Parachute Murder

by Lebbeus Mitchell

  Later: Giulio is particularly ugly. He would pick a quarrel with me if I would let myself lose my temper. I am certain his presence on the Silver Lark is not accidental. I can feel his eyes on me as I write. We have had some disagreements and, when I went to his night club last night, I found my wife there. He was at her table. They were so engrossed that they did not see me until I was within two feet of them. Doris was so startled that she sprang to her feet, and Giulio leered at me with an ugly light in his eyes. I can only surmise that Kiyoshi may have told her I had engaged passage on the Silver Lark and that she suspected an intrigue.

  There is a girl on board who is devilishly good looking. I wish I had time to get acquainted with her. Her covert glances are all for a strapping big fellow two seats ahead of me. She reminds me of someone—who, just escapes me. Giulio is strongly taken by her. From a slight smile when their glances crossed I wonder if he may not know her. If he doesn’t, I’m sure he intends to.

  Giulio is beckoning me to go back to the lavatory and have a drink with him. I have nodded acquiescence and will follow as soon as I have addressed an envelope to you. If the plan fails on this trip I will let you know whether I will try it en route back to New York. It seems a foolish sort of thing to undertake, but I’m game.

  C. M.

  Penciled after his initials was the following: “It’s just come to me whom the girl resembles—an unpleasant episode. I think I shall not try to make her acquaintance.”

  With the sensation of having been visited by a ghost, Blake took up the envelope to glance again at the postmark. He had not been mistaken; it had been mailed at Carlstown at eight o’clock the previous evening—twelve hours after the actor’s dead body had been found. Why, then Morne was alive! His thoughts whirled in confusion. Could there have been a mistake in identifying the body? But that was impossible! Morne’s membership cards in the Lambs’ Club and in the Actors’ Equity Association as well as a traveler’s insurance policy, had been found on the body. The letter then must have been discovered by the police and they had mailed it to him. Had they opened and read it? The flap was gummed tightly, but there was a small tear near the center. He was certain the letter had been read, and that if he did not turn it over to the police he would be suspected of concealing something of moment in the Morne case. If he did turn it over to the District Attorney, it would direct suspicion not only against Vanuzzi, but also against Mrs. Morne. He cursed Morne for having mentioned his wife. For half an hour he sought, without results, a solution of the quandary in which he found himself. Then he tried to throw off all thought of the mystery and addressed himself to his work in a fury of concentration. He wanted to have the next day’s activities all mapped out so that Miss Burton and Johnny could carry on without him. But after a quarter of an hour he gave up and sat at his desk overwhelmed in speculations.

  At ten o’clock he left a note for Kemerson at the stage door of the Booth Theatre stating that Mrs. Morne would call at his apartment, and then returned to the Siddarth Theatre. There he ran into Arnold Siddarth, a tall, lean, melancholy man, with more the appearance of a philosopher than of a producer of plays. His employer wanted him to watch the rest of the act, as he was considering a change in the last scene before sending the production on tour in the fall. It was after eleven before Blake could break away, too late to meet Mrs. Morne in the lobby of the Irving Theatre. He hailed a taxicab and was driven to Kemerson’s apartment. Mrs. Morne, arrived ahead of him, was seated in the actor’s library, twisting her hands nervously. She jumped up at Blake’s entrance and went quickly to him, clinging to his hands. He tried to smile reassuringly at her, and failed miserably.

  Mrs. Morne was a woman of thirty, or perhaps a year or two more, with a slender, well-rounded figure, her hennaed hair bobbed in the current fashion. She was dressed in gray—a color most becoming to her—with gray hat, shoes and stockings. Her eyes, large and gray, were upturned to Blake as if seeking an assurance he could not give her.

  “Sit down, Blake,” said Kemerson. “Mrs. Morne did not wish to answer my questions until you had arrived.”

  Blake arranged the chairs so that he faced Mrs. Morne, while Kemerson had but a side view of their faces. The actor, perhaps to balk the maneuver, got up frequently and walked about the room, passing behind Blake’s chair, occasionally standing beside Mrs. Morne.

