“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.”