Parachute Murder Read online

  The hat-check girl recognized Brewster from Blake’s description; his height and broad shoulders made him easily remembered. He had got his hat but a moment before. He might be on the sidewalk waiting for a cab. Kemerson ran bareheaded down into the street, with Blake at his heels. A taxi was just turning into Broadway.

  “Call a taxi and overtake me going north on Broadway!” cried Kemerson, and darted westward.

  There was not a vacant cab on the street and, after waiting a minute or two, fuming with impatience, Blake ran to Broadway and met Kemerson returning for his hat.

  “A fine pair of detectives we make! We have Morne’s valet in our hands and let him get away! We have a man who wants us to believe Kiyoshi Nimura is Ken-taro Kawa—something or other—and he gives us the slip as easily as Houdini freeing himself from handcuffs! Now why should two men want to conceal the identity of Morne’s valet? The Jap knows something that neither man wants divulged.”

  They retrieved their hats and parted on the sidewalk.

  “Meet me at the District Attorney’s office at ten tomorrow morning,” said Kemerson. “We’ll see if the detectives can’t run down both Kiyoshi and Brewster.”

  CHAPTER X — THE ACCOUNT OF THE EAR-WITNESS

  ON the subway the next morning on his way to keep his appointment with Kemerson, Blake’s eye was caught by the caption over an editorial in the Star, most sensational of the large-size newspapers: WHAT ARE THE POLICE DOING? His own name jumped out at him from the text and he read the editorial eagerly.

  What are the police doing to solve the murder of Chadwick Morne? Two days have elapsed and both the District Attorney’s office and the Police Department maintain the silence of the tomb. So far as the public knows, nothing has been done on the New York end of the case. The reporters for The Star have uncovered several leads which, if followed to an issue by the legally constituted authorities, would point the finger of suspicion at one or more residents of this city. Suspicions which, in justice to themselves, should be cleared up to prove their innocence.

  Was Chadwick Morne’s journey on the Silver Lark a press agent stunt, engineered by Stephen Blake, publicity director for Arnold Siddarth? Or was it a plot, entered into by persons as yet unknown, for the deliberate purpose of doing away with the famous star? Was Morne murdered on the Silver Lark and the parachute attached to his body merely as a blind to direct suspicion towards the person finding his body on the ground? The Star has three further questions which it wishes to ask of the District Attorney and of the Police Department:

  Why does Mrs. Chadwick Morne refuse to state where she was on the night of her husband’s murder?

  Where was a certain theatrical manager whose name has been freely coupled with that of the actor’s widow?

  Where was Stephen Blake, the press agent, on that night?

  The Star believes they should come forward with frank statements of their whereabouts on that night: If they have any information that will help to clear up the mystery of Chadwick Morne’s disappearance from the Silver Lark and the subsequent finding of his body in an Ohio pasture, with a bullet through his chest, now is the time for them to come forward.

  An intense anger consumed Blake as he read the editorial—an anger so devastating that the blood forsook his face. What had the newspaper discovered that gave it such boldness? Ideas of a suit for libel, of calling on the editor and demanding satisfaction, coursed through his mind. This was followed by a torpor of emotion, a numbness of sensation and of mental indecision that left him weak and breathing so rapidly that the air did not seem to get down into his lungs. His station was called before he had calmed himself enough to turn to the news column account of the Morne case.

  It lacked but five minutes of the hour at which he was to meet Kemerson, and he went straight to the District Attorney’s office. The actor was waiting for him in the anteroom. He motioned Blake to a seat at his side.

  “So you have broken into the Star’s independent investigation of the parachute murder.” He tapped the newspaper Blake had been reading. “But you have company—Mrs. Morne and James Betterling, the man she loves. Oh, I know he is the man of whom, for reasons of your own—mistaken chivalry, perhaps—you prevented Vanuzzi from speaking by upsetting the whiskey bottle. His name was bound to come into the case sooner or later. It came much later than I had expected, as did your own connection with the affair. The newspaper may be entirely honest in its protestations of wanting to see justice done, or it may have a political axe to grind. Brixton once won a whopping big libel suit against the Star.”

