The Strange Case of Cavendish, Page 2

  CHAPTER II: THE BODY ON THE FLOOR

  The early light of dawn stealing in faintly through the spider-web ofthe fire-escape ladder, found a partially open window on the thirdfloor of the Waldron apartments, and began slowly to brighten the wallsof the room within. There were no curtains on this window as upon theothers, and the growing radiance streamed in revealing the wholeinterior. It was a large apartment, furnished soberly and in excellenttaste as either lounging-room or library, the carpet a dark green, thewalls delicately tinted, bearing a few rare prints rather sombrelyframed, and containing a few upholstered chairs; a massive sofa, and alibrary table bearing upon it a stack of magazines.

  Its tenant evidently was of artistic leanings for about the room wereseveral large bronze candle-sticks filled with partially burned tapers.A low bookcase extended along two sides of the room, each shelf filled,and at the end of the cases a heavy imported drapery drawn slightlyaside revealed the entrance to a sleeping apartment, the bed's snowycovering unruffled. Wealth, taste and comfort were everywhere manifest.

  Yet, as the light lengthened, the surroundings evidenced disorder. Onechair lay overturned, a porcelain vase had fallen from off thetable-top to the floor and scattered into fragments. A few magazineshad fallen also, and there were miscellaneous papers scattered aboutthe carpet, one or two of them torn as though jerked open by animpatient hand. Still others lying near the table disclosed cornerscharred by fire, and as an eddy of wind whisked through the window andalong the floor it tumbled brown ashes along with it, at the same timediluting the faint odour of smoke that clung to the room. Back of thetable a small safe embedded in the wall stood with its door wide open,its inner drawer splintered as with a knife blade and hanging half out,and below it a riffle of papers, many of them apparently legaldocuments.

  But the one object across which the golden beams of light fell asthough in soft caress was the motionless figure of a man lying upon hisback beside the table near the drapeless window. Across his face andshoulders were the charred remains of what undoubtedly had beencurtains on that window. A three-socketed candle-stick filled withpartially burned candles which doubtless had been knocked from thetable was mute evidence of how the tiny flame had started upon itsshort march. As to the man's injuries, a blow from behind hadevidently crushed his skull and, though the face was seared and burned,though the curtain's partial ashes covered more than a half of it,though the eye-lashes above the sightless eyes were singed and the trimbeard burned to black stubs, the face gave mute evidence of being thatof Frederick Cavendish.

  In this grim scene a tiny clock on the mantel began pealing the hour ofeight. As though this were a signal for entrance, the door at the endof the bookcase opened noiselessly and a man, smooth faced, his hairbrushed low across his forehead, stepped quietly in. As his eyessurveyed the grewsome object by the table, they dilated with horror;then his whole body stiffened and he fled back into the hall, crashingthe door behind him.

  Ten minutes later he returned, not alone, however. This time hiscompanion was John Cavendish but partially dressed, his features whiteand haggard.

  With nervous hands he pushed open the door. At the sight of the bodyhe trembled a moment, then, mastering himself, strode over and touchedthe dead face, the other meanwhile edging into the room.

  "Dead, sir, really _dead_?" the late comer asked.

  Cavendish nodded: "For several hours," he answered in an unnaturalvoice. "He must have been struck from behind. Robbery evidently wasthe object--cold-blooded robbery."

  "The window is open, sir, and last night at twenty minutes after twelveI locked it. Mr. Cavendish came in at twelve and locking the windowwas the last thing I did before he told me I could go."

  "He left no word for a morning call?"

  Valois shook his head: "I always bring his breakfast at eight," heexplained.

  "Did he say anything about suddenly leaving the city for a trip West?I heard such a rumour."

  "No, sir. He was still up when I left and had taken some papers fromhis pocket. When last I saw him he was looking at them. He seemedirritated."

  There was a moment's silence, during which the flush returned toCavendish's cheeks, but his hands still trembled.

  "You heard nothing during the night?" he demanded.

  "Nothing, sir. I swear I knew nothing until I opened the door and sawthe body a few moments ago."

  "You'd better stick to your story, Valois," the other said sternly,"The police will be here shortly. I'm going to call them, now."

  He was calm, efficient, self-contained now as he got Central Stationupon the wire and began talking.

