“Phoney, hell! That gun is safe. Is that Church’s evidence?”

“It is. Look at your sheet.”

“Then you don’t have to bother Mose with the problem.” The D.A. threw his papers down in disgust. “We haven’t got a case.”

“Yes we have.”

“How can a cartridge kill without a bullet? Your sheet doesn’t say anything about Reich reloading.”

“He reloaded.”

“He did not,” De Santis spat. “There was no projectile in the wound or the room. There was nothing.”

“There was everything. It was easy once I figured the clue.”

“There was no clue!” De Santis shouted.

“Why, you located it, De Santis. That bit of candy gel in D’Courtney’s mouth. Remember? And no candy in the stomach.”

De Santis glared, Powell grinned. He took an eye-dropper and filled a gel capsule with water. He pressed it into the open end of the cartridge above the charge and placed the cartridge in the gun. He raised the gun, aimed at a small wooden block on the edge of the model table, and pulled the trigger. There was a dull, flat explosion and the block leaped into fragments.

“For the love of — That was a trick!” The D.A. exclaimed. “There was something in that shell besides water.” He examined the fragments of wood.

“No, there was not. You can shoot an ounce of water with a powder charge. You can shoot it with enough muzzle velocity to blow out the back of a head if you fire through the soft roof of the mouth. That’s why Reich had to shoot through the mouth. That’s why De Santis found the bit of gel. That’s why he found nothing else. The projectile was gone.”

“Give it to Mose,” the D.A. said faintly. “By God, Powell, I’m beginning to think we’ve got a case.”

“All right. Now, Motive. We picked up Reich’s business records, and Accounting’s gone through them. D’Courtney had Reich with his back to the wall. With Reich it was ‘if you can’t lick ’em, join ’em.’ He tried to join D’Courtney. He failed. He murdered D’Courtney. Will you buy that?”

“Sure I’ll buy it. But will Old Man Mose? Feed it in and let’s see.”

They fed in the last of the punched data, warmed the computer up from ‘Idle’ to ‘Run,’ and kicked him into it. Mose’s eyes blinked in hard meditation; his stomach rumbled softly; his memories began to hiss and stutter. Powell and the others waited with mounting suspense. Abruptly, Mose hiccupped. A soft bell began to “Ping-Ping-Ping-Ping-Ping-Ping —” and Mose’s type began to flail the virgin tape under it.

“IF IT PLEASE THE COURT,” Mose said, “WITH PLEADERING OF NON VULTS AND DEMURERS, LEGAL SIGNATURES. SS. LEADING CASE HAY v. COHOES AND THE RULE IN SHELLEY’S CASE. URP.”

“What the—” Powell looked at Beck.

“He gets kittenish,” Beck explained.

“At a time like this!”

“Happens now and then. We’ll try him again.”

They filled the computer’s ear again, held the warmup for a good five minutes and then kicked him into it. Once again his eyes blinked, his stomach growled, his memories hissed, and Powell and the two staffs waited anxiously. A month’s hard work hung on this decision. The type-hammers began to fall.