“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?”