This Is Murder

Chapter Twenty

Eaton Driver, foreman of the Grand Jury, was a square-jawed, self-made man, who had fought his way up from the bottom, overcoming obstacles, building character and position by self-denial, thrift and foresight. It was an open secret that he was hostile to Phil Duncan and Carl Thorne and the machine that was represented by these men.

Now he stared at Phil Duncan with wary, watchful eyes.

“Do I understand,” he asked, “that you are going to make a full and fair disclosure of this Dixon case before the Grand Jury?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why Dixon was murdered?” Driver asked, his manner that of a man who is laying a trap.

Duncan met his eyes fairly.

“Yes,” he said, “Dixon was murdered because he had certain documents in his possession. Those documents were to be brought before this Jury. Those documents were politically important. They would undoubtedly have influenced the coming election. Because he was going to be a witness, and was going to produce those documents, Dixon was murdered.”

Surprise showed on Driver’s face. Then after a moment the mouth settled into lines of weariness.

“And I suppose,” he said, “you’re going to tell us that you have recovered those papers, and will introduce them in evidence, and the papers will be completely and utterly innocuous, a hand-culled selection of about one-tenth of one percent.”

Duncan met his eyes and said, “I know what you have reference to. I know that you must have had some intimation of the nature of the documents which were to be produced. I think I can guarantee that all of those documents will be produced.”

“All?” Driver asked, with a certain touch of sarcasm.

“All,” Duncan said, “including the documents reflecting upon the integrity of my office.”

Driver stared at him steadily.

“What are you trying to get at?” he asked.

“The truth.”

“What’s your price?”

“I haven’t any.”

“You’re expecting to be white-washed by this Grand Jury in return for selling out your accomplices?”

“I had no accomplices.”

“Your associates, then?”

“My associates sold me out. I had no knowledge of it. I have no first-hand knowledge of it at the present time, because I don’t know the nature of those documents, except in a general way. But I expect to find out. No matter what the evidence discloses, I intend to do my duty. I don’t expect to be continued in office. But while I am in office, I am going to discharge the obligations of that office.”

Driver ran the tips of his fingers along the angle of his jaw, stroking his chin meditatively.

“In order to get those documents,” Duncan said, “I had to make certain concessions. I want this Grand Jury to bear with me and assist in carrying out my part of the obligation.”

A look of relief came over Driver’s face.

“So that’s it. I knew there was a catch in it some place, but I couldn’t figure where.”

“No catch at all,” Duncan told him.

“What was the price?”

“I had to agree with one of the witnesses that he could examine other witnesses after I had finished with them.”

“Who is the witness?”

“Samuel Moraine.”

“Isn’t he connected with the commission of the crime?” Driver asked sharply.

“Gentlemen,” Duncan said, “make no mistake about it. Sam Moraine has been my friend. I am afraid, however, that the evidence which will be introduced before you may point to the conclusion either that Sam Moraine murdered Peter Dixon, or that the murder was committed by Natalie Rice, who is Sam Moraine’s secretary, or Alton G. Rice, the girl’s father, and Moraine was an accessory after the fact, or, perhaps, before the fact, and is now trying to shield those people.

“I anticipate that Moraine, who is a very clever individual, will endeavor to conduct the examination of the witnesses in such a manner that he will confuse the issues and offer an avenue of escape for the guilty parties, whoever they may be, whether he, himself Natalie Rice, his secretary, or Alton Rice, his secretary’s father.

“However, in order to get possession of these documents, which will be of the greatest importance to this body, I had to make a concession to Samuel Moraine, who had the papers carefully hidden. I made a bargain with him, and I am going to live up to it. But I am warning you gentlemen in advance what you may expect.”

Eaton Driver looked up and down the long table, at his associates. Then he said, slowly, “This is the damndest thing I ever heard of... Go ahead and call your witnesses.”

Duncan stepped to the door at the far side of the Grand Jury room, opened it and nodded to Sam Moraine.

“You may come in, Sam,” he said.

Moraine entered the Grand Jury room, bowed to the inquisitorial body.

