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.
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 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.