Parachute Murder Read online

  “Perhaps you are right,” said Kemerson. “Neither the ring nor the stickpin were found on the body.”

  “Was much money found on him?”

  “Fifty dollars in bills and some loose change, according to the District Attorney’s information.”

  “Then he was murdered for his money and his jewelry,” declared Chase. “Mr. Vanuzzi said the actor’s bill-fold was crammed with money.”

  “How did the Italian know that?”

  “He explained that Morne opened his pocket-book to show him a newspaper clipping, and that he saw quite a wad of money.”

  “I understand that it was Vanuzzi who reported that Morne was missing.”

  “He made the outcry, but it was Mr. Layman who discovered Morne was not on the Silver Lark. He awakened Mr. Vanuzzi.”

  “Did any of the passengers report a quarrel between Vanuzzi and Morne?”

  “Not a quarrel exactly; high words. Both Miss Vane and Mr. Layman reported that. Layman said that he awoke from a doze about one o’clock and looked at his watch to estimate how much of the distance to Cleveland had been covered, and noticed that both the actor and Vanuzzi were not in their seats.”

  “Was he awakened by any unusual sound?”

  “He did not mention anything of the sort; just that he woke up, looked at his watch and wondered at both men being in the wash room at the same time.”

  “Did he see one or both of them return to their seats?” Blake noticed an eager, snapping light in Kemerson’s eyes, and felt that the actor placed much weight on the pilot’s reply.

  “He saw Mr. Morne return, pick up a bag, and go back to the lavatory.”

  “That was all?”

  “Mr. Layman said he went back to sleep and slept. soundly. He was surprised that he could sleep so well for he had been nervous, never having made a night flight before. He was awakened suddenly by some sound—perhaps it was the slamming shut of the door—and saw Morne’s empty chair, and the bag he had picked up lying open on the floor. He aroused Mr. Vanuzzi and the two men searched the ship for Morne. When they failed to find him, Mr. Vanuzzi gave the alarm. The only thing they found was the opened bag.”

  “What was in it?”

  “That’s another strange thing, Mr. Kemerson; it was empty.”

  “How large was it?” asked Blake. “Big enough to hold a parachute?”

  “Why, yes, now that you speak of it, it was about that size.”

  “Any of the parachutes on the Silver Lark missing?” asked Kemerson.

  “No. I counted them to make certain.”

  Blake nodded to Kemerson as the latter looked inquiringly at him. The bag had been bought to hold the parachute.

  “Which was Morne’s seat?” asked the actor. “This one by the door?”

  “Mr. Vanuzzi sat there. Mr. Morne was on the other side, directly opposite the door. Mr. Layman had the chair in front of Morne, and Mr. Carter the next. The last seat on the left was unoccupied. On the other side, in front of Vanuzzi, was the blind woman, Mrs. Delano; her companion, Miss Vane, had the front seat on that side. The back seats were vacant. Not many passengers book seats in the night planes yet.”

  “Morne could not have chosen a better seat had he planned to jump from the plane,” observed Kemerson.

  “Why, no, he couldn’t,” replied the pilot. “Two steps would take him across to the door. He could have pushed it open, dropped from the plane and floated down in the moonlight.”

  “Did you learn anything else that might be of value to the police in unraveling the mystery?”

  “No. I thought Miss Vane had something she wanted to say, but I could get nothing out of her. The blind woman was in such a nervous state that Miss Vane would not let me question her. Wait a moment! Miss Vane did say something that appeared odd to me at the time. Queer I had forgotten it until this minute! She started to say something about ‘soiled linen in the wash—,’ and suddenly stopped, a terrified look coming into her eyes. I turned to see what had frightened her; she was staring at the Italian who was looking out of the window.”

  “Didn’t you question her further, alone?”

  “I thought it was the state of her nerves, and forgot about it in the excitement of radioing the loss of a passenger to the ground station in Cleveland.”

  “The soiled linen,” said Kemerson, betraying an excitement that Blake found contagious. “You examined it?”

