinned at her.

“How’s Father?” she asked.

“I’ve got him tucked away. If you don’t know where, it’ll be just that much the better for you.”

“Have you been able to accomplish anything?” she asked in a low voice, as though dreading the answer.

“I’ve accomplished all I can until they discover Dixon’s body. How much money have I in my checking account?”

“Something over four thousand dollars.”

“I’m going to draw it all out,” he said.

He grinned as she raised her eyebrows and said, “Make out a check cleaning out the entire account. Make it to cash.”

“You mean you’re not going to leave a cent in the bank?”

“That’s right.”

“What’s the idea?”

“I’m going to become a fugitive from justice.”

“Sam!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Moraine — you can’t do anything like that!”

“I think it’s going to be a swell idea,” he told her. “I think it’s going to work out fine.”

“You’re pretending a lot of cheerful optimism that you don’t feel.”

“No,” he told her, grinning, “it’s genuine. I never feel so cheerfully optimistic as when I’m winning a jack pot on a bluff.”

“You mean you’re going to run away?”

“I’m going to make it look as though I had run away.”

She opened the drawer of the desk, took out the check-book, made out a check and handed it to him for his signature. He scrawled his signature across the check, and she blotted it. He patted her shoulder reassuringly.

“Don’t worry, lad,” he said.

She clung to his arm as though striving to find something which would give her reassurance.

“Tell me,” she pleaded, “do you believe Father?”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because,” she said slowly, “Father is a very determined man. He’s reached the point where he thinks his own life doesn’t matter. He thinks he’s all through, that there’s nothing he can do — he can’t fight his way back. All that he wants is to vindicate his name so that I can face the world.

“Poor Dad! He doesn’t realize that I’ve already faced the world, that I’ve already fought my way through all of that. His mind still goes back to that first numbing shock when I realized that my friends were snubbing me on the street.”

Moraine said nothing.

“So,” she went on, “he went to see Pete Dixon. I’m satisfied of this, Mr. Moraine — he would have stopped at nothing. He knew that Dixon had certain things that he wanted, and if my father had thought those things were in that suitcase, he’d have done anything on earth to get them.”

“Do you think your own father would have killed a man?”

“Yes,” she said, “if he thought that man had done me an injustice and that he could only rectify that injustice by killing him.

“If you want to know, that was why I was so anxious to help you in this thing. That was why I was so anxious to get something on Peter Dixon. That was why I was so willing to take all those chances and do those desperate things that seemed so illogical to you. It was because I knew my father was going to get out and I knew that he would do anything to vindicate his name so that I could hold up my head once more. I tried to explain to him that I cared nothing for the friends who had snubbed me. The fact that they snubbed me showed how worthless their friendship was. I certainly wouldn’t fall a second time for such a spurious friendship.”

“You don’t think your own father would run the risk of disgracing you by having you become the daughter of a murderer, do you?”

“Not deliberately, but he was always a gambler. I was disgraced already. He was willing to risk anything in order to bring the true facts of the case to light. Dixon was a stubborn man. If my father confronted Dixon with some sort of an ultimatum, there is no telling what might have happened. If Dad killed him, I know that it was in self-defense, but he may have killed him.”

“Well,” Moraine told her, “we can’t do any good by talking about it. Try and dismiss it from your mind. I’ll go cash this check and...”

He broke off, as, from the street below, came the roar of newsboys screaming extras: “Politician moidered! Read about it!”

Her hand went to her throat.

She took a deep breath, then smiled at him.

“All right,” she said, “I can take it.”

“Sit tight and keep cool,” he told her, “it won’t be long until they’re out here looking for you. Remember, don’t answer any questions. Tell them that you refuse to answer anything about my business unless I instruct you to do so, and that you were out last night on my business. Don’t use that other stall we cooked up. It won’t work.”

She pushed her chair back, walked close to him, put her hands on his shoulders.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” she pleaded. “Don’t run risks on Father’s account, or on my account.”

He laughed, and patted her back.

“Don’t forget,” he said, “that I’m in this up to my necktie. I’m on my way.”

The phone was ringing as he pulled the door shut behind him.

He went at once to the bank. Despite the comments of the cashier, he offered no information. Yes, he was drawing out his account. No, there was no complaint. The service had been quite satisfactory. He couldn’t tell whether the account would be reopened. No, he didn’t care to step in and see the manager, he was in a hurry.

