Parachute Murder

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  Publisher’s Note

  Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

  We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

  THE PARACHUTE MURDER

  By

  LEBBEUS MITCHELL

  The Parachute Murder was originally published in 1933 by The Macaulay Company, New York.

  • • •

  Publisher’s Synopsis: MURDER in the air! The body of a popular Broadway star is found in an Ohio field, under an opened parachute, with a bullet through his heart. Police of two states find themselves up a blind alley, and the New York District Attorney calls in a new type of amateur detective—Kirk Kemerson, character actor, who becomes speedily involved in a baffling mystery, complicated by a second murder and a kidnapping. Studying the mind, habits, life and character of the murdered star as he would study a “character” part in a play, Kemerson solves the mystery in a thrillingly novel and dramatic denouement...A murder mystery of a new type to test the ingenuity of detective novel addicts!

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I — THE DEATH FLOAT

  THE white-faced man at the corner table of Bigger’s restaurant looked up uneasily from the bundle of evening papers he had been scanning with hurried, fascinated attention, and stared blankly out into the street. But he saw nothing; his mind was filled with what he had been reading. His eyes fell again, of their own accord, upon the headlines:

  “CHADWICK MORNE MURDERED! BODY FOUND NEAR CARLSTOWN, OHIO, COVERED BY DEATH FLOAT,” screamed a tabloid.

  “BODY OF CHADWICK MORNE FLOATED TO EARTH BY PARACHUTE; “WAS HE ALREADY DEAD OR WAS CRIME COMMITTED AFTER HIS DESCENT?” asked the sober New York Sun.

  “BODY OF CHADWICK MORNE, BULLET THROUGH HEART, FOUND ALONG OHIO ROADSIDE,” proclaimed the Evening World.

  The reader of the headlines was a man of thirty or so, blond, clean-shaven, with long, narrow face. The fingers of his right hand drummed nervously on the papers; he glanced off into space, uneasily, as one who feels himself under secret observation; he stilled his fingers, composed his features hastily, and looked suddenly up to meet a pair of calm, large, hazel eyes fixed gravely upon him. The man smiled at him. It was Kirk Kemerson, the popular character actor who had been prominently cast in Splendid Sinners, one of Arnold Siddarth’s gestures towards the “highbrow drama” two years previously. Kemerson had walked off with all the honors of that production, more than one of the critics having pronounced his acting in the play the finest histrionic achievement of the year. Blake suddenly remembered having heard reports that the actor had dabbled in criminal investigations since the closing of Splendid Sinners, and vaguely recalled having read that Kemerson had himself been involved in some mystery that had to do with a camel’s-hair coat, and had solved it when the police and the District Attorney were in a cul de sac. The actor was now appearing in August Bell-tower’s production of The Daisy Chain, soon to close after an eight months’ run.

  The actor waved his hand at Stephen Blake, general press representative for Arnold Siddarth, and the latter nodded a careless acknowledgment as he called for his check. But before he could get the attention of his waiter, the actor approached his table.

  “Still pursuing the ways of the stealer of space, I see,” he remarked with his quick, friendly smile, offering his hand. “But you shouldn’t take your work to meals; indigestion is something to be shunned worse than the devil. Keep your thoughts away from business when you are at table. Give your stomach a chance to function; your brain time for rest. How many columns—or inches, isn’t it these days—of space have you grabbed off today?”

  The distracted press agent mumbled something that sounded like “plenty”, and his eyes were again directed towards the newspapers.

  “I tried for ten minutes to get your attention,” continued the actor, “but you never lifted your eyes from the papers; let your coffee grow cold as you read. And that, my young friend, is disrespectful to the art of the chef of this restaurant: he knows how to make good coffee, but you let its flavor and aroma steam away into the air.”

  Blake felt that the actor had noticed his agitation and was giving him time to recover his composure. He uttered the first thought that came into his head: “Have you seen the afternoon papers?”

  “The death of Chadwick Morne? Yes, I have read them. I cannot believe it was suicide. Morne had too much ego to kill himself.”

  “That is what I was thinking, Mr. Kemerson, when I looked up and saw you. I don’t believe there was anyone more in love with life.”

  “He loved the pleasures of life, certainly,” responded the actor, “and found pleasure in most of the usual ways, and, I fear, in some of the unusual. His murder is doubtless the payment for one of his pleasures of the more unusual sort, I imagine.”

  “It looks like murder all right,” said Blake, “but how could he be murdered when descending from an airplane in a parachute? And at night, too?”

  “That, my dear fellow, is a point for the police to decide. A man floating to earth would make a good-sized target for an enemy to shoot at. Remember, there was a full moon last night.”

  “But no one who bore him a grudge could have known in advance where he would land, or when he would leap, and be there ready to shoot him.”

  “He might have been killed in the airplane, the parachute being attached to his body merely as a blind.”

  “How then did the ring get pulled to open up the parachute? His body was covered by it, according to the reports.”

