“Driver, the foreman of the grand jury, is favorable to John Fairfield. Fairfield is scheduled to be my political opponent. Fairfield is a bitter enemy of Carl Thorne.”
“Suppose you repudiated Thorne and his party, would Fairfield come out against you?”
“It wouldn’t make any difference whether he did or didn’t. If I repudiated Carl Thorne I couldn’t be elected dog catcher.”
Moraine slid the car to a stop, looked at his wrist-watch.
“I’ll tell you what, Phil,” he said, “we’ll talk this over some other time. In the meantime, I know you’re interested in getting the latest report on that Dixon murder. Suppose you telephone the office or Barney Morden?”
Duncan sighed wearily. He nodded, opened the door of the car and crossed the sidewalk with listless, dispirited steps. He was gone for almost ten minutes.
He returned, staring at Sam Moraine speculatively.
“Sam,” he said, “would you give me a double-cross?”
“Not on your life,” Moraine told him. “I might give you a run-around, but I wouldn’t give you a double-cross.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Lots of difference. Can you put your cards on the table in the Dixon murder?”
“I want to ask you some questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“Where did you go after you left your office last night?”
“I went to keep an appointment.”
“An appointment with a woman?”
“It wasn’t with Ann Hartwell, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, I’m wondering if it was an appointment with Natalie Rice. I remember you sent her out on an errand. Where did you send her?”
“To transact a matter of business.”
“Where?”
Moraine smiled and shook his head.
“My God, Phil, isn’t it possible for you folks to have a murder anywhere in the city limits that you don’t try to pin on my secretary or me?”
Duncan said wearily, “Cut out the kidding, Sam. This is no joking matter — this is murder.”
“When was he killed?” Moraine asked.
“At around ten forty last night.”
Moraine said slowly, “I guess that lets me out, doesn’t it, Sam? As I remember it, I didn’t leave the office until after that.”
“It lets you out, but I’m wondering where it leaves your secretary.”
“Better ask her,” Moraine remarked. “After all, anything I’d know would be hearsay. How do you fix the time so accurately, Phil?”
“I ask you questions,” the district attorney said irritably, “and you answer them by asking me questions.”
Sam Moraine chuckled. “You’ll have to put it down to my sudden flair for crime detection, Phil,” he said. “You know how it is with me. Ever since you got me into this detective business I’ve been very much interested.”
“I’ll say you have.”
“How did you fix the time, Phil?”
“By a candle.”
“By a candle?” Moraine exclaimed.
Phil Duncan looked at him searchingly.
“Yes,” he said, “a candle.”
“How come?”
“There was a high wind during the early part of last night. It died down about five or six o’clock in the morning, but while it blew it blew plenty. It blew the branch of a large tree down across the feed wires which supplied electricity to Dixon’s house. It put out every light in the place. They used candles. Fortunately, the exact time when the limb blew down can be determined by reason of the fact that two electric clocks were stopped. The butler kept candles for just such an emergency. He lit candles within not more than three minutes after the lights went out.
“When Dixon was killed, he fell against a window. That window was on the north side of the house. The wind came pouring in as the window broke and extinguished the candle almost at once. From the manner in which the wax dripped evenly down the sides of the candle, it’s apparent that it had been burning in a room where the air was relatively still. It went out all at once when the wind blew in through the window.
“They were rather a good grade of candle, large in diameter. Their rate of burning can be accurately determined.”
Moraine nodded. “Clever reasoning,” he agreed.
“Moreover,” Duncan went on, “we’ve found out more about the Hartwell woman. She was killed in front of the side door to Dixon’s house.”
Moraine’s face showed his surprise.
“She was wearing a brown tight-fitting hat. We didn’t find it when we found the body. It had been kicked under some shrubbery. There were bloodstains on it, and tracks on the ground indicate she had been clubbed to death there in front of the side entrance to Dixon’s house.
“The butler says that Dixon had an appointment with a young woman. The appointment was for ten o’clock, but she was late in showing up. Dixon instructed the butler to leave the side door unlocked and to go to bed.
“We took Dixon’s butler down to the morgue. He viewed Ann Hartwell’s body. He looked at her carefully and said he’d never seen her before; she may or may not have been the young woman with whom Dixon had the appointment. The butler insists he doesn’t know who the woman was. The fact that Dixon didn’t want the butler to let her in, but told her to come directly to the side door, indicates that.”
Moraine narrowed his eyes in thought. “Are you sure he wasn’t giving you a run-around?” he asked.
“I’m not sure anyone’s not giving me a run-around in this case,” Duncan agreed in a tone of dejected weariness, “but we tried to fix it so he didn’t have much of a chance to think up a lie. We marched him up to the sheeted corpse, kept his attention engaged in conversation, and then...”
“Yes,” Moraine agreed dryly, “you don’t need to describe the technique. I know all about it.”
“Do you think he was lying?” Duncan asked.
“I don’t know, I’m sure.”
“The point is this,” Duncan said. “You became interested in this kidnapping case. As nearly as I can find out, you didn’t know Dixon. You had never met him. You weren’t interested in politics, but you were interested in that Hartwell woman and in the kidnapping case. You went out to Sixth Avenue and Maplehurst. My best guess is that your errand related to this Hartwell girl rather than Dixon, but if there was a tie-up between Dixon and Ann Hartwell you might have gone out to see Dixon.”
“You mean that I murdered him?” Moraine inquired.
“You’re not accused of murder,” Duncan said patiently. “The murder was committed at about ten forty. You were in your office at that time. We don’t know where your secretary was at that time.”
“And,” Moraine told him, with a grin, “I take it that you don’t know where a lot of other people were at that time. As I remember it, you and Barney Morden were doing some pretty tall searching at just about that particular moment, looking for a Doris Bender — a Thomas Wickes — for a certain Dr. Richard Hartwell — and, perhaps, some others.”
“Wickes is accounted for, I think,” Duncan said. “I haven’t checked upon him carefully. Dr. Hartwell is accounted for by a very lucky coincidence. He made an attack on you, you’ll remember, when you left your office. That must have been just about the time the murder was being committed. In fact, I don’t mind telling you, Sam, that we placed the exact time of the murder at ten forty-seven.”
“How do you place it at that time?”
“No one in the house heard the shots. Two shots were fired from a thirty-eight caliber revolver. A train was going by the house at ten forty-seven, according to the time schedules of the railroad company. The track runs very close to Dixon s property. That would account for no one hearing the shots. Those trains make quite a racket.”