“Gentlemen,” Duncan said, “this is Samuel Moraine. I think the evidence may show that he is either guilty of murder, or is trying to shield the parties who are guilty of murder. I have explained to you, however, the nature of my bargain with him and I intend to live up to it.”

Driver, the foreman of the Grand Jury, looked Moraine over curiously, then said to Duncan, “Go ahead, Mr. District Attorney. Let’s get at the bottom of this thing.

“Call your first witness,” Driver instructed.

“James Tucker,” Duncan announced.

The word, relayed to the door of the witness room, caused it to open as a deputy sheriff pushed a tall man with an expressionless countenance through the door. He was duly sworn, placed in a chair, and Duncan said, “Your name is James Tucker, and you were employed as a butler by Peter R. Dixon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is Peter Dixon now?”

“He is dead.”

“When did he die?”

“Last Tuesday.”

“At what time?”

“I understand at around midnight, between eleven o’clock and midnight.”

“When was his body discovered?”

“The next morning.”

“Where?”

“In his room upstairs.”

“That room was fitted up as an office?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He spent some little time there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had a safe in that room?”

“That’s right.”

“Kept important documents in that safe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was the condition of the room when the body was discovered, if you know?”

“The master had been shot, sir. The body had fallen against a window. A bit of the window glass was under the body and some was on his coat. The night was windy. The wind coming in through the open window had scattered papers and had blown out the candle. The safe was open.”

“Why was the candle in that room?”

“The lights went out, sir. A limb from a tree was blown across the fine.”

“Do you know at what time?”

“I know exactly what time.”

“How do you fix the exact time?”

“Because there were two electric clocks in the house that were absolutely accurate. They stopped when the current was cut off.”

“What time was it?”

“Nine forty-seven.”

“The lights went out throughout the house at that time?”

“That’s right, yes, sir.”

“And what did you do?”

“I went to the place where a supply of candles is kept and lit some.”

“The first candle you lit was naturally placed in Mr. Dixon’s room?”

“No, sir. The first candle lighted my way to Mr. Dixon’s room.”

“And you lit the candle in Dixon’s room after you had arrived in the room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You lit it with a match?”

“No, sir, from the candle which I held in my hand.”

“That was a new candle which you placed in Mr. Dixon’s room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know the dimensions of those candles?”

“I have measured them, yes, sir. They are eight and one-quarter inches long by five-eighths of an inch, in diameter.”

“How long was it after the lights went out that you placed that candle in the room?”

“Not over two minutes at the outside. I have timed myself walking the distance from the place where the candles are kept to the master’s room. It took twenty-seven seconds, walking slowly, as I would have walked by candle light; figuring a few seconds while I was getting the candle lit and placed, and figuring not more than a minute which was required for me to get to the closet where I kept the candles after the lights went out, I would say an extreme limit of two minutes. I think the time would be nearer one minute, or a minute and a half. But it could not have been more than two minutes.”

“This phase of the testimony,” Duncan said, “is important, in that it fixes the time of the murder. Experiments which have been conducted with identical candles under identical conditions show that the murder must have been committed at approximately ten forty-five. For reasons which I shall presently show, I fix the exact time at ten forty-seven.”

“There can be no question but what the candle was blown out by the wind as soon as the window was broken. There was a strong wind blowing. The air poured in through the broken window. Had the candle continued to burn in that strong wind, experiments show that the melted wax would have been encrusted on one side of the candle — the side away from the wind, since the wind would have blown the flame toward that side of the candle and resulted in the flame melting wax, which would have run down on that side.”

“I have here the candle which was found in the death room. I call your attention to the fact that it had burned evenly until the moment when it was extinguished. The place about the wick shows an even, cup-shaped depression, with regular ridges. The candle was, therefore, extinguished almost instantly when the window was broken.”

The members of the Grand Jury strained forward, the better to see the candle.

Duncan exhibited the candle to the witness and asked, “Is that the candle which was in the room?”

“It looks like it, yes, sir. It’s the same kind of candle. I think it’s the same.”

