Parachute Murder Page 16

  “Could you hear what he said?”

  “He didn’t say much except ‘Yes’ and ‘All right’ and ‘At the window.’”

  “‘At the window’? Well, that might...Anything else you can tell us about his visitors?”

  “Only this, sir. When Mr. Kawatami went back to his room I heard him say, ‘You thought I’d be fool enough to have it here, did you?’ Their voices grew louder after that—especially the gentleman’s. It was threatening and angry. The Jap never raised his voice at all.”

  “Did you hear any of the white man’s words?”

  “Something about a letter and black something, I couldn’t make out just what it was.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “That may have been it. I didn’t want them to find me in the hallway appearing to listen so I went into the kitchen. The lady and gentleman did not speak when they left, and the Jap just stood there in the door of his room looking after them with that funny smile on his face.”

  They got nothing else helpful from Mrs. O’Toole despite her excitement and her loquacity. Evidently she had told all that she knew pertinent to their quest.

  Kemerson stopped at a Broadway hotel to telephone Blake and the District Attorney. Blake was out and Kemerson left a message for him to call the moment he came in. When he was connected with Mr. Brixton he said:

  “Walton, I’m going to play a blind hunch and I want your help. I wish to question James Betterling and Mrs. Morne in your presence. Also George Groat, the waiter at the Happy Hours night club, if he can be found.”

  “Groat is already in custody,” came Brixton’s voice over the wire. “He denies all knowledge of the kidnapping. I am glad to hear that you are getting down to cases at last with Mrs. Morne. She can at least give us leads—”

  Kemerson interrupted. “I have talked with Mrs. Morne. I believe her innocent of any connection with the murder of her husband. I’m not so sure she knows nothing about the events leading up to it. Betterling is not telling all he knows. He is one of the men who invaded the Mornes’ apartment—”

  “At last you are coming across, Kirk,” said the District Attorney, with some satisfaction in his voice. “I was sure you knew who the men were. I’ve given you too free a hand—”

  “That is the only way I can be of value to you, Walton. When I have found something in which your training can be of help to me—”

  Mr. Brixton interrupted in turn, somewhat sharply.

  “That’s just it! Instead of your helping me, I am helping you, it seems. And we haven’t got very far by that method.”

  “Well, at least you have made an arrest, which is a thing near to the heart of every district attorney and policeman.” Kemerson permitted himself a chuckle. “And you’ve probably arrested the wrong man!”

  “You mean you no longer suspect Vanuzzi?”

  “Oh, you have enough to hold him on, but the Morne case is far from being solved. You can find Betterling without my help, but do you know where to look for Mrs. Morne?” Kemerson chuckled again.

  “I’ll have Mrs. Morne here,” said Brixton, shortly. “She was traced through a ‘phone call to Blake. It seems to me they are pretty thick.”

  “I can see you are going to be of great help to me,” Kemerson chaffed. “But don’t worry, Walton; when the case is solved you will get all the credit.”

  “You know that’s the least of my worries. But why make a mystery of your activities? And who murdered Morne if Vanuzzi didn’t?”

  “I don’t know, Walton. I only know who didn’t—and perhaps after all one of them did! ‘Phone me at my apartment when your henchmen round up Better-ling and Mrs. Morne. Leave a message with Georgina if I am out. I will call her every hour.”

  Brixton promised. “One thing though: I shall want to question them, too.”

  “My dear Walton, it is for that purpose I’m asking you to gather them in. I need the moral support of your office back of me, and the advantage of your legal, cross-questioning mind. Betterling may need a touch of the third degree.”

  Instead of returning to his apartment, Kemerson hunted up the agent of the vacant building from which Kiyoshi had been shot. He proved to be a talkative, timid little man, wholly without guile. Yes, he had let a man have the key to the house the previous day—a large, military looking man. He had been too busy to accompany the man to the house. Yes, he had given his name, a queer name—Howard Easter. He had returned the key a few hours later, saying the house did not suit him. He wanted to take possession right away, and the house needed redecorating throughout.

  “What time was it when he returned the key?” asked Kemerson.

  “About four o’clock.”

