The Strange Case of Cavendish | Page 3

began
folding it carefully.
"I presume you leave this in my care?" he asked shortly.
Cavendish shook his head: "I think not. I prefer holding it myself in
case it is needed suddenly. I shall keep my rooms, and my man Valois
will remain there indefinitely. Now as to your charges."
A nominal sum was named and paid, after which Cavendish rose,
picked up his hat and stick and turned to Enright.
"You have obliged me greatly," he smiled, "and, of course, the
transaction will be considered as strictly confidential." And then seeing
Enright's nod bade him a courteous "Good night."
The attorney watched him disappear. Suddenly he struck the table with
one hand.
"By God!" he muttered, "I'll have to see this thing a little further."
Wheeling suddenly, he walked to a telephone booth, called a number
and waited impatiently several moments before he said in intense
subdued tones: "Is this Carlton's Café? Give me Jackson, the
head-waiter. Jackson, is Mr. Cavendish--John Cavendish--there? Good!
Call him to the phone will you, Jackson? It's important."

CHAPTER II
: THE BODY ON THE FLOOR
The early light of dawn stealing in faintly through the spider-web of the
fire-escape ladder, found a partially open window on the third floor of
the Waldron apartments, and began slowly to brighten the walls of the
room within. There were no curtains on this window as upon the others,
and the growing radiance streamed in revealing the whole interior. It
was a large apartment, furnished soberly and in excellent taste as either
lounging-room or library, the carpet a dark green, the walls delicately
tinted, bearing a few rare prints rather sombrely framed, and containing
a few upholstered chairs; a massive sofa, and a library table bearing
upon it a stack of magazines.
Its tenant evidently was of artistic leanings for about the room were
several 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 slightly
aside revealed the entrance to a sleeping apartment, the bed's snowy
covering unruffled. Wealth, taste and comfort were everywhere
manifest.
Yet, as the light lengthened, the surroundings evidenced disorder. One
chair lay overturned, a porcelain vase had fallen from off the table-top
to the floor and scattered into fragments. A few magazines had fallen
also, and there were miscellaneous papers scattered about the carpet,
one or two of them torn as though jerked open by an impatient hand.
Still others lying near the table disclosed corners charred by fire, and as
an eddy of wind whisked through the window and along the floor it
tumbled brown ashes along with it, at the same time diluting the faint
odour of smoke that clung to the room. Back of the table 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 legal documents.
But the one object across which the golden beams of light fell as

though in soft caress was the motionless figure of a man lying upon his
back beside the table near the drapeless window. Across his face and
shoulders were the charred remains of what undoubtedly had been
curtains on that window. A three-socketed candle-stick filled with
partially burned candles which doubtless had been knocked from the
table was mute evidence of how the tiny flame had started upon its
short march. As to the man's injuries, a blow from behind had evidently
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 trim beard
burned to black stubs, the face gave mute evidence of being that of
Frederick Cavendish.
In this grim scene a tiny clock on the mantel began pealing the hour of
eight. As though this were a signal for entrance, the door at the end of
the bookcase opened noiselessly and a man, smooth faced, his hair
brushed low across his forehead, stepped quietly in. As his eyes
surveyed the grewsome object by the table, they dilated with horror;
then his whole body stiffened and he fled back into the hall, crashing
the door behind him.
Ten minutes later he returned, not alone, however. This time his
companion was John Cavendish but partially dressed, his features white
and haggard.
With nervous hands he pushed open the door. At the sight of the body
he trembled a moment, then, mastering himself, strode over and
touched the dead face, the other meanwhile edging into the room.
"Dead, sir, really dead?" the late comer asked.