The Parachute Murder

by Lebbeus Mitchell

  “I was going down Sixth Avenue to your place, Mr. Blake, and saw Mr. Morne’s Jap valet coming out of a Japanese restaurant, that one on Forty-first Street, on the second floor—Kenkichi’s place. I shaddered him to the subway entrance at Broadway and Forty-second Street. I waited a second or two so’s he wouldn’t see me following him—shaddering him, I mean—and when I got downstairs he had disappeared.” Johnny’s disgust caused Blake to laugh, and the boy added: “I bet you he won’t give me the slip the next time.”

  Blake sent a message by Johnny to Kemerson, telling him how he could be reached, and that Kiyoshi had been seen coming out of Kenkichi’s restaurant. At midnight he gave up waiting for a call from the actor and went to bed. Then he fell to thinking of Edith Vane, wondering if she were really in danger from Vanuzzi. He found his heart beating faster at thought of the threat she had received by telephone. What a thoroughbred she was!—to disregard the danger to herself and go to the District Attorney with her story of the happenings on the Silver Lark. She had courage—and sympathy: she had not believed he was in any way implicated in the actor’s death. She was the kind of a girl it is easy to fall in love with...

  In the morning Kirk Kemerson ‘phoned and made an appointment to go to Kenkichi’s restaurant that night after his performance. Blake got through the day somehow—reading the newspapers, thinking of Edith Vane, talking with Mrs. Morne by telephone, and thinking of Miss Vane. Eleven o’clock found him in Kenkichi’s restaurant waiting for Kemerson.

  When the actor arrived he was curt and preoccupied until the waiter came for their order; then a change came over him; he was the kindly, urbane host; he engaged the waiter in friendly conversation, much to Blake’s embarrassment, as it attracted the attention of other guests.

  “If you have never eaten Japanese food before,” said Kemerson, “I suggest you leave the ordering to me. Some of the native dishes are a trifle upsetting to stomachs accustomed to American cooking.”

  “I’ve experimented with Chinese, Russian, Turkish, Greek and Indian cooking,” said Blake, “but never with Japanese.”

  “Then we’ll have a double order of chicken suki-yaki,” said Kemerson, referring to the bill of fare which was printed in Japanese characters, followed by the native name spelled out in Latin letters, with its English equivalent. “While the waiter is preparing that dish before our eyes, we’ll have a plate of miso-shiru.” He gave the order to the waiter, and added: “With the suki-yaki we’ll have two orders of goma-aye and of tenpura. You might add an order of umani.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the smiling waiter. “A very good selection, and all Japanese dishes.”

  “And all delicious,” remarked Kemerson. “You speak very good English. Were you born in America?”

  “In New York,” replied the waiter, Sessue, a very dark-skinned, wide-mouthed Japanese. “I am attending Columbia University. Will finish my course next year.”

  “And then go back to Japan?”

  “For a visit only. I am going into business in New York with my father.”

  “Many Americans do not think a college education necessary for a business career.”

  “One can never know too much,” said Sessue, with another wide smile.

  He went back to the kitchen and soon returned bearing a tray with a large pot of tea and two plates of miso-shiru, Japanese bean soup, which Blake found sourish to the taste but quite palatable. He liked particularly the white squares that looked something like cream cheese but which he learned were bits of bean custard.

  While they were eating the soup, the waiter lighted the gas-jet under an iron skillet on the center of the table. After it had got hot he poured in some water, a tablespoonful of sugar, a dark liquid that Blake took to be soy-bean sauce, some slices of onion, spinach leaves and bamboo shoots and left it to come to a boil while he waited on another table. In a few minutes he emptied a quantity of sliced chicken into the skillet and again left the suki-yaki to cook. The final ingredient, cubes of bean custard, were put in when the dish was nearly done. The waiter then brought the rest of the order, including a bowl of rice, a quantity of which he put on two plates and then spread generous portions of the suki-yaki over it.

  “If you don’t like that,” observed Kemerson, “then there’s something the matter with your palate or your appetite.”

