This Is Murder

Chapter Eighteen

Sam Moraine’s voice was pleasant as he pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

“Swell!” he said. “You couldn’t have done better with a rehearsal.”

Doris Bender gasped, whirled to face him, her face white, eyes wide with terror. Wickes dropped the suitcase, and his right hand shot toward his hip-pocket. Moraine jumped forward.

Wickes fumbled for a moment getting the gun from his pocket. Moraine’s fist caught him on the jaw. As his body jerked backward, the gun was pulled from his pocket, flung through the air, and fell to the floor. Wickes cursed, made a swing with his left. Moraine stepped inside of the swing, jolted Wickes with a right and left uppercut, and Wickes flung his right arm out wildly, caught Moraine by the lapel of the coat, kicked viciously at Moraine’s groin, then shifted his grip to Moraine’s waist and tried to throw him. Moraine tripped Wickes to the floor, and fell across him.

Doris Bender grabbed for the gun. Moraine caught her ankle, jerked her feet from under her. She came to her knees with a jar. He jerked her foot again, and she went forward on her face. She twisted free and kicked at his face with her heels.

As Moraine dodged the kicking heels, Wickes made a supreme effort and threw him off. Moraine lit on hands and knees. Wickes lunged out in a tackle; Moraine avoided his arms. Doris Bender kicked at him, and Moraine crawled across the floor. Doris Bender screamed, “Look out, he’s after the gun!”

Wickes made another lunge and caught Moraine’s leg, but Moraine grabbed the gun, twisted around and clubbed Wickes on the head. Wickes loosened his hold; Moraine swung to a sitting position, held the gun on him and said, “Now, then, we’ll talk.”

“Don’t say a word,” Doris Binder half-screamed. “He’s dangerous as hell, Tom. He’ll trap you if you say a word.”

Moraine grinned at Wickes and said, “I saw that telegram Doris sent to you, so you can dispense with lying about what brought you here.”

Doris Bender started to cry.

“D-d-d-d-damn you,” she sobbed. “I knew you were going to be too f-f-f-f-fast for us.”

Wickes, with his left hand pressed to his head where Moraine hath struck him with the gun barrel, said, “Shut up, Dorry!”

Moraine kept the gun trained on Wickes.

“Where were you when Ann Hartwell was killed?” he asked.

“You can’t pin that on me,” Wickes said, gasping for breath. “I’ve got — a good alibi.”

“Where were you when Dixon was killed?”

“None of your damn business.”

Moraine said, almost dreamily, “A car ran along the boulevard and stopped within about a block of Dixon’s place. Ann Hartwell got out and walked toward Dixon’s house: Someone was driving that automobile. If you were the one who was driving the automobile, it would be a swell break for you to say so — if you could prove it.”

“Yeah,” Wickes said, breathing heavily, “put myself on a spot — last person to see her alive — all that sort of stuff...”

“Not at all,” Moraine replied cheerfully. “Witnesses heard the car stop and saw the girl get out of the car, and the car drive away. That would put you out of the picture as being the one who killed Ann, and if you drove away, they couldn’t pin Dixon’s killing on you.”

“They can’t — anyway.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised what they can do these days,” Moraine remarked cheerfully. “A clever politician who has a pull with the district attorney can accomplish a lot when it comes to pinning a murder on a man, particularly if the fellow’s guilty.”

“Go to hell!” Wickes said, almost sobbing.

“Now, then, let’s look at it the other way,” Moraine went on. “You, Doris and Ann had arranged to sell Thorne out to Dixon. Dixon was going before the Grand Jury. You knew that was going to be the blow-off, so you decided to scatter and keep under cover, where Thorne couldn’t find you. Doris was the first to go. Then you found out through me that Ann had been murdered. That put a terrific scare into you. You telephoned Doris.”

“That’s a lie!” Wickes yelled.

Moraine shook his head chidingly, and said, “Let’s get back to brass tacks. Before you skipped out, you learned that Dixon was dead. Then you wondered what had happened to the papers. You waited to find out. Thorne wouldn’t have connected you with the sell-out — not at first. He’d have figured on Ann and Doris. Then, when Doris figured that I was the one who had the papers, she thought it would be a cinch to grab them and keep Thorne from knowing he’d been sold out.”

“That’s a lie!” Doris said.