He took the money in fifties and hundreds, thrust it into his pocket, a big sheaf of bank notes, pushed his way out through the swinging door of the bank, entered a drug store, deposited a coin in the telephone and gave the number of Phil Duncan’s office.

When Duncan’s secretary answered the telephone, he said, “I want to talk with Phil, please.”

“Who is this talking?”

“Sam Moraine,” he told her.

He could hear her give a little gasp of surprise, then, a moment later, he heard the district attorney’s voice on the wire.

“Phil,” he said, “I want to talk with you.”

“Where are you, Sam?”

“I’m down at a drug store.”

“I’ve been calling your office. Have you read the papers?”

“No.”

“Peter Dixon has been murdered.”

“Good lord!” Moraine said. “Any particulars, Phil?”

“The paper contains rather complete details,” Duncan said slowly. “I want to talk with you about it, Sam.”

“About that murder?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, Phil, I want to talk with you, but I don’t want to talk with you where I’m going to be interrupted.”

“Can you come to the office, Sam?”

“No, I don’t want to. I want to meet you somewhere away from the office. Where’s Barney?”

“He’s out at Dixon’s place, going over the case on the ground. He’s making a detailed check-up.”

“He hasn’t made a complete report?”

“Not yet. I’m waiting to hear from him. He’ll be here shortly.”

“I tell you what you do, Phil. Don’t tell anyone that you’re going to meet me. I’ll drive my car down to the corner below your office. You come down within five minutes and I’ll pick you up. We can sit in the car and talk.”

“I’ve got some questions I want to ask you, Sam,” the district attorney said patiently.

“You can ask them there.”

“All right,” Duncan said, “in five minutes.”

“Check,” Sam Moraine said, and hung up.

Sam Moraine drove his coupe through the city streets, taking great care to violate no traffic ordinances which would result in any delay while he argued with a traffic officer. His eyes were clear. He gave no evidence of his sleepless night. The Turkish bath, the shave and the facial massage had left him pink-skinned and clear-eyed. He slid the car in close to the corner, and Phil Duncan stepped out from the entrance to a building.

“Why couldn’t you come to the office?” he asked, as Sam Moraine opened the door of the coupe for him.

“I had several reasons,” Moraine told him. “I want to drive you around a bit and talk to you.”

“I’ve got some things I want to ask you, Sam. Did you know that Pete Dixon was dead? Did you know anything about his death?”

“I know what you told me over the telephone. I haven’t seen a newspaper.”

“That’s not answering my questions,” Duncan said. “I took quite a serious responsibility early this morning when you assured me that your trip to Sixth Avenue and Maplehurst had nothing whatever to do with the death of Ann Hartwell. Now, with this other development, Barney Morden is very bitter against me. He feels that he should have been allowed to question you last night.”

“Barney’s under you, isn’t he?” Moraine said casually. “Why don’t you fire him if he gets tough?”

“Technically,” Phil Duncan said slowly, “Barney Morden is under me, but you forget that there’s an election coming up. Regardless of what the voters think about the qualifications of an individual, no man ever stands a chance at getting the district attorneyship unless he is backed by one of the major political parties. You are familiar with the situation here. Dixon has controlled one of the parties; Carl Thorne the other. Dixon has been my enemy. Thorne has been my. friend.”

“You mean he’s posed as your friend.”,

“We’ll let that pass,” Duncan said patiently. “The fact remains that without Thorne’s support I stand no chance of getting elected. I’m afraid that Barney Morden has gone to Carl Thorne, and I’m afraid that Carl Thorne has become definitely antagonistic.”

“You mean he’s going to back someone else for the office?”

“He’s intimating that he may do so unless I snap into line.”

“What does he mean by ‘snapping into line’?”

“I think it’s going to have something to do with you and with your secretary,” Duncan said. “I’m telling you this frankly, Sam. Perhaps I shouldn’t, but I thought I’d put my cards on the table and see if I couldn’t persuade you to put your cards on the table.

“I know quite well that you didn’t kill anyone. You’re my friend. You’re not the type who murders. But I think you are protecting someone.”

“Who?” Moraine asked.

“That’s what I don’t know just now,” Duncan said, “but don’t ever fool yourself, Sam, that I can’t find out, and that I won’t find out.”

