“You’ve been to the District Attorney then?” Again Jordan’s eyes bored into Blake’s, and the press agent mentally cautioned himself to be careful in his reply.
“Like you, the District Attorney was seeking information about Morne because of my business relations with him.”
“What did Mr. Brixton say?”
“You had better ask him.”
“I will. By the way, where were you night before last?”
“At the theatres, then in my room, sleeping.”
“I tried to get you on the ‘phone yesterday morning. Some woman said you did not answer when she called you.”
“I do not get up until eight o’clock, and am a very sound sleeper. I was told later that someone had tried to get me—some reporter. If you had left your name I would have called you up.”
“I did leave my name, and the name of my paper.”
“I did not get either—just that a reporter had ‘phoned.”
“You knew, of course, that Morne was leaving town?”
“He told me he was flying to Chicago.”
“For what purpose?”
“I presume he did not want to hang around New York all summer.”
“Had you ever had a quarrel with Morne?”
“I’ve had differences with him about publicity matters. Like most new stars, he often did not consider that he was getting enough publicity for a player of his prominence.”
“That is not what I mean. There is a report that you threatened Morne for something he had done to his wife. Nothing in it, I suppose?” Again Jordan gave the press agent that open-eyed look, with an amused twinkle.
“I have never threatened him about his wife,” Blake replied with deliberation as he secretly pressed the button to call his secretary. “His domestic relations were no concern of mine. When I saw them together he always treated Mrs. Morne with marked courtesy.” The door opened and admitted Patricia Burton, notebook in hand.
“Excuse me, Mr. Blake, but Mr. Siddarth has been calling for you. I didn’t interrupt you the first time. He’s leaving the office at once and wants to see you first.”
“Tell him I’ll be up in two or three minutes.”
When she had closed the door after her, he faced the reporter. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask?”
“Only this: How could the report that you had sometime threatened Morne have got started if there is no foundation for it?”
“I’m sure I can’t even make a guess.” Blake half closed his eyes against Jordan’s quizzical stare.
“A last question, Blake, and I won’t keep you. When did you see Mrs. Morne last?” He looked up at Blake with an ingratiating smile, but something in his eyes warned the press agent to weigh his words; he might have been seen with her.
“At noon day before yesterday.”
“Six or seven hours before Morne stepped into the airplane, wasn’t it?”
“About that, I should say.”
“Was it an accidental meeting?”
“As far as I am concerned, it was. Mrs. Morne came into my office to see me.”
“Was anything said about her husband’s airplane trip?”
“Nothing. Now if you’ll excuse me——”
“Sure, Mr. Blake. Thank you for the time you’ve given me. Not much to write a story about, but we can’t always get that just for going after it.”
When the reporter had gone, Miss Burton entered precipitately.
“Mr. Siddarth does want to see you, Mr. Blake. He’s signed a new star and wants a story to go out at once.”
“Call Kirk Kemerson for me at eleven o’clock, will you, please, and tell him I’ll have luncheon with him at one.”
CHAPTER VI — THE WARNING
IT was a much perturbed young man who presented himself at Kemerson’s apartment. He had had no time, after getting out the story on the signing of Barbara Starrett, to straighten out in his mind the implications he felt lay behind some of David Jordan’s questions in that disquieting interview which had developed into something very like the questioning of a suspect.
“How’s your alibi?” smiled Kemerson, rising to meet his guest.
“I haven’t any. Nobody but me knows I was sleeping in my own bed the night Morne was killed. And there are several circumstances which would tend to disprove an alibi if I had one.”
Briefly he told Kemerson of the morning telephone call, of Nora’s reply that he did not answer, and of his interview with David Jordan.
“You are putting evidence against yourself into my hands,” said the actor with a quizzical smile. “Aren’t you forgetting that I am investigating Morne’s death for the District Attorney?”
“At least you are not starting out with the conviction that I am the murderer. It’s got to the point where even that is a comfort.”