  “No. I never thought of it again.”

  “Is it still on board?”

  “It was sent to the laundry in Chicago.”

  “Too bad,” murmured Kemerson. “She may have seen something suspicious. Blood on a towel perhaps. That’s one important clue destroyed. Do you know the name of the laundry in Chicago?”

  “It’s the White House Laundry, near the airport. I’ll get the address and ‘phone it to you.”

  “Do, Mr. Chase. Some employee may have noticed blood stains. Such things have a habit of lingering in the memory. What kind of a young woman is this Miss Vane? Excitable? Easily frightened?”

  “I saw no evidence of it aside from the terror in her eyes. She impressed me as a remarkably controlled young woman, used to admiration, able to take care of herself.”

  “Did she go on to Chicago?”

  “She and Mrs. Delano left the ship at Cleveland.”

  “Tell me what you can about Mr. Vanuzzi. Did he make a favorable impression on you?”

  “He’s stockily built, of medium height. Speaks excellent English. He appeared very much excited, but frank in his replies to my questions. A little too talkative; I got the idea somehow he talked so much to hide something he did not want to tell.”

  “Did he make any explanation of going to the wash room with Morne?”

  “He said they went back to take a drink from his flask. Miss Vane was awake, and they thought it might annoy her for them to drink in the cabin. I believe Vanuzzi was quite struck by the young woman. His eyes wandered to her face even while he was talking to me. He was very attentive when she and Mrs. Delano left the plane at Cleveland. I thought she was barely civil to him.”

  “Did Mr. Carter have anything to report on the occurrences on the airplane?”

  “He claims not to have observed anything. Went right to sleep, he said, after he had written some letters, and was only awakened at Vanuzzi’s outcry. He did not want to give me his address at first; said he had no time to come back to attend an inquest if the body was ever found.”

  “He said ‘body’ did he?”

  “Yes. He said it wasn’t the first time a man had committed suicide by leaping from an airplane in flight.”

  “Where did he leave the plane?”

  “At Chicago. He was going on to Denver, I believe.”

  “What address did he give?”

  “The Tremont-Lear Hotel, Boston.”

  “Mr. Layman was perfectly frank in his replies?”

  “Entirely so. I wish the other passengers had been as observant and as clear and concise in their statements.” Kemerson next went over the airplane thoroughly, without comment. Chase was eager to be of help, but there was little to be learned from him. He was quite evidently puzzled by Kemerson’s next question.

  “Was a ball of twine, or a length of cord, found in the plane?”

  “String, Mr. Kemerson? I did not see any—never thought of it. Passengers sometimes undo packages on board.”

  “It would be longer than that—a hundred feet or more. Suppose that Morne was killed on the Silver Lark, the parachute fastened to his back, and the body dumped out. Wouldn’t it have been possible for the murderer to fasten one end of a ball of twine to the ring of the parachute and, by a sudden jerk after the body had fallen some distance, to open the parachute?”

  “I see what you mean!” cried the pilot, admiration in his voice. “Yes, I believe it could have been done! But of course the murderer would have got rid of the string simply by throwing it overboard.”

  On the train, returning to New York,
Kemerson was deep in his own thoughts and addressed but few remarks to Blake.

  “Not much of value resulted from our afternoon’s excursion,” he observed as they separated. “But I should like to question Miss Vane regarding the linen in the wash room, and what she saw that struck her into silence. Vanuzzi should be at his night club this evening. Meet me there after the performance, unless you have been able to locate Mrs. Morne by that time.”

  Both Johnny Bursong and Miss Burton had gone home when Blake reached his office. A memorandum from his secretary asked him to telephone a number which he knew to be in Central Park West above the Nineties. In the drawer of his desk was this note from Johnny:

  Dear Mr. Blake:

  I went back to the place where the Jap valet lived and asked all about him. The landlady wouldn’t say anything more at first but when I told her the police wanted to find out if he knew anything about Mr. Morne’s death and would probably come and question her she told everything she knows. She said he had paid his bill of $15.45 and left early in the morning about 7:30 and had a brown suitcase and a small black trunk and called a yellow taxi and rode up Seventh Avenue. She doesn’t know anything else except that a white man came to see Kiyoshi the night before and she heard him call him—the white man, I mean—Mr. Brewster. I don’t know how to find out the license number of the taxi.