  “If the parachute was opened before Morne hit the earth—then it is another pretty problem for the police. It might have been opened and spread over him by the person who first discovered the body.”

  “He’d have been pretty well smashed up if he had fallen to earth. The Silver Lark was flying at least 2,000 feet high during most of the night, according to the A.P. report. And there was not a bruise on Morne’s body, aside from the bullet wound.”

  “Then that theory is quickly disposed of. He was either shot while floating down in the parachute or he was killed in the airplane and his body dumped out. Difficult, I should imagine, to open a parachute on a dead man while he is falling through space, yet it might be done. Suppose the murderer tied one end of a ball of stout twine to the ring and jerked the parachute open after the body had fallen a hundred feet or more, pulling hard enough to break the string. Do any of the reports mention a bit of string being fastened to the ring of the parachute?”

  “Not that I have seen, and I have read every word about Morne in every paper.”

  “That is a most important point,” continued Kemerson, a glint of excitement coming into his eyes. “Country police might overlook such a trifle, attaching no importance to it.”

  “There were half a dozen passengers on board the Silver Lark, Mr. Kemerson. If he had been shot in the plane’s cabin, several persons must have known it. Not one of the passengers has mentioned any shooting.”

  “A shot might easily have been mistaken for the backfiring of the motor, or been drowned out by the roaring of the propeller.”

  “But the passengers were all strangers to him—except Giulio Vanuzzi whom he knew slightly. What
reason would any of them have had for wanting to kill Morne?”

  “That is also a point for police investigation. There may have been others on the Silver Lark besides Vanuzzi whom he knew. Perhaps someone who hated him enough to conceive and carry out such an almost impossible crime. There are several unusual and puzzling angles about the murder. I confess that my interest is piqued by them. Do the Carlstown authorities advance any theories as to how the crime was committed?”

  “They do not even admit a crime was committed. The sheriff of the county believes it was suicide. He has a score of men searching the fields within a radius of half a mile from where the body was discovered, hoping to find the weapon—a thirty-two calibre revolver. You must have noticed that if you have read the reports.”

  “I did not read them all. I fear the sheriff’s search will go unrewarded,” said the actor. “Morne never killed himself. His great success in The Wife’s Turn made him one of the new stars to be reckoned with. A great career was opening up for him. The three failures that followed The Wife’s Turn meant nothing; he was miscast in them. Why Mr. Siddarth thought he could play a New York gangster and racketeer, I do not know. And historical dramas are out of fashion.

  I’m afraid the Ohio sheriff is not conversant with police methods in a murder so out of the ordinary. The New York authorities will be compelled to delve into the parachute murder, as the papers are calling it. The crime, I am confident, was planned here. Morne, I understand, had a number of interests in New York aside from his profession.”

  “The reporters have been unable to find anyone here who even knew that Morne intended to leave the city,” said Blake.

  “Of course they haven’t. Probably only the criminal himself, aside from Morne, knew that the actor contemplated such a trip. Perhaps not even his wife. I understand that their marriage turned out anything but a success—that they have been living under the same roof merely for form’s sake. Have the reporters learned anything from Mrs. Morne?”

  “No,” answered Blake, a hint of hostility in his voice. “She has not even been located. Why do you ask that?”

  “Pure curiosity, my boy. You may have heard that I have dabbled a bit in criminal investigation during the past year or two. I learned enough during my limited experience to know that it is well to let the imagination roam rather freely when trying to discover the motive for a crime.”

  Blake felt that Kemerson did not wish to speak out all that was in his mind, and he glanced up suspiciously at the actor. Then he caught the attention of his waiter who at once advanced and presented the check. Kemerson arose and again shook hands with the press agent.

  “You doubtless have many schemes in mind to steal space for Mr. Siddarth’s productions, and I mustn’t keep you. I hope the police do not annoy you too much in the Morne case.”

  “The police?” said Blake, and felt a chill creeping along his spine. “You think...”

  “You were the press agent for four or five plays in which Morne appeared. You probably know more about him than anyone else, unless it’s his valet. A curious fellow, that Jap valet; something unpleasantly furtive about his eyes. As I look at the matter, the New York police are bound to investigate Morne’s death sooner or later, and what more natural than that they should come to you? I wonder if there was a piece of string found tied to the ring of Morne’s parachute? If I were investigating the case, that is the first matter I should want to look into. Drop in and see me after the play tonight—I’m on but ten minutes in the last act—and let me know what the police worm out of you.”

  “I’ll drop around soon after ten,” Blake promised, a sensation of coldness traveling down his spine. “There is little I can tell the police, however.”

  “You’ll be surprised the number of things they’ll find out you do know about him,” said the actor, jocosely, but Blake found no glint of humor in his eyes.

  He parted from Kemerson at the door of the restaurant, and had not gone half a block when he wished that he had been franker with the actor—he might need his help. He turned about with the half-formed intention of running after Kemerson, but the actor was not to be seen.

