Parachute Murder Page 10

  ...Vida Latterby—what was the secret of her fascination? Why did I feel such satisfaction at getting her away from Giulio? She has loved many men, in her fashion of loving. She’s cold, cruel, demanding. Her demands grow tiresome. A clean break with her—what better opportunity than this airplane trip? By fall she would have a new lover...

  The figure in the chair straightened up—Kirk Kemerson, keen, hard, cold, on the track of a new idea. Had Vida Latterby known that Morne was tiring of her?—planning to escape from her passionate body, her greedy hands, her grasping little soul? If she knew—if she felt her command over men beginning to slip as the years crept on and the charms of flesh faded—if she were determined to defend this latest “kill”...?

  Yes, decidedly, Vida Latterby must not be excluded from the list of possible suspects.

  A tapping on the outer door told Kemerson that his expected visitor had arrived. He turned out the lights in the library, partly closed the portieres into the living room, pulled the easy chair out of the stream of oblique light from the hallway so that he himself, when he resumed the chair, was in non-revealing obscurity.

  “Come in,” he said in his natural voice.

  The outer door was opened, and the voice of the policeman announced, “Steep, the butler.”

  “Send him to the library.”

  As the butler’s footsteps came down the hallway, Kemerson sank deeper into the easy chair until only one side of his head caught the dim edge of light that came through the partly closed portieres. In the obscurity a change came over his features; the rounded face lengthened, furrows came into his forehead.

  Steep was standing in the doorway, hesitating, accustoming his eyes to the dimness. The figure in the chair turned its face slightly towards him.

  “Come in, Steep.” It was the voice of Chadwick Morne, full, musical with the trained cadences of the actor.

  “Holy Mother! St. Joseph!” came a terrified mutter from the butler’s lips, as he gasped, crossed himself and backed away.

  “Come in, Steep. I’m no ghost,” came the voice of Chadwick Morne again.

  Crossing himself, his teeth chattering, the butler reappeared in the doorway, and again hesitated.

  “Mr. Morne...Excuse me....I...I thought...The papers said...”

  “I know what the papers say. I have read them all. What do you say?”

  “You are n-n-not a...a...It was not you after all! I’m that flabber...You gave me a turn, sir—my heart leaped into...”

  But the butler did not yet advance into the library.

  His eyes still stared unbelievingly at the figure in the chair.

  “Turn on the lights, Steep. Ghosts cannot endure bright lights.”

  “Y-y-yes, sir,” chattered the butler, and lifted his feet with difficulty, pressed his body against the wall as he edged his way towards the light button. With fingers that fumbled, while his eyes remained fixed on his dead master, he found the button, pushed at it thrice before the room was flooded with light. He blinked, crossed himself anew and stared at the figure which did not disappear, but took on the full outlines of a living, breathing body.

  “Well, Steep,” said Kemerson in his own voice, “do you think I am a good actor?”

  Kemerson’s face resumed its normal, rounded shape; the creases disappeared from his forehead, and he smiled at the dumbfounded butler.

  “I am Kirk Kemerson. You have perhaps heard of me.”

  Steep continued to stare at the actor, his lips moved but for a time no words came from them. A fit of trembling seized him; he raised a hand and pressed it against his breast. His face began to flush, and he groped for a chair into which he sank weakly.

  “Excuse me, sir. It’s my...heart. The sudden shock...”

  His face had become purple, and Kemerson, alarmed, ran to the dining room, poured out some brandy and took it to the butler. His teeth chattered against the glass as he drank.

  “Drink it down, man—all of it! I did not know you had a weak heart. I merely wanted to test a theory, and my ability as a character actor. Vanity, mostly, Steep.

  An actor must act, you know, even in private life.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the butler, reviving under the stimulant. “Mr. Morne did, Mr. Kemerson....I beg pardon, sir...” Steep, tall, thin, middle aged, his black hair streaked with gray, started to rise to his feet.

  “No, no, man, sit down!” Kemerson pushed him back into the chair. “You are not here as a butler, nor I as an actor. I am investigating your master’s death for the District Attorney. I wanted a dramatic entrance on your part, for purposes of my own. My desire succeeded beyond my expectations. Feeling more yourself now?”

