Parachute Murder

by Lebbeus Mitchell

  “Were such phrases as you overheard of a threatening nature?”

  “Angry, mostly; some decidedly threatening on the part of Mr. Vanuzzi. They appeared to be quarreling over money matters at first, over some business they had been in jointly. Mr. Morne said: ‘It was my money that gave you your chance.’ I could not hear the Italian’s response save for one or two disconnected phrases: ‘...worthless without my brains,’ and ‘...your money’s worth...’

  “Then for a long time I heard nothing and I dozed. When I awoke it was at the sound of a name—a girl’s name, the name of my sister, Vida. ‘Vida was about fed up with you anyway.’ It was the actor who said that.”

  “Ah,” said Kemerson, “the pattern begins to work out. What else was said about her?”

  “I could hear that name many times without being able to distinguish anything else. My ears were attuned to its syllables. Their voices were angry. ‘Men have been killed...” It was the Italian who said that, and again: ‘...blood can wipe out...’, after something indistinguishable that Mr. Morne had said. After that I heard nothing more. Miss Vane afterwards told me that both men retired to the wash room. I slept again, how long I don’t know, to be aroused by Vanuzzi’s voice crying: ‘Morne is lost! Fallen overboard! Tell the pilot!”‘

  Mrs. Delano stopped speaking for a moment and then continued: “It was the last words that I heard Vanuzzi say to Mr. Morne, and the terrifying cry that wakened me, which made me cut short my visit with my daughter and return to New York to tell the authorities of the quarrel I overheard between the two men.”

  “You were quite right in doing so, Mrs. Delano,” said the District Attorney. “You have given us a new angle upon which to work.”

  “It fits in with what I learned from the pilot,” said Kemerson. “There is no doubt the two men had quarreled over Vida Latterby. That quarrel doubtless led to Morne’s withdrawing from the Happy Hours night club. Anything further you saw—or heard—Mrs. Delano?”

  “Nothing, but Mr. Vanuzzi took an unusual and most solicitous interest in Miss Vane and myself afterwards. I had the feeling that he was watching us; that he did not want us to speak to anyone unless he was close by and could hear; Edith had the same feeling, I found out afterwards, but I’ll let her tell that. The sensation of danger was so strong and so imminent that I did not tell the pilot what I had overheard. I did not believe that Mr. Morne could have been murdered and his body thrown overboard without some of the passengers being aware of it, but now, after thinking it over, being sorely troubled in conscience, I have little doubt. The ease of my own mind and conscience is worth any danger to myself that may result.”

  “Danger from Mr. Vanuzzi, you mean?” asked Mr. Brixton.

  “I think from him—yes—if he should learn that I have come to you with an account of what I overheard. There, Mr. Kemerson, I’ve told you everything. I’ve thrown caution to the winds, told you more than I intended to, my suspicions, my own interpretation of the snatches of threatening conversation I overheard.”

  Mrs. Delano leaned back in her chair, closing her lips tightly as though nothing could induce her to unlock them. Her face and voice expressed weariness but she sat up straight in the chair. Miss Vane patted her shoulder soothingly.

  “It has been a trying ordeal for her, Mr. Kemerson,” explained the young woman. “I wanted her to wait a day or two until she had recovered from the fatigue of the trip home, but after the telephone message I received this morning——”

  Kemerson interrupted her, a curious eager note in his voice: “Nothing has been said about a telephone message. What was it?”

  “We arrived home after midnight and slept late. I had just awakened when the maid tapped on my door and said I was wanted on the telephone. It was a man, she said, who refused to give his name but said it was most important.”

  “It was Vanuzzi!” exclaimed Kemerson. “You recognized his voice?”

  “The voice was strange to me, a foreign voice. The English was correct, but spoken with a peculiar intonation as if the speaker were not perfectly familiar with the language.”

  “What was the message?”

  Blake took a step towards the girl with the unconscious desire to protect her; the District Attorney leaned forward over his desk; Kemerson stood tense like a dog on the scent of game.

  “The voice said: ‘For your own sake, Miss Vane, guard well your tongue. Too much speaking is a dangerous thing. Be wise; forget everything you saw on the Silver Lark.’ That was all, Mr. Kemerson. I was too startled to ask any questions until I heard the click of the receiver being hung up.”

