Чарльз Кенни - This Is Murder

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.”