  “He had the key long enough to have a duplicate made then?”

  “Why, yes, but what would he want with a duplicate? He got the key from me—and he did not want to wait for the house to be decorated.”

  “A man was shot this morning by someone from a room in that house,” said Kemerson, “and it is altogether likely that this Mr. Easter did the shooting. He doubtless had a duplicate key made, let himself into the house, after telephoning his victim to wait at his window for a signal from that building.”

  “Why, that is terrible!” exclaimed the agent. “What is the town coming to when it’s not safe to let prospective tenants examine a house? What do you want the key for?”

  Kemerson showed him the badge with which the District Attorney had supplied him. But the agent, his trust once having been betrayed, was reluctant to give the key to Kemerson until the actor suggested that he call up the District Attorney’s office. He was convinced by that suggestion.

  Once in the vacant building, Kemerson examined the door-knobs for finger-prints. They had but recently been wiped free of dust, but on the floor were faint outlines of foot-prints, going to and coming from the stairway—marks made by a man with unusually big feet.

  Kemerson followed the foot-prints to the third floor. As he expected, the window of a rear room had been opened and closed. There were clearly discernible marks in the dust on the sill and on the catch. Probably the murderer had been in such a hurry to get away from the window, where he might at any moment be observed, that he had forgotten to wipe away his fingerprints. Kemerson decided to call the police finger-print expert to photograph them as soon as he left the building. There at least was one clue that would establish the identity of the murderer once he had been apprehended. The window was level with that in Kiyoshi’s room at the O’Tooles, and almost directly opposite. A bullet fired by a man standing in the window would have struck Kiyoshi’s chest at right angles and penetrated without deflection unless it had struck a bone.

  Kemerson was startled by the creaking of a board on the floor below. It was as if someone stepping softly about had stood still when he trod upon a loose board. Kemerson waited in absolute stillness for a time. Just as he had come to the conclusion that it was one of those noises often heard in deserted buildings, another sound came to his ears—the careful turning of a latch to avoid a click.

  Convinced that he was not alone in the empty house, Kemerson drew his revolver, and stepped with the utmost caution to the open door that gave upon the hallway. Was it imagination or did the knob of a door on the second floor turn slightly as though it had just been closed? The agent might have become suspicious and come to see for himself what was going on in the house, but there was no reason why he should conceal himself. No, it was someone else—someone who had come to the building for a purpose and had heard Kemerson moving about. The murderer of Kiyoshi! He had remembered the tell-tale finger-prints and come back to remove them!

  Kemerson stood motionless, revolver half raised, for several minutes. As no further sound came to his ears he began cautiously to descend the stairs, stepping close to the wall to avoid loosened boards. He had reached the next to the bottom step in silence, but there he trod on a board that creaked—probably the same one that had given him warning of another person in the house. He strained eyes and
ears for a full minute, but there was neither stir nor sound, and he descended to the second floor hall, advancing an inch at a time towards the door the knob of which had moved slightly.

  He waited a minute or two. Then, as no further sound of any sort was heard, he turned the knob cautiously and flung the door wide open. No shot was fired. No slightest sound came to his ears. Still keeping his body hidden, revolver pointed, he leaned forward until, with one eye, he could glance into the room. It was empty! Breathing more easily, he entered. He quietly crossed the floor to another door opposite that by which he had entered. It was locked and all traces of finger marks and dust carefully wiped off.

  A slight noise, the uneasy feeling that a person has when conscious of an unseen presence, made Kemerson turn just in time to see the door through which he had entered closing. He sprang forward but the lock clicked just as he grabbed and rattled the handle. He was locked in! Trapped! Stupidly caught in a trap by the murderer of Kiyoshi, who had not given himself away—had not had to fire a shot and would have time to wipe off all finger marks and make his escape! Kemerson cursed his folly in having come alone to the vacant house.

  He heard a short, mocking laugh outside the door, followed by the creaking of the second tread on the stairs to the third floor. The murderer was going up to wipe away his finger-prints in the dust of the window! Kemerson tried the key he had borrowed from the real estate agent in the locks of both doors; neither yielded. He went to the one window; it looked out upon a narrow well across which was the blank wall of a brick warehouse or factory. There was no fire escape and it was a drop of twenty feet or more to the cement pavement of the narrow court.

