Чарльз Кенни - This Is Murder

“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?”

“In the house.”

“But where?”

The man fidgeted. “Inasmuch as I must tell, sir, we were having a bit of a party.”

“Who?”

“The maid, the chauffeur, the housekeeper, and myself.”

“A foursome, eh?”

“Yes, sir. You might call it that, sir.”

“Where?”

“In the kitchen, sir.”

“That’s in the back of the house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it a noisy party?”

“No, sir, very quiet.”

“How did it happen you were having a party?”

“The fact of the matter is, sir, that with the master expecting a young woman calling on him, he wouldn’t care to be disturbed, and that, therefore, he wouldn’t disturb us. So, to tell the truth, sir, we were drinking a bit of the master’s whisky and making merry in a very quiet manner.”

“Now, then,” Duncan asked, “did you hear the sound of the window breaking?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you hear the sound of a shot?”

“No, sir.”

“Could you have heard it from where you were sitting in the kitchen?”

“Yes, sir, we could, sir.”

“How do you know?”

“The experiments which your office made, sir. We could hear the shot perfectly.”

“Now then,” Duncan said, “that house is near a railroad track, is it not?”

“Yes, sir. Unfortunately, after the master had purchased the property and built the house certain political influences which were hostile to him granted a franchise to...”

“Never mind that,” Duncan interrupted. “The fact is that the track runs very close to the house, does it not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, at ten forty-seven a passenger train went past the house?”

“That’s right. Yes, sir.”

“And made quite a racket.”

Duncan turned to the members of the Grand Jury and nodded.

“I think that is all I will show by this witness at the present time,” Duncan said. “This fixes the time of the murder. Other witnesses will show that Natalie Rice was probably present when the murder was committed, and I think I can prove that she telephoned Sam Moraine within what must have been a few seconds after the shot was fired.”

Duncan turned to Moraine, his manner very official, very dignified, and asked calmly, “Do you wish to question this witness?”

Moraine nodded, faced the butler, and asked, “Did this party that you mentioned last from ten o’clock until midnight?”

“Not quite, sir. It broke up about eleven o’clock, when I went to my room.”

“Taking a candle with you?” asked Moraine.

“No, sir. I had left a candle in my room. I took it up there when I placed a candle in the master’s room.”

“And this room you have mentioned was on the third floor front? Did you have to go past the room where the body was found in order to get to your room?”

“No, sir.”

“How long had you been working for Pete Dixon?”

“Quite some time, a matter of seven or eight years.”

“What hold did Dixon have on you?” Moraine asked suddenly.

“I don’t understand you, sir.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” Moraine said. “Dixon wouldn’t let any man keep such a position as you occupied over such a period of time without having some hold over him. What was his hold over you?”

The man wet his lips. His nostrils expanded slightly, but his face otherwise remained impassive.

“I don’t understand you, sir.”

“Oh, yes, you do. Have you ever been convicted of a felony?”

The man looked appealingly to the district attorney.

“Do I have to answer the questions of this man?” he asked.

Duncan, his face showing puzzled interest, nodded his head.

“Answer,” he said.

“I was convicted of a felony once, yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“California.”

“Served a term in San Quentin Prison?”

“No, sir. It was in Folsom.”

“What for?”

“Embezzlement.”

“What was the nature of the embezzlement.”

“I was an accountant.”

Moraine stared steadily into the face of the witness. That face had now assumed a peculiarly agonized expression.

“So you knew accounting and you were an ex-convict?”

“Yes sir.”

“Now then,” Moraine said, “how did it happen you were sent to Folsom Prison?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Oh, yes, you do. First offenders are sent to San Quentin. Old timers are usually sent to Folsom. This was the procedure when you were sent up, was it not?”

Once more the man wet his lips and said nothing.

“Where was your first conviction?” Moraine asked.

“In Wisconsin.”

“You served a term there?”

“Yes, sir, at Waupum.”

“For what?”

“Forgery.”

“And Dixon knew about this?”

“Yes, sir. He knew.”

“And because of this knowledge,” Moraine said, “Dixon virtually held you in his power and had he discharged you and refused to give you any reference, you would have had a hard time getting any other position.”