The Strange Case of Cavendish | Page 8

While she gave him a word of sympathy, Miss Donovan was busily
thinking. She remembered Willis's remark in the apartments, "Are you
sure of the dead man's identity? His face is badly mutilated, you know";
and her alert mind sensed a possibility of a newspaper story back of
young Cavendish's unwarranted and strange act. How far could she
question the man before her? That she had established herself in his
good grace she was sure, and to be direct with him she decided would
be the best course to adopt.
"Mr. Valois," she said kindly, "would you mind if I asked you a

question or two more?"
"No," the man returned.
"All right. First, what sort of a man was your master?"
Valois answered almost with reverence:
"A nice, quiet gentleman. A man that liked outdoors and outdoor sports.
He almost never drank, and then only with quiet men like himself that
he met at various clubs. Best of all, he liked to spend his evenings at
home reading."
"Not much like his cousin John," she ventured with narrowing eyes.
"No, ma'am, God be praised! There's a young fool for you, miss, crazy
for the women and his drinking. Brought up to spend money, but not to
earn any."
"I understand that he was dependent upon Frederick Cavendish."
"He was, miss," Valois said disgustedly, "for every cent. He could
never get enough of it, either, although Mr. Frederick gave him a liberal
allowance."
"Did they ever quarrel?"
"I never heard them. But I do know there was no love lost between
them, and I know that young John was always broke."
"Girls cost lots on Broadway," Miss Donovan suggested, "and they
keep men up late, too."
Valois laughed lightly. "John only came home to sleep occasionally,"
he said; "and as for the women--one of them called on him the day after
Mr. Frederick was killed. I was in the hall, and saw her go straight to
his door--like she had been there before. A swell dresser, miss, if I ever
saw one. One of those tall blondes with a reddish tinge in her hair. He
likes that kind."

Miss Donovan started imperceptibly. This was interesting; a woman in
John Cavendish's apartment the day after his cousin's murder! But who
was she? There were a million carrot-blondes in Manhattan. Still, the
woman must have had some distinguishing mark; her hat, perhaps, or
her jewels.
"Did the woman wear any diamonds?" she asked.
"No diamonds," Valois returned; "a ruby, though. A ruby set in a big
platinum ring. I saw her hand upon the knob."
Miss Donovan's blood raced fast. She knew that woman. It was Celeste
La Rue! She remembered her because of a press-agent story that had
once been written about the ring, and from what Miss Donovan knew
of Miss La Rue, she did not ordinarily seek men; therefore there must
have been a grave reason for her presence in John Cavendish's
apartments immediately after she learned of Frederick's death.
Had his untimely end disarranged some plan of these two? What was
the reason she had come in person instead of telephoning? Had her
mysterious visit anything to do with the death of the elder Cavendish?
A thousand speculations entered Miss Donovan's mind.
"How long was she in the apartment?" she demanded sharply.
"Fifteen or twenty minutes, miss--until after the hall-man came back. I
had to help lay out the body, and could not remain there any longer."
"Have you told any one else what you have told me?"
"Only Josette. She's my fiancée. Miss La Baum is her last name."
"You told her nothing further that did not come out at the inquest?"
Valois hesitated.
"Maybe I did, miss," he admitted nervously. "She questioned me about
losing my job, and her questions brought things into my mind that I

might never have thought of otherwise. And at last I came to believe
that it wasn't Mr. Frederick who was dead at all."
The valet's last remark was crashing in its effect.
Miss Donovan's eyes dilated with eagerness and amazement.
"Not Frederick Cavendish! Mr. Valois, tell me--why?"
The other's voice fell to a whisper.
"Frederick Cavendish, miss," he said hollowly, "had a scar on his
chest--from football, he once told me--and the man we laid out, well, of
course his body was a bit burned, but he appeared to have no scar at
all!"
"You know that?" demanded the girl, frightened by the import of the
revelation.
"Yes, miss. The assistant in the undertaking rooms said so, too.
Doubting my own mind, I asked him. The man we laid out had no scar
on his chest."
Miss Donovan sprang suddenly to her feet.
"Mr. Valois," she said breathlessly, "you come and tell that story to my
city editor, and he'll see that