  “Are you certain it was not Vanuzzi trying to disguise his voice?”

  “Mr. Vanuzzi speaks very good English. If he tried to disguise his voice he would naturally speak with an Italian intonation. The voice was harsher, more sibilant——”

  “Japanese perhaps?”

  “It may have—why, yes, it was a Japanese voice! But there was no Japanese on the airplane!”

  “That warning could have come only from Vanuzzi,” said Kemerson. “I haven’t a doubt he prepared the message and gave it to Morne’s valet to deliver over the ‘phone. Walton, will you have the call traced? It probably came from a pay-station in some other part of the city. It may help us to locate Kiyoshi’s hiding place.”

  When the District Attorney had given the necessary instructions, Kemerson asked Miss Vane for a detailed account of what she had witnessed on the Silver Lark. Her story was simple and straightforward and had the effect of further awakening Blake’s interest in the girl.

  “Both Mr. Morne and Mr. Vanuzzi,” she continued, “had seats behind me, and I could get a good view of them only by turning around. I could not distinguish their words, but the tone of their voices indicated suppressed anger. I was naturally curious, especially after I learned from Mr. Layman—perhaps it was from Mr. Carter—that one of the men was the popular star, Chadwick Morne, and made occasion to turn around to speak to Mrs. Delano who was seated directly behind me. The two men were leaning across the aisle, their eyes glaring at each other. The face of the Italian—I did not then know his name—was aflame with anger. My movement in turning must have caught his attention, for he turned large, tawny eyes upon me. So angry were they, at finding I was watching him, that they seemed to dart angry beams at me. I was so frightened that I did not dare to turn around again for a long time—not until Mrs. Delano spoke to me. Then the taller of the two men, Mr. Morne, was not in his seat. I saw nothing further until shortly after midnight as I awakened from a doze. Mr. Morne and the Italian were standing near the door. The latter had a pocket flask in his hand. When he saw me looking at him, he made a gesture towards the rear of the airplane. Mr. Morne nodded and went through the door leading to the lavatory. Mr. Vanuzzi lingered a moment before following him, both hands employed at something in front of him which I could not see. Then, just as he too went through the door, I saw him place a small glass bottle in his coat pocket, and I caught a glimpse of the silver flask in his other hand. I thought he had replenished the flask with liquor from the bottle, but later I remembered that the bottle he put in his pocket was too small to have held whiskey or gin. The idea that it had contained poison flashed over me and I became cold and frightened. All the other passengers appeared to be asleep, and I kept watching the door. After what seemed to me a long time, it opened slowly. I tried to turn around to face the front of the airplane, but I could not. I had to see who came through that door.”

  Miss Vane paused, as though overcome with a terrifying memory, and Kemerson’s voice broke the stillness that had settled over the District Attorney’s office.

  “And who came through the door? Vanuzzi?” His voice was insistent.

  “No one came through. The hand pushing the door was withdrawn and the door closed. It was many minutes afterwards when it opened again. Mr. Morne came through, followed by Mr. Vanuzzi who kept his left hand in his coat pocket. I thought Mr. Morne staggered as he went to his seat, but
the airplane swayed a little at that moment as it fell into an air pocket—I think that is what they call it—and Mr. Vanuzzi caught at the back of his seat to steady himself. His eyes looked full into mine, and he smiled at me. It was a ferocious smile that made me turn shuddering away. I heard no further sounds except the whirring of the propellers and must have fallen asleep in spite of the uneasiness that possessed me. I was awakened by a cry ringing in my ears: ‘Fallen overboard! Tell the pilot!’ It was Mr. Vanuzzi who had discovered Mr. Morne’s disappearance and given the alarm.”

  “Vanuzzi?” asked Kemerson. “Not Mr. Layman?”