  "Hello, lieutenant? Yes. This is John Cavendish of the Waldronapartments speaking. My cousin, Frederick Cavendish, has been founddead in his room and his safe rifled. Nothing has been disturbed.Yes, at the Waldron, Fifty-Seventh Street. Please hurry."

  Perhaps half an hour later the police came--two bull-neckedplain-clothes men and a flannel-mouthed "cop."

  With them came three reporters, one of them a woman. She was a youngwoman, plainly dressed and, though she could not be called beautiful,there was a certain patrician prettiness in her small, oval, womanlyface with its grey kind eyes, its aquiline nose, its firm lips anddetermined jaw, a certain charm in the manner in which her chestnuthair escaped occasionally from under her trim hat. Young, aggressive,keen of mind and tireless, Stella Donovan was one of the few good womanreporters of the city and the only one the _Star_ kept upon its pinchedpay-roil. They did so because she could cover a man-size job and get afeminine touch into her story after she did it. And, though hercustomary assignments were "sob" stories, divorces, society events andthe tracking down of succulent bits of general scandal, shenevertheless enjoyed being upon the scene of the murder even though shewas not assigned to it. This casual duty was for Willis, the _Star's_"police" man, who had dragged her along with him for momentary companyover her protest that she must get a "yarn" concerning juvenileprisoners for the Sunday edition.

  "Now, we'll put 'em on the rack." Willis smiled as he left her sideand joined the detectives.

  A flood of questions from the officers, interspersed frequently with anumber from Willis, and occasionally one from the youthful _Chronicle_man, came down upon Valois and John Cavendish, while Miss Donovan,silent and watchful, stood back, frequently letting her eyes admire thetasteful prints upon the walls and the rich hangings in the room ofdeath.

  Valois repeated his experience, which was corroborated in part by thetestimony of John Cavendish's valet whom he had met and talked with inthe hall. The valet also testified that his employer, John Cavendish,had come home not later than twelve o'clock and immediately retired.Then John Cavendish established the fact that ten minutes beforearriving home he had dropped Celeste La Rue at her apartment. Therewas no flaw in any of the stories to which the inquisitors could attachsuspicion. One thing alone seemed to irritate Willis.

  "Are you sure," he said to Cavendish, "that the dead man is yourcousin? The face and chest are pretty badly burned you know, and Ithought perhaps----"

  A laugh from the detectives silenced him while Cavendish ended anyfleeting doubts with a contemptuous gaze.

  "You can't fool a man on his own cousin, youngster," he said flatly."The idea is absurd."

  The crime unquestionably was an outside job; the window opening on thefire-escape had been jimmied, the marks left being clearly visible.Apparently Frederick Cavendish had previously opened the safedoor--since it presented no evidence of being tampered with--and wasexamining certain papers on the table, when the intruder had stolen upfrom behind and dealt him a heavy blow probably, from the nature of thewound, using a piece of lead pipe. Perhaps in falling Cavendish's armhad caught in the curtains, pulling them from the supporting rod anddragging them across the table, thus sweeping the candlestick with itslighted tapers down to the floor with it. There the extinguished wickshad ignited the draperies, which had fallen across the stricken man'sface and body. The clothes, torso
, and legs, had been charred beyondrecognition but the face, by some peculiar whim of fate, had beenpartly preserved.

  The marauder, aware that the flames would obliterate a portion, if notall of the evidence against him, had rifled the safe in which, Johntestified, his cousin always kept considerable money. Scatteringbroadcast valueless papers, he had safely made his escape through thewindow, leaving his victim's face to the licking flames. Foot-printsbelow the window at the base of the fire-escape indicated that thefugitive had returned that way. This was the sum of the evidence,circumstantial and true, that was advanced. Satisfied that nothingelse was to be learned, the officers, detectives, Willis, and MissDonovan and the pale _Chronicle_ youth withdrew, leaving the officer onguard.

  The same day, young John, eager to be away from the scene, moved hisbelongings to the Fairmount Hotel, and, since no will was found in thedead man's papers, the entire estate came to him, as next of kin. Aday or two later the body was interred in the family lot beside thefather's grave, and the night of the funeral young John Cavendish dinedat an out-of-the-way road-house with a blonde with a hard metallicvoice. Her name was Miss Celeste La Rue.

  And the day following he discharged Francois Valois without apparentcause, in a sudden burst of temper. So, seemingly, the curtain fell onthe last act of the play.