  Blake tasted it and pronounced it delicious. At the actor’s urging he helped himself to the goma-aye, vegetables in crushed sesame, and the umani which consisted mainly of chicken, bamboo shoots and mushrooms. While strange to the taste, Blake found both very palatable. Tenpura, fried shrimps which were dipped in soy-bean sauce before eating, he did not relish so much, but Kemerson fell to with a good appetite and soon finished the dish.

  The waiter hovered in the background, eager to supply their wants, and Kemerson occasionally engaged him in conversation so that, by the time the meal was finished, the actor and the waiter were on friendly terms.

  “Has Kiyoshi Nimura been in here recently?” asked Kemerson. “Do you know him?”

  “Yes, I know him. He was here for lunch yesterday. He comes here frequently.”

  “He’s been dresser for an American actor—I can’t think of his name——”

  “Chadwick Morne,” said Sessue, happy to enlighten so friendly a diner. “The actor who was killed on the airplane, Silver Lark.”

  “I understand Kiyoshi is a good dresser,” said Kemerson, “and I thought I might engage him. I am an actor, too. Do you know where he can be reached?”

  Sessue did not know but volunteered to find out. He brought the proprietor of the restaurant to their table. Kenkichi Tanabe was a fat little Japanese with small black eyes that glittered. Kemerson explained that he was an actor in need of a valet and that Kiyoshi had been highly recommended to him by a friend. Tanabe gave him an address in the West Fifties, adding that he thought a visit to the former valet would be a waste of time.

  “Kiyoshi did not like that job. He and that Mr. Morne did not get along.”

  “You mean they quarreled?”

  “He did not like Mr. Morne. He thinks all actors damn fools. He call them peacocks who think they are eagles.”

  “A most palpable hit!” laughed Kemerson.

  “Kiyoshi was very angry at Mr. Morne one night,” broke in Sessue, eagerly. “He said ‘Watash kereo karosu jo!’”

  “Said what?” asked Kemerson, sharply. Tanabe gestured to the waiter to be gone about his business, but Sessue, who had been tipped generously and wished to show his appreciation, repeated the valet’s words:

  “‘Watash kereo karosu jo.’”

  “What does that mean in English?” demanded Kemerson.

  Tanabe spoke harshly to Sessue in Japanese and the waiter bowed quickly to Kemerson and Blake and went to a corner table where a fat man and his fatter wife had just seated themselves.

  “Kiyoshi say he never again work for those peacocks thinking they are eagles,” said Kenkichi Tanabe, with an oblique, angry look at the retiring waiter.

  “So you don’t think he would act as my dresser, as I am one of those peacocks pretending to be eagles?” asked Kemerson, lightly.

  “Kiyoshi say, ‘Never again.’”

  “Well, it’s too bad. I need a good valet. Perhaps I can find a negro who will suit me, but I am very fussy.”

  “Kiyoshi no good for you then,” said Kenkichi. Kemerson thanked him and left the restaurant with Blake.

  “We’ve got Kiyoshi’s address anyhow,” said Kemerson. “We’ll pay him a call. First, we’ll drop into a Japanese restaurant farther up the avenue. I’m curious to know just what ‘Watash kereo karosu jo’ means.”

  It was a dingy little place on the second floor of a dingier brick building to which the actor led Blake. Kemerson seemed to be well known there for he was greeted with smiling bows by the passing waiters as he went straight to the cashier’s desk where sat a fat, oily Japanese past middle age. He bowed to the actor with much deference as he came out from behind the c
ounter to show him to a table.

  “Not tonight, Yone, I’ve already had supper. I’ve come to you for some information—the translation of a Japanese sentence.”

  “What is the sentence, Mr. Kemerson?” asked the proprietor, returning to his desk.

  “Watash kereo karosu jo.”

  “‘I will kill him,’” said Yone. “It is not the best of Japanese—not literary Japanese. It is how the common people speak.”

  Blake was aware from the momentary gleam in Kemerson’s eyes that the translation of the sentence had opened up a vast new realm of speculation.

  “So that’s what it means,” observed the actor, matter-of-factly. “I thought it had something to do with peacocks and eagles.”

  Yone smiled at the American’s ignorance of the Japanese words. “No, it means, ‘I will kill him.’”

  “Thanks, Yone. Sorry I troubled you for so trifling a matter.”

