Parachute Murder

by Lebbeus Mitchell

  Blake forced the edge of the glass between Mrs. Morne’s lips and poured a few drops of brandy slowly into her mouth. He watched her stir under its stimulus and saw her eyelids flutter.

  “What makes you think that?” he asked, looking straight into Kemerson’s eyes.

  “Why did you ask Mrs. Handsaker to tell the police you had slept in your own bed when she knew nothing about it?”

  Blake’s hands shook as he faced the actor-detective over the form of Mrs. Morne. He carefully lowered his arm and held the brandy glass behind his back. A quivering sigh from Mrs. Morne drew his eyes to her face.

  He found the widow of the slain actor regarding him with the same horror that she had betrayed at sight of her dead husband’s letter and photograph! He felt suddenly sick, with a sensation of dizziness. He raised the glass to his own lips and gulped down the rest of the brandy.

  CHAPTER IX — KIYOSHI DISAPPEARS

  KEMERSON put Mrs. Morne in a taxicab. Blake started to follow her, feeling that he must learn from her why she had regarded him with such undisguised horror, but the actor held him back.

  Did Doris Morne suspect him of her husband’s murder because he had asked his landlady to say that he had slept in his own bed? Only a few minutes earlier she had been contemptuous of the police suspicion of him! And what did he himself know of her activities or whereabouts on the night of the murder? Who would believe that an innocent woman, even though she hated her husband, would betray so intense an emotion when confronted with a picture of his corpse? He was aroused from his whirling thoughts by Kemerson’s voice.

  “You did not answer my question. Why did you ask Mrs. Handsaker to lie for you?”

  “It was not a lie. I did sleep in my own bed. I was just scared, Mr. Kemerson, because all the evidence I’ve found tends to prove that I didn’t. I was afraid of being held on suspicion if the police learned Nora had knocked at my door and got no answer.”

  “Luckily for you, I was the one to interview your landlady. Lying comes so hard for her that the veriest rookie would have discovered the falsehood, and that would have smashed your alibi—if you have one. Telephone her at once; ask her to tell the truth if she is questioned. Meanwhile I will call a taxi and we’ll pay a visit to the Happy Hours night club.”

  Blake felt like a fool arousing Mrs. Handsaker from sleep to rescind his request. After he had explained to her as best he could the reason for his change, he joined Kemerson in a waiting taxi. They sped into Fifth Avenue, to the upper Forties and then turned towards Broadway. Vanuzzi’s night club occupied the second floor of a brick building but a few doors from the Gay White Way. As they entered, Gaussman’s band was blaring out a popular jazz tune to which a young girl barely out of her teens, if that, was dancing. She was nude except for a silver fig-leaf; even her firm, rounded breasts and the rouged nipples showed plainly through the gauze brassiere she wore. Her hips undulated in the slow, rolling motions of an aphrodisiac dance which the patrons of the place watched with weary eyes, their food and drinks standing untasted on the tables. The room was hot and enervating with mingled perfumes, the fumes of alcohol and the emanations from feminine bodies.

  “The modern temple of Venus in the days of prohibition,” observed Kemerson. “Drink and sex, sex and drink; dances to arouse sex hunger, drink to deaden weariness and pain....So this is where Chadwick Morne spent many of his nights. Money invested in the temple of Venus!”

  He was approached by the head waiter.

  “We do not want a table. Will you be good enough to tell Mr. Vanuzzi that Kirk Kemerson wishes to see him?”

  “Yes, Mr. Kemerson,” replied the head waiter, with the pleased smile of men of his ilk welcoming noted personages. “He is upstairs in his office. I will send for him.”

  After a few minutes of waiting, a bare-legged girl attendant returned with the message that the actor was to go right up. Giulio Vanuzzi, a man of about forty, stocky, swarthy, with large tawny eyes, and a heavy, black mustache, was waiting in the doorway of his office. He advanced to the head of the stairway to meet his guest.

  “I have not had the pleasure of welcoming you to the club before, Mr. Kemerson. How do you do, Blake?” He nodded affably to the press agent, and turned back to Kemerson. “Come in and have a drink. Afterwards I hope you will do me the honor of spending an hour or so here as my guest.”