  He heard the steps of his jailer coming down the stairs. No longer did he try to deaden his footfalls. Kemerson placed an eye to the keyhole in hopes of seeing enough of his opponent to recognize him. All that he could see was a button on a dark coat. The man had stopped in front of the door. As the knob moved slightly, Kemerson jumped back ready to shoot, but the door did not open. The knob continued to move. His captor was removing all finger-prints. He was going away, leaving Kemerson a prisoner in the vacant house! He listened to the man’s footsteps as he went down to the first floor, heard him close and lock the front door.

  He was fairly caught, Kemerson thought, with a mental compliment to his opponent. The man was smarter than he was—craftier at least. Well, if the worst came, he could let himself down from the sill of the window and drop to the court below, risking a broken leg. He was not yet ready for that risk. He raised the window and fired a shot into the court. The report was muffled by the brick walls. He shouted but there was no reply to his calls for help.

  CHAPTER XIX — BLAKE CASTS HIMSELF FOR THE HERO’S ROLE

  STEPHEN BLAKE went to the Happy Hours night club within an hour after the capture of Vanuzzi to make guarded inquiries concerning any employees who might have been absent at the hour Miss Vane was kidnapped. He found only a caretaker and some scrub-women present, cleaning up the place for the evening crowd. The caretaker had not been on duty the previous evening and disclaimed all knowledge of what might have occurred. George, the waiter from whom he might have got some information, had not come in.

  He had recourse to Mrs. Delano who told him what she had recounted to Kemerson. He was at a standstill, not knowing where to look for a clue to Miss Vane’s place of captivity.

  “I feel as helpless as a new-born baby,” he said. “If anything happens to Miss Vane, I’ll feel responsible.”

  “That’s nonsense,” said the blind woman, tartly. “You did not induce her to board the Silver Lark.”

  “If I hadn’t thought of such an asinine scheme to keep Morne’s name before the public she would never have been mixed up in the matter. I wish she had kept quiet about the happenings on the Silver Lark, even if the murderer should go free in consequence.”

  “But a murder had been committed!” exclaimed Mrs. Delano.

  “What does Morne’s life matter weighed against hers? He was a bad egg, and she’s about the sweetest—“ He stopped, blushing at the warmth in his voice.

  “She is sweet and genuine and entirely unspoiled,” Mrs. Delano remarked. “She disliked greatly being brought into the Morne case but is too honest to let it remain a mystery if she can help to clear it up. She was particularly disturbed to learn that you were suspected. But there, perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. She would not thank me for it.”

  “But I’ll thank you for it, Mrs. Delano!” exclaimed Blake. “I’m going to do all I can to help find her. I’m going directly to the District Attorney’s office. Perhaps he has learned something. I know Mr. Kemerson will do everything in his power.”

  “I wish you would show him a telegram which I received a short time before you arrived. It’s from a man who was on the Silver Lark the night Chadwick Morne was murdered. How he learned my address I don’t know. He is just as convinced as I am that the Italian, Vanuzzi, is responsible for Miss Vane’s kidnapping.”

  “May I read the message?”

  “Certainly. It’s on the table by the window.”

  Blake found the telegram and read it:

  MUCH CONCERNED OVER THE REPORTED KIDNAPPING OF MISS VANE. BELIEVE YOU SHOULD GO TO THE POLICE AND INSIST THAT THEY INVESTIGATE THE ITALIAN PASSENGER ON THE AIRPLANE. HIS ACTIONS WERE CERTAINLY SUSPICIOUS. I THINK MISS VANE HAD DISCOVERED SOMETHING HE DID NOT WANT TO COME OUT. SHE WAS TERRIFIED OF HIM AFTER MORNE’S DISAPPEARANCE. IF YOU PREFER TO HAVE PRIVATE DETECTIVES INVESTIGATE WILL SHARE EXPENSE. AM RETURNING AT ONCE BY AIRPLANE AND SHALL TAKE THE LIBERTY OF CALLING ON YOU. ARTHUR LAYMAN.

