Parachute Murder Read online

  Blake glanced quickly up and found a pair of keen gray eyes boring into his own. He perceived a hint of danger in that question and read suspicion in the detective’s intent scrutiny.

  “You realize, of course,” he replied, warily, “that I wanted to keep myself entirely in the background until the story had been sprung and the city editors had fallen for it. The reporters had no reason to connect me with Morne’s disappearance. The news was received late, after the dramatic editors, who have my telephone number, had gone home. It is an unlisted number. The reporters very likely telephoned only to persons whose names they found in the directory.”

  “You were not out of town?”

  “I was in the Siddarth box office around ten o’clock last night, and in my office at ten this morning.”

  “And between those hours?” demanded Dugan.

  “I am a press agent, and not a murderer, if that is what you are hinting at,” replied Blake, his temper rising.

  “There, young fellow, don’t get sore. I am just checking up on Morne, and on you. I’ll do the same on everyone who saw him alive yesterday. The D.A. may want to see you later. What is your home telephone number?”

  Dugan noted the number in a little red book, and observed: “What you have told me tallies pretty square with facts we have already learned. There may be a few trifling discrepancies that the D.A. will want to check up on.”

  “I’ll be glad to oblige him in any way I can,” said Blake. He breathed a sigh of relief after the detective had gone. He pressed the buzzer and his secretary appeared at once, note-book in hand, but instead of her usual cheery smile, her lips were pressed tightly together, and in her eyes lingered a look of resentment.

  “Miss Burton, did the man who just left question you before I got back from lunch?”

  “He did, Mr. Blake, but that’s all the good it did him. I told him I knew nothing about Chadwick Morne’s airplane flight.”

  “Did he ask anything else?”

  “He tried to pump me about you. Precious little satisfaction he got out of that! I told him I was paid to work for you, not to talk about your private affairs to strangers.”

  “What did he want to know about me?”

  “He asked if I knew where you were last night. I told him I knew no more about your movements after I left the office than you did about mine. The creature positively leered and said that you might know all about what I did after five o’clock—that he’d be the last one to blame you——”

  “That was doubtless intended for a compliment, Miss Burton.”

  “Compliment indeed!” The aggrieved secretary tossed her head. “Not when it’s said in that tone of voice. I did not even reply to him.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He asked how long you had known Mrs. Morne—if you were friends with her before her marriage.” Miss Burton could not conceal a look of surprise at the consternation that spread over Blake’s face, and was as quickly suppressed.

  “What did you reply to that?”

  “I referred him to you. I said you had never told me the story of your life; that I was employed here as your secretary, not as your confidante.”

  “Quite right, Miss Burton, but I wish you had been a shade more diplomatic. He is a detective from the District Attorney’s office.”

  Miss Burton’s eyes opened to their fullest extent; her lips remained parted, revealing a set of remarkably white and even teeth.

  “What does the District Attorney—I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake. That’s none of my business.”

  “It may be before we’ve finished. The District Attorney believes that Morne was murdered and is checking up on his movements just before he boarded the Silver Lark.”

  “But you did not have anything to do with his flight!” protested Miss Burton, loyally.

  “As a matter of fact, I suggested it as a publicity stunt. I did not tell you because I wanted no loophole through which his disappearance could in any way be connected with this office.”

  “You know I would never have said a word,” began Miss Burton, with a hurt look, but Blake waved her into silence.

  “I had no doubt of your loyalty or discretion. It’s just that in a ‘plant’, such as this was to have been, the fewer the persons who know about it the better. A leak—and the whole story goes flooey. As it has turned out, it was for the best that I did not tell you about it.”

  After he had dismissed his secretary, the press agent sat down for a period of earnest reflection. Why had not Dugan asked him, instead of his secretary, about his acquaintance with Mrs. Morne before her marriage? And how had the District Attorney’s office learned that he had known the actor’s widow while she was Doris Davis? If his past life had been gone into so minutely already, it must mean that he was even now under suspicion of complicity in the murder of Morne—perhaps of being the actual murderer. That was why Dugan had been so inquisitive about his whereabouts during the night, and the reason why no reporter had run him to earth!

  He tried unsuccessfully to dismiss the whole matter from his mind by plunging into the work that was awaiting his attention. He had written and torn up two stories on Veronica Vernon, Siddarth’s new star for the coming season, when Miss Burton came quickly into his office, closing the door tight behind her.

  “That detective is here again, Mr. Blake. Do you want to slip out the back way?”

  “No, that might look suspicious. Let him come in.”

  “Mr. Blake will see you,” she said, opening the door wide and backing up against the wall so that the detective would not brush her clothing as he entered. Dugan grinned cheerfully at her as he waited for her to leave. When she had shut the door, he turned to Blake with a curious, level look.

  “The Chief wants to see you.”

  “All right. What time?”

  “Now.”

  “If it is so urgent why didn’t you save time by telephoning?”

  “When the D.A. tells me to bring a man in, I don’t telephone an invitation.”

  “And give the invited person an opportunity to run away,” added Blake, dryly.