  “Thank you, but I have been asked by the District Attorney to make some inquiries into the life of Chadwick Morne. I understand from the newspapers that you were a passenger on the Silver Lark.”

  Vanuzzi’s eyes narrowed. “I was. I was probably the last one to see him alive.”

  “You have hurt your hand, I see.”

  “Just a slight cut. I do not feel it at all. Come into the office.”

  He preceded his guests, drew up chairs for them in front of the large red mahogany desk, and took the black-cushioned swivel chair back of it. “Fire away, Mr. Kemerson. I’ve been expecting a visit from the District Attorney’s detectives, but I did not know this was exactly in your line.”

  “Oh, I have been fortunate enough to solve one or two little matters for Mr. Brixton, and he designated me to look into the Morne case. I hoped you could help me unravel some of the lesser known facts of his life. Mr. Brixton has a report that he was financially interested in your club.”

  “He was,” replied Vanuzzi, twisting his mustache. “He put money into it when I opened up. He did not want it known, but now that he is dead...” He shrugged massive shoulders. “We were partners until a few days ago when I bought him out.”

  “Was the dissolution of partnership entirely amicable?”

  Vanuzzi blinked, then opened his tawny eyes fully as though puzzled. “We remained friends, if that is what you mean. Mr. Morne objected to some of the things a successful night club owner must do not to get in bad with the police. He was afraid it would hurt him professionally if it became known.”

  “We all know Mr. Morne’s interest in women,” said Kemerson. “We have a report that there was a violent quarrel between you and Morne over some woman. Did he steal your girl?”

  “All nonsense, Mr. Kemerson,” and Vanuzzi laughed heartily. “Just business. Girls are cheap. One girl is like another. If one goes there is always another.”

  Kemerson drummed absentmindedly on the desk. “Why did Mrs. Morne call on you the day before her husband’s death?”

  “She said she intended to get a divorce next winter and thought I could furnish her with evidence. I never meddle with the private lives of my guests. Not good business.”

  “Blood was found on towels in the wash room of the Silver Lark, after you and Mr. Morne had gone there together——”

  “My blood, Mr. Kemerson,” and Vanuzzi displayed his bandaged hand. “I had a bottle of Scotch and no corkscrew. My knife slipped and I got a gash in the palm of my thumb. We had to break off the neck of the bottle.”

  “You and Morne were overheard to exchange angry words.”

  “Loud words, perhaps, Mr. Kemerson. Not angry ones. It takes a big voice to be heard clearly above the noise of the engines.”

  “Do you know of any enemies who might have wished Morne out of the way?”

  Vanuzzi’s eyes narrowed again; he was watching Kemerson closely, trying to appear not to do so. “None at all. Mrs. Morne—she perhaps wants to get married again—to that——”

  Blake suddenly moved his hand and sent the tray, bottle and glasses on the desk crashing to the floor. “Oh, I am sorry!” he exclaimed, picking up the tray and the bottom half of the bottle.

  Vanuzzi waved aside his apology. “Never mind. I’ll have it cleared away.” He rang a bell and a Japanese in white duck coat and black trousers entered. Blake stared at the man, smiled and was on the point of speaking, but the Japanese paid no attention to him. He was small, black-haired, with a stringy black mustache.

  “Clear away the broken glass, Kentaro,” Vanuzzi ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the servant, took up
the tray and started to leave the room.

  “The rest of the mess, too,” said Vanuzzi, sharply. “Then get a rag and wipe up the rug.”

  The Japanese knelt quickly on the floor, his back to Blake, and began carefully picking up the broken glass. The shape of his head seemed entirely familiar to the press agent. Why, it was Kiyoshi Nimura, Morne’s valet, and trying hard not to be recognized!

  “Why, Kiyoshi!” said Blake. “Are you working here now?”

  The Japanese bent closer to the floor, picking up the tiny particles of glass. Kemerson’s eyebrows went up inquiringly as he looked at Blake. At the latter’s nod he stepped in front of the kneeling servant and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Kiyoshi Nimura! Stand up!”