  He stopped at a newsstand to buy the latest editions of the afternoon papers and started for his office in the Siddarth Theatre Building. He felt an inclination to stop, to turn about or to cross the street, every time he passed a policeman, and all but started when Costigan, the patrolman on the beat which included the theatre, accosted him. He risked a backward glance as he entered the building, but Costigan had in the meantime disappeared.

  CHAPTER II — PUBLICITY HOUND

  THROUGH the opaque glass of his office door Blake saw a blue reflection that brought him to a sudden halt, his hand still extended towards the knob. Miss Burton, his secretary, he recalled, had been wearing a red dress that day. Blue suggested police, and police were the last persons Blake wished to encounter at the moment, but his own reflection had probably been seen by his visitor and Blake squared his shoulders and entered briskly.

  In the outer office, facing Miss Burton, in a chair tilted against the wall, sat the burly form of a man in a blue sack suit, a fat, black cigar in his mouth. In his relief at finding his caller was not a policeman, Blake paid little attention to the unusual stiffness in his secretary’s back.

  “Were you waiting to see me?” he asked.

  “Are you Stephen Blake, Mr. Siddarth’s publicity director?”

  “I am. What can I do for you?”

  The man stood up and tapped the newspapers under Blake’s arm.

  “I see you have been reading about Chadwick Morne’s death. It’s about him I’ve come to see you. I am Dugan, from the District Attorney’s office. The D.A. asked me to make some inquiries.”

  “Afraid I can’t help you much, but come into my office.”

  Dugan followed him, pulled out a chair so that he faced the press agent across a flat-topped desk.

  “You knew Morne pretty well, didn’t you?”

  “In a professional way, very well. He had been under Mr. Siddarth’s management for three years. During that time I saw him frequently, of course; sometimes every day. He had a keen eye for publicity. He came in often to look through the clippings or to make suggestions. Has the District Attorney had any reports from the scene of the...crime?”

  “You think it was a murder then?” countered the detective.

  “I don’t know what else to believe. Morne was not the suicidal type. He had made one big hit in The Wife’s Turn. Another success and he’d have been one of the most important of the young stars.”

  “Well, there are suspicious circumstances. The District Attorney asked me to check up on Morne’s movements. When did you see him last?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. He came to my office.”

  “Did he act like a man in fear—running away from something unpleasant?”

  “Not at all. He had been planning this trip by airplane for a week.”

  “Some of the papers suggest it may have been a publicity stunt.”

  “Yes; I read them.”

  “The D.A. wants to know if it was.”

  “Yes, it was. It is difficult to get publicity for a failure in the New York newspapers, and Mr. Morne had had three successive failures following The Wife’s Turn. If he was upset about anything it was about the meagerness of his personal publicity since the closing of that play. He came to me a week ago to urge me to think up some way of keeping him before the public during the summer.”

  “Keen on seeing his name in the papers, was he?”

  “He was a publicity hound. He was ‘on the make’ in the theatrical world, and felt that he was losing out when the great amount of publicity he received in The Wife’s Turn began to dribble out with his three successive failures.”

  “How was this airplane trip to keep him before the public?”

  “He was to leap from it in a parachute during the night and go into hiding for several weeks—as long as we could keep up a hue and cry about his
disappearance.”

  “The stunt was your suggestion then?”

  “Certainly. I knew that he had at one time been a professional parachute jumper. He had an iron nerve. It was old stuff to him, except the jumping at night. He told me once that he had made more than 200 leaps. We picked a night when there would be a full moon.”

  “You made his reservation on the Silver Lark?”

  “Through another person. I did not want to appear in the matter at all. That would have given his disappearance a press agent scent that would have defeated its purpose.”

  “But wouldn’t there have been danger if the skies had suddenly clouded up?” asked the detective.

  “If it was too cloudy for him to calculate roughly where he would land, he was to go on to Chicago and jump on another trip.”

  “Do you know any of the persons reported to have been fellow passengers of Morne’s?”

  “Giulio Vanuzzi I know slightly. Morne introduced me to him at the Happy Hours night club.”

  “Were they on friendly terms?”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “Did Morne have any money invested in the night club?”

  “I don’t know. It hardly seems likely.”

  “The D.A. has a report that he was heavily interested in it.”

  “He may have been. Morne was very secretive about his affairs outside of the theatre.”

  “Ever see any evidences of a quarrel between them? About money matters, or over a girl?”

  Blake hesitated; the face of a vividly beautiful young woman at the table where Vanuzzi was sitting when Morne had introduced him to the night club proprietor came to his mind. For a moment he had thought that Morne and the girl had exchanged a furtive and significant glance over the Italian’s head.

  “No,” he replied, at length, “never any sign of a quarrel. Has the District Attorney found evidence of one?”

  “We are just looking into all angles of the case; going over Morne’s life to learn if he had any enemies who might wish him out of the way. How does it happen, Mr. Blake, that not a single reporter got in touch with you last night?”