“Now then,” Duncan said, “Mr. Dixon was expecting a visitor, was he not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you know?”

“Shortly after ten o’clock a young woman came to the house. She said she was the reporter for a newspaper, and she wanted to interview Mr. Dixon. I went up to ask Mr. Dixon if he wished to see her.”

“What did Dixon say?”

“He said that he did not wish to see her, but told me to be sure and leave the side door open because he was expecting another young woman.”

“Now then,” Duncan went on, “returning to this young woman who called about ten o’clock and said she was a newspaper reporter, had you ever seen her before?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever see her after that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“In jail.”

“How long ago?”

“Earlier this evening.”

“And this woman who is in jail,” Duncan asked, “is the secretary of Samuel Moraine?”

“Yes, sir, that’s right.”

“And she is the one who called and said she was a newspaper reporter?”

“Yes, sir, at about ten o’clock.”

“Now, then,” Duncan said, “where were you between ten o’clock, and, let us say, the hour of midnight?”

“In the house.”

“But where?”

The man fidgeted. “Inasmuch as I must tell, sir, we were having a bit of a party.”

“Who?”

“The maid, the chauffeur, the housekeeper, and myself.”

“A foursome, eh?”

“Yes, sir. You might call it that, sir.”

“Where?”

“In the kitchen, sir.”

“That’s in the back of the house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it a noisy party?”

“No, sir, very quiet.”

“How did it happen you were having a party?”

“The fact of the matter is, sir, that with the master expecting a young woman calling on him, he wouldn’t care to be disturbed, and that, therefore, he wouldn’t disturb us. So, to tell the truth, sir, we were drinking a bit of the master’s whisky and making merry in a very quiet manner.”

“Now, then,” Duncan asked, “did you hear the sound of the window breaking?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you hear the sound of a shot?”

“No, sir.”

“Could you have heard it from where you were sitting in the kitchen?”

“Yes, sir, we could, sir.”

“How do you know?”

“The experiments which your office made, sir. We could hear the shot perfectly.”

“Now then,” Duncan said, “that house is near a railroad track, is it not?”

“Yes, sir. Unfortunately, after the master had purchased the property and built the house certain political influences which were hostile to him granted a franchise to...”

“Never mind that,” Duncan interrupted. “The fact is that the track runs very close to the house, does it not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, at ten forty-seven a passenger train went past the house?”

“That’s right. Yes, sir.”

“And made quite a racket.”

Duncan turned to the members of the Grand Jury and nodded.

“I think that is all I will show by this witness at the present time,” Duncan said. “This fixes the time of the murder. Other witnesses will show that Natalie Rice was probably present when the murder was committed, and I think I can prove that she telephoned Sam Moraine within what must have been a few seconds after the shot was fired.”

Duncan turned to Moraine, his manner very official, very dignified, and asked calmly, “Do you wish to question this witness?”

Moraine nodded, faced the butler, and asked, “Did this party that you mentioned last from ten o’clock until midnight?”

“Not quite, sir. It broke up about eleven o’clock, when I went to my room.”

“Taking a candle with you?” asked Moraine.

“No, sir. I had left a candle in my room. I took it up there when I placed a candle in the master’s room.”

“And this room you have mentioned was on the third floor front? Did you have to go past the room where the body was found in order to get to your room?”

“No, sir.”

“How long had you been working for Pete Dixon?”

“Quite some time, a matter of seven or eight years.”

“What hold did Dixon have on you?” Moraine asked suddenly.

“I don’t understand you, sir.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” Moraine said. “Dixon wouldn’t let any man keep such a position as you occupied over such a period of time without having some hold over him. What was his hold over you?”

The man wet his lips. His nostrils expanded slightly, but his face otherwise remained impassive.

“I don’t understand you, sir.”

“Oh, yes, you do. Have you ever been convicted of a felony?”

The man looked appealingly to the district attorney.

“Do I have to answer the questions of this man?” he asked.

Duncan, his face showing puzzled interest, nodded his head.

“Answer,” he said.

“I was convicted of a felony once, yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“California.”

“Served a term in San Quentin Prison?”