Moraine said, “Well, now you’ve got that off your chest, let me talk with you. There were some irregularities in the Better Home Building and Loan Company. A couple of men were headed for jail. They were never prosecuted. Why?”

“Of course,” Duncan fold him wearily, “that’s one of the things that’s going to be harped on by my opponents in my campaign. As a matter of fact, Sam, it would have been a difficult case in which to get a conviction. Popular sentiment was in favor of prosecution, but there’s some question whether the two men in question had really been guilty of a crime, or whether they’d been guilty of irregularities. But, anyhow, the files in the case disappeared. I presume that’s more or less an open secret. It’s been hinted at in the newspapers.”

“Suppose I should tell you, Phil, that those men were guilty of more than irregularities? That they had systematically looted the company and had salted away a good part of the money? That they paid a nice bit of good hard coin to have those files taken from your office. Then what would you say?”

The district attorney stared at him with thoughtful, narrowed eyes.

“I would say that my public career was finished if those facts ever became known.”

“Suppose I should tell you that your friend, Carl Thorne, made over fifty thousand dollars in the paving contracts on the West End?”

“I wouldn’t believe it.”

“Suppose I could prove it?”

“It would prove most embarrassing if such a disclosure were to be made at this time.”

“Suppose I should tell you that graft money could actually be traced to your office?”

Duncan stared at him incredulously.

“You’re crazy!”

“I’m not crazy.”

“What do you mean when you say to my office?”

“To people who were working under you.”

“And their conduct was influenced by such contributions?”

“Of course. And they, in turn, influenced your conduct. You were too credulous. You followed their advice. The result, in the long run, was the same.”

“That,” Duncan said slowly, “would mean that I was ruined. But it’s all a lot of hooey. You’re pulling it to distract my attention, Sam.”

“That,” Sam Moraine told him briefly, “isn’t hooey. It’s what you’ve got to face. Sooner or later this stuff is coming to light. I don’t want to talk with you about Dixon, Phil. I want to talk with you about yourself.

“I’m your friend. I want to find a way out for you. You’re quick enough to suspect me, why not be equally skeptical with some of your other friends? Phil, I’m giving you my word of honor you’ve been sold out.”

Duncan sighed. His shoulders settled forward. He seemed to sag inside of his clothes. His face looked worn and haggard.

“I can’t believe you, Sam,” he said.

Moraine placed a hand on Duncan’s knee.

“I’m giving you the worst side of it, Phil. Now, then, I want you to have confidence in me. I think I can handle the situation in such a way you’ll be in the clear.”

“Not that situation you can’t,” Duncan said grimly, “not with the grand jury in session.”

“What’s wrong with the grand jury, anything in particular?”

“Everything,” Duncan said, “so far as I’m concerned. The grand jury is composed of men who are opposed to the political party that’s in power here in the city and county. It was a political blunder ever letting such a grand jury come into existence, but it was done — no one knows just how. There’s been a rumor around that they’re getting ready to uncork some political dynamite. They’re for a reform party and a clean sweep.”

“I think,” Moraine said musingly, “that I know just where that political dynamite is now.”

“Where?”

“That,” Moraine said, “would be telling. Are the grand jury opposed to you personally?”

“Driver, the foreman of the grand jury, is favorable to John Fairfield. Fairfield is scheduled to be my political opponent. Fairfield is a bitter enemy of Carl Thorne.”

“Suppose you repudiated Thorne and his party, would Fairfield come out against you?”

“It wouldn’t make any difference whether he did or didn’t. If I repudiated Carl Thorne I couldn’t be elected dog catcher.”

Moraine slid the car to a stop, looked at his wrist-watch.

“I’ll tell you what, Phil,” he said, “we’ll talk this over some other time. In the meantime, I know you’re interested in getting the latest report on that Dixon murder. Suppose you telephone the office or Barney Morden?”

Duncan sighed wearily. He nodded, opened the door of the car and crossed the sidewalk with listless, dispirited steps. He was gone for almost ten minutes.

He returned, staring at Sam Moraine speculatively.

“Sam,” he said, “would you give me a double-cross?”

“Not on your life,” Moraine told him. “I might give you a run-around, but I wouldn’t give you a double-cross.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Lots of difference. Can you put your cards on the table in the Dixon murder?”

“I want to ask you some questions.”

“Go ahead.”

“Where did you go after you left your office last night?”

“I went to keep an appointment.”

“An appointment with a woman?”