  “I have told Mrs. Morne,” said Kemerson, “how I happened to come into the case, and outlined to her some of the angles we have uncovered. It is now necessary for us to enter upon more personal matters. I have the deepest sympathy for you, Mrs. Morne, and am seeking only such help as you can give me in unraveling the mystery of your husband’s death. As you doubtless know, grave suspicion is directed towards our young friend here——”

  “But that is utterly impossible, Mr. Kemerson!” exclaimed Mrs. Morne, impulsively. “He was here in New York.”

  “You have seen Blake then since the news of your husband’s murder?” And Kemerson got up and stood behind Blake so that he had a full view of the widow’s face. Blake answered hastily for her:

  “I reached her by telephone after we returned from Newark.”

  “You knew then where she was hiding?”

  “I ‘phoned to him at the office,” explained Mrs. Morne, in her turn forestalling the press agent. “He was out and I left a number for him to call.”

  “How had you got the information that he was trying to locate you?”

  “I had not. I wished to talk with him on a personal matter.”

  “A matter that you do not wish to divulge to me?”

  “I cannot tell you, Mr. Kemerson. It is someone else’s secret, but I do assure you that it has nothing to do with Chadwick.”

  “But Blake knew about it.”

  “I needed his help. And I had to get his promise of secrecy.”

  Kemerson resumed his seat, hesitated as though he found some difficulty in framing his next question.

  “Detectives report that you were not in your apartment at all the night your husband was murdered. Do you wish to tell me where you were?”

  Mrs. Morne twisted her hands, consulted Blake with her eyes. The press agent gave a slight negative movement of his head, and was immediately aware that Kemerson had seen that slight sign.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Kemerson, but I can’t tell you that either.”

  “Don’t you think it would be better to confide in me rather than to have the police drag it out of you later? For they will stumble upon something that will give them a lead. They will have no discretion about withholding from the District Attorney everything they learn. I shall report nothing that might prove painful or embarrassing to you unless it has a bearing on Morne’s death.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Morne again, in real distress, “but it is utterly impossible. Anything about my husband that I can tell you I will.”

  “I fear you are making a mistake, Mrs. Morne, but this is not the time to insist. That moment may come, and soon. Did you know that Morne was leaving New York?”

  “He told me he was going to Chicago, perhaps farther west, for a rest. I took it for granted he was going by train.”

  “Did you offer to go to the station to see him off?”

  “No.”

  “Did he suggest that you should not?”

  Mrs. Morne hesitated. “I may as well tell you that Mr. Morne and I had not been living together as man and wife for more than a year. His intrigues, repeated infidelities, some of which he flaunted in my face, had killed any love I might once have had for him. I remained with him simply because I did not wish to ruin his chances, through any scandal, of becoming the great star he had it in him to be. He had the true artist’s instincts. He was greater as an artist than as a man.”

  “I fear that is frequently the case,” remarked Kemerson, “but continue.”

  “We have had as little as possible to do with each other since the break finally came. Of course, it was necessary for me to be seen with him at times if o
nly to quiet, if possible, some of the rumors concerning him and his...”

  “His charming friends of the gentler sex?” suggested Kemerson, as she hesitated. Mrs. Morne nodded.

  “He had great confidence in the new play Mr. Siddarth has for him. I had intended, after its production, to go to Paris for a divorce.”

  “Had you any intention of marrying again soon?”

  Mrs. Morne flushed, twisted her gloves. “Well, perhaps. Not right away, however.”

  “Did your husband have any enemies who hated him enough to murder him?”

  “Many, I should suppose.” Mrs. Morne’s reply was cold with repressed resentment; red stains came into her cheeks, and her eyes flashed. “Husbands, fathers, brothers, lovers—there must be many men who rejoice at his death.”

  “I can sympathize with your bitterness, Mrs. Morne, but this is not getting me anywhere. It is names I want. Facts. Who in New York hated him so furiously that he would be driven to murder for revenge?”