“No, sir. It was in Folsom.”

“What for?”

“Embezzlement.”

“What was the nature of the embezzlement.”

“I was an accountant.”

Moraine stared steadily into the face of the witness. That face had now assumed a peculiarly agonized expression.

“So you knew accounting and you were an ex-convict?”

“Yes sir.”

“Now then,” Moraine said, “how did it happen you were sent to Folsom Prison?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Oh, yes, you do. First offenders are sent to San Quentin. Old timers are usually sent to Folsom. This was the procedure when you were sent up, was it not?”

Once more the man wet his lips and said nothing.

“Where was your first conviction?” Moraine asked.

“In Wisconsin.”

“You served a term there?”

“Yes, sir, at Waupum.”

“For what?”

“Forgery.”

“And Dixon knew about this?”

“Yes, sir. He knew.”

“And because of this knowledge,” Moraine said, “Dixon virtually held you in his power and had he discharged you and refused to give you any reference, you would have had a hard time getting any other position.”

The witness wet his lips, but said nothing.

“Now then,” Moraine went on, “you went down to view the body of Ann Hartwell, the young woman who had been found by the railroad track at Sixth and Maplehurst. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And didn’t you recognize her?”

“No, sir, I had never seen her before.”

Moraine got to his feet, stared steadily at the witness.

“Don’t try to pull that line with me,” he said. “You were one of the men on the yacht the night I paid the ten thousand dollar ransom for Ann Hartwell.”

The butler fidgeted uneasily.

Moraine, still staring at him, said, “Don’t lie, because if you do you’re going to jail for perjury. It isn’t going to be difficult now to round up the men who were on that boat.”

The witness dropped his eyes and said, “Well, what if I was on the boat?”

“Then,” Moraine told him, “you’re guilty of kidnapping — and you know what that means.”

“She wasn’t kidnapped. It was just a plant. She was the one that suggested it.”

“Her half-sister put up the ransom money,” Moraine insisted.

Tucker remained silent.

“And,” Moraine said slowly, “you’re guilty of kidnapping.”

The witness sighed, and said wearily, “The money wasn’t put up by Doris Bender; it was put up by Dixon. It wasn’t ransom money; it was just white-wash.”

“In other words,” Moraine said, “Dixon and Ann Hartwell didn’t want Carl Thorne to know where she’d been spending her time during the period she was supposed to have disappeared, so they figured this kidnapping business in order to account for her time. And I was picked as intermediary because they knew I was friendly to the district attorney and the district attorney was friendly to Thorne. And that if I paid over the ten thousand dollars the district attorney would accept my word that the money had been paid and that would keep him from thinking the kidnapping was a frame-up. Is that right?”

Tucker’s lips were clamped together, but he slowly nodded his head.

“Now, then,” Moraine went on, “on the night Dixon was murdered, he instructed you to leave the side door open because he was expecting a young woman to visit him. You knew that young woman was Ann Hartwell, who was expected to return to the house, didn’t you?”

The man’s nostrils were expanded now. He was breathing heavily.

“Yes, sir,” he said thickly.

“And the fact that you knew of these things, and knew that Dixon didn’t want to be disturbed, shows that you are convinced the relations between Dixon and the young woman weren’t purely platonic.”

“They were financial,” the butler said.

“As far as the papers were concerned. But Ann Hartwell was a beautiful woman. She was very conscious of her beauty, and she liked to exert her power over men. You know, do you not, that relations between her and your employer during the time she was in the house, were not entirely platonic?”

The witness blurted, “That’s the way he got her in the first place. He made love to her. He met her in a night club and got acquainted with her.”

Moraine smiled frostily.

“Or,” he said, “putting it the other way, that’s the way she got her contact with Dixon, by making love to him. She let him pick her up in a night club and became intimate with him.”

“Either way, I guess, sir,” the witness said.

Moraine made a little gesture of dismissal.

“That’s all,” he said.

“Just a moment,” Duncan snapped, “I’m not satisfied with the answers of this witness. Do you think he was implicated in the murder, Sam — Mr. Moraine?”