  “No, it was Mr. Vanuzzi. I recognized his voice. I was so terrified I could hardly get my breath. In the confusion that followed I recovered my composure enough to slip, unnoticed I believe, back to the wash room. I was trembling so that I had to lean against the door for support. I don’t know what I expected to find in the lavatory, nor why I felt that I must look for something there. After a time my wits came back to me and I searched quickly but carefully. Among the soiled towels in the linen basket I saw one that had a reddish stain in one end. I picked it up and saw that it was blood and that someone had tried to wash it out hastily, not taking time to do it thoroughly. I felt sick and shaken. I must still have been dreadfully pale when I returned to the cabin for one of the men, I think it was Mr. Layman, took my arm and helped me into my seat.

  “My thoughts were in a whirl and I could not collect them sufficiently to give intelligible answers when the pilot asked me a few questions. As he was giving me up as hopeless I started to tell him to examine the soiled linen in the wash room, impelled to look towards the rear of the airplane as I spoke. Mr. Vanuzzi was staring at me with such anger and hatred that I could not get the words out of my mouth. His face cleared instantly as I froze into silence and he turned to look out of the window.

  “I was horribly afraid of him after that, but did not dare to show it. He kept near me while I was preparing to help Mrs. Delano leave the airplane at Cleveland, offering to assist me with our bags. I shuddered as his hand touched my elbow in climbing out of the Silver Lark, and I thought I caught a self-satisfied smile on his face as I got into a taxi with Mrs. Delano.” Miss Vane paused, and shuddered. “I think I shall never forget that horrible look he gave me in the airplane. I am sure that Mr. Vanuzzi poisoned Mr. Morne and threw his body overboard while we were all asleep.”

  “But Mr. Morne died of a bullet wound in his chest,” said Kemerson. “He floated to earth in a parachute, just as he had arranged with Blake to do. His body was found under the opened parachute.”

  “Then the Italian shot him after he jumped!” said Miss Vane, and her big eyes sought Blake’s face where she found sympathy and belief.

  “He might have done it,” said the press agent, addressing Kemerson, “and thrown the revolver overboard. The chances are the gun will never be found.”

  “The evidence all points in one direction,” said Kemerson. “I think you can issue a warrant, Walton, but with the name of Giulio Vanuzzi in place of that of Stephen Blake.”

  “At any rate we have enough evidence to hold him on suspicion,” said Mr. Brixton. “I fancy he’ll be a little more willing to talk when he finds a warrant hanging over his head.”

  Kemerson made a curious request, coming after his statement that now the District Attorney could issue the warrant for which his official heart longed.

  “Make it out, but do not serve it yet. Vanuzzi believes that he is not seriously suspected, or that his tracks are sufficiently covered. We need more evidence and I believe we will find it more easily if Vanuzzi is at liberty in fancied security.”

  Mr. Brixton made but half-hearted protest at the delay, for he had come to have great confidence in Kemerson’s judgment. He agreed reluctantly and then asked Mrs. Delano and Miss Vane not to leave the city for a few days.

  Blake jumped at the chance to help Miss Vane escort the blind woman downstairs and into a taxi. She evidently did not believe him in any way guilty of Morne’s death, and that warmed his heart to her. She offered him her hand and thanked him with a very charming smile.

  “I feel freed from prison after your evidence, Miss Vane—and yours, too, Mrs. Delano,” he said, gratefully. “I was beginning to think myself a victim of circumstances, with no possible escape, when you two angels appeared and rolled away the stone.”

  “I am glad,” said Miss Vane. “I know you had nothing to do with Mr. Morne’s death. If I can help prove it, I shall be happy.”

  “And I, too, young man,” said Mrs. Delano. “I like your voice. I am seldom deceived in voices. Come and see me sometime.”

  She accompanied the invitation with a sly smile that, without being turned upon her companion, nevertheless managed to include that young woman in its compass.

  CHAPTER XI — AN ACTOR IN HIS ELEMENT

  KIRK KEMERSON’S purpose in keeping the press agent constantly with him in his investigation seemed now to have been fulfilled, for after his performance in The Daisy Chain was finished that night he proceeded alone to the Mornes’ apartment in Central Park West. He instructed the uniformed policeman in front of the apartment door to admit Joseph Steep, the Morne butler, when he arrived with a detective at half past twelve.

  “And, O’Donnell, don’t be surprised by any strange cries or voices you may hear. I am going to try an experiment.”

