The Strange Case of Cavendish | Page 5

with it. There the extinguished
wicks had ignited the draperies, which had fallen across the stricken
man's face and body. The clothes, torso, and legs, had been charred
beyond recognition but the face, by some peculiar whim of fate, had
been partly preserved.
The marauder, aware that the flames would obliterate a portion, if not
all of the evidence against him, had rifled the safe in which, John
testified, his cousin always kept considerable money. Scattering
broadcast valueless papers, he had safely made his escape through the
window, leaving his victim's face to the licking flames. Foot-prints
below the window at the base of the fire-escape indicated that the
fugitive had returned that way. This was the sum of the evidence,
circumstantial and true, that was advanced. Satisfied that nothing else
was to be learned, the officers, detectives, Willis, and Miss Donovan
and the pale Chronicle youth withdrew, leaving the officer on guard.
The same day, young John, eager to be away from the scene, moved his
belongings to the Fairmount Hotel, and, since no will was found in the
dead man's papers, the entire estate came to him, as next of kin. A day
or two later the body was interred in the family lot beside the father's
grave, and the night of the funeral young John Cavendish dined at an
out-of-the-way road-house with a blonde with a hard metallic voice.
Her name was Miss Celeste La Rue.
And the day following he discharged Francois Valois without apparent

cause, in a sudden burst of temper. So, seemingly, the curtain fell on
the last act of the play.
CHAPTER III
: MR. ENRIGHT DECLARES HIMSELF
One month after the Cavendish murder and two days after he had
despatched a casual, courteous note to John Cavendish requesting that
he call, Mr. Patrick Enright, of Enright and Dougherty, sat in his
private office on the top floor of the Collander Building in Cortlandt
Street waiting for the youth's appearance. Since young Cavendish had
consulted him before in minor matters, Mr. Enright had expected that
he would call voluntarily soon after the murder, but in this he was
disappointed. Realising that Broadway was very dear to the young man,
Enright had made allowances, until, weary of waiting, he decided to get
into the game himself and to this end had despatched the note, to which
Cavendish had replied both by telephone and note.
"He ought to be here now," murmured Mr. Enright sweetly, looking at
his watch, and soon the expected visitor was ushered in. Arising to his
feet the attorney extended a moist, pudgy hand.
"Quite prompt, John," he greeted. "Take the chair there--and pardon me
a moment."
As the youth complied Enright opened the door, glanced into the outer
room, and gave orders not to be disturbed for the next half-hour. Then,
drawing in his head, closed the door and turned the key.
"John," he resumed smoothly, "I have been somewhat surprised that
you failed to consult me earlier regarding the will of your late cousin
Frederick."
"His--his will!" John leaned forward amazed, as he stared into the
other's expressionless face. "Did--did he leave one?"
"Oh! that's it," the attorney chuckled. "You didn't know about it, did

you? How odd. I thought I informed you of the fact over the phone the
same night Frederick died."
"You told me he had called upon you to prepare a will--but there was
none found in his papers."
"So I inferred from the newspaper accounts," Enright chuckled dryly,
his eyes narrowing, "as well as the information that you had applied for
letters of administration. In view of that, I thought a little chat
advisable--yes, quite advisable, since on the night of his death I did
draw up his will. Incidentally, I am the only one living aware that such
a will was drawn. You see my position?"
Young Cavendish didn't; this was all strange, confusing.
"The will," resumed Mr. Enright, "was drawn in proper form and duly
witnessed."
"There can't be such a will. None was found. You phoned me shortly
before midnight, and twenty minutes later Frederick was in his
apartments. He had no time to deposit it elsewhere. There is no such
will."
Enright smiled, not pleasantly by any means.
"Possibly not," he said with quiet sinister gravity. "It was probably
destroyed and it was to gain possession of that will that Frederick
Cavendish was killed."
John leaped to his feet, his face bloodless: "My God!" he muttered
aghast, "do you mean to say----"
"Sit down, John; this is no cause for quarrel. Now listen. I am not
accusing you of crime; not intentional crime, at least. There is no
reason why you should not naturally have desired to gain possession of
the will. If an accident happened, that was your misfortune. I merely