The plane disappeared upward, the roaring of its motors growing duller and dying away, only to be followed by the humming of another motor that grew rapidly louder. A two-seated monoplane flew across the screen and swung upward; a searchlight beam played upon it, but no name or marking of any sort was revealed. The pilot of the monoplane turned his face into the beam of light, and there was a black mask over his eyes, covering half of his face.
The plane disappeared from the screen; the roar of its motor grew fainter, died away. The light faded from the screen and the room was again in darkness. There came an uneasy stirring from the spectators, hidden from each other by the all-enveloping blackness.
The beam of light from the projection room fell again upon the screen, the humming of distant motors was heard, and then the passenger ship, followed by the monoplane, swung into view, dark shadows in the moonlight. Suddenly the door of the passenger plane flew open and the figure of a man appeared; it was followed by a close-up.
“Chadwick Morne!” gasped a feminine voice—that of Miss Vane.
A long shot followed, showing the two planes in flight. The man poised in the doorway of the larger ship jumped and fell headlong for a hundred feet. A shuddering sigh came from the center of the projection room, cut short as a small, white, umbrella-shaped object seemed to spring upward from the falling man, dragging after it the opening parachute. The man swung back and forth pendulum-wise at the end of the parachute ropes. The length of his oscillations grew shorter, finally almost ceased, and he swung gently earthwards in the moonlight.
A close-up shot of the pursuing monoplane was then flashed upon the screen. The masked pilot leaned far over the side of his ship, his head turning until he was looking backward over his shoulder. Another long shot revealed the parachute descending slowly towards the earth, and the monoplane entering the picture and flying in circles about the triple-motored ship. The masked pilot then extended his arm towards the figure dangling in the parachute, and three spurts of flame leaped from something in his hand that gleamed in the moonlight. Three shots rang out over the drumming of the motors.
Again the pilot circled about the descending figure, fired two more shots, hurled the revolver towards the parachute, and tore the mask from his face.
A close-up of the pilot removing the mask was flashed momentarily upon the screen.
“Brewster!” cried the voice of Stephen Blake, as other cries of “Brewster!”
“Brewster!” sounded from the screen.
“Stop him!” shouted another voice in the auditorium.
A rush of feet, a muttered curse in a man’s deep voice as he stumbled over seats.
“Watch that door!”
Suddenly the lights flashed full up, and left the spectators blinking.
Lieutenant Brewster was sitting calmly in the seat to which he had been conducted, while three policemen and four or five plainclothesmen were in a huddle near the door, hanging onto each other’s arms. The expressions on their faces, when they perceived they had seized each other instead of the supposedly fleeing aviator, were ludicrous in the extreme. They filed sheepishly back to their seats.
“What’s all the excitement about?” asked Brewster, glancing calmly around. “A very interesting entertainment, Mr. Brixton, but as fictitious as all other motion pictures. A bold guess on the part of your investigators. Guesses will never convince a jury. Why should it require five shots to kill a man descending slowly and evenly in a parachute? One should have been sufficient.”
“One shot was sufficient, Lieutenant,” replied the District Attorney, coldly. “The revolver was found with five unexploded shells in it—an army revolver.”
“Do you accuse me on the strength of a motion picture made up after the event?”
“I have accused you of nothing.”
“Bringing me here in custody to view; a picture in which I am depicted as a murderer strikes me as an accusation.”
“Brewster,” said the District Attorney, “you did not tell the truth when you said you were flying from Hartford to Buffalo on the morning after Morne’s murder.
You were in neither city either the day before or the day after the murder.”
“I flew from Hartford to Buffalo,” countered Brewster, “but I was not on the flying field at either city.” The auditorium was again plunged into darkness and a new picture appeared on the screen. The back of a large easy chair was towards the audience, revealing the top of a young woman’s head. Standing and facing her was Kirk Kemerson. He leaned across a table between them.
“You knew Chadwick Morne?” the shadow of Kemerson asked.
“Yes. I had known him for a year.”
“How did you meet him?”
“I was sent by the paper for which I work to draw a portrait of him in the character of David Willcome—the role he played in The Wife’s Turn.”
“You saw him afterwards. What was the circumstance?”
“He sent me a note thanking me for the drawing.”
“He was pleased with it then?”
“He said it was the best likeness that had been published in any of the New York newspapers, and asked me to have lunch with him the next day.”
“You accepted?”
“I did. Few actors trouble to thank an artist for making a portrait of them.”
“You saw him often afterwards?”
“Yes. He appeared to take an interest in me—in my work. He said I had the nature of an artist and that I was wasting my time on a newspaper. He said I had an excellent stage presence, a personality that would get across the footlights, and offered me a role in his next season’s play.”
“Did you accept his offer?”
“I wanted to, but someone who loved me objected.”
“But you did finally accept?”
“Yes. I thought it was too good an opportunity to miss—having Mr. Morne’s coaching and acting in his company.”
“Did he offer to coach you in private or at rehearsals of the play when they got under way?”
“Both. He was to coach me privately in the role during the summer.”
“How many times had he coached you before his death?”