  “Yes, Mr. Kemerson. My heart has quieted down.”

  “Just sit still and we’ll chat quietly, as one friend to another. Have some more brandy.”

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir. Mrs. Morne would not like to have me drinking here, sir.”

  “You are not on duty now—except that it is your duty in the cause of justice to answer truthfully such questions as I may ask you, and to give me all the information you can about Chadwick Morne.”

  The butler looked up at Kemerson uneasily. “Yes, sir.”

  “Did Mrs. Morne know her husband was leaving town?”

  “Yes, sir. I overheard Mr. Morne telling her. He said he was going to Chicago.”

  “Did he tell her he was going by airplane?”

  “I did not hear him say so, sir. She asked him what train he was going to take. But I knew it, sir—at least, I suspected it.”

  “Then he did not keep it a secret! If you knew it half a dozen others might have known it.”

  “I did not tell anyone, sir. It was not my business.” Steep drew himself up straight and stiff in his chair.

  “Of course not, Steep. I did not mean to imply that you had told anyone. What made you suspect he intended to go by airplane?”

  “When I packed his clothes I noticed the bag in which he kept his old parachute was gone. He told me once he had made more than fifty descents in that parachute.”

  “You know Kiyoshi Nimura, his Japanese dresser?”

  “I have seen him, sir, on several occasions at the theatre.”

  “Did Morne ever send Kiyoshi to his apartment?”

  “Two or three times. I was his valet at home, sir.”

  “When did Kiyoshi last come here?”

  The butler did not answer at once. He seemed to be trying to recall. “It was just before The Bed of Virtue closed. It was on a Thursday—two weeks ago tomorrow. Mr. Morne had forgotten the handkerchief he used in the third act.”

  “Was he in the habit of bringing such props home with him?”

  “He would let no one at the theatre touch that handkerchief, sir. He always brought it home with him. The Jap said Mr. Morne had forgotten it. When I could not find it in his room, I went to the kitchen, where Mrs. Morne was giving instructions to the maid, to ask about it. Mrs. Morne came to get it and the Jap was just slipping out of her bedroom. She seemed very much upset, and spoke to him sharply, sir. ‘What were you doing in my room?’ she asked. Kiyoshi said that he saw the handkerchief on her desk, and drew it out of his pocket. Mrs. Morne was much annoyed. She threatened to have Mr. Morne discharge Kiyoshi if he ever entered her room again, and said she had placed the handkerchief in the small drawer of her husband’s dresser. But I had looked there and not found it. It’s my opinion, sir, that the Jap had the handkerchief with him all the time—that he said Mr. Morne had forgotten it just as an excuse to get into the apartment.”

  “Why do you think that, Steep?”

  “Mrs. Morne never kept any of her husband’s things in her room. Then, after Kiyoshi had gone, I heard her opening and shutting drawers, rustling papers quickly as if she was searching for something. I was afraid she had lost—that the Japanese might have taken...”

  “Well, what?” asked Kemerson as the butler hesitated. “Money? Papers?”

  “A letter, sir; one that had j
ust come that morning. She always destroyed them as soon as she had read them, but there were no torn fragments in the waste-paper basket when I emptied it.”

  “There had been other letters like it, you mean, from the same person?”

  “Every two weeks until a month ago. This was the first one in four weeks.”

  “Did she ask if you had seen the letter?”

  Steep was reluctant to answer; he refused to meet Kemerson’s eyes.

  “No, sir; not directly. She said she had mislaid a letter with a foreign stamp....If I found it I was to take it to her at once. But she continued to hunt for it.”

  “A foreign stamp—what country, Steep?”

  “I couldn’t rightly say, sir. That is. I...It was a private matter of Mrs. Morne’s. Might I suggest that you ask her? I wouldn’t have her think I meddled.”

  “Very well, Steep. I don’t want you to betray any confidences——”

  “There were no confidences, sir,” and Steep squared his shoulders with a certain hauteur. “I am the butler here.”