“Gosh, I wish you’d get a new line,” Moraine told her, “that one’s worn out. But let’s talk sense while we have the chance. If you’ll admit killing Dixon, Wickes, I think I can get you off with life. You see, I’m friendly with the district attorney. Of course, you would have to admit you were the one who drove that automobile, so that it would clear you on the murder of Ann Hartwell.”

Wickes glanced dubiously at Doris Bender.

“Don’t be a sap,” she said bitterly. “He’s trying to get you to...”

The door of the room burst open. Barney Morden and Carl Thorne barged into the room. Just behind them, came a powerful, broad-shouldered man who literally pushed the other two into the room and kicked the door shut.

“So!” Morden said, taking in the situation.

Moraine sighed, and said, “Barney, you certainly do get around. Why the hell don’t you stay in your own bailiwick?”

Thorne, moving forward, said, “We’ve got you now.”

“You haven’t got anyone,” Moraine said. “You haven’t any authority here. You touch me and I’ll...”

“Don’t be a damn fool, Sam,” Barney Morden said. “This here is George Stevens, the chief of police of this burg. We’ve got enough papers to cover the wall of the room, and we can get more. And you’re coming through.”

Doris Bender jumped to her feet, flung her arms around Carl Thorne.

“Carl!” she said. “Carl, protect me!”

He shook her off.

“You’re a two-timing little...”

“No, no!” she screamed. “You don’t understand! This man stole all of my papers.”

“What papers?” Thorne asked.

“All of Ann’s notebooks and all of the papers we had. He peddled them to Dixon and then he killed Dixon and took the papers. They’re in that suitcase.”

Thorne lunged toward the suitcase.

Moraine jumped for him.

“Don’t you dare,” he said, “to touch that suitcase without a search warrant. That suitcase is going to be surrendered to the proper authorities, and...”

Barney Morden, stepping forward, timed himself perfectly, and smashed his right fist full into Moraine’s face.

Moraine went over backwards, dropping the gun. Thorne, struggling with the suitcase, said, “It’s locked. How about getting some skeleton keys?”

“Cut it open,” Morden said.

“I’d rather pick the locks,” Thorne said. “We don’t know just what’s going to happen to this suitcase.”

“I’ll hold it in my office,” Stevens said.

Thorne gave a meaning glance to Barney Morden. Morden said hastily, “That’s right, we hadn’t better open it here. We’d better take it back to my office, because it’s evidence in a murder case. It hasn’t anything to do with this arrest, Stevens.”

Moraine ran a handkerchief over his cut lip and said, “Damn you, Barney! I’m going to get you for that.”

Morden paid no attention to him.

Wickes struggled to his feet and said, “Sock him one for me.”

Morden ignored Wickes, turned to Thorne.

“You might explain to Stevens, Thorne, that we’ll want to hold the prisoners here temporarily, but the evidence will go with us.”

“I’m not so sure,” Stevens said.

Thorne took a wallet from his pocket, held it in his left hand significantly for a moment, then put it back in his inside pocket.

“Let’s not discuss matters here,” he said. “We can do better if we talk privately.”

Stevens frowned thoughtfully, then slowly nodded his head.

Moraine, holding his handkerchief to his cut lip, said, “You birds don’t need to think you can bury me here. By God, I’ll bust this town wide open. You can’t pull your high-handed stuff here. I’m in a hotel and not in jail, and before you get me to jail the whole damn town will know that I want a lawyer.”

“Shut up,” Morden said impersonally, “before I paste you again, Sam. You’re elected.”

“Elected for what?” Moraine asked.

“Elected as the murderer of Pete Dixon,” Morden told him. “You were a damn fool. You took a lot of chances and you lost out. That suitcase full of papers pins the crime on you.”

“Going to introduce the papers in evidence?” Moraine asked.

“We’ll introduce the empty suitcase,” Morden told him grimly, “and that’ll be enough to hang you.”

“We’d better see what’s inside of the suitcase,” Stevens said. “Regardless of who has custody of it, we’d better open the suitcase before it can be tampered with, so that his lawyer can’t claim we framed him with...”

“We’ll take care of that,” Thorne said. “There probably isn’t anything in the suitcase except clothes, but the suitcase itself is one that was stolen from Dixon’s place. At the time it was stolen, it had a lot of papers in it. He’s ditched the papers some place and is using the suitcase now for his clothes.”

“But hadn’t we better open it and find out?”

“No,” Thorne said, his voice rising, “we hadn’t better open it and find out.”

“Don’t let them slip anything over on you, Stevens,” Moraine said. “Can’t you see they’re trying their damnedest to get this suitcase...”