“Four times.”
“No more?”
“No. Then I stopped going.”
“Why?”
“I found his interest in me was...personal, not artistic, as I had thought.”
“You mean he made love to you?”
“He wanted to. He asked me to go to the Adirondacks with him in August.”
“You finally agreed to do that?”
“No, I—”
The shadow of Kemerson walked around the table towards the unseen woman he had been questioning. She arose and faced him.
“What is your first name, Miss Sterling?”
“Ginevra.”
As she pronounced her name she faced the camera, and the screen reflected the image of a slender and attractive blond young woman, with fine eyes, delicate features and a charming figure. An instant later the projection room was again plunged into darkness, but the lights were quickly turned on and the spectators saw the screen being drawn up into the flies. The shadows of Kirk Kemerson and of Ginevra Sterling were replaced by those two persons in the flesh on the stage. A uniformed policeman advanced from the wings and took up a position beside the young woman.
“Now, Miss Sterling,” said Kemerson, “who was the man who loved you and objected to your accepting Chadwick Morne’s offer of a part in his next play?”
The girl did not reply.
“I must insist upon an answer, Miss Sterling. I should hate to order you locked up as a material witness in a murder case. That would be a good deal of a shock to your parents.”
“But you can’t do that, Mr. Kemerson. I know nothing.”
“But you do know the name of the man. Remember, I know it, too. It will come out, but I want to hear it from your own lips. The District Attorney is in the audience. Must I turn you over to him?”
/> The girl hesitated, then pronounced a name, so low that it did not carry into the auditorium. Kemerson commanded her to speak it louder.
“Marshall Brewster.”
“Lieutenant Marshall Brewster, formerly of the United States air service?”
“Yes.”
“You heard him threaten to kill Chadwick Morne?”
The girl sank into a chair as though her legs would no longer support her. She did not answer.
“Mr. Brixton,” said Kemerson, “I must ask you to place this young woman under arrest as a material witness in the murder of Chadwick Morne, and possibly as an accessory after the fact.”
“Let her alone! “ cried a big voice from the auditorium.
Marshall Brewster had arisen, shaking his arm free from the detaining hand of the policeman at his side, and strode rapidly towards the stage.
“She knows nothing about it,” he continued. “I killed Chadwick Morne. I would kill him again if by some miracle he could be brought to life. I trailed the Silver Lark in my airplane. I shot Morne as he was floating down in the parachute. He stole my wife with his lying promises. She wanted to go; she wanted a career more than she wanted me. He cast her aside when he was tired of her—drove her to suicide. But I did not kill him for that. I killed him because he was plying his arts on the woman I love—who would have married me before this but for him. Miss Sterling did not even know that I knew Morne. I urged her not to accept his offer. I was even desperate enough to forbid her to do so, but I never made a threat against Morne in her hearing.”
“I never believed she knew that you shot Morne,” said Kemerson, “but I did know that you were in love with her. I trailed you to her home one night, and I became convinced she could lead me to the man who shot Morne. But why did you kill Kiyoshi Nimura?”
“I did not kill the Japanese. I have no doubt he deserved to die, for he was trying to blackmail some woman. That was not my affair. I had nothing against Kentaro. He was a good orderly and I tried to help him.”
“Then you deny that you borrowed the key to the empty house which overlooked the Jap’s window at Mrs. O’Toole’s?”
“I never borrowed the key, nor was I ever in the building.”
“Why did you attempt the life of Stephen Blake in Bayside last night?”
“I was not in Bayside last night, or any other time. I don’t know where Bayside is.”
“You deny that you had me slugged and thrown into the Hudson River a week ago?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, Lieutenant, I shall make no charge against Miss Sterling. There is no occasion for holding her, but I shall have to turn you over to the District Attorney for further questioning.”
“I’ll take charge of him,” said Detective Dugan, stepping upon the stage, flashing a pair of handcuffs. “I have a warrant for your arrest, Brewster, for the murder of Chadwick Morne.”
“Not so fast, Dugan,” interposed Kemerson, quietly. “Brewster did not murder Morne.”
“Why...What...? But he has just confessed!” exclaimed the incredulous detective.
“He confessed that he shot Morne, but Morne was already dead when the bullet struck him.”
CHAPTER XXVIII — DOUBLE ESCAPE
DUGAN stared at Kemerson, the handcuffs dangling from his outstretched hand.
“Already dead!” he ejaculated at last, pop-eyed with amazement.
The stir that Kemerson’s statement had caused died away, and absolute silence reigned as the spectators waited breathlessly for the actor’s next words.
“Morne died from the effects of poison, not from the bullet wound,” said Kemerson. “I was able to get his body exhumed for an autopsy. Perhaps the District Attorney would like to read the report of the autopsy.”
“The District Attorney certainly would,” said Mr. Brixton. He arose and strode down the aisle and up on the stage.