  “You may as well understand,” said Kemerson, “that Mrs. Morne is under suspicion for complicity in the death of her husband. She refuses to explain some of her movements——”

  “She is as innocent of that, sir, as the babe unborn!” asserted Steep with such conviction that the actor could not withhold an exclamation of admiration.

  “I am glad to hear you say that! I am inclined to agree with you. Nevertheless Mrs. Morne has been evasive. It may be necessary for us to prove that she is innocent—against her desires and her will in the matter. You can help in that by being entirely frank with me. Nothing that you tell me will go to the police unless it has a direct bearing on the death of Chadwick Morne.”

  “Thank you, sir. Then I can speak more freely, if you are a friend of Mrs. Morne’s. The letters had a French stamp, and they were always postmarked Paris.”

  “You have no idea of their contents?”

  “A suspicion merely, sir.”

  “What is that suspicion?”

  “I suspect, sir, it had something to do with the child——”

  “Child!” Kemerson could not repress that exclamation. “You mean the Mornes had a child?”

  “It was some child that Mrs. Morne wished to adopt. Her husband refused to consider it. It was usually after she had received the letters with French stamps that she spoke about the matter to him. I could not help hearing at times what they said, Mr. Kemerson, the apartment is small and my duties kept me moving about——”

  “I do not suspect you of eavesdropping, Steep.”

  “Thank you, sir. After the next to the last letter, she went to him and they quarreled dread—they quarreled, sir. Mr. Morne was violent. ‘Never!’ I could hear him shout even from the kitchen. ‘And that’s final!’ They did not speak much to each other after that.”

  “Do you know anything about this child—its name, sex, age?”

  “Nothing more than I have told you, sir.”

  “Did you ever hear Mrs. Morne make any threats against her husband?”

  “Never!” said Steep, with some vehemence.

  “Did you ever hear Mr. Morne express fear of anyone? Of having received any threats?”

  “None at all.”

  “Did you ever hear him mention the name of Giulio Vanuzzi to his wife, or she to him?”

  Steep took his time before answering: “Never, Mr. Kemerson.”

  “Mr. Betterling was a frequent caller here, wasn’t he?”

  “Mr. Betterling, sir?” A cold gleam came into the butler’s eyes, his lips were drawn back into a straight, hard line.

  “James Betterling—yes. I understand he frequently took Mrs. Morne out, at her husband’s request perhaps, while he was at the theatre.”

  “Mr. Betterling was a friend of the family. He sometimes escorted Mrs. Morne, at Mr. Morne’s own wish. He was never mean to her about her friends; he often urged her to go out and not keep herself imprisoned—that’s what he called it—just because he was busy at the theatre.”

  “Well, that’s something to Morne’s credit, isn’t it? Now as to Betterling—did you ever see him act lover-like towards Mrs. Morne? Any secret, understanding glances between them? Did you ever see him kiss her or attempt to kiss her?”

  A momentary gleam of complete hostility came into Steep’s eyes, but was quickly subdued. “Never. Mr. Betterling was a gentleman.”

  “Well, even gentlemen can be in love with a married woman.”

  “It is sometimes done,” admitted Steep, grudgingly.

  Kemerson seemed to have lost interest in the butler and after a few more perfunctory questions he dismissed him. “Thank you for the help you’ve been willing to give me, Steep. The District Attorney may wish to question you later.”

  The butler got up and started towards the door, then turned back. “Beg pardon, sir, but is Mrs. Morne...You don’t think she will be dragged into the investigation?”

  “She can’t keep out of it. She is one of the suspects.”

  “Then I...” Steep reflected and apparently thought better of it. “Is there anything else, Mr. Kemerson?”

  “No, you may go now, unless there is something you wish to tell me.”

  “There...There’s nothing more, sir. Good night.”

  For half an hour thereafter Kemerson remained sunk in the easy chair, trying to unravel the various threads of the mystery. He had such strands of the enigma as he had been able to discover by the middle, their origins and ends being as yet hidden in an impenetrable darkness. At length he arose and wandered about, idly examining the books on the shelves. Among them were two theatre record books. He examined one volume and found it filled with programs and reviews of the plays in which Morne had appeared in stock, with occasional feature stories about the actor with photographs of him, and of his leading women. The second volume was devoted to his New York appearances. Most of the reviews he found laudatory of Morne’s acting though not always of the plays.

