Parachute Murder Read online

  “I did not miss any of them. Never thought about it.”

  “Did any strange men call on Vanuzzi during the evening?”

  “Three men who were strangers to me went up to his office after midnight. I had seen them once or twice before. I think they were bootleggers. I never heard their names.”

  “Did you turn in your key when you gave up your room at Mrs. Horner’s?” asked the District Attorney. “Yes, sir. Just before I left.”

  “Was it known at the night club that you roomed at Mrs. Horner’s?”

  “All of the waiters have to give their addresses.”

  “Mr. Horner says you called on him last week. Why did you go?”

  “It was just a friendly call, Your Honor. Mr. Horner and his wife had been very kind to me, and I had promised to call. I did not know Mrs. Horner was out of town.”

  “Did you tell anyone at the club about your visit to the Horner’s?” asked Blake.

  “Why, yes; I spoke of it to the head waiter, Mr. Vincent.”

  “Did you mention that Mrs. Horner was away and the apartment unoccupied at nights while Mr. Horner was at work?”

  “I think I may have. Yes, I’m sure I did. Mr. Vincent had called there once when I was ill and met Mrs. Horner. He asked about her.”

  “Did you ever lose your key?”

  “I thought it was lost once, but it was only mislaid.

  Mr. Vincent found it the next day. It was in the pocket of my jacket.”

  “Had you searched your pockets?”

  “Several times.”

  “A duplicate key might have been made while it was out of your possession.”

  “But that was a month ago,” objected the District Attorney. “I can see no connection between that and the use of the Horner apartment last night for the kidnapping. Better bring this Vincent in for questioning, Dugan.”

  “O.K., Chief.”

  “And check up on Groat’s story. If it stands up we will release him. Find out from Mrs. Horner when Groat’s key was turned in.”

  The waiter was almost tearful in his thanks as Mr. Brixton waved him away.

  “Now, young man, it’s about time we had a heart to heart talk, and you had better come across with everything you know about the Morne case.”

  “I have told you and Mr. Kemerson everything I know about the case, Mr. Brixton. I helped Mr. Kemerson locate Morne’s valet and to capture Vanuzzi. That ought to prove I am not obstructing justice.”

  The District Attorney maintained silence for some time. “I may have to hold you yet. Kirk still insists he believes you are innocent, so I won’t hold you now, but watch your step.”

  “I’ll watch them as carefully as your detectives do,” said Blake, at which sally the District Attorney laughed shortly. He was on the point of dismissing the press agent when a policeman entered and spoke to him in a low voice.

  “Let them come in.”

  A stalwart officer came in followed by a small, timid man dressed in the white garments of the street cleaning department. He looked askance at the District Attorney.

  “Here’s something I thought you ought to see at once, Mr. Brixton,” said the patrolman, advancing and holding out a piece of paper. “This Dago found it in the street. It’s addressed to you, and signed ‘Edith Vane.’”

  Mr. Brixton hurriedly unfolded the piece of wrapping paper. After reading it he addressed the street cleaner. “Where did you find this?”

  “In Twenty-fift’ Street near Third Avenue. I sweepa da street and finda da paper, tied wit’ blue ribbon, lika dis.” He drew from his pocket a thin blue ribbon, and then the half of a yellow candle. “It was wrapped around dis.”

  “Then Edith is alive!” exclaimed Blake, advancing to the side of the District Attorney. “Miss Vane, I mean.”

  “At least she was when this was written—if she wrote it,” said Mr. Brixton, and tossed the bit of torn wrapping paper to the press agent.