  “Must it necessarily be in New York? From France to San Francisco——”

  “France? Yes, I remember. He was a Y.M.C.A. entertainer overseas. Was gone for several months——”

  “Six months,” said Mrs. Morne. “Time enough for several ‘affairs’. There was the French girl, daughter of General Janlivert; a little American girl, a Y.M.C.A. entertainer—Dorothy Dineen she called herself, a stock actress. He promised to make her a leading woman in New York. She killed herself after he left her. Here in New York—well, there are many—that girl of Giulio Vanuzzi’s, for instance. Vanuzzi was furious when he found out.”

  “So Vanuzzi had a grudge against Morne,” observed Kemerson, reflectively. “And he was a passenger on the Silver Lark.”

  “There had been some money difficulties between them,” Mrs. Morne continued.

  “Was Morne financially interested in Vanuzzi’s night club?”

  “It was his money that started Vanuzzi in the business. He led me to believe he had withdrawn from the night club after Vanuzzi entered the bootlegging business, but I learned recently that he had not done so.”

  “You are of the opinion, then, that Vanuzzi hated your husband on account of the girl, though you believe other men had reason for even more murderous hatred of him?”

  “But only Vanuzzi was on board the Silver Lark!”

  “Are you willing to make a formal accusation against Vanuzzi?” asked Kemerson, quietly. Mrs. Morne, who had been sitting erect, her eyes glittering, wilted at that question.

  “Certainly not. I make no accusation against anyone. If Chadwick jumped from the airplane, as the papers report, and Vanuzzi remained on it, how could he have shot him?”

  “Mrs. Morne, do you realize how deeply Blake is becoming involved in the mystery? It was he who planned Morne’s airplane flight, arranged for his passage, suggested his night leap by parachute——”

  Kemerson stopped speaking at the horrified expression with which Mrs. Morne regarded the press agent. Her emotion was so genuine that it was quite evident she had known nothing of the publicity stunt.

  “How awful for you, Stephen! I did not know any real suspicion could attach to you.”

  “Remember, Mrs. Morne, that Blake some years ago threatened Morne’s life in a quarrel over you. Your life with your husband has been notoriously unhappy. Blake is unable to prove that he was in his own room the night of the murder, or even that he was in New York after ten o’clock. He had ample time to pursue the Silver Lark in another plane, commit the murder and return to New York. I hoped you could help him prove an alibi.”

  “But she can’t,” protested Blake. “She has not seen me since that afternoon.”

  Doris Morne appeared overcome by the amount of evidence that was piling up against Blake. The confusion of her thoughts was too great to permit of words, and Kemerson continued:

  “You are both under grave suspicion. If either of you can clear yourself, or help to clear the other, now is the time to speak. What you tell me will go no further if it has no bearing on Morne’s murder.”

  “I don’t know anything about Stephen’s actions,” said Mrs. Morne, “but nothing can make me believe he had anything to do with Chadwick’s death. And I certainly knew nothing about it until I read it in the papers.”

  They were interrupted by a ring at the door-bell. Kemerson went into the hallway to answer, leaving Blake and Mrs. Morne together. They saw a uniformed policeman at the door, and Mrs. Morne turned deathly pale.

  “Is he going to arrest us?” Her whisper was so low that Blake could barely distinguish the words.

  “They haven’t the evidence to hold either of us.”

  “The Inspector asked me to hand you these,” they heard the officer say, “on instructions from the District Attorney. He thought they might be of use to you.”

  Kemerson closed the door and they could barely distinguish his voice as he conversed with the policeman in the hallway.

  “It may be your telegram to me,” said Mrs. Morne in great agitation. “What will we do if it is?”

  “Sit tight, Doris. There’s nothing they can prove. It may be mighty unpleasant for one or both of us for a time, but——”

  He stopped speaking as the outer door opened and Kemerson returned, holding a large envelope in his hand. He stood mutely regarding them for a time, then pulled a telegram from the envelope.

  “Have you seen this before?” He extended to Blake his own wire to Mrs. Morne.

  “I sent it to Mrs. Morne’s apartment, hoping the butler would ‘phone its contents to her.”