Barney Morden gauged distance, swung his fist. Moraine, with baffling agility, dodged the blow, lashed out with his left and caught Morden on the nose. Stevens, muttering an oath, pulled a blackjack from his pocket and looped the thong over his wrist.

“Just for that,” he said, “you go out of here feet first. Get away, Morden, so I can sock him.”

He stepped forward purposefully.

Carl Thorne picked up the suitcase and started toward the door.

“Well meet you at the station house,” he said. “Come on, Barney.”

Moraine jumped back, away from Stevens. The door of the room opened.

Phil Duncan, standing in the doorway, said, “All right, boys, I’m going to take charge of this.”

Thorne, with an oath, dropped the suitcase. Barney Morden stared with sagging jaw. Stevens, the blackjack dangling from his wrist, stared in uncordial appraisal at the district attorney.

Thorne said, “You’re taking charge of this my way, Phil.”

The district attorney shook his head. “I’m sorry, Carl, I’m taking charge of this in the interests of justice. I’m going to do my duty as I see it.”

Thorne said raspingly, “By God, you’re getting on my nerves, ranting about your duty! I put you in office and you’re going to do what I tell you to, do you get me?”

“I don’t get you at all,” Duncan said evenly. “I’ve listened to you too much in the past. Carl, I’m going to do my duty in this case. I don’t care whom it hurts.”

Morden said, “Now, look here, Chief...”

“I’m not Chief any more,” Duncan said, “not to you, Barney. You’re fired.”

“Who’s firing him?” Thorne asked.

“I am.”

“What right have you got to fire him?”

“I hired him. He’s working under me and he holds office at my pleasure. It’s my pleasure that he quit his office here and now. I don’t like his methods.”

“And I don’t like your pleasure,” Thorne said. “And, just to show you where you get off, you’re not a police officer. You’re only a prosecutor. Stevens, here, is chief of police, and Stevens is the one who has the say-so in this thing, and Stevens is playing ball with me.”

“What’s in the suitcase?” Duncan asked in a steady, calm voice.

“You fool!” Thorne exclaimed. “Haven’t you got sense enough to know that I’m protecting you? That suitcase is filled with stuff that affects every one of us, yourself included.”

“Let’s open it,” Duncan said tonelessly, “and inventory the stuff right here, so there won’t be any question of a substitution.”

“That’s what I wanted to do,” Stevens remarked.

Thorne moved toward him and said something in a low voice.

Stevens looked doubtful. He thought for a minute and then said, “Well, to settle all question, I’m going to take charge of that suitcase.”

“Not until after it’s been inventoried, you aren’t,” Duncan said.

“Look here,” Thorne blazed. “You were damned anxious to accept my friendship when it came to getting into office. Well, I can break you, Phil Duncan, just as easily as I made you.”

Duncan said wearily, “I played the game of politics. It didn’t get me anywhere. You packed my office with men who were loyal to you instead of being loyal to me. You sold me out. You gave criminals immunity from prosecution by having files stolen from my office. You...”

“Shut up,” Thorne interrupted. “You’re crazy. You blab that sort of stuff and the Grand Jury will hold you personally responsible. You’re playing right into the hands of the opposition.”

“I don’t give a damn what happens,” Duncan said quietly. “I’m going to do the square thing; I don’t care who gets hurt.”

Stevens, the blackjack dangling from his wrist, stepped forward and said, “Give me the suitcase. If it’s that important I’ll keep it.”

Thorne surrendered the suitcase. Duncan stood between him and the door.

“You’re not going out of here with that suitcase,” he said, “until it’s been inventoried.”

“Who says so?” Stevens asked.

“I do.”

“Baloney!” Thorne said. “You’re just a-prosecutor. You can’t make arrests. Stevens is the only one here with authority to act. You sit tight, Stevens, and I’ll back you to the limit.”

“Very well,” Duncan said, with a frosty smile, pulling a sheaf of papers from his pocket, “you boys asked for this. I’ve got one of these for each of you.”

“What’s that?” Thorne asked.

“These,” Duncan said, “are subpoenas ordering each of you to appear forthwith before the Grand Jury, which is now in session, and ordering you to bring, intact, any and all papers and documents in your possession. And, on behalf of the Grand Jury, I now, having served these subpoenas formally, take charge of the documents contained in that suitcase.”

“Now, then, you wise birds, laugh that off.”