“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.