  The little Japanese did not even raise his eyes. “Kentaro is my name, sir. Kentaro Kawatami.” He resumed his search for glass fragments.

  “You are as like Kiyoshi Nimura as his twin brother,” declared Blake. “Only the mustache is different. And that could have been grown in a week.”

  “My name Kentaro Kawatami,” repeated the little man, rising and dumping a handful of glass into the tray which he then lifted and started rapidly towards the door. Kemerson got in front of him.

  “If you are Kentaro why are you in such a hurry? I merely want to ask you a few questions.”

  “The Scotch—it soaks into the rug. Mr. Vanuzzi tell you my name is Kentaro.”

  “That’s right,” Vanuzzi corroborated, “but now that you’ve called attention to it, he does look very much like Morne’s valet.”

  “How long have you—“ began Kemerson, but the little brown man vanished, closing the door behind him. “Are you sure he is Kiyoshi?” asked the actor. “Almost positive. His furtive bearing proves it.” Vanuzzi protested. “He looks like Kiyoshi, I admit, but he’s not. I’ve seen Morne’s Jap valet too often not to recognize him.”

  “His actions are most suspicious,” observed Kemerson. “If he comes back, detain him and order him to answer my questions.”

  “If he comes back?” said Blake.

  “If he’s Kiyoshi he probably won’t return. Suppose you go down into the night club and keep an eye on him. If he leaves, hop into a taxi and follow him.” Blake hurried down the stairs. The cabaret was blue with smoke, and it was several moments before he saw Kiyoshi talking in the ear of a big, powerful man at a table near the door. Blake saw the white man turn and stare at him as he made his way across the now vacant dancing space. The Japanese cast a furtive glance at Blake, and then, at a nod towards the door from the white man, started towards it hastily.

  “Kiyoshi!” called Blake. “I want a word with you.” The Japanese increased his pace, and Blake was hurrying after him when the big man stood up in the aisle between the tables and blocked his path.

  “You are making a mistake, buddy. I’ve known that Jap for years—Kentaro Kawatami. He used to be my orderly in the flying corps in France.”

  Blake looked up into a pair of large brown eyes in a head that towered nearly a foot above his own. The man’s face was bronzed, his thick, brown hair curly. His big frame fitted his evening clothes tightly, as though they had been rented for the occasion. His hand gripped Blake’s arm so that the press agent could not free himself without a struggle.

  “If he’s not Kiyoshi, why is he running away?” he asked.

  “Because he looks a good deal like Kiyoshi—enough so that you mistook him for Morne’s valet——”

  “So you know Morne’s valet, do you?”

  “Not at all, but I’ve read about him, and so has Ken taro. The valet’s wanted by the police. Sit down and have a drink and I’ll tell you all about Kentaro.

  He was born in New York——”

  Blake interrupted with a very natural question: “Who are you?”

  “What does my name matter? It’s the Jap you want information about. You and your friend about scared the life out of him.”

  “What you have to say carries very little weight coming from a man who refuses to give his name.”

  “Who’s refusing, buddy? I just asked what my name mattered. It’s Brewster—Lieutenant Brewster it was during the war. Now a stunt pilot.”

  “Then you are the man who called on Kiyoshi Nimura at his lodgings yesterday morning—just before he cleared out!” cried Blake, jerking his arm free. “And that is Kiyoshi! You are helping him escape!”

  “Don’t get excited, buddy. The telephone directory’s got a whole list of Brewsters. I don’t want you to get an innocent, inoffensive Jap in wrong with the police. He knows no more about Morne than I do—and that’s just what has been in the papers.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to tell that to the District Attorney’s representative. He’s upstairs.”

  “Sure, I’ll tell it to him, or to the District Attorney himself if he wants to know. Bring him down to my table and I’ll tell him all about Kentaro.”

  “I think it will be better if we go up to him. It’s more private.”