  It was addressed to “Mr. Walton Brixton, District Attorney of New York County. Urgent. Finder please deliver.” Urgent was written in capital letters and underscored. Inside was the following message:

  I am held a prisoner on the top floor of a four-story brick house. From the window I can see the Metropolitan Tower. The window has yellow scrim curtains. The Tower is west from here; the shadows of the buildings point towards it in the morning. No violence has been offered me yet. I am guarded by a fat man who looks as though he were half Chinese and a woman who seems to be his wife. They won’t tell me where I am or what is going to be done with me. I am almost certain that it was Mr. Vanuzzi who had me kidnapped, though I have not seen him. Three men grabbed me when I went with Mrs. Delano to see my brother. The message was false. One of the men I am sure is employed at Vanuzzi’s night club. Something appears to have gone wrong in the kidnappers’ plans for I heard the fat man say to his wife, ‘The Boss has been arrested. What are we going to do with her now?’ I am watched most of the time. I will throw this note into the street when I get a chance. I think I can throw that far. Edith Vane.

  “She hasn’t lost her nerve,” said Blake, admiringly, as he returned the paper. “Instead of giving away to tears and despair, she’s trying to guide the police to the place where they have hidden her.”

  “She’s a clever girl,” agreed Mr. Brixton. “If anything happens to her, Giulio Vanuzzi will find himself in a hotter spot than the murder of Morne puts him in. Get Inspector Connell on the ‘phone.” He gave the order sharply to a uniformed attendant. “We’ll have a squad of police sent out and throw a cordon about the entire block. Every apartment will be searched thoroughly.”

  Instead of going with the police squad, Blake bought a pair of powerful field glasses and went up into the Tower of the Metropolitan Building. He set himself methodically to examine windows in the blocks east of the Tower, looking for yellow curtains. He located a dozen, half of which were higher up than the fourth floor or too far from the crosstown street for Miss Vane to have thrown her message. The remainder might be on the third, fourth or fifth floors. He could not be sure on account of the intervening buildings. He noted down the approximate locations of the windows that seemed promising for his quest and then went to the Happy Hours night club to find Detective Dugan who had been sent there to take the head waiter to Mr. Brixton’s office. Dugan was still there awaiting the arrival of Vincent. Quickly Blake told him of his discovery of certain buildings with yellow-curtained windows, and of his intention of trying to get in while the police were conducting their apartment-to-apartment search.

  “How do you think you will get in?” asked Dugan.

  “Tell them the truth—that we are hunting for a kidnapped girl and that we are authorized to search every flat. If they are innocent they will let us in. If we are refused admission anywhere, one of us can notify the police while the other remains on guard outside.”

  “We? You and who else?”

  “Why, you, of course. I came to get you to go with me.”

  “I am detailed to take Vincent to the D.A.”

  “Delegate your authority to someone else. Call Mr. Brixton on the ‘phone and let me talk to him.”

  Brixton readily consented to Dugan’s going with Blake when the latter explained his reasons for the request; another detective would be assigned to take in the head waiter. The District Attorney advised, however, that Blake and Dugan work with the police in the search.

  Blake did not report that part of Brixton’s reply to Dugan. He wanted to effect Miss Vane’s release himself, before Arthur Layman could get back to New York to help. He did not stop to analyze the feeling that caused him to wish to be a hero in her eyes, but his pulse beat faster at the idea.

  They visited half a dozen fourth floor apartments which had yellow scrim curtains without result. Little or no objection was made to their search when Blake set forth the reasons. At intervals they saw police and detectives entering and leaving buildings. The sight spurred Blake on to renewed efforts; help was near if t
hey encountered opposition. The opposition developed when they reached the seventh apartment. A bland, heavy-set, Oriental-looking man opened the door and stood solidly on the threshold. Blake’s heart beat faster as he noted the Chinese cast to the man’s eyes and features.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Dugan nudged Blake’s arm to be quiet and himself took charge of the situation. He showed his detective’s badge.

  “From Headquarters. We’ve been detailed to visit the houses in this neighborhood. We have a description of a certain room at the back of an apartment facing towards the East River where it is believed a young boy is being held for ransom. We want to look for that room from the rear of your apartment.”

  “Now I’d like awfully to oblige you gentlemen,” said the man with an oily goodness of heart that was offensive to Blake, “but we have a very sick woman in the house and she can’t be disturbed.”

  “We’ll make no disturbance,” promised Dugan. “She won’t even know we are here. A hall or kitchen window will do.”