“Well, sit down while Georgina is getting luncheon on the table. Have a cocktail and forget about Morne for a while.”
“I wish to God I could! “
“Got you jumpy, has it? Try this Martini. The gin has been tested. It will soothe your nerves.” He pushed Blake down into an easy chair, upholstered in blue leather, which stood invitingly by book-shelves that extended to the ceiling and covered one entire wall of the room, under, around and over the window. Blake began to read the titles of the volumes directly in front of his eyes.
“I had the book-shelves built,” Kemerson explained as he poured two cocktails from a chromium shaker. “I like open shelves. Air is good for books. Dust may tarnish their edges and bindings; it cannot harm their contents.” He sat down by a small table upon which he placed the shaker.
As Blake drank the cocktail, the quiet and ease of the actor’s library began to steal over him, like the soothing influence of morphine, deadening the disquieting fear which had been increasing in intensity since his interview with the District Attorney. The calm peacefulness of the room, the friendly, unhurried attitude of its owner as he talked of his books, the volumes of theatrical history, of editions of new plays, and lives of actors, the lulling influence of the gin—all restored the press agent to a more normal attitude. When they had finished their second cocktails, Georgina, Kemerson’s cook and housekeeper, a large negress of about fifty, with features that were almost Caucasian in spite of the blackness of her skin, announced that luncheon was served.
Kemerson had not overpraised the delicious quality of the ham baked in milk and covered with thinly sliced potato, evenly browned, which was served. The coffee was fragrant and creamy; its odor an invitation to gustatory delights. Nothing further was said about the parachute murder until they had returned to the library and lighted cigars.
“I sent Mr. Brixton a note suggesting that he find out if a bit of string was tied to the ring of Morne’s parachute,” said the actor, and waited while he puffed out two or three large rings of smoke. “I mentioned that I thought the solution of Morne’s death would be found in New York and not at the scene of the crime. Last night I received by special delivery this note.” He offered the press agent a letter written in large, hurried but firm script.
My dear Kemerson:
I have taken advantage of your suggestion and wired about the string. I think there are going to be a number of puzzling angles to the case and that you, with your knowledge of the New York theatre, can be of pertinent help to me. The affair of the camel’s-hair coat was but child’s play, I fear, in comparison with the Morne case. Will you be good enough to call at my office tomorrow morning at 9:30, if you are still interested in the detection of crime?
Faithfully,
Walton Brixton
“You have already seen the District Attorney then?” said Blake.
Kemerson nodded. “That is why I asked you to have luncheon with me. I usually don’t lunch so heavily, but Georgina seemed to feel that ham baked in milk and sliced potatoes would compensate me for her two weeks’ absence in Savannah with her old mother, and I did not have the heart to tell her to wait until dinner—particul
arly as I had invited you. It is a dish she likes to prepare when I have company.”
“Are you trying to hide something from me?” asked Blake, uneasily. “Something that Mr. Brixton said?”
“Bless you, no! I was just trying to explain ham and potatoes for luncheon. Brixton has his hands full with the racketeer murder case and the trial of Robert Chapin in the failure of his brokerage firm. He is turning the New York end of the Morne case over to your humble servant. He has an exaggerated sense of my ability in tracking down crime, so I mustn’t fail him. And I want your help.”
“Then I am no longer under suspicion!” The sigh of relief that escaped Blake’s lips told his host how keenly he had felt the anomalous position in which he found himself.
“Oh, yes, you are very much under suspicion,” replied the actor, a twinkle in his eyes, “but I feel that having you working with me, I can keep you under constant observation!”
Blake’s smile was a wry one. “Well, there is no one who wants the matter cleared up more than I do. How can I help?”
“Find out for me the name of Morne’s valet—but you know it, of course. Arrange for me to meet him, accidentally.”
“His valet is a Jap—Kiyoshi. I don’t know his last name nor where he lives, but I’ll find out.”