  “What do I care about privacy? I’ll tell what I have to say for the whole world to hear. Besides I’ve paid for this food and drink. I can’t afford a night club often and I want my money’s worth. You haven’t had that drink with me yet. I’ll get a fresh glass——”

  He beckoned a waiter, but Blake refused a drink. He glanced at the food on the table; it had hardly been touched. He was convinced there was something false about the man’s story, but felt that Kemerson was the one to sift the falsehood from whatever truth there might be in it.

  “I’ll get Mr. Kemerson,” he said, and left as a waiter approached.

  When he entered the office Vanuzzi, red in the face, was pounding the table with his fist.

  “I tell you there’s nothing to it,” he was saying. “Vida Latterby may have been sweet on Morne. I neither know nor care. She has been sweet on many men. At one time she was my girl. I don’t deny that. I had tired of her long since—of her vanity, her wanting to be waited on hand and foot; most of all of her greed for money and jewels. She was any man’s for a handsome present. She was not worth quarreling about. Morne may have paid the rent of her apartment for all I know.”

  “Well, that doesn’t matter particularly,” said Kemerson, motioning to Blake not to interrupt. “Miss Latterby will have a chance to tell her story later. I understand the Silver Lark was trailed by another airplane for several hours on the night of Morne’s murder. The newspapers quote you to that effect.”

  “That is true. It was several hundred feet lower than the Silver Lark part of the time and I could see its lights.”

  “It might have been another mail plane.”

  “The Silver Lark is the only mail and passenger plane leaving New York at that hour.”

  “Was it still following when you and Morne went to the wash room for a drink?”

  “I presume so. I saw its lights once a short time afterwards.”

  “After Morne’s absence had been discovered did you do or say anything to frighten any of the passengers into silence?”

  The eyes that Kemerson bent upon the Italian seemed to Blake to be colder and brighter than he had ever seen them. So interested was he in the answer that he forgot the purpose for which he had returned to the office. He saw Vanuzzi’s eyes narrow to mere slits as though for defense against the penetrating gaze of the actor. After a moment’s silence he opened his tawny eyes full, staring straight into Kemerson’s pupils.

  “I don’t understand. Who was there to frighten? And for what reason would I try to frighten anyone? Mr. Morne was the only one on the airplane I had ever seen before.”

  “When Miss Vane started to say, ‘The linen in the wash—’, didn’t you do something to frighten her so that she never finished the sentence?”

  “Miss Vane says that?” Vanuzzi’s eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown.

  “The pilot of the Silver Lark says it.”

  “Then he is very much mistaken. If Miss Vane was terrified it was not caused by anything I did
or said.”

  “Was any mention made of your bandaged hand?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t that queer in itself? It was not bandaged at the beginning of the flight. Why should Miss Vane have wished to call attention to the blood-stained towels if she had seen your hand was injured? That would have explained it.”

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Kemerson, my band was not then bandaged. The gash bled quite freely and I stuck a small piece of court-plaster over it. The cut must have become infected, for it began to fester and become painful on the train. It was bandaged by the doctor I went to in New York.”

  Kemerson’s eyes kept boring into those of the Italian across the desk. “How long has Kiyoshi Nimura been employed in your club?”

  The question recalled the valet to Blake’s mind and he blurted out his account of the Japanese’s flight and his own detainment from pursuit by Brewster.

  “This man Brewster says the Jap’s name is Kentaro Kawatami and that he was his orderly in France. But I do not believe him. It was a man by the name of Brewster who called on Kiyoshi just before he left his boarding place in Greenwich Village.”

  Kemerson was making towards the door before Blake had finished speaking. “You should have told me at once! Hurry! We are probably too late!”

  He was half way down the stairs before Blake could overtake him. He waved aside the press agent’s attempted explanation of his delay in speaking, and darted in among the dancers, bumping into some, being bumped into by others, without offering or waiting for any apology.

  “Which table?” he tossed at Blake over his shoulder. “The vacant one by the door?”

  “Yes; he was just starting to eat.”

  “And the moment you were out of sight paid his bill and decamped!”

  The waiter could tell them little. He had never seen the big man in the night club before. He had paid his bill and left hurriedly. He might yet be at the coat room.