  A policeman approached and said that Mr. Brixton was ready to receive them. They found him reading a telegram. He shook hands with Kemerson and nodded curtly to Blake.

  “If this message had arrived half an hour earlier,” said Mr. Brixton, “I should have telephoned you not to come. The Morne case is solved. So the authorities of Carlstown believe. It looks as though the evidence they have discovered makes a clear case of murder for robbery.”

  Blake felt the blood coming into his cheeks, and his knees beginning to shake, so great was his relief. But Kemerson did not appear to share his relief.

  “The one-legged man, I presume?”

  “Well, partly—as an accessory after the fact if not as one of the murderers.”

  “I can’t agree with you, Walton. It is not so simple as that.”

  “But you haven’t read the telegram,” objected Mr. Brixton.

  “I don’t need to. It would be too much of a coincidence to have Morne killed for his money and a jewel or two when there are several persons in New York who had reasons for wishing him out of the way. But I’ll read your telegram.”

  When he had glanced at it, he passed it over to Blake. “Get what comfort you can out of that.”

  It was from the county sheriff at Carlstown:

  MORNE’S RUBY STICKPIN AND TWO FIFTY DOLLAR BILLS FOUND WHERE SIDNEY STONEMAN HAD CONCEALED THEM. HAVE ARRESTED HIM. HE IMPLICATES ROLF PERKIN WHO HAS DISAPPEARED. HAVE SENT OUT DESCRIPTIONS OF PERKIN ASKING THAT HE BE HELD. CLEAR CASE OF ROBBERY AND MURDER AGAINST ONE OR BOTH MEN. MORNE’S DIAMOND RING FOUND IN PAWNSHOP IN PITTSBURGH. DESCRIPTION OF MAN WHO PAWNED IT FITS PERKIN.

  Kemerson took the telegram and returned it to the District Attorney. “All circumstantial evidence, you see. Perkin is a farmer. Why should he go out to his pasture at eight o’clock in the morning carrying a revolver? Remember, Morne was killed by a revolver shot. He was already dead when he was robbed. The one-legged man may have seen the robbery of the dead and claimed a share of the spoils as the price of his silence, as this Perkin kept the diamond and most of Morne’s money for himself. Morne was shot on the Silver Lark and his body dumped overboard.”

  “But the parachute?” objected Mr. Brixton.

  “It may have been fastened on him after the murder, and opened with a string. Or he may have had it on, standing poised in the airplane door ready for his drop, when the murderer fired. He may have opened the parachute himself as he felt himself falling and losing consciousness.”

  “Have you any evidence to substantiate your suspicions?”

  Kemerson detailed his examination of the Silver Lark, his questioning of the pilot, and of Vanuzzi, making no reference to his talk with Mrs. Morne.

  “It is Vanuzzi then that you suspect?”

  “He is the only logical suspect. He had the opportunity and the motive. He had quarreled with Morne over a girl, and engaged passage on the same airplane that Morne took. I believe he had learned of Morne’s proposed publicity stunt from the actor’s Japanese valet, Kiyoshi Nimura whom we found employed, under a different name, at Vanuzzi’s night club. Vanuzzi denied Kiyoshi’s identity, but when the valet saw that Blake recognized him he took to flight, aided by a man calling himself Brewster who claims to have been in the flying corps in France where, he says, Kiyoshi was his orderly. I strongly advise you not to drop the case on the strength of this telegram, but to put your men to work running down Brewster and the valet.
I am convinced they both know who killed Morne.”

  “You do not suspect the actor’s widow then?”

  Blake gave Kemerson a pleading look, and waited in trepidation for his reply.

  “I do not believe she murdered him. She may know who did.”

  Blake’s look of gratitude at the actor did not escape the District Attorney. “And this young man? Have you checked up on his alibi, removing him from the suspects?”

  “I cannot trace him after he left the theatre until breakfast time the next morning. He has found no one to corroborate his statement that he was in New York during that time, yet I have confidence in his statement of his movements.”

  “You still maintain, Mr. Blake, that you went directly home from the theatre, and slept there?”

  “I slept in my room that night. Yes, sir.”

  “Then perhaps you will explain how you happened to be seen getting out of a taxi at the Pennsylvania station at half past ten.”