“I think it would be well to interview him first of all. As soon as Vanuzzi, or any of the other passengers on the Silver Lark, return, I want to question them. .And there’s Mrs. Morne, of course. She has denied herself to all interviewers. Detectives from Mr. Brixton’s office failed to locate her this morning. Do you happen to know where she is?”
“No idea at all.”
“She was not in her apartment last night.” Kemerson hesitated, blew out two lazy rings of smoke, held his cigar suspended in the air. “Neither was she there the night of Morne’s murder.” His eyes twinkled. “That is why main attention has been diverted from you.”
“But she was there early the next morning!” cried Blake, startled.
Kemerson took him up quickly. “You know that she was?”
“I don’t know,” Blake was confused by the bright look in the actor’s eyes, and hesitated. “At least one reporter got her on the ‘phone. Is it certain she was not in on the night of...of the crime?”
“So the detectives report. Her absence will doubtless be easily explained, but it is one of the first matters to be checked. I want to get into the apartment, also to visit Morne’s dressing room—or has someone else since occupied it?”
“Miss Ballister has it now. She’s bringing her play back for a two weeks’ return engagement.”
“Then there’s no trace of Morne in it? Nothing that would reflect his tastes, his personality?”
“Not a thing. How would that help you?”
“I want to put myself in Morne’s place—mentally, emotionally if possible. Find out all I can about him; let it simmer, skim off the flotsam, and study what remains. If I can feel as Morne felt, get inside his skin—Well, that’s all theory, perhaps nonsense. Still, it does help me in acting to get to know the character I am to portray, submerge my emotions and personality in his—even to look as the author imagined him looking. Why shouldn’t that help in the detection of crime, too?”
“To make yourself up as Morne?” Blake was incredulous.
“If you have a new suit of clothes, a new spring hat in the height of fashion, don’t you feel differently on the street than you do if—well, if your trousers are uncreased, frayed at the cuffs, a hole in your sock, your hat a thick heavy black when other men are wearing lightweight grays?”
Blake could but admit the force of the actor’s contention. Kemerson explained himself further:
“If I can get Morne’s point of view of life, what he expected from it, what he was striving to attain, I may find out what he had to guard against, whom he had to fear. I need all the evidence we can gather to give me a line to work on. If I knew Morne’s mind and his history, it would help me to put my finger on his murderer. Imagination, I believe, is the first quality of a good detective, just as it is of a good actor. Now, I can’t imagine you as a murderer—not at present at any rate.”
“You don’t believe that Sidney Stoneman, the one-legged man arrested in Carlstown, had anything to do with Morne’s death?” asked Blake.
“What motive could he have had? Robbery? It is conceivable. But Pegleg did not leave his home until morning. And the examining physicians state that Morne had been dead at least six hours before Stoneman stumbled upon the body. It seems plausible to suppose that Morne was dead before the parachute touched the ground. He was killed either in the Silver Lark or on his descent. Who besides you knew that he contemplated taking passage on the plane, or that he intended to disappear while up in the air?”
“I do not believe that anyone else knew—not about the parachute leap at any rate. He may have told several persons that he was flying to Chicago.”
“His wife, for instance. He would have given her some explanation of his absence. You saw her that afternoon, you say. Did either of you mention the fact that Morne was leaving New York?”
“Neither of us mentioned him.”
“His valet, this Jap, Kiyoshi—would he be likely to know Morne’s plans?”
“Possibly, but I do not believe so. Morne’s disappearance was to be kept a strict secret.”
“Mrs. Morne said nothing that would indicate she did not expect to be home that night?”
Blake hesitated, perceptibly, but his answer was firm enough when it came:
“Nothing at all. She came to see me on a matter entirely personal, which affected no one but herself. I am certain she knew nothing of her husband’s plans, further than that he was going to Chicago. It will be a waste of time to trace her movements. If she knew anything that would help to clear up the cause of his death, I am certain she would already have communicated it to the police.”
“Yet she may be able to throw some light on Morne’s activities and intrigues. I am afraid we must inconvenience Mrs. Morne. Perhaps you can locate her for me through some of her friends.”