  “In many cases that is the reason, Mr. Blake,” laughed Dugan, “but not with you. It is just custom.” The smile on Dugan’s lips was not reflected in his eyes, and it was with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that the press agent prepared to accompany him.

  CHAPTER III — A THREAT COMES HOME TO ROOST

  BLAKE recognized the District Attorney at once from his newspaper portraits. Walton Brixton was a tall, large-boned man, with calm face, quiet eyes, and a thick mustache the brown of which was freely streaked with gray. He had made good in the District Attorney’s office in an unobtrusive way, never courting newspaper publicity, of which he received plenty. He had obtained results; as a rule he got them quickly, and took pride in the business efficiency of his office.

  “You are Stephen Blake?” he asked, with a quick, upward look.

  “I am. Mr. Dugan said you wanted to see me.”

  Mr. Brixton plunged at once into the business before him.

  “From reports I have received on the death of Chadwick Morne, I can only conclude that he was murdered, and that the crime was planned in this city, and that it can be cleared up only by tracing Morne’s movements and interests here. As Arnold Siddarth’s publicity director you have been in close touch with Morne for the past three or four years. I understand from Detective Dugan that the actor’s airplane flight was a press agent trick, gotten up to keep his name before the public during the summer; that you proposed it and made the arrangements for it, keeping under cover; that in the hunt for information, the reporters last night signally failed to get in touch with you. That strikes me as strange—almost unbelievable—when it would naturally be supposed by a reporter that you knew more about Morne than anyone else. How could that happen—even though you do have a secret telephone number?”

  “Only the dramatic editors know it, Mr. Brixton, and they had gone home long before the wires carried
the story of Morne’s disappearance from the Silver Lark. I have not been called at my rooms more than half a dozen times in four years. The reporters did not know how to reach me at that hour of the morning.”

  “Why did you want an unlisted number?”

  “Most of my friends and associates keep late hours. If they knew how to get me after the theatre closes I would be kept up most of the night, and my work suffer in consequence.”

  “Were you seen late last night at the Siddarth Theatre?”

  “Yes; I was both backstage and in the box office there and at the Jefferson Theatre.”

  “How late can you prove that you were at the theatres?”

  “I left the Jefferson Theatre after the second act—about nine forty-five, and crossed the street to the Siddarth Theatre where I remained for ten or fifteen minutes. After that I went home.”

  “Around ten o’clock. Can you prove you were in your rooms at that hour?”

  “No. I have two rooms on the main floor of a private house. I saw no one, heard no one, when I let myself in.”

  “Did anyone see you leave this morning?”

  “I do not believe so, but I was in my office at ten o’clock. My secretary will corroborate that statement.

  A few minutes after eleven I was called on the ‘phone by Albert Dawson, dramatic editor of the World.”

  “Then between the hours of ten p.m., or thereabouts, last night and ten o’clock this morning you have no witnesses as to your presence in the city?”

  “No, sir. The maid who takes care of my rooms can testify that my bed was slept in.”

  “Was there any ill-feeling between you and Mr. Morne?”

  “No ill-feeling; no.”

  “Were you friends?”

  “My dealings with him were of a business nature. He was one of Mr. Siddarth’s stars. It was my duty to keep his name before the public.”

  “You would let no personal dislikes interfere with your duty to your employer?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “You knew Mr. Morne before he came to New York?”

  “He was a member of the Newman stock company in Minneapolis when I was its press agent.”

  The District Attorney consulted a memorandum which Detective Dugan placed before him.

  “You knew the present Mrs. Morne at that time?”

  “Yes; she played ingenue roles in the company.” Mr. Brixton leaned forward on the desk, bringing his face on a level with Blake’s and looked straight into the press agent’s eyes.

  “You were in love with Doris Davis, as Mrs. Morne was then known. You had a fight with Morne about her. Isn’t it a fact that you threatened his life when you went to her hotel rooms one morning and found Morne there?”

  “Possibly. I was beside myself with jealousy. I thought she intended to marry me. One always says some hot-headed things in such circumstances.”

  “Later you repeated that threat before witnesses.”

  “That was a long time ago. I was young then, and very much in love.”

  “You have not nursed your hatred of him through the intervening years?”

  “She preferred Morne to me; that ended the matter. I have never liked Morne personally, but I worked for his interests as long as they coincided with Mr. Siddarth’s.”

  “His treatment of his wife must have made your blood boil many times since then.”

  “I have not seen them together more than half a dozen times in two years. I have heard stories of his mistreatment of his wife, but it was no affair of mine.”

  “Had you been of a more vindictive nature, you might have found a means of satisfying your grudge against him in this airplane stunt.”

  “I would not have had to wait for that. The parachute leap was simply a means of keeping Morne before the public. No one could have foreseen the fatal result it has had. He had been an expert parachute jumper——”

  “Yes, I understand so. There is nothing you can add to throw any light on the affair? Any enemies with a more unforgiving nature than yours?”

  “Not being familiar with his private affairs, I cannot tell you.”

  “That is all for the present. I may wish to talk with you again when our investigation is farther along.”

  “I shall be glad to be of service in any way I can, Mr. Brixton.”