  “Even a strange footstep sets her off into spasms of nervousness. I’d have to have the doctor’s orders.”

  “Who is her doctor?”

  Blake thought the man’s black, beady eyes shifted uncertainly at Dugan’s question, but his answer came so quickly that he half doubted his impression.

  “Dr. Walker—Dr. Shadwell Walker—but unfortunately he is out of town today.”

  “Police have been thrown entirely around the block,” said Dugan, “and every apartment is being searched thoroughly. You will find us much quieter than the police. Five minutes or less and we’ll be through.”

  “Can you guarantee that no more police or detectives will want to come in to look for that room?”

  “Sure. I’ll give you a written order that you are not to be bothered again, stating that I have examined all the rooms visible from your flat. Show that to the police and you will be spared further annoyance.”

  The man hesitated, scrutinizing Dugan’s face from between narrowed lids. “Very well,” he said at length. “I will admit you to the kitchen, but I warn you that the least noise will have most serious consequences—most serious.”

  “That will be O.K. We’ll be quiet as mice.”

  “Follow me.”

  Blake found his nerves so taut that he was on the verge of trembling. He was certain that Miss Vane was in this flat. She had described her guard as Oriental in appearance, and the man had been most reluctant to let them in. Behind the fat man’s back he nodded his head energetically to Dugan. They heard the lock click as the door was shut. They tiptoed down a long hall at the end of which the Oriental-looking individual opened a door and motioned to them to enter. The kitchen was in disorder, unwashed dishes being piled up in the sink, the floor sadly in need of a broom and mop.

  “My wife has been too busy taking care of the sick woman to put the kitchen to rights,” explained the man in his carefully lowered voice.

  “Sure she has,” replied Dugan as he went to the one window in the room. It had dirty white scrim curtains and commanded a clear view of the Metropolitan Tower. Dugan leaned far out, pretending to examine the windows across the rear yards. Their unwilling host watched him narrowly, while Blake kept his eyes on the fat man. Dugan motioned to Blake to join him, and then gestured with his thumb towards a window to the left of the one out of which they were leaning. It had yellow scrim curtains. Even as they looked, a green shade was pulled sharply down.

  The two men exchanged glances. Blake drew back into the kitchen and Dugan beckoned their involuntary host to approach.

  “See that apartment with the geranium in the window? That answers the description of the window we are looking for. Have you ever seen a young boy, about eight to ten years old, standing in front of it?”

  The oily man gave a negligent glance in the direction indicated. “No, I can’t say that I have. Wait a moment, though—that next window just to the left, I have a dim recollection of seeing a boy at it. Yes, I’m sure I have. Several times, in fact, now that I think of it.”

  “Thanks. That’s where we will look then.”

  In drawing away from the window, Dugan, as if by accident, bumped into the fat man, and putting out an arm to steady himself, knocked a tumbler from the stack of dishes in the sink. It hit the floor with a crash and broke into several pieces.

  “Blake! What made you be so careless?” cried Dugan in a voice loud enough to be heard all over the apartment.

  “Now you’ve done it!” cried the oily man, threateningly. “I warned you——”

  “Mr. Blake!” cried a feminine voice from a room across the hallway. “Here I—”

  Her voice was suddenly cut off, and a sound of scuffling came to them.

  “It’s Miss Vane!” exclaimed Blake, and sprang for the door, but the Oriental-looking man was ahead of him. He turned facing Blake, all his offensive goodness transformed into black rage. Blake seized a chair and used it as a battering ram to hurl the fat figure out of the way just as the latter’s hand was making a grab towards his inside coat pocket. Blake entered the hallway and, finding the door across the way locked, hurled his weight against it. As it gave way he stumbled into a small room, darkened by drawn shades. A frowsy woman, almost as fat as the man in the kitchen, was struggling with a girl whom he knew at once, despite the dim light, was Edith Vane. He took the older woman in his arms and dragged her away from Miss Vane, hurling her with such force that she fell to the floor and lay there moaning. He paid no further attention to her, but advanced quickly to Miss Vane, his arms outstretched. With an unconsciousness as great as his own, the girl walked straight into them.