  “Why should he offer to share in the expense?” asked Blake, already beginning to feel a dislike for Arthur Layman. “Did Miss Vane know him well?”

  “I am certain she had never met him before. I presume he was struck by her beauty and goodness, just as another young man I know is,” and the blind woman managed to put a great deal of archness into her voice. “He probably wants to help in rescuing her from this Air. Vanuzzi. Old men and young men alike want to help her—she has such a charming personality.”

  “Oh,” said Blake, brightening, “he’s an old man then?”

  “Mr. Layman? I’m sure not. His voice sounded very young. Miss Vane described him as big, tall and handsome.”

  “Well, we may need his help,” Blake admitted reluctantly, “but I’m pinning my hope on Mr. Kemerson and the police.”

  Blake ran into Detective Dugan in the anteroom of Mr. Brixton’s office.

  “So you’ve been in hiding,” was the detective’s greeting.

  “From the reporters—not from the police. Mr. Kemerson knows how to reach me. I’m stopping at the Maxwell Hotel under the name of John Milton. I have no objection to your knowing it, or the District Attorney.”

  “Well, you are a cool one. I’ll say that for you.” Dugan’s voice expressed a grudging admiration. “I don’t like to believe you are mixed up in Morne’s murder, but, hang it, why are you not frank about what you did that night?”

  “I was dragged into another matter about which I haven’t the right to talk, even to free myself of suspicion.”

  “It has a funny look,” said Dugan, “but Mr. Kemerson seems to think you are O.K. God knows, I hope you are. It’ll all come out in the end. The D.A.’ll get it all. He always does. Why don’t you make a clean breast of it to him now?”

  “I came to see him about the kidnapping of Miss Vane. Has any sort of a clue been discovered? What is Mr. Kemerson doing?”

  “He’s investigating the murder of that Jap valet of Morne’s.”

  “Kiyoshi murdered!” Blake’s astonishment was so genuine that even Dugan believed he knew nothing about it. “I saw nothing in the papers.”

  “You will in the next editions. We picked up a waiter at the Happy Hours night club who used to room at Mr. Horner’s—George Groat. Know him?”

  “I know a waiter there named George. If it’s the same one perhaps I can get him to talk.”


  “Tell the D.A. about it. Perhaps he’ll have Groat brought over.”

  Mr. Brixton received Blake at once when he sent in word that he had a telegram which Mrs. Delano had received from another passenger on the Silver Lark. He read the telegram carefully.

  “Mr. Layman’s concern over the fate of Miss Vane is quite keen. Is he a friend of hers?”

  “Mrs. Delano says Miss Vane never saw him before boarding the airplane.”

  “She’s probably right, but we’ll have to look into this. Mr. Layman telegraphed his suspicions of Vanuzzi to me. He is either a most susceptible young man or an old friend. He may be able to give us a new lead on what occurred on the Silver Lark, and so help tighten the net about Vanuzzi. But no one seems to have seen or heard of another passenger on the Silver Lark—John Carter. He has disappeared as completely as—as you intended Mr. Morne to do.”

  “I heard the pilot mention him, Mr. Brixton, but no one else has.”

  When Blake explained that George Groat, the night club waiter, was probably the man he knew merely as George, Mr. Brixton gave orders that he be brought over from the Tombs where he was being held as a material witness.

  Groat proved to be the waiter that Blake knew as George. He was a thin, hollow-cheeked man of perhaps thirty. When Blake offered his hand the man clung to it.

  “You don’t know how glad I am to see you, Mr. Blake,” he said, and seemed almost on the verge of tears. “They’re holding me here about some kidnapping that I know nothing about. If I knew anything I’d tell, but I don’t.”

  “It may all be a mistake holding you, George, but a young woman was kidnapped last night and the police have grounds for thinking that Vanuzzi gave the orders even though he may actually have had no hand in abducting her. Was Vanuzzi at the night club all evening?”

  “I think so. I saw him at different times until two o’clock, or perhaps it was three.”

  “Were any of his regular employees absent?”