Moraine, speaking very casually, said, “I’m not going to show my hand on that yet, Phil. I knew Ann Hartwell must have been at Dixon’s house during the period she was missing. Therefore, I knew this man was lying. I also knew Dixon must have had some hold on him, and it was logical to assume the man had been convicted of crime at some time in his life. I think you’ll also find this man forged the book entries which sent Alton Rice to the penitentiary on a false charge of embezzlement.”

Tucker, facing him, said defiantly, “You can’t prove that.”

Moraine smiled slowly. “Remember, Tucker, I went through the papers which were taken from Dixon’s study after the murder.”

Several of the Grand Jurors exchanged significant glances as Moraine made this admission.

“Isn’t it a fact,” Moraine asked, “that you acted as Dixon’s tool in framing Alton Rice for embezzlement?”

Tucker wet his lips, looked about him, as though seeking some method of escape.

Moraine laughed significantly, turned to Duncan and said, “You can go to work on that case when we’ve finished with this murder case.”

A knock sounded at the door. A deputy sheriff opened it and said, “The suitcase you sent for is here.”

Duncan turned to the Grand Jury with dignity.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I expect that these documents will show criminal malfeasance upon the part of certain trusted employees in my office. I can only give you my word, however, that I have secured these documents at the earliest available moment, and that I am placing them at the disposal of you gentlemen without having previously examined them.”

He took the suitcase from the deputy sheriff, swung it up on the table, and snapped back the catches.

Moraine, stepping forward, looked down at the papers, and said, “They’re in order, Phil. That’s just the! way I left them.”

Driver, foreman of the Grand Jury, stared at Sam Moraine.

“Do I understand,” he said, “that you admit you had these documents in your possession?”

“That’s right,” Moraine told him. “I sent Natalie Rice, my secretary, out to interview Pete Dixon. I wanted her to get an admission from him that the Hartwell woman had been in his house during the time she had been reported as missing. She left my office about nine forty-five. About ten forty-seven she telephoned to me and told me to come out there. I had rather an unpleasant experience with the husband of Ann Hartwell as I left the office. That delayed me somewhat. However, I actually got away about eleven o’clock and arrived at Dixon’s residence at about eleven ten. I was there for about ten or fifteen minutes. I went into the room, saw the body, and then left. At that time I was accompanied by my secretary, Natalie Rice. Thereafter, I met Alton Rice, her father. He had also been in the house and had secured the documents contained in this suitcase. He stated he had entered the house and found Dixon dead. I deliberately concealed Alton Rice where he can’t be found until I am ready to produce him.”

He smiled urbanely at Driver.

Driver shook his head, as though trying to shake a perplexing film from in front of his eyes.

Phil Duncan gave an exclamation.

“You admit you were in that room with the murdered man, Sam?” he asked.

Moraine nodded cheerfully and said, “Call your next witness, will you, Phil?”

Duncan stood silent for a moment, then said, “Gentlemen, much as I regret to do so, I must call Mr. Barney Morden to testify to certain matters. He was the investigator in charge. I subsequently understand that he has aligned himself against me, but I am forced to call him as a witness.”

“Just a moment,” Driver said. “Do you think that you’re going to swing in with the opposing political faction by all of this business?”

Duncan faced him steadily.

“I am not going to swing in with any political faction,” he said. “I am full-up with politics. I am going to stay in my office until my term expires. I am not going to be a candidate for reelection, but, while I am in my office, I am going to discharge the duties of that office fearlessly and impartially.”

He deliberately turned his shoulder to the foreman of the Grand Jury and said to the deputy sheriff, who stood at the doorway, “Call Barney Morden.”

The door opened. Barney Morden’s broad shoulders filled the doorway. He looked up at the Grand Jurors, smiled ingratiatingly, walked to the witness stand and was sworn.

Duncan’s voice was cold and hard.

“Your name is Barney Morden? You were an investigator of the district attorney’s office, and you investigated the circumstances surrounding the killing of Peter R. Dixon?”

“I did.”