  Yours truly,

  J. Bursong

  Well, that was something to go on. The police would doubtless be able to find the chauffeur who had driven Kiyoshi away to some new boarding house. Kiyoshi would not disappear.

  Blake next closed the door from his office into that of his secretary and called the number noted on her memorandum.

  “Call Mrs. Morne to the telephone please,” he said when the connection had been made. “Tell her it is Stephen on the wire.”

  A few moments later he heard her voice. “Oh, Stephen, I’m so glad you called me. I’m dreadfully worried. I must see you.”

  “Can you tell me over the ‘phone? I’ve no doubt I am watched and would be followed if I tried to see you.”

  “What do they want to watch you for?”

  “They suspect me of having something to do with your husband’s murder.”

  “Oh, the fools!” There was such utter contempt in her voice over the wire that Blake experienced a glow of gratitude. “I suppose they’ll be accusing me next,” she continued.

  “They want you. Listen carefully. The D.A. has engaged Kirk Kemerson to investigate the murder. He seems to believe the story I tell him, and has asked me to aid him. He wants to see you, as I told you in my telegram.”

  “But, Stephen! I’ve had no telegram from you!”

  “I sent it about two o’clock. I thought the butler would ‘phone it to you. Doesn’t he know where you are?”

  “Yes, but there is a policeman on watch in the hallway. Perhaps he got your message!” Blake caught the accents of fear in the voice over the wire. “You didn’t say anything that would—”

  “No, you can trust me for that, Doris, but I don’t want the police to see that telegram. Do you dare call up your apartment and ask Steep about it? If he has it, tell him you know what was in it and ask him to destroy it at once.”

  “I’ll have to. I don’t so much mind the police knowing where I am. It’s the reporters I am afraid of. If they get hold of it...What did you say in the telegram?”

  Blake repeated the gist of his message. “That ‘Play safe’ might subject me—and you, too—to much annoyance.”

  “Stephen, why is there a policeman in front of my apartment?”

  “They have learned you were not at home the night Morne was killed. Naturally, they are suspicious of that and because you have hidden away. I’ve already been questioned about you and Mr. Betterling——”

  Blake stopped speaking at the gasp that he heard plainly over the wire. There was silence for so long that he called her name several times before he heard her voice, faintly.

  “What...what about him, Stephen?”

  “It was a reporter who was trying to pump me. He was curious about your being seen so frequently with Jim. I said that he escorted you around because your husband was at the theatre so much, and that it was with his knowledge and permission.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, Stephen. I hope some day you will know how grateful I am for all you have done for me.”

  “You will have to talk with Mr. Kemerson, Doris,” continued Blake with some urgency in his voice. “It will be much better for him to question you than for the police to do it. See him tonight after his performance. I will come with him—wherever you say.”

  “Bring him here then,” and she gave him her address, in the west Nineties as Blake had suspected. “But can’t I see you first? We’ve got to arrange what we say so there will be no variance in our stories. Can I see you in your office now, or any time before we see Mr. Kemerson?”

  “That is too dangerous. You tell Mr. Kemerson whatever you want to. I will hear your story, and if I am ever questioned about it will simply repeat what you tell him. Don’t forget to call up about the telegram. It’s most important that it be destroyed. I was a fool to send it, but I had to reach you. I was sure Steep knew where you are.”

  “He does. That’s what makes me afraid. I’ll telephone you. What time will you be in your office?”

  “Do it now. I will wait here until I hear from you.”