  It was an altogether different Kirk Kemerson that Blake found beside him when they were again on the street. He was nervous and alert, quick in his movements, sharp in his speech.

  “Kiyoshi knows something about the murder of Morne. I mean to find out what it is. Tonight, Blake! Tonight!”

  CHAPTER XIV — THE STORY BREWSTER’S ORDERLY TOLD

  KIYOSHI NIMURA’S place of concealment proved to be within a block and a half of the Hudson River, in a three-story brick building that looked dirty and ramshackle even in the dim light from the corner street lamp a hundred and fifty feet away. The outer door was locked.

  “We don’t want to wake up everyone in the building,” said Kemerson, “and as we don’t know from whom he has rented a room we’ll have to arouse the janitor. If there’s a Japanese rooming here he will doubtless know it.”

  After prolonged ringing of the janitor’s bell that individual came to the door of the basement underneath the stoop and called grumpily up to them:

  “Well, what do you want? Why don’t you come around in the day time?”

  “My good fellow, this is an important police matter. Are you coming up or shall we come down?”

  “Well, I’m not coming up, and me in my nightshirt and bare feet.”

  They regained the sidewalk. Under the stoop stood the burly form of a sleepy-eyed, unshaven man with an enormous black mustache, his bald head gleaming under an electric light he had switched on. His nightshirt was tucked inside his breeches.

  “I’m looking for a young Japanese, Kiyoshi Nimura, who sometimes calls himself Kentaro Kawatami. The police have information he is living in this building. Do you know him?”

  “I’ve seen a Jap going in several times. I don’t know his name. What’s he done?”

  “He’s wanted for questioning.”

  “You don’t look like a dick to me—“ began the janitor, but stopped speaking as Kemerson took a badge from his pocket and showed it. The janitor was satisfied. “I heard one of the women telling another a Jap had rented a room of Mrs. O’Toole. That’s on the fourth floor rear.”

  “Then he’s our man. Unlock the outer door for us.” Grumbling, the man went to obey. A dim light was burning at the head of the stairway on each flight, and they made their way softly to the top floor. The O’Toole flat was at the back. The actor pressed the electric bell and after a time they heard the shuffling of approaching feet.

  “Who is it? And what do you want?” asked a masculine voice with more than a hint of Irish brogue in it.

  “From police headquarters, Mr. O’Toole. You’ve got a roomer here that’s wanted for questioning.”

  “We’ve got a roomer here,” replied the voice, and opened the door. A tall, bony, frowsy-headed Irishman, towering five or six inches above the actor and the press agent, came out into the hall. “He’s a very peaceable sort of a Jap. What’s he been doin’?”

  “Perhaps nothing, but I want to talk with him to find out if he’s the man the Inspector wants.”

  “Maybe he’s in, and maybe he ain’t. He comes in that late I’ve set eyes on him only a couple of times, or maybe three.”

  Mr. O’Toole conducted them down a long hallway to the rear of the flat, and knocked on a door. There was no answer, and after rapping again, he opened the door and switched on the light. The room was empty. The bed had not been slept in.

  “He ain’t come in yet,” said O’Toole, apologetically. “Are those his clothes in the closet?”

  “Yes, they’re his, and so are the things on the dresser.”

  “Then he’s coming back. It’s half past one o’clock. Have you a room where we can wait unseen until he comes? It’s all right. Here’s my authority,” and Kemerson displayed the badge that had convinced the janitor. “And here’s something for your trouble—waking you up from your much needed rest.”

  O’Toole’s eyes opened wide as he saw the denomination of the bill that the actor pressed into his hand.

  “There’s the kitchen, right across the hall from the Jap’s room. Or the dining room. You’ll be more comfortable there, and it’s nearer the outside door.”

  “That will do. Thanks. We’ll be as quiet as possible. Go back to bed and to sleep if you can.” The man hesitated. Plainly, he did not like the idea of two men he had never seen before keeping vigil in the apartment while the family slept. “You can remain with us if you like,” said Kemerson, reassuringly, “but I’m afraid you won’t be very comfortable. The lights are always out when the Jap gets in, aren’t they?”

  “All except the 10-watt hall light.”

  “Leave that on then, but all the other lights must be out. If he sees anything suspicious he’ll bolt and we’ll have had our trouble for nothing.”