  As he thumbed the leaves he noticed the portrait of a notably beautiful woman with the name of Dorothy Dineen written under it. A newspaper clipping recounted the suicide of the actress who had been leading woman for Chadwick Morne in Blashfield’s Wives. The face was a charming one, with a haunting wistfulness about the eyes and mouth—a fragile beauty which exerted a profound appeal despite the apparent lack of strength of character. The face held a feminine charm that caused Kemerson’s eyes to linger on it. He experienced the sensation of familiarity with the features that one frequently feels on seeing a person who vaguely resembles someone else. He read the item which told of her suicide:

  Dorothy Dineen, earlier in the season leading woman for Chadwick Morne in Blashfield’s Wives, which had but a short run, was this morning found dead of an overdose of veronal in a hall bedroom at No. 16A West Fourth Street. Her body, fully clothed, was discovered by Mrs. Margaret Sawyer, her landlady. Miss Dineen had appeared with Mr. Morne in a previous production, but was otherwise unknown to the New York stage. Her rent had been paid up until today. Fifteen cents was found in her purse. The police pronounced it a case of suicide.

  Efforts to reach her relatives are being made.

  The tragedy of failure, of hopes disappointed...Kemerson glanced again at the photograph, his heart saddened by the pitiful story of struggle and heartache behind the newspaper item. There was sadness in the eyes, about the mouth—not the wistfulness he had first thought. He closed the record, replaced it on the shelf, turned off the lights and settled himself again in the easy chair.

  Here he was in Morne’s apartment, wearing Morne’s clothes, made up to look like him, yet he could not feel himself inside the character of the murdered actor; something had put him out of rapport with Morne. Perhaps it was his pity for the fragile beauty who had done away with herself. He sighed as his thoughts returned to Dorothy Dineen...Dineen?...He had the feeling that he had recently heard the name, and somewhere seen a face that resembled that of the suici
de. Well, it would come back to him in time...Chadwick Morne and his wife had quarreled, had been practically not on speaking terms for more than a month. Why had the butler, Steep, become hostile when asked if he had noticed any tender passages between Mrs. Morne and James Betterling?...Yes, decidedly, Betterling would bear investigating.

  How long he sat there, seeking to bring harmony between clashing theories, Kemerson did not know. He had been too absorbed in his thoughts to notice any outside noises, but he now became suddenly alert at a rustle of paper that apparently came from one of the bedrooms. There was someone besides himself in the apartment—someone not admitted by the policeman on guard. Probably a sneak-thief who thought the apartment deserted. Yet a robber would scarcely be searching through papers, methodically, as the intruder was apparently doing.

  Kemerson sneaked carefully into the hall, and perceived under the door of Morne’s bedroom a narrow strip of light. Convinced that the intruder was no ordinary thief, he advanced cautiously down the hall in hopes of getting a glimpse of the man. It might be someone concerned in the mystery of the star’s death, come to retrieve a bit of incriminating evidence. Through the keyhole he could see the shoulder and arm of a man who was running hastily through a bundle of letters. Kemerson crouched on the floor, hoping the man would turn his face towards the door. As he watched, he heard a window being cautiously raised or lowered. Perhaps the intruder had a confederate and they were getting ready to leave. If he would learn the identity of the searcher he must act quickly. He arose and laid a hand on the door-knob. On the instant the slim edge of light at the threshold vanished, and a moment later he became aware of soft footsteps on the hall runner, coming stealthily towards him. There was a man in the hallway as well as one or two in the bedroom!

  By the faint light that came through the window at the end of the hallway—it overlooked the court, he found out later—he saw the dim shape of a man coming towards him, and flattened himself against the wall opposite the door into Morne’s bedroom. The figure in the hallway stopped as though disturbed by a sound, and listened.

  Then Kemerson felt a current of air on his face, and was aware that the door he faced had been opened. On the instant two flashlights threw their crossing beams full upon his face.