  He did not try to work while he waited—simply sat there thinking out the line of action he would have to pursue if Mrs. Morne should be cornered by the police and forced to tell certain things that she wished kept secret. It was less than ten minutes later when his telephone rang. It was Mrs. Morne on the wire, breathless, frantic.

  “Stephen! There’s some strange man in my apartment! I called up and a voice I didn’t recognize answered. I asked for Steep. The voice said he was Steep and wanted to know who it was calling. But it was not Steep. The voice was nothing like his. It sounded Irish——”

  “The police!” cried Blake. “They will trace the call. Don’t stay there another minute! Go out—any place. Go to a theatre. I’ll leave a ticket for you at the Irving box office in the name of Mrs. Martin. When the performance is over, I’ll be in the lobby. If I’m not, get into a taxi and drive to Mr. Kemerson’s apartment. I’ll arrange with him to be there ahead of you. He is on but a few minutes in the last act.”

  “I wish you were here——”

  “Hush!” cried Blake. “There’s someone at my door!”

  He hung up and stared at the door which opened slowly.

  CHAPTER VIII — A LETTER FROM THE DEAD

  BLAKE stood tense as the door into his office was pushed wide open to reveal a postman. He was so relieved that he beamed at his visitor.

  “You are late, aren’t you?”

  “I’m just about through. I’ve got a special delivery letter for Mr. Stephen Blake. The treasurer said for me to come up. I heard a voice and came in.”

  “That’s right. I am Stephen Blake.” He signed for the letter, and glanced at the address. His quickly stifled cry caused the letter-carrier to turn back from the doorway.

  “Anything the matter?” he asked. There seemed to Blake to be such an eager, suspicious look on the man’s face that he quickly controlled his own features.

  “Just a sudden pain in my side. It’s gone now.”

  The postman lingered for a moment as though loath to go, but when Blake bade him an emphatic good night, he went out, slowly closing the door. Blake listened to his steps as he went down the single flight of stairs to the lobby, staring meanwhile at the envelope in his hand.

  It was addressed in Chadwick Morne’s handwriting!

  Then it suddenly occurred to Blake that he had not heard the postman’s footsteps as he came up the stairs and along the hallway; had not even heard the door into his secretary’s office open. Was the man a spy for the District Attorney or for the police? Stepping quietly, he opened the door from his office directly i
nto the hallway. Down the corridor, he glimpsed the head of the stairway. The postman had stopped on the landing and was adjusting the mail-sack over his shoulders. He did not look up at Blake, and a moment later he had disappeared. Had his stopping been an accident, or had he intended to come back and burst through the door while Blake was reading the letter? The press agent shrugged his shoulders. “Hell, I’m getting jumpy. Why should a postman spy upon me?”

  Back at his desk, he slit open the envelope and drew out two sheets of paper covered with Morne’s sprawling handwriting. The postmark on the envelope was Carlstown, Ohio, and the time stamped at 8 o’clock the previous evening. With a feeling of foreboding, Blake read the letter, which bore no date.

  Dear Blake:

  I had no more than taken my seat in the Silver Lark, when Giulio Vanuzzi entered and took the chair across the aisle. He did not act surprised to see me. Someone must have learned of my taking passage on the airplane and told Giulio. Probably Kiyoshi. I found him in my dressing room yesterday when I was moving out to make way for Miss Ballister. He pretended to be brushing my coat, but in his hands was the envelope containing my ticket. I told him I was taking a little trip that I did not want anyone to know about. He smiled in that quiet manner of his which infuriates me at times, and I turned away. Feeling his eyes upon me, I whirled suddenly and there was such a look of hate in them that I feared for a moment that he was going to spring at me. I grasped the back of a chair, ready to protect myself, but he merely smiled as he hung up my coat, remarking that he never talked. I think I shall get rid of Kiyoshi and get a negro valet.

  With Giulio on board watching me—for he is watching me, almost constantly—I may not be able to carry out our plan. I shall have this letter mailed at Cleveland where we stop to take on passengers and to fill up the tanks. If you get it you will know that I could not make the leap.