“It wasn’t with Ann Hartwell, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, I’m wondering if it was an appointment with Natalie Rice. I remember you sent her out on an errand. Where did you send her?”

“To transact a matter of business.”

“Where?”

Moraine smiled and shook his head.

“My God, Phil, isn’t it possible for you folks to have a murder anywhere in the city limits that you don’t try to pin on my secretary or me?”

Duncan said wearily, “Cut out the kidding, Sam. This is no joking matter — this is murder.”

“When was he killed?” Moraine asked.

“At around ten forty last night.”

Moraine said slowly, “I guess that lets me out, doesn’t it, Sam? As I remember it, I didn’t leave the office until after that.”

“It lets you out, but I’m wondering where it leaves your secretary.”

“Better ask her,” Moraine remarked. “After all, anything I’d know would be hearsay. How do you fix the time so accurately, Phil?”

“I ask you questions,” the district attorney said irritably, “and you answer them by asking me questions.”

Sam Moraine chuckled. “You’ll have to put it down to my sudden flair for crime detection, Phil,” he said. “You know how it is with me. Ever since you got me into this detective business I’ve been very much interested.”

“I’ll say you have.”

“How did you fix the time, Phil?”

“By a candle.”

“By a candle?” Moraine exclaimed.

Phil Duncan looked at him searchingly.

“Yes,” he said, “a candle.”

“How come?”

“There was a high wind during the early part of last night. It died down about five or six o’clock in the morning, but while it blew it blew plenty. It blew the branch of a large tree down across the feed wires which supplied electricity to Dixon’s house. It put out every light in the place. They used candles. Fortunately, the exact time when the limb blew down can be determined by reason of the fact that two electric clocks were stopped. The butler kept candles for just such an emergency. He lit candles within not more than three minutes after the lights went out.

“When Dixon was killed, he fell against a window. That window was on the north side of the house. The wind came pouring in as the window broke and extinguished the candle almost at once. From the manner in which the wax dripped evenly down the sides of the candle, it’s apparent that it had been burning in a room where the air was relatively still. It went out all at once when the wind blew in through the window.

“They were rather a good grade of candle, large in diameter. Their rate of burning can be accurately determined.”

Moraine nodded. “Clever reasoning,” he agreed.

“Moreover,” Duncan went on, “we’ve found out more about the Hartwell woman. She was killed in front of the side door to Dixon’s house.”

Moraine’s face showed his surprise.

“She was wearing a brown tight-fitting hat. We didn’t find it when we found the body. It had been kicked under some shrubbery. There were bloodstains on it, and tracks on the ground indicate she had been clubbed to death there in front of the side entrance to Dixon’s house.

“The butler says that Dixon had an appointment with a young woman. The appointment was for ten o’clock, but she was late in showing up. Dixon instructed the butler to leave the side door unlocked and to go to bed.

“We took Dixon’s butler down to the morgue. He viewed Ann Hartwell’s body. He looked at her carefully and said he’d never seen her before; she may or may not have been the young woman with whom Dixon had the appointment. The butler insists he doesn’t know who the woman was. The fact that Dixon didn’t want the butler to let her in, but told her to come directly to the side door, indicates that.”

Moraine narrowed his eyes in thought. “Are you sure he wasn’t giving you a run-around?” he asked.

“I’m not sure anyone’s not giving me a run-around in this case,” Duncan agreed in a tone of dejected weariness, “but we tried to fix it so he didn’t have much of a chance to think up a lie. We marched him up to the sheeted corpse, kept his attention engaged in conversation, and then...”

“Yes,” Moraine agreed dryly, “you don’t need to describe the technique. I know all about it.”

“Do you think he was lying?” Duncan asked.

“I don’t know, I’m sure.”

“The point is this,” Duncan said. “You became interested in this kidnapping case. As nearly as I can find out, you didn’t know Dixon. You had never met him. You weren’t interested in politics, but you were interested in that Hartwell woman and in the kidnapping case. You went out to Sixth Avenue and Maplehurst. My best guess is that your errand related to this Hartwell girl rather than Dixon, but if there was a tie-up between Dixon and Ann Hartwell you might have gone out to see Dixon.”

“You mean that I murdered him?” Moraine inquired.

“You’re not accused of murder,” Duncan said patiently. “The murder was committed at about ten forty. You were in your office at that time. We don’t know where your secretary was at that time.”