  The blood drained from Blake’s face under the cold stare in the District Attorney’s eyes and the hurt, amazed look on Kemerson’s face. He felt cold in the pit of his stomach. He could not speak.

  “Blake,” said Kemerson, reproachfully, “have you an explanation?”

  “None that I can make until I am absolved from a solemn promise. It’s kept me awake nights—not being able to tell you everything, Mr. Kemerson. But I swear to you that I did sleep in my own bed.”

  Mr. Brixton’s cold glance went from the press agent to the actor, and his eyebrows lifted. “You still have faith in his story after that, Kirk?”

  Kemerson did not reply; just stood there looking at Blake gravely. Mr. Brixton made a gesture of futility, and addressed Blake:

  “I may as well tell you that only the fact that my friend here vouches for your truthfulness and your desire to help clear up this mystery has kept me from issuing a warrant for your arrest. I think the time has come to reconsider my promise.”

  There was no color in the face the press agent turned to Kemerson. He raised hands which trembled and then let them fall back to his sides.

  “I cannot hold you to your promise, Walton,” said the actor, “but I still ask that you do not issue the warrant. There is no direct evidence implicating Blake, and there is weighty evidence pointing in other directions. If I learn any facts implicating Blake I will myself ask for his arrest.”

  “It is against my better judgment,” replied Mr. Brixton, slowly, “but you are in charge of the investigation. I know you do not act without a definite reason. I will issue no warrant for the present.”

  “When the case is solved you will not regret the stay,” said Blake. “I will report any time you wish. Keep me under surveillance——”

  “You have not made a move for two days that I do not know about,” said Mr. Brixton. “The time is coming, and that soon, when you will tell everything you know in this matter, or...”

  He left the sentence unfinished as his secretary entered.

  “There are two women outside who want to see you, Mr. Brixton. Something about the Morne case, the blind one says. They were passengers on the Silver Lark.”

  “What are their names?” asked Kemerson, sharply.

  “Mrs. Jackson Delano and a younger woman who seems to be a sort of guide.”

  “Miss Vane!” exclaimed Kemerson. “She may be able to give us a clear account of the happenings on the Silver Lark.”

  “Send in a stenographer and then let them come in,” said the District Attorney.

  The secretary withdrew silently.

  “Mrs. Delano must have returned unexpectedly,” said Kemerson. “At her home I was told she intended to be absent for a week. Miss Vane is her companion—an intelligent, observant young woman from what I have gathered. I should like to question her in the light of my talk with the pilot of the airplane.”

  Mr. Brixton nodded. “Without interference from me, I presume.”

  “Ask her anything you wish—afterwards.”

  After the stenographer had taken his place, the secretary returned followed by a white-haired, cheery-looking woman wearing dark glasses. She leaned upon the arm of a strikingly beautiful young woman in her early twenties. She was Miss Vane, of course, and Blake felt a sense of shock that anyone so blondly charming should be even remotely connected with such a brutal fact as a murder case. Her eyes were large and of the lightest shade of blue, the pupils very large and very black. She was of medium height, an inch taller than the elderly woman whom she solicitously guided to the chair that the District Attorney indicated. So trim and well developed and rounded a figure, Blake asserted to himself, he had never seen, even in the choruses of the arch-glorifier of feminine pulchritude, Florenz Ziegfeld.

  When Mrs. Jackson Delano had been seated, Brixton addressed Miss Vane.

  “You wished to see me in regard to the Morne case?”

  “If you are the District Attorney you are the person I wish to see,” said Mrs. Delano, understanding that the remark had been addressed to her beautiful companion. “I have come here for that purpose. I cut short my visit with my daughter in Cleveland because I believe you should know certain things that were said on the Silver Lark the night that Chadwick Morne was murdered.”

  “I am the District Attorney,” replied Brixton, exchanging an understanding smile with Miss Vane, “but I shall ask you to tell what you came to say to Mr. Kemerson who is conducting the investigation for me.”

  “Not Kirk Kemerson, the actor?” asked Mrs. Delano, sitting straighter in her chair, smoothing her already smooth white hair.

  “That is my name, and I confess to being an actor,” said Kemerson. “I trust that fact will not militate against me.”