“First, let me explain, Walton. I was curious about the fact that no mention was made of a pool of blood where Morne’s body was found. I made an airplane trip to Carlstown. There I learned that the wound in his chest had bled comparatively not at all, and my suspicion that he might already have been dead when the bullet struck him was confirmed. I then flew to Lima, where he was buried, and, thanks to your credentials, Walton, and an astute local chief of police, experienced but little difficulty in inducing the authorities to order the body secretly exhumed, to have an autopsy performed and a chemical analysis made of his organs. Here is the report.”
He handed a telegram to Mr. Brixton who read:
CHEMICAL ANALYSIS OF MORNE’S ORGANS SHOWS HE DIED OF HYDROCYANIC ACID POISONING. WAS UNDOUBTEDLY ALREADY DEAD WHEN SHOT. JOHN COGGESHAL, CORONER.
“How long have you had this telegram?” asked Mr. Brixton.
“I received it yesterday.”
“And I learn of it only now.” Kemerson smiled at the reproach in the District Attorney’s words.
“You have a prisoner who has not cleared himself, Walton. I had the stage set and did not want to give away my plot before the drama started.”
As he spoke the door leading into the projection room opened and a policeman made his way towards the stage.
“There’s a man outside said you sent for him to come here, Mr. Brixton,” said the officer. “Says his name is Arthur Layman.”
“I did not send for Mr. Layman,” replied the District Attorney. “I presume you did, Kirk?”
“I thought a message from you would have more weight than one from me. As Mr. Layman was a passenger on the Silver Lark the night that Morne met his death it seemed an excellent idea to me to have him present. He may be able to shed some light on what took place on board the airplane before Morne’s disappearance.”
“Bring him in,” said Mr. Brixton. The policeman returned to the door and motioned to Layman to enter. The latter glanced quickly about the room, and nodded in the direction of Stephen Blake who sat beside Edith Vane. The girl made a convulsive movement as though to spring to her feet, then relapsed into immobility.
“Come up here, Mr. Layman,” said the District Attorney.
Layman, a large man, broad shouldered and keen-eyed, stepped upon the stage.
“Your message reached me but an hour ago, Mr. Brixton. I caught the first train in. I hope I have not put you to any inconvenience.”
“Not at all,” Kemerson replied for Mr. Brixton. “We thought you might be of some help to us.”
“I’d be glad to if I could, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than I have already.”
“We wanted all the passengers on the Silver Lark that night here if possible. The pilot is off on another trip and could not come.” Kemerson noticed Layman examining rather closely the solid figure of Lieutenant Brewster. “Oh, Mr. Layman, this is Lieutenant Brewster, the man who shot Morne.”
“So you’ve got the murderer!” said Layman, and glanced again at Brewster. The two men were of much the same build and weight; both clean shaven, with full faces and firmly set jaws. Hair and eyes differed in color; forehead and ears in size and shape. “You were just about to have him handcuffed. I am glad it was no one on the Silver Lark who murdered Morne.”
“Brewster has confessed that he shot Morne as he was floating to earth in the parachute,” said Kemerson. “Had you suspected any passenger on the Silver Lark?”
“Well, I had speculated on the matter,” admitted Layman. “One could not go through such an experience without trying to piece things together, assigning motives to acts overseen, words overheard—”
“You had suspected—who?”
“After an arrest had been made, I thought back over the happenings on the first part of the flight. But that seems to have been erroneous, since you already have the confession of the murderer.”
“What had you observed that first gave direction to your suspicion?”
“I don’t see that it matters now. It was nothing very tangible—angry looks, raised and threatening voices. I believe everyone in the a
irplane sensed a tenseness in the relations of the two men.”
“Morne and Giulio Vanuzzi, you mean?”
“Well, yes. It was quite natural in the circumstances to connect the two names together—particularly so since they were last seen together.”
“It was you that first discovered Mr. Morne’s absence, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. I aroused Mr. Vanuzzi and told him. I wanted to ask him what had been the cause of his quarrel with the actor, but Mr. Vanuzzi gave the alarm at once.”
“Did you speak with Morne during the evening?”
“No, sir. I never met the gentleman. I have seen him on the stage, of course—”
Layman was interrupted at this point by the voice of Mrs. Jackson Delano.
“Mr. Kemerson, I distinctly heard that man’s voice speaking to Mr. Morne. I am never mistaken in a voice.”
“Oh, but surely you were mistaken this time, Mrs. Delano,” said Edith Vane, quickly. “If Mr. Layman had spoken to Mr. Morne I surely would have heard him. Mr. Layman was sitting one seat ahead of me across the aisle.”
“I am not mistaken,” insisted the blind woman.
“What did you hear Mr. Layman say to Morne?” asked Kemerson.
“It was nothing of any importance. I presume he has forgotten it. He merely said, ‘Will you have a drink with me, Mr. Morne?’”
“And what did Morne reply?”
“He said, ‘That’s very kind of you.’”
“In what tone did he reply? As though the invitation were distasteful to him?”
“His voice was devoid of intonation.”
“No sign of fear in it?”
“None at all. It was the voice of a gentleman replying to a courtesy offered by a stranger.”
Kemerson regarded Arthur Layman. “You had forgotten that speech, I presume?”
Parachute Murder Page 24