“I will try. I’ll ‘phone you if I succeed.”
“Say nothing that will alarm her. Tell her how I come to be interesting myself in the matter, and that I wish to get some information about Morne. Hint that she might prefer to give it to me rather than to the District Attorney.”
Blake promised to be discreet, and to make an appointment for her to see Kemerson before his performance that evening or just after the final curtain, if he succeeded in finding her.
“The Silver Lark will arrive at the airport this afternoon,” continued Kemerson. “I want to look it over and have a talk with the pilot. If you can meet me at the theatre at three o’clock I shall be glad to have you go along.”
On his way back to the Siddarth Building, Blake stopped at a telegraph office and dispatched a message to Mrs. Morne at her apartment, trusting to Steep, the butler, to relay it to her:
PHONE ME. URGENT. KIRK KEMERSON INVESTIGATING. PLAY SAFE. SEE HIM TONIGHT. STEPHEN.
From the manager of the theatre he obtained the name of Morne’s valet—Kiyoshi Nimura—and an address on lower Sixth Avenue. He sent Johnny Bur-song, his office boy, with a note to the address, asking the valet to come to the office, and busied himself with his work until it was time to meet Kemerson. The office boy, returning from his errand, called to Blake as the latter was leaving the lobby:
“Kiyoshi doesn’t live there any more, Mr. Blake. The landlady said he left yesterday. She doesn’t know where he went.”
“Did he take his belongings in a trunk? Or in a suitcase?”
“I didn’t ask her.”
“Suppose you go back and find out. If he called a taxi asked what kind it was, or whose delivery wagon called; if he paid his bill. Learn everything you can. Here’s your chance to be a detective.”
The boy’s eyes grew big and round, and his face flushed.
“Gee, Mr. Blake, that’ll be swell! Wha
t’s Kiyoshi done?”
“The police want him——”
“Gee, the police! Is it about Morne’s murder?”
“They want to ask him some questions about Mr. Morne. I’m going over to Newark. If I haven’t returned when you go home, leave a note in the top right-hand drawer of my desk telling me everything you find out.”
“I will, Mr. Blake. I’d like to be a detective—a real one. I’m going to be some day.”
Blake tossed the boy a half dollar for carfare, and hurried to keep his appointment with Kemerson.
CHAPTER VII — FEAR OVER THE TELEPHONE
“WOULD the air resistance make it difficult to open the door while in flight?” Kemerson asked of Richard Chase, pilot of the Silver Lark, when the latter had accompanied the actor and Blake to the airplane.
“A little difficult perhaps, not impossible, even with a strong wind. But the air was very quiet when Mr. Morne disappeared.” Chase, a stockily built young man of perhaps twenty-five, with frank, blue eyes and a ready smile, spoke in quick, decisive tones.
“A man then might easily have heaved an inert body out of the plane?”
“I see what you mean: some passenger might have murdered Morne while the others slept and got rid of the body by throwing it overboard. It is possible, but Mr. Morne was killed by a shot. If he had been shot on the Silver Lark someone would have heard the report.”
“A revolver shot, even if heard, might be confused with the engine exhaust, especially if it was fired in the lavatory.”
“It is possible,” again admitted the pilot, “but for a man to kill another, put a parachute on his back, drag him to the door and dump him out—well, it just couldn’t happen without someone seeing it, and without leaving traces of some sort, of a struggle at least.
But there was nothing out of order; no spatters of blood.”
“Did you examine the plane yourself?”
“I did, as soon as the relief pilot took my place at the stick. He had examined the ship hastily when Mr. Vanuzzi aroused the passengers by crying out that Morne must have fallen overboard. I don’t believe you will find any clue here. The fact that Morne’s body was found with a parachute attached to it is pretty strong proof that he jumped from the plane of his own accord, and was killed after he landed. The passengers said he was wearing a large diamond ring and a ruby stickpin. I believe robbery was the motive, and that he was killed after he floated to earth.”
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