  “Then where was Mrs. Morne last night?” The question was shot at him almost savagely. Blake hesitated out of sheer surprise.

  “I do not know.”

  “Good day.”

  Dugan accompanied him out of the office.

  “The D.A.’s a great guy,” he said, flicking his thumb towards the room they had just left. “And wise. They don’t put much over on him.”

  CHAPTER IV — TRAILING LIGHTS

  “SO you were once in love with Morne’s wife?” Kemerson commented reflectively, after listening to Blake’s account of Dugan’s call on him and his own visit to the District Attorney’s office. He had finished his part in The Daisy Chain, and was rubbing the last of the make-up from his face. “That’s just the sort of thing the police would seize upon. It gives them a preliminary theory upon which to work. Are you still in love with her?”

  “I like her—pity her for the life she has led with Morne, but I’m not in love with her. I’d like to see her happily married to the man she loves.”

  “She is in love then? And she was not in her apartment last night. There is a lead for the police. Who is the man?”

  “I can’t tell you. Sorry I said that much.”

  “It will come out in time.”

  “Not through me. I’ll not add anything to her unhappiness.”

  “So? Still a tender spot? Well, I presume we all have our chivalrous side where the woman we once loved—and perhaps have not forgotten—is concerned. A clever detective will soon ferret out the name of her lover. The question now is: Can you prove you were in New York last night? Did anybody see you this morning before you left your rooms?”

  “No, I’m sure not. I saw no one.”

  “Where did you breakfast?”

  “At a little restaurant around the corner from Mrs. Handsaker’s—the usual place, but half an hour later than usual.”

  “That has a suspicious look. Why were you late?”

  “I stopped to read the stories about Morne’s disappearance in the morning papers.”

  “Would the newsdealer remember your buying a complete set of papers?”

  “I ordered Tony to deliver a complete set this morning, instead of the two I usually get.”

  “Did he wake you when he delivered them?”

  “No. My rooms are just off the main hallway on the first floor. The front door is left unlocked when the milk is taken in so that Tony can leave the papers at my door. They were stolen several times when thrown on the stoop.”

  “Do you snore?”

  Blake looked his astonishment. “Why, yes, I suppose I do. What has that—Oh, I see! Perhaps Tony heard me snoring.”

  “That would at least prove that someone was in your room shortly before eight o’clock. Presumably it would have been you. One step towards an alibi. Do you sing in your bath? Or whistle while you are shaving?”

  “Not guilty, I am sorry to say. Perhaps someone in the house heard my alarm clock. It was set for eight.”

  “Make inquiries on that point. Don’t think it an unimportant matter. The District Attorney won’t. I know Walton Brixton; I have worked with him on two or three small cases. He is very relentless behind that calm exterior. No clue, however small, is abandoned until he is convinced it leads nowhere.”

  “I’d certainly feel much safer if you were investigating Morne’s death instead of the District Attorney,” Blake observed, gloomily. “I’d at least feel that you were not trying to fasten a crime upon me just for the sake of having another conviction to your political credit.” He strode moodily about the actor’s small dressing room, and then whirled eagerly towards Kemerson. “Why can’t you investigate the case for me? Y
ou said it has points that interest you. I’d gladly pay——”

  “I don’t believe you are in actual danger of being charged with Morne’s murder,” said Kemerson. “Brixton is a keen judge of character. He is not the coldblooded official type who would fasten a crime on an innocent man for the sake of one more conviction to his credit. You do him injustice there. I confess the case does interest me, because, mainly, of its theatrical ramifications, and those are just the reasons that may lead Brixton to consult me. If he should, or if you are charged with the murder, I will take up the investigation in earnest. In the meantime, do what you can to prove that you slept in your own bed last night.”

  Tony was still at his newsstand when Blake turned into East Thirty-eighth Street, but he could tell the press agent nothing that would help him prove an alibi. He did not fare much better at his landlady’s. Mrs. Handsaker had been on the third floor rear at eight o’clock and had not heard his alarm clock. The house was a substantial old residence with thick walls and partitions. Mrs. O’Connell, general utility maid, had been running the electric washing machine in the basement at that hour and would have been oblivious to any noise less loud than a cannon shot in any other part of the house. Mrs. Handsaker offered to question Nora in the morning.

  Smoking a pipe in his sitting room, Blake found himself too nervous and agitated to concentrate upon the manuscript of Haddington’s new play that Mr. Siddarth had asked him to read, and he walked up to Times Square to get the early editions of such morning papers as would be out at midnight. A flaring headline across the page of the more sensational of the big sheets informed him that Morne had been murdered by a robber, and that the police of Carlstown expected to make an arrest within a few hours. He stopped in front of a cigar store to read the article.

  Sheriff Cotter promises an arrest by morning in the murder of Chadwick Morne, New York theatrical star, whose body was found in a pasture beside the roadway in Lincoln township. Careful search of the premises where the body was found by Rolf Perkin revealed a series of round depressions in the grass and on the bare soil that puzzled the sheriff and his deputies until they had followed them for a distance of several rods when the imprint of a man’s shoe was discovered alternating with the small round holes.