  He made a cursory examination of the Morne apartment. The living room opened off the hallway to the right, with the dining room and the kitchen farther down the hall. On the left side of the hallway were the bath room, two bedrooms, a large closet, the butler’s and the maid’s rooms. The apartment was comfortably and substantially furnished with evidences of quiet good taste—of Mrs. Morne’s taste, the actor decided. In one of the bedrooms he found a recent large portrait of Chadwick Morne which, after studying it minutely, he placed on the dresser, in front of the large mirror. Then he took from the small oblong box he had brought with him greasepaint and pencils and proceeded to make himself up to resemble the portrait of the murdered star. Under his skillful fingers he had in a short time transformed” his own features into a face amazingly like Morne’s. His hair was coarser and thicker, but by careful brushing it soon assumed much the appearance of Morne’s.

  After a quarter of an hour, satisfied with the result, he went to the closet and selected a suit of Morne’s clothes which he proceeded to don. The coat sleeves were a little too long for him and the trousers’ legs crumpled over the insteps of his shoes, but the general effect pleased him. He hung his own clothes in the closet, made a careful examination of the bedroom, glanced hastily into the room evidently occupied by Mrs. Morne, and then browsed around in the library, looking at the books and magazines which Chadwick Morne was accustomed to glance at, if not to read.

  He selected a cigar from the humidor on the table—the brand that Morne habitually smoked—and seated himself in an easy chair. He relaxed mentally and physically, letting his mind become vacant for a time. Then mentally he invoked the spirit of Chadwick Morne, and as he sat there, motionless save for the opening of his lips to emit puffs of smoke, an uncanny effect was produced upon his features, his body. He was not the same man who had entered the rooms half an hour earlier; he was not the same man who had glanced at his make-up as Chadwick Morne in the mirror in the bedroom. Then he had been but the actor standing in the wings ready to go on; now he was on the stage playing his part. If it had not been for the bright light on his face and hair, anyone, ignorant of Morne’s death, entering the room would doubtless have addressed him as the dead actor.

  He was Kemerson and yet not Kemerson. He was partly Chadwick Morne, wanting to think Morne’s thoughts, to feel his emotions, yet not consciously trying to do so.

  ...Well, he had got Vanuzzi’s girl away from him. Let him rave and bluster; let him add one more to the half dozen girls he had already had. He did not fear Vanuzzi; he would not fight for Vida. What is there about Vanuzzi that makes girls fall for hi
m? Perhaps a certain male heartiness and forthrightness that appeals to the animal in a woman. That was undoubtedly the secret of his charm for them. But as to fearing him—there was only a smiling contempt for the man; fear was altogether different. Fear now—he had felt fear when he glimpsed that well-known figure on the street. How his heart had beat and his temples throbbed! And how dry his mouth and throat had become! It might be a good thing to get away from New York for a time. That scheme of Blake’s, to drop by parachute from a plane at night and remain in hiding through the hue and cry the newspapers would raise over his disappearance—that was not a bad idea; it would keep the name of Chadwick Morne before the public until time to start rehearsals of the new play. Doris would not regret his absence; they had been apart frequently...Wonder why she puts up with me? She has plenty of grounds for divorcing me, and she might be happy with Jim—good old faithful dog Jim Betterling. A divorce would not hurt my career now, I am too firmly established. If Arnold Siddarth wants to raise a fuss, let him; there are other managers who would be glad to get me...

  The thoughts came and went at will, idly, through his mind.

  ...There is the Silver Lark. Wonder if it will be difficult to leap from its door? Easy, easy for an old parachute jumper. Can it be done without the other passengers seeing me? What’s this? Giulio Vanuzzi coming on board! What’s he doing here? He may stick too close for me to make the leap. Well, I can jump on the return trip. He’s sore. How did he know I had engaged passage on the Silver Lark? Kiyoshi, that’s it. Kiyoshi saw my ticket when he was brushing my coat. But why should he tell Giulio?—unless Giulio has paid him to spy upon me. I must get rid of that Jap; never did like him. Good enough as a valet, but there’s something secretive about his eyes; his smile is so condescending at times that it’s maddening. Well, if Giulio has come seeking a quarrel, I’m ready for him...