“And,” Moraine told him, with a grin, “I take it that you don’t know where a lot of other people were at that time. As I remember it, you and Barney Morden were doing some pretty tall searching at just about that particular moment, looking for a Doris Bender — a Thomas Wickes — for a certain Dr. Richard Hartwell — and, perhaps, some others.”

“Wickes is accounted for, I think,” Duncan said. “I haven’t checked upon him carefully. Dr. Hartwell is accounted for by a very lucky coincidence. He made an attack on you, you’ll remember, when you left your office. That must have been just about the time the murder was being committed. In fact, I don’t mind telling you, Sam, that we placed the exact time of the murder at ten forty-seven.”

“How do you place it at that time?”

“No one in the house heard the shots. Two shots were fired from a thirty-eight caliber revolver. A train was going by the house at ten forty-seven, according to the time schedules of the railroad company. The track runs very close to Dixon s property. That would account for no one hearing the shots. Those trains make quite a racket.”

“Well, where was Doris Bender?” Moraine asked.

“We don’t know.”

“It might be a good plan to find out. You say that you think Wickes has an alibi?”

“Yes, he was in touch with the officers. Apparently, he was much concerned over the fact that everyone had skipped out of Doris Bender’s apartment.”

“Then you don’t think Ann Hartwell was thrown from the ten forty-seven train?”

“She may have been, but I doubt it. It’s almost certain that the same person who killed her killed Pete Dixon. He waylaid Ann Hartwell in front of Dixon’s house and killed her. Then he went in and killed Dixon.”

Moraine frowned thoughtfully and said, “You’re certain of your time, Phil?”

“Absolutely certain. The tests we have made with the candle fix the time within less than fifteen minutes either way, allowing for every possible variation. Tests which we have made indicate the shots would most certainly have been heard if they hadn’t been fired just when a train was going by. Now, then, Sam, what I want to know is, where was Natalie Rice when the ten forty-seven train went past Pete Dixon’s house?”

Sam Moraine stared at Phil Duncan with eyes that were filled with reproach.

“Phil!” he exclaimed. “You really don’t mean to insinuate that Natalie Rice might have been implicated in the murder!”

Duncan sighed wearily.

“I’ve played too damn much poker with you, Sam,” he said. “I can tell when you’re trying to put over a fast one. You always start putting the other man on the defensive. Whenever you’re trying to win a jack pot with nothing higher than a pair of fives, you start panning my office about something, and I get so busy trying to explain where you’re wrong that you’ve stolen a pot before I know it.”

Moraine laughed, and said, “Well, the moral of that is, don’t play poker with a district attorney if you’re going to commit murder later on.”

“The moral of that,” Phil Duncan rejoined, “is that you still haven’t answered my question.”

“All right, let me ask you a question or two. Where was Doris Bender when that train went through?”

“I don’t know,” Duncan said frankly, “but that doesn’t answer the question of where Natalie Rice was.”

“Where was Dr. Hartwell?”

“There’s no question about where Dr. Hartwell was. He was being socked on the chin by Barney Morden.”

“Not when the train went through.”

“Well, within two minutes of that time, and, if you can get from Sixth and Maplehurst to your office in two minutes, you’re a wonder.”

“Where was Tommy Wickes — Doris Bender’s boyfriend?”

Duncan’s eyes showed a trace of interest.

“Well,” he said, “let’s check up on Wickes. Wickes showed up at Doris Benders apartment at eight o’clock. No one was home. Wickes made quite a little commotion trying to get in and telephoned Barney Morden. He told Barney he thought something was wrong in the apartment because he had a date with Doris Bender.”

“Isn’t that rather an unusual thing for a man to do?”

“What?”

“Call up the district attorney’s investigator when a girl stands him up?”

“Perhaps. But this was an unusual situation. Wickes said he was worried about the girls. He said Dr. Hartwell had been looking for them, that he’d been packing a gun.”

“Do you know if that’s a fact?” Moraine asked.

“Yes, Barney investigated it. He says it’s a fact.”

“And did Hartwell talk with Carl Thorne?”

“Yes, he did. He met Thorne there at the apartment. Ann Hartwell didn’t want to see her husband, and Doris Bender persuaded Carl Thorne to talk with the man. Thorne gave him a fatherly talk, told him to go home and cool down and sue his wife for divorce if he wanted to, but not to go blabbing his troubles all over town.”