  O’Toole remained with them, stretched out on a dilapidated sofa. He tried to get Kemerson into a conversation, but the latter replied so shortly, at last telling their enforced host that they would scare away the Jap, that the man fell silent, and soon afterwards began to snore, slowly, monotonously but not very loud.

  “Just the thing,” whispered Kemerson. “It must be a familiar sound to Kiyoshi and when he hears it he will suspect nothing.”

  They settled down to wait. Blake all but slept two or three times. A church bell striking three kept him from actually dozing off. But a few minutes after that they heard soft footfalls and the fumbling of a key at the lock, and their senses became at once on the alert. So quietly was the door opened and closed that only a second grating of the key told them the man they expected was in the apartment. A moment later the light was snapped on in Kiyoshi’s room. Kemerson felt his way into the hall, Blake following. They stole quietly to the door, listened a moment, and then Kemerson threw it quickly open.

  Kiyoshi Nimura stopped in the act of laying a pair of blue pajamas on the bed, and made a swift spring towards the window. Kemerson leveled his revolver.

  “Stop! This time you don’t escape!”

  Kiyoshi halted abruptly, raising his hands.

  “See if he has a gun on him,” ordered Kemerson.

  “I never carry gun,” said Kiyoshi. “I have done nothing. What do you want of me?”

  “Plain answers to some questions. Answer them freely and fully, otherwise we’ll take you to the station.”

  “He’s not armed,” said Blake, finishing his search.

  “I’ll answer any questions I can, Mr. Kemerson.”

  “You know who I am then? You have seen me before?”

  “Yes, at——”

  “I’ll finish it for you: You saw me at Vanuzzi’s night club when you denied you were Kiyoshi Nimura. Why did you deny it?”

  “I did not want police to drag me into the Morne case. They would try to prove I killed him just because I am Japanese—not American.”

  “That wasn’t quite all, I think. Hadn’t you made threats against Mr. Morne?”

  “I never threaten him. I work for him. Got good pay.”

  “What does ‘Watash kereo karosu jo’ mean?”

  Kiyoshi looked quickly from Kemerson to Blake and then involuntari
ly his eyes slid towards the window.

  “Kiyoshi is too much interested in that open window, Blake. See that it is closed and locked. It probably leads to the fire escape.”

  “It does,” said Blake, as he locked it. Kemerson repeated his question to the valet.

  “It means, ‘I will kill him,’” Kiyoshi admitted at length.

  “You made that threat about Chadwick Morne at Kenkichi’s restaurant. Why?”

  “I was angry—what you Americans call mad—at Mr. Morne. He said that night I steal money from his clothes while he was on stage. I deny; he all same keep on saying I stole it. He swear at me. Call me pig-headed Jap baboon. When I say he damn liar, he strike me in face. Choking madness still burn in me when I go to Kenkichi’s to eat. I talk. I say many things—’Watash kereo karosu jo.’ I was at my side with madness.”

  “You knew about Morne’s airplane flight. He caught you looking at his ticket.”

  “I knew before that. I hear him talk with Mr. Blake. It was fake flying trip.”

  “What do you mean by fake?”

  “Not real flying trip. He jump from airplane and make believe he killed. Get his name in papers.”

  “And so you told Mr. Vanuzzi that Chadwick Morne was leaving New York on the Silver Lark.”

  “Sure I tell them—I tell him—Mr. Vanuzzi, I mean.” The valet had corrected himself so quickly that Kemerson was suspicious.

  “Who else besides Vanuzzi did you tell?”

  “Nobody else; only Mr. Vanuzzi. It was not secret—only from the newspapers. Mr. Morne was partner of Mr. Vanuzzi.”

  “Why did you go to Morne’s apartment to get the handkerchief he used in The Bed of Virtue when all the time you had it with you?”

  “That is not truth, Mr. Kemerson. It damn lie. Mr. Morne send me to get forgotten handkerchief. Through open door I saw it in room. I get it. Mrs. Morne very angry; she say that her room. Say she have me fired if she find me in it again.”

  “What did you do with the letter you took from her room?”

  “Letter? What you mean, letter?”

  “A letter with a French stamp on it, and postmarked Paris.”