“Explain to the gentlemen of the Grand Jury what you discovered.”

Some of the Grand Jurors, very apparently more interested in the political significance of the documents contained in the suitcase, were looking through those documents, but the balance, aware of their duties, kept their eyes on Barney Morden, who crossed his legs leisurely, grinned in a friendly manner at the Grand Jury, and said, “Well, we found Mr. Dixon lying dead on the floor. He was lying on his back. He’d been shot with a .38 caliber revolver. He’d fallen back against the window, and there was a piece of glass under his body, and some on his coat, showing that, as he fell, he fell against the window. There was a candle in the room that had apparently been blown out by the wind when the window was broken.”

“This is the candle?” Duncan asked.

“That’s the candle, yes.”

“You put some identifying mark on it?”

“That’s right. I scratched my initials in the wax on the side, with the point of my knife.”

“And these are your initials?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you subsequently conduct experiments with identical candles in order to determine how long this candle had been burning at the time of the murder, and thereby fix the time of the murder?”

“I did.”

“What did the experiments show?”

“There couldn’t have been a variation of over five minutes,” Barney Morden said. “The murder was committed right around ten forty-seven, say between ten forty-two and ten fifty.”

“Now then,” Duncan said, “you are acquainted with Samuel Moraine, sitting here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see him on the night of the murder?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At what time?”

“Shortly before ten forty-seven.”

“You were in his office at that time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who else was present?”

“You were.”

“What happened?”

“There was a call came over the telephone for Mr. Moraine. It was a girl’s voice. I think I recognized the voice of Natalie Rice, his secretary. After Moraine took the receiver, I could hear some of the words she said. She told him to come out there, and come quick.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then Moraine stalled around for a little while, and pretended he was going home and go to bed, but we found out he took a taxicab and went out to Pete Dixon’s residence.”

“I think that’s all,” Duncan said. He turned to Eaton Driver, the foreman of the Grand Jury.

“You will understand, Mr. Foreman,” he said, “the reluctance with which I call this witness, in view of what I understand those papers disclose.”

Barney Morden gave a sudden start, as he appreciated the full significance of the papers on the table. The smile faded from his face. He started to get up from the witness chair, but Mr. Moraine said, “Just a moment. I want to examine Mr. Morden.”

“I don’t have to answer your questions,” Barney Morden said.

“Oh, yes, you do,” Duncan snapped.

“He ain’t a public officer,” Morden protested.

“He doesn’t have to be. He’s assisting the Grand Jury in this investigation, and you’ll answer his questions, or be held in contempt.”

Moraine, grinning at Barney Morden, said, “Barney, here’s where I get even with you for that sock in the face.”

Morden’s face purpled. He half-rose from the witness chair.

“Sit down,” Moraine said, “and describe the wounds on the body of Pete Dixon.”

“I intended to show that by another witness, the doctor who performed the post-mortem,” Duncan interrupted.

“Well, let’s prove it by this witness,” Moraine remarked easily. “What were the wounds, Morden?”

“He was shot twice, once in the chest and once in the temple. The shot in the chest was slightly above and to the left of the heart. It was fired while he was standing up. The shot in the temple was fired after he had dropped to the floor. It was fired by someone who wanted to make absolutely certain of the job. There were powder burns around that last bullet hole.”

“That couldn’t have been the first shot?”

“No. That shot was fired while he was lying on the floor. The bullet went clean through the head and lodged in the carpet.”

“Any other wounds?” Moraine asked.

“None.”

“No cuts?”

“No.”

“No cuts of any sort on the head, neck or hands, such as might have been made by window glass if he had fallen against the window and broken it?”

Barney Morden said slowly, “No, there weren’t any cuts.”

“And the only way you have of fixing the time of the murder is by the length of the candle that was left in the room?”

“No.”

“How do you fix it, other than from the candle?”

“From the fact that the shots must have been fired when the train was going through. The only train that went through at around that hour was one that passed Dixon’s place at exactly ten forty-seven.”

“Yes,” Moraine said, “but how about the train that went through about ten minutes past ten — the freight train?”

Morden smiled patronizingly.