“And,” Moraine said, “I presume I’m indebted to Thorne for Hartwell’s visit this evening.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that Thorne told Hartwell I was his wife’s lover.”

“What makes you think he told Hartwell that?”

“I’m virtually certain of it.”

“Well, anyway, we were talking about Wickes,” Duncan said. “Wickes got in touch with Barney Morden, and Barney smelled a rat. He investigated. It looked like every one of them had cleared out and it looked as though they had cleared out in a hurry. Wickes intimated there might have been foul play. I didn’t want to have the stuff handled through my office, so he came up to yours. Wickes thought he could run down a lead somewhere and he went out to chase it down. I don’t know just where he was in the meantime, but I do know where he has when the murder was committed.”

“Where was he?”

“At your office. He came in within two minutes after you left, just before the patrol wagon came to take Dr. Hartwell to jail. That was right around eleven o’clock.”

“Wickes could have made it from Sixth Avenue and Maplehurst to my office in twelve or thirteen minutes,” Moraine said.

“Not if he’d stopped to commit a couple of murders in the meantime,” Duncan objected.

“Well, since we’re checking up on people, where was Carl Thorne?” Moraine asked.

“I don’t know. Carl was in touch with Barney — one of those telephone calls that was received at your office was from Thorne. He was out at his house then.”

“You mean he said he was out at his house.”

“Of course.”

“The fact that a man’s voice speaking over the telephone may say that the man is some particular place, doesn’t necessarily mean that he is at that place,” Moraine pointed out.

Duncan sighed wearily. “All of which beating around the bush,” he said, “means that in place of telling me where Natalie Rice was at the hour I mentioned, you have put me on the grid with a lot of questions, trying to distract my attention. Sam, I’m going to ask you once more: Where was Natalia Rice at ten forty-seven last night?”

Moraine started the car.

“I’m going to take you back to your office, Phil,” he said.

“And you’re not going to answer the question?”

“No, Phil, I’m not going to answer the question.”

“Why?”

“Because the question doesn’t do you justice. The thought back of it isn’t like you.”

“Baloney!”

“And I’m going to tell you something else,” Moraine went on. “You break away from Carl Thorne and break away quick.”

“Why?”

“Because I never gave you a bum tip in my life, and I’m giving that to you as a real, honest-to-God red-hot tip.”

“You mean I should give up my political career?”

“I don’t care what you do with your political career, but you break away from Carl Thorne, and don’t trust Barney Morden too far. He and Thorne are plotting against you right now. Barney Morden pretends to be your friend. He’d stab you in the back if he had the slightest possible opportunity. If you want proof, look at the way he’s turned against me the minute he thought it would be to his advantage to do so.”

“Barney’s pretty zealous — perhaps overly zealous,” Duncan said.

“Barney’s a crook,” Moraine answered, “and so’s Carl Thorne.”

“And you think I should deliberately break with Carl Thorne?”

“Yes.”

“I wish you’d tell me more of your reasons.”

“I can’t, Phil, but you think it over, and use your head on this Dixon case. Don’t get stampeded, and don’t rely too much on the evidence that Barney Morden drags in. And let me give you one more tip.”

“What is it?”

Moraine braked his car to a stop in front of Phil Duncan’s office building.

“Make a careful check on the time that murder was committed. Test those candles yourself.”

“Why? Why is the time of the murder so vital?”

“Because,” Moraine said, “Barney Morden has been selling you out — you can believe it or not. But Thorne and Barney Morden have been betraying you. Barney Morden took those files that were stolen from your office, and Thorne handled the financial end of it. And if that murder wasn’t committed at the time you think it was, you’d better find out where Barney Morden was at the time the murder was committed.”

“What the devil do you mean?” Duncan demanded, his face livid. “By God, Sam! You can’t throw mud all over my best friends just because your secretary happens to get mixed up in a murder case!”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Moraine asked, “that Dixon might have been gathering evidence that was very embarrassing to Thorne? And that this evidence was scheduled to go before the grand jury to-day? And if that evidence had gone before the grand jury, Cad Thorne might have been indicted? While you’re looking for motives, you might take that into consideration.”

Moraine reached across Duncan’s legs, opened the door of the coupé.

As one in a daze, Phil Duncan, got to the sidewalk and stood staring at Moraine.

Moraine snapped home the gearshift lever.

“Be seeing you, Phil,” he said.