The Strange Case of Cavendish | Page 4

Randall Parrish

Cavendish nodded: "For several hours," he answered in an unnatural
voice. "He must have been struck from behind. Robbery evidently was
the object--cold-blooded robbery."
"The window is open, sir, and last night at twenty minutes after twelve
I locked it. Mr. Cavendish came in at twelve and locking the window
was 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," he
explained.
"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 from
his pocket. When last I saw him he was looking at them. He seemed
irritated."
There was a moment's silence, during which the flush returned to
Cavendish'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 saw
the 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 Station
upon the wire and began talking.
"Hello, lieutenant? Yes. This is John Cavendish of the Waldron
apartments speaking. My cousin, Frederick Cavendish, has been found
dead 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-necked
plain-clothes men and a flannel-mouthed "cop."
With them came three reporters, one of them a woman. She was a
young woman, plainly dressed and, though she could not be called
beautiful, there was a certain patrician prettiness in her small, oval,
womanly face with its grey kind eyes, its aquiline nose, its firm lips and
determined jaw, a certain charm in the manner in which her chestnut

hair escaped occasionally from under her trim hat. Young, aggressive,
keen of mind and tireless, Stella Donovan was one of the few good
woman reporters of the city and the only one the Star kept upon its
pinched pay-roil. They did so because she could cover a man-size job
and get a feminine touch into her story after she did it. And, though her
customary assignments were "sob" stories, divorces, society events and
the tracking down of succulent bits of general scandal, she nevertheless
enjoyed being upon the scene of the murder even though she was not
assigned to it. This casual duty was for Willis, the Star's "police" man,
who had dragged her along with him for momentary company over her
protest that she must get a "yarn" concerning juvenile prisoners for the
Sunday edition.
"Now, we'll put 'em on the rack." Willis smiled as he left her side and
joined the detectives.
A flood of questions from the officers, interspersed frequently with a
number 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 the tasteful prints upon the walls and the rich hangings in the
room of death.
Valois repeated his experience, which was corroborated in part by the
testimony of John Cavendish's valet whom he had met and talked with
in the 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 before
arriving home he had dropped Celeste La Rue at her apartment. There
was no flaw in any of the stories to which the inquisitors could attach
suspicion. One thing alone seemed to irritate Willis.
"Are you sure," he said to Cavendish, "that the dead man is your cousin?
The face and chest are pretty badly burned you know, and I thought
perhaps----"
A laugh from the detectives silenced him while Cavendish ended any
fleeting 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
the fire-escape had been jimmied, the marks left being clearly visible.
Apparently Frederick Cavendish had previously opened the safe
door--since it presented no evidence of being tampered with--and was
examining certain papers on the table, when the intruder had stolen up
from behind and dealt him a heavy blow probably, from the nature of
the wound, using a piece of lead pipe. Perhaps in falling Cavendish's
arm had caught in the curtains, pulling them from the supporting rod
and dragging them across the table, thus sweeping the candlestick with
its lighted tapers down to the floor
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