  “Why should you need to warn her to ‘play safe’? I am not trying to trap her. I have no evidence of guilt—merely suspicious circumstances that a little more frankness on her part would clear up. You still do not wish to tell me, Mrs. Morne, where you spent night before last, nor the reason for your call on Blake?”

  Mrs. Morne’s eyes seemed enormous in the pale face she turned towards the actor. She seemed unable to speak. She shook her head slowly.

  “I wanted to convey to her,” said Blake, “that I had said nothing about the matter which brought her to my office, and to warn her that she did not need to bring it into the interview with you. Besides, how do we know that the body was really that of Mr. Morne? I received a letter from him tonight, postmarked last night in Carlstown.”

  “He’s alive!” cried Mrs. Morne, and leaned back in her chair so limply that Blake thought she had fainted. He would have gone to her, but Kemerson held him back.

  “A letter from a dead man,” said the actor. “Well, that has happened before. The letter was mailed after his death. May I see it?”

  “I would rather not,” said Blake, defiance in his eyes. “It is a personal letter to me, written while he was on the Silver Lark.”

  “You have no choice, I fear, Blake. That letter is pertinent to the case. I must read it. The policeman who delivered the telegram is waiting in the hall for my answer. I am sure you do not wish to force me into a drastic action.”

  Blake considered. “May I show it to Mrs. Morne first?”

  “No! No!” cried the woman, jumping up from her chair, wringing her hands hysterically. “I do not want to read it! I won’t read it!”

  “Calm yourself,” said Kemerson, with quiet authority. “You shall not be required to read your husband’s last letter against your will, if you find the ordeal too horrible.”

  The words seemed a subtle threat to Blake. “She is terribly upset, Mr. Kemerson. I wonder she has not broken down before.” He went to her and took possession of her hands. She clung to him. “It’s all right,

  Doris. Read the letter. I want you to see what Morne wrote about you before we give it to Mr. Kemerson. Trust me. It is the only thing to do.”

  Reluctantly she took the letter, handling it gingerly, as if fearful it might stain her fingers. She held it to one side as though averting her eyes even as she read it. She began to tremble before she had finished perusing it, and sat down weakly.


  “Then it was Vanuzzi!” she cried.

  Kemerson took the letter from her unresisting hands and glanced rapidly at its contents.

  “This makes a pretty strong prima facie case against Vanuzzi. I shall pay him a call tonight. But first, Mrs. Morne, what explanation have you for your talk with him?”

  “I thought Mr. Vanuzzi might help me with evidence in getting a divorce. I knew Chadwick spent many evenings at the club, with various women. Naturally, I was startled when I looked up and saw him not three feet away. I had not told him I intended to get a divorce.”

  “The letter tallies with what the pilot told us,” said Blake. “Has he sent you the name of the laundry?”

  “We’ve already had a reply. Two of the towels had blood stains on them. That is a point to take up with Vanuzzi. This letter from Morne presents an odd angle or two that the Italian may want to explain. You may rest assured, however, that Morne is dead.”

  Kemerson again opened the large envelope and took out an oblong white paper and held it before Mrs. Morne’s eyes.

  “Chadwick!” she gasped, shuddered, and fell back in her chair in a dead faint.

  Blake leaped forward and snatched the paper from Kemerson’s hand. It was a photograph of Morne’s body, half concealed by the parachute.

  “That was brutal!” he cried, angrily. “You might have prepared her for so gruesome a sight.”

  “And given her time to compose her features and steel her will to face the ordeal unflinchingly? No, Blake, the lady has not been frank with me. She knows more than she has told. In a sudden shock one often reveals what the most adroit questioning fails to elicit. There’s brandy on that table. Give her a little.”

  “Well, what have you learned through your torture of her?” Blake flung the taunt at the actor as he hurried to pour out some brandy.

  “Why, that she is terrified of a photograph of her murdered husband’s body, just as she was of his letter. No, decidedly Mrs. Morne must place more confidence in my desire to help her. And you, too, my young friend, must not work behind my back unless you want me to work behind yours. I believe your story, in the main, but you have withheld your confidence on a vital point.”