“The candle had been burning longer than that,” he said.

“Had it?” Moraine asked.

“Of course it had.”

“You’re certain?”

“Of course I am. I conducted experiments.”

“But,” Moraine asked, “did you notice the bottom of this candle?”

“Of course not. The bottom hasn’t anything to do with it.”

“Oh, yes, it has,” Moraine remarked. “Just take a look at the bottom of this candle carefully and you’ll be forced to the conclusion it has been cut off. The candle was orange in color; that color is deeper on the outer surface. You’ll notice that the bottom shows quite a bit of white through the orange. A man could have taken a hot knife and cut a piece from the bottom of the candle. If you’ll examine it closely, you can see the marks of the knife.”

Barney Morden leaned forward, stared at the candle and said in a low voice, “By God, you may be right!”

Moraine stepped back and smiled triumphantly.

“Therefore,” he said, “assuming that the murder was committed either at ten forty-seven or at ten ten, because trains went through at both times, will you kindly tell the Grand Jury where you were at ten minutes past ten?”

Morden’s face showed his panic. “Where I was?” he asked, sparring for time.

“Exactly,” Moraine said. “You had a motive for murdering Peter Dixon. Peter Dixon was going to be a witness before the Grand Jury. You, Barney Morden, have been selling out the district attorney’s office. You and Carl Thorne have been selling immunity from prosecution to wealthy criminals. You have purloined certain files from the district attorney’s records, so that it was impossible to prosecute in one or two major cases. Peter Dixon had uncovered the evidence of that, and that evidence is in the form of documents which are now on the table in front of the Grand Jury. Naturally, you, and your political accomplice, Carl Thorne, didn’t want Dixon to testify before this Grand Jury. You had a powerful motive for killing him. Now, where were you at ten minutes past ten on the night of the murder?”

Sudden dismay caused Morden’s jaw to sag. He blinked his eyes several times and said slowly, “I was with Carl Thorne. I was having a conference with him.”

Sam Moraine smiled and waved his hand.

“And now, Mr. Morden,” he said, “I think I’m quite even with you for that smash in the jaw. You may be excused as a witness, but don’t try to leave the building.”

Duncan jumped to his feet.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “We can’t stop here. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

Moraine shook his head.

“Suppose,” he said, “you call Dr. Hartwell as your next witness.”

Duncan looked at Sam Moraine with pleading eyes.

“For God’s sake, Sam,” he said, “do you know what you’re doing, or are you just floundering around and pulling this extemporaneous stuff you pull in a poker game?”

Abruptly he realized how out of place the personal appeal was, and added hastily, “Would you mind explaining to the Grand Jury just what objective you have in mind?”

Moraine shook his head. “I’m only asking questions, trying to find out what happened. I have an idea, but I want to be certain before I make any specific accusations. When Dr. Hartwell was arrested, his personal property was taken from him and put in an envelope. Suppose we call Dr. Hartwell as a witness and also get his envelope from the custody of the jailer. There’ll be a knife in that envelope. Let’s look at the blade of that knife.”

“It’ll take a few minutes to get him here,” Duncan said dubiously. “We might fill in the time asking Morden additional questions.”

“I think,” Moraine suggested, “the members of the Grand Jury might like to take advantage of the situation to examine those documents.”

Duncan turned weary eyes toward the table on which the documents were being displayed. “Very well,” he said.

But the Grand Jury seemed to have lost much of their interest in the documents. They were watching Moraine with expressions of respect, of puzzled admiration, and Eaton Driver, foreman of the Grand Jury, arch political enemy of the Carl Thorne regime, supporter of John Fairfield as the next district attorney, was watching Phil Duncan with a thoughtful, speculative expression on his face.

Barney Morden, leaving the Grand Jury room, to wait with the other witnesses who had been examined and excused, turned to flash one last despairing glance at Sam Moraine. Only too well he appreciated Moraine’s cleverness and the ingenious manner in which that adroit individual had crashed home to the Grand Jury the joint motive which might have actuated both Thorne and Morden in killing Pete Dixon.