  “Yes, I recognize you from your voice. I heard you last season in The Will to Love. A magnificent characterization, Mr. Kemerson. It would have been perfect to me could I have seen you.”

  Kemerson grasped warmly the hand she extended. “You overwhelm me, Mrs. Delano. I wish some of the critics had your perspicacity.”

  “You have not fared badly at the hands of the critics. Miss Vane read all of the reviews to me. This is my companion, Miss Vane. She was with me on the Silver Lark.” The actor shook the hand which the young woman extended to him. Mrs. Delano continued: “It is a relief to be able to talk to you instead of to a policeman. I can talk to you without feeling that I must guard every word I say or have it used against me later. And, after all, the District Attorney is a sort of glorified policeman.” Blake thought the laugh and smile which accompanied that observation were most charming. In fact, both of the women were awakening an unaccustomed emotional reaction in him.

  “I am sure there is no reason why you should hesitate to tell me whatever you know about the case—“ Kemerson began, but Mrs. Delano did not permit him to continue.

  “Then you do not know as much about the happenings on the Silver Lark as I do—and that is precious little; just what my ears could give me—ears sharpened by my affliction. I presume the police are ready to make an arrest to satisfy the public they are doing something. Or have they already found a culprit?”

  “No arrest has been made, Mrs. Delano, but a young friend of mine who is here, Stephen Blake, publicity manager for Arnold Siddarth, has attracted the unfavorable attention of the police for having arranged for Mr. Morne’s parachute drop from the Silver Lark as a publicity stunt.”

  “Come here, young man, and speak to me.” Blake complied and was astonished at the firm, alive, lingering grasp of her hand. “So you’ve got yourself into a mess through your attempt to keep Morne’s name in the press?”

  “I’m afraid I have, Mrs. Delano, and it’s mighty unpleasant, I can assure you.”

  “He was not on the Silver Lark, Mr. District Attorney,” said Mrs. Delano. “I have never heard his voice before, and I heard everyone who was on the airplane.”

  “And I saw everyone,” said Miss Vane, “and he was not among the passengers.”

  The young woman flushed
at the look of gratitude and admiration which Blake gave her.

  “Now, Mrs. Delano,” said Kemerson, “you may tell me what you came to tell the District Attorney. I will have a transcription made of what you wish to tell us.”

  “Then, after all, I must be guarded in my speech. The police will have access to your report.”

  “You arouse my curiosity,” said Kemerson. “You must have overheard some very suspicious utterances.”

  “Angry ones—threatening ones, Mr. Kemerson. I sat directly in front of Mr. Vanuzzi whose name I learned while the flight was still young. He has a voice of remarkable carrying power. He would have made an excellent actor. His voice carried above the roar of the motors which was deadened somewhat by the enclosure of the cabin. Mr. Morne occupied the seat back of mine, across the aisle. He was evidently surprised when Mr. Vanuzzi came aboard. We had not left the airport, of course, and I could easily distinguish every word they said.

  “‘Giulio,’ I heard the voice I subsequently learned belonged to Mr. Morne—it was very actory, full-throated and distinct—’you’re taking to the air?’

  “‘I’ve been up in the air for several days,’ answered a heavier voice, which I later identified as Vanuzzi’s. ‘This is a good time for both of us to come down to earth. We’ll settle a number of things before we reach Cleveland. That’s as far as I’m going.’

  “Then Mr. Morne asked: ‘How did you know I had engaged passage on the Silver Lark?’

  “‘I have ways of finding out things that concern me,’ was Vanuzzi’s answer. ‘No damned actor can double-cross me and get away with it.’

  “‘It was that cursed Jap valet,’ said Mr. Morne. ‘You’ve been bribing him, I suppose.’

  “‘You’d give a lot to know, wouldn’t you?’ That was all I heard then as other passengers entered amid some confusion. Of course, what I had heard aroused my curiosity and I kept my ears open for those voices. After we started, the roaring of the engines bothered me at first and I could hear no connected talk between them, but at times the two men would lean across the aisle, bringing their heads close together, I judged, or one would get up and stand by the other’s chair, when I would get snatches of their conversation.”