“It is true Pendell went to Miss Zorn’s apartment last night. But he was lured there from his training camp where he was preparing for a championship bout. He arrived there after she had been murdered.
“It is true his gun shot the woman down. But it had been stolen from him for that purpose. Then it was planted in the sewer to which the police were later directed.
“Where is this ‘unknown person’ that witnessed the shooting, snapped that photograph, and claims he saw Pendell dispose of the death weapon? Why didn’t he come forward instead of hiding under the cloak of anonymity?
“The Medical Examiner placed the shooting between eleven-thirty and twelve-thirty. This ‘unknown person’ saw it, yet he waited three hours before reporting the killing to the police? Why? And why was he ‘Johnny-on-the-spot’ with a camera to photograph the scene?
“All these questions have one answer: he is the real murderer of Zena Zorn! He framed Eugene Pendell! Which gives rise to another question: Why did he choose Pendell, the Champion, as his victim?
“I’ll tell you — because this ‘unknown person’ is a member of a crooked gambling ring which sought to enrich itself by fixing Pendell’s coming bout. It tried to bribe him to throw it. Failing, it tried to intimidate him with a cold-blooded murder frame!
“The location of the murder weapon — that incriminating photograph — were the threats held over his head. I was apprized of the facts by Mark Crowley, the Champion’s manager. My services were retained.
“I subjected Pendell to a lie test. It showed him innocent of Miss Zorn’s murder. But unfortunately, the findings of a lie-detecting machine are inadmissible as evidence in any court. It was necessary to exonerate him before ten tonight. The time was too short to find the real killer of Zena Zorn. So, lacking other evidence, I did the one thing that would satisfy the Court Eugene Pendell was being framed. I duplicated part of the evidence I knew the District-Attorney would offer as proof of his guilt.”
Here Faughan paused momentarily. He continued, staring squarely into Judge Porter’s eyes:
“If Your Honor please, cold logic applied to the facts as I have submitted them should convince you that Eugene Pendell is innocent. If he were held for the Grand Jury it would serve no purpose. It would be a grave injustice. The police, working along the theory I’ve outlined, should have no difficulty in apprehending the real killer of Zena Zorn.
“I respectfully request, therefore, that the charge against him be dismissed.”
Martin Nord was on his feet. “I object, Your Honor!” he bellowed. “I object! This is highly irregular! Mr. Faughan’s statements are incompetent — based on pure conjecture. And his conduct in fabricating evidence was an affront to this Honorable Court! I demand that he be adjudged in contempt!”
Judge Porter frowned at the District-Attorney. “This Court is quite capable of maintaining its own dignity without recommendations.”
He turned to Faughan. “I don’t approve of your sensational way of presenting an argument. I should fine you for contempt of court. But I’ll overlook your zeal in your client’s behalf this time because, considering the curious elements in this case, I am inclined to believe Eugene Pendell was framed. Charge dismissed!”
A stampede broke out in the courtroom. Yelling reporters surged toward Faughan and Pendell in a mad rush.
Above the hubbub of excited voices and stamping feet rose the District-Attorney’s frantic: “Your Honor— Your Honor — I object! I—”
The Court’s gavel fell. “Silence! I will not countenance a demonstration!” The reporters stopped in their tracks. The Judge looked at Nord, a quizzical expression in his eyes.
“Mr. District-Attorney,” he said, “this Court has ruled. If you do not agree with me, you are at liberty to present your case to the Grand Jury yourself and request an indictment. I am sure Eugene Pendell will not leave the city pending their decision.”
With that the Judge gathered his robe about him, and disappeared into his chambers. The reporters started forward again.
Faughan seized Pendell’s arm, whispered: “Quick, Champ! The D. A. will do just that — try the Grand Jury next. I don’t want you to talk now — to anyone. Beat it into the judge’s chambers — and out his private door to a side street exit. Go to my office and wait there for me.”
Looking somewhat dazed, Pendell sprinted after the judge. He slammed the door in the reporters’ faces.
Mark Crowley, standing by Faughan’s side, said: “That was a neat stunt, Faughan. Very neat.” His eyes were glowing. Otherwise his face was expressionless.
Scowling, Nord strode to the counsel table, picked up his papers. “Well, you managed to win this skirmish,” he growled to Faughan. “But I’ll have Pendell indicted if it’s the last thing I do. When the Grand Jury convenes you won’t be around to hypnotize them.”
He pushed his way past the reporters who were now converging around Faughan.
As Inspector Carter followed the D. A., he leaned close to Faughan’s ear. “If and when you catch Zena Zorn’s killer,” he chuckled, “I’ll be home in the hay. Give me a ring.”
Faughan’s brows went up. “Meaning what?”
Carter grinned. “Meaning the police don’t mind having you do our work for us. The Grand Jury’ll indict Pendell sure as shootin’. The trick you bamboozled Porter with is shot. Your only hope of clearing Pendell when he’s brought to trial is to produce Zee-Zee’s real killer. So produce, Blackie, produce.” He moved away, still grinning.
Faughan matched the grin wryly, then waved back the clamoring reporters with: “Nothing to add, boys—”
The figure of a man hurtling into the courtroom cut him short. The lawyer recognized a reporter. The scribe, wild-eyed with excitement, cried:
“Blackie, Pendell’s been snatched!”
Faughan’s brows corrugated. “What! Higgins, are you sure?”
Higgins bobbed his head up and down. “When the Champ pulled his fade-out, I ducked into the hall. I wanted a statement from him. So he scooted out a side exit — me on his tail. I saw two muggs — masked — jab rods in his back and load him in a car. If that doesn’t spell ‘snatch,’ I’m an Eskimo! Now ’scuse, please. Gotta phone my rag.”
The courtroom became suddenly empty as the other reporters lit out for phones. Faughan took Crowley’s arm.
“Let’s me and you toddle to your office,” he suggested. “I’ve got a bill to collect from you for services rendered. And I think you’ll be wanting to hire the Black Faun Agency some more. Or am I wrong?”
Chapter VI
Pay-off
In Crowley’s ornate office, Faughan lowered his frame into one of the red-leather chairs. He found a cigarette, snapped his lighter to it, before he answered the gambler’s question.
“What do I make of it? It’s simple. I told you Murray and Weiber snatched me last night to keep me from appearing in court for Pendell. Remember?”
Crowley was pacing up and down, puffing jerkily at a cigar. He nodded gloomily.
Keeping the deaths of Murray and Weiber to himself for a purpose, Faughan went on:
“Well, I escaped. They figured I’d clear Pendell somehow, and were all set. It’s obvious they — or others of their gang — snatched the Champ. They framed him for murder to intimidate him. That failed. They tried to have him jugged to stop his bout. That failed. Now they’re taking a last crack at him. They have a pile of jack bet on him, and are desperate. Either they’ll dope him to insure his losing, then turn him loose, or they’ll put him through the meat grinder — torture him until he agrees to throw the fight.”