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
mention these things because I am your friend. Such friendship leads
me first to inform you what had happened over the phone. I realised
that Frederick's hasty determination to devise his property elsewhere
was the result of a quarrel. I believed it my duty to give you
opportunity to patch that quarrel up with the least possible delay.
Perhaps this was not entirely professional on my part, but the claims
of friendship are paramount to mere professional ethics."
He sighed, clasping and unclasping his hands, yet with eyes steadily
fixed upon Cavendish, who had sunk back into his chair.
"Now consider the situation, my dear fellow. I have, it is true,
performed an unprofessional act which, if known, would expose me to
severe criticism. There is, however, no taint of criminal intent about
my conduct and, no doubt, my course would be fully vindicated, were I
now to go directly before the court and testify to the existence of a
will."
"But that could not be proved. You have already stated that Frederick
took the will with him; it has never been found."
"Quite true--or rather, it may have been found, and destroyed. It
chances, however, that I took the precaution to make a carbon copy."
"Unsigned?"
"Yes, but along with this unsigned copy I also retain the original
memoranda furnished me in Frederick Cavendish's own handwriting. I
believe, from a legal standpoint, by the aid of my evidence, the court
would be very apt to hold such a will proved."
He leaned suddenly forward, facing the shrinking Cavendish and bringing
his hand down hard upon the desk.
"Do you perceive now what this will means? Do you realise where such
testimony would place you? Under the law, providing he died without a
will, you were the sole heir to the property of Frederick Cavendish.
It was widely known you were not on friendly terms. The evening of his
death you quarrelled openly in a public restaurant. Later, in a spirit
of friendship, I called you up and said he had made a will practically
disinheriting you. Between that time and the next morning he is
murdered in his own apartments, his safe rifled, and yet, the only
paper missing is this will, to the existence of which I can testify.
If suspicion is once cast upon you, how can you clear yourself? Can
you prove that you were in your own apartments, asleep in your own bed
from one o'clock until eight? Answer that."
Cavendish tried, but although his lips moved, they gave utterance to no
sound. He could but stare into those eyes confronting him. Enright
scarcely gave him opportunity.
"So, the words won't come. I thought not. Now listen. I am not that
kind of a man and I have kept still. No living person--not even my
partner--has been informed of what has occurred. The witnesses, I am
sure, do not know the nature of the paper they signed. I am a lawyer;
I realise fully the relations I hold to my client, but in this
particular case I contend that my duty as a man is of more importance
than any professional ethics. Frederick Cavendish had this will
executed in a moment of anger and devised his estate to a number of
charities. I personally believe he was not in normal mind and that the
will did not really reflect his purpose. He had no thought of
immediate death, but merely desired to teach you a lesson. He proposed
to disappear--or at least, that is my theory--in order that he might
test you on a slender income. I am able to look upon the whole matter
from this standpoint, and base my conduct accordingly. No doubt this
will enable us to arrive at a perfectly satisfactory understanding."
The lawyer's voice had fallen, all the threat gone, and the younger man
straightened in his chair.
"You mean you will maintain silence as to the will?"
"Absolutely; as a client your interests will always be my first
concern. Of course I shall expect to represent you in a legal capacity
in settling up the estate, and consequently feel it only just that the
compensation for such services shall be mutually agreed upon. In this
case there are many interests to guard. Knowing, as I do, all the
essential facts, I am naturally better prepared to conserve your
interests than any stranger. I hope you appreciate this."
"And your fee?"
"Reasonable, very reasonable, when you consider the service I am doing
you, and the fact that my professional reputation might so easily be
involved and the sums to be distributed, which amount to more than a
million dollars. My silence, my permitting the estate to go to
settlement, and my legal services combined, ought to be held as rather
valuable--at, let us say, a hundred thousand. Yes, a hundred thousand;
I hardly think that is unfair."
Cavendish leaped to his feet, his hand gripping his cane.
"You damned black----"
"Wait!" and Enright arose also. "Not so loud, please; your voice might
be heard in the outer office. Besides it might be well for you to be
careful of your language. I said my services would cost you a hundred
thousand dollars. Take the proposition or leave it, Mr. John
Cavendish. Perhaps, with a moment's thought, the sum asked may not
seem excessive."
"But--but," the other stammered, all courage leaving him, "I haven't
the money."
"Of course not," the threat on Enright's face changing to a smile.
"But the prospects that you will have are unusually good. I am quite
willing to speculate on your fortunes. A memoranda for legal services
due one year from date--such as I have already drawn up--and bearing
your signature, will be quite satisfactory. Glance over the items,
please; yes, sit here at the table. Now, if you will sign that there
will be no further cause for you to feel any uneasiness--this line,
please."
Cavendish grasped the penholder in his fingers, and signed. It was the
act of a man dazed, half stupefied, unable to control his actions.
With trembling hand, and white face, he sat staring at the paper,
scarcely comprehending its real meaning. In a way it was a confession
of guilt, an acknowledgment of his fear of exposure, yet he felt
utterly incapable of resistance. Enright unlocked the door, and
projected his head outside, comprehending clearly that the proper time
to strike was while the iron was hot.
Calling Miss Healey, one of his stenographers, he made her an official
witness to the document and the signature of John Cavendish.
Not until ten minutes later when he was on the street did it occur to
John Cavendish that the carbon copy of the will, together with the
rough notes in his cousin's handwriting, still remained in Enright's
possession. Vainly he tried to force himself to return and demand
them, but his nerve failed, and he shuffled away hopelessly in the
hurrying crowds.