  “Edith! Miss Vane, I——”

  Her face was upturned. Blake quickly lowered his head and kissed her. She drew back, startled, and looked at him in a puzzled way. Then he found her arms about his neck and he was kissing her again. This time his kiss was returned.

  The report of a revolver shot in the kitchen startled them back into a sense of their danger, and Blake was striving to free himself from her arms, which clung to him all the tighter, when the door opened and the oily, fat man, a still smoking revolver in his hand, entered and held them covered.

  CHAPTER XX — BETTERLING IS EXPLANATORY AND EVASIVE

  IT WAS two hours before Kemerson was released from the locked room in the vacant house, long after he had fired every shot in his revolver without having attracted attention. It was the distrust of Chester Garman, the loquacious real estate agent, which led to the actor’s release. Disquieted by Kemerson’s account of a murderous shot having been fired from the building he had for rent, Garman had gone to the police station and reported that Kemerson had not returned the borrowed key. He wanted to know what was going on in the house, but was too timorous to go there alone.

  The Lieutenant at the desk dispatched two policemen with the real estate agent. They found the front door locked, but Garman had brought the key to the tradesmen’s entrance under the stoop.

  Kemerson, hearing heavy footsteps ascending the stairs, shouted and hammered on the door with his revolver. Satisfied of the actor’s identity, the policemen broke down the door. Flinging his rescuers but a word of thanks, Kemerson sped up the stairway to the third floor. As he had suspected, the window sill in the rear room had been wiped clean of dust and finger-prints.

  “I guess I am an easy-chair detective, Swinton,” he remarked to the older of the two policemen, who had worked with him on the Skyrocket Murder Case. “I allowed myself to be trapped by the murderer of Kiyoshi like a veritable ninny. I thought I was trailing him through the empty building; instead, he was trailing me, leading me on, laughing at me.”

  “He’s a clever criminal, Mr. Kemerson,” said Swinton, with a sly smile at his fellow officer. “Even the best of us get let down at times!”

  “But were you ever locked up by the man you were after?”

  “No, I can’t say that I ever was.” Swinton tried vainly to make his face
appear properly commiserative. “You didn’t manage to get a good squint at him, did you?”

  “I did not see him at all. I heard his steps, heard his laugh as he locked me in——”

  “Well, a laugh is not much to go by in identifying a man.”

  Garman got his key from the actor and stated emphatically that he’d be blamed if he ever again gave it to anybody who wanted to inspect that house.

  Kemerson stopped at a telephone booth to call Mr. Brixton and learned from him that Mrs. Morne and James Betterling had been waiting in the office for more than two hours.

  “That about lets him out as far as the murder of Kiyoshi is concerned,” said Kemerson, “for the murderer of Kiyoshi imprisoned me in the vacant house not more than two hours ago. Yet there are some matters I want Betterling to explain. I’ll be down in twenty minutes.”

  Arrived at Mr. Brixton’s office he explained more fully his reasons for wanting to question Mrs. Morne and Betterling before the District Attorney.

  Betterling was called in first. Apparently quite at his ease, he could not hide a sudden flame of anger at sight of the actor.

  “Mr. Brixton says you want to question me, Kemerson.”

  “Very decidedly I do. When did you last see Morne’s Jap valet?”

  “It was several days before Morne started on his airplane trip.”

  “You know Kiyoshi was murdered this morning?”

  “I saw a headline to that effect in a newspaper.”

  “You weren’t curious enough to read the story?”

  “I am not interested in Kiyoshi.”

  “Then why did you and Mrs. Morne call on him less than an hour before he was shot?”

  Betterling smiled derisively. “Where am I supposed to have seen him?”

  “At the O’Toole apartment in West Forty-Ninth Street. You were accompanied by Mrs. Morne.”

  “You have the proof for your assertions, of course?”

  “Naturally. You were seen leaving the place.” Kemerson did not yet wish to show his hand.

  “That is simple—mistaken identity.”