CHAPTER X: AT A NEW ANGLE
The knowledge that she was thus being spied upon gave the girl a suddenthrill, but not of fear. Instead it served to strengthen her resolve.There had been nothing in her valise to show who she really was, or whyshe was in Haskell, and consequently, if any vague suspicion had beenaroused as to her presence in that community, the searchers haddiscovered no proof by this rifling of her bag.
She examined the room thoroughly, and glanced out into the still,deserted hall before bolting the door. The cracks in the wall werescarcely wide enough to be dangerous, yet she took the precaution ofshrinking back into the darkest corner before opening her hand-bag andextracting the letter. It bore a typewritten address, with nosuspicious characteristics about the envelope, the return card(typewritten also) being the home address of Farriss.
Farriss's letter contained nothing of interest except the fact thatEnright had also left for the West. He instructed her to be on thelookout for him in Haskell, added a line or two of suggestions, andordered her to proceed with caution, as her quest might prove to be adangerous one.
Miss Donovan tore the letter into small bits, wrapping the fragments ina handkerchief until she could throw them safely away. For some timeshe stood motionless at the window, looking out, but seeing nothing,her mind busy with the problem. She thought rapidly and clearly, morethan ordinarily eager to solve this mystery. She was a newspaperwoman,and the strange story in which she was involved appealed to herimagination, yet its appeal was far more effective in a purely personalway. It was Frederick Cavendish who had formerly been the partner ofJim Westcott. This was why no answer had come to the telegrams andletters the latter had sent East. What had become of them? Had theyfallen into the hands of these others? Was this the true reason forBeaton's presence in Haskell, and also why the La Rue woman had beenhastily sent for? She was not quite ready to accept that theory; theoccasion hardly seemed important enough by itself alone.
Westcott's discovery was not even proven yet; its value had not beendefinitely established; it was of comparatively small importancecontrasted with the known wealth left by the murdered man in the East.No, there must be some other cause for this sudden visit to Colorado.But what? She gave little credence to the vague suspicions advanced byValois; that was altogether too impossible, too melodramatic, thisthought of the substitution of some other body. It might be done, ofcourse; indeed, she had a dim remembrance of having read of such a casesomewhere, but there could be no object attained in this affair.Frederick dead, apparently killed by a burglar in his own apartments,was quite understandable: but kidnapped and still alive, another bodysubstituted for his, resembling him sufficiently to be unrecognised asa fraud, would be a perfectly senseless procedure. No doubt there hadbeen a crime committed, its object the attainment of money, but withoutquestion the cost had been the life of Frederick Cavendish.
Yet why was the man Beaton out here? For what purpose had he wired theLa Rue woman to join him? And why had some one already entered herroom and examined the contents of Stella Donovan's bag? To thesequeries there seemed to be no satisfactory answers. She must consultwith Westcott, and await an opportunity to make the acquaintance ofCeleste La Rue.
She was still there, her elbows on the window-ledge, her face halfconcealed in the hollow of her hands, so lost in thought as to beoblivious to the flight of time, when the harsh clang of thedinner-bell from the porch below aroused her to a sense of hunger.
Ten minutes later Timmons, guiltless of any coat, but temporarilylaying aside his pipe as a special act of courtesy, escorted her intothe dining-room and seated her at a table between the two frontwindows. Evidently this was reserved for the more distinguishedguests--travelling men and those paying regular day rates--for its onlyother occupant was the individual in the check suit whom she vaguelyremembered passing on the street a few hours before.
The two long tables occupying the centre of the room were already wellfilled with hungry men indiscriminately attired, not a few coatless andwith rolled-up sleeves, as though they had hurried in from work at thefirst sound of the gong. These paid little attention to her entrance,except to stare curiously as she crossed the floor in Timmons's wake,and immediately afterward again devoted themselves noisily to theirfood.
A waitress, a red-haired, slovenly girl, with an impediment in herspeech, took her order and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen,and Miss Donovan discreetly lifted her eyes to observe the man sittingnearly opposite. He was not prepossessing, yet she instantlyrecognised his type, and the probability that he would address her ifthe slightest opportunity occurred. Beneath lowered lashes she studiedthe fellow--the prominent jaw and thick lips shadowed by a closelytrimmed moustache; the small eyes beneath overhanging brows; the heavyhair brushed back from a rather low forehead, and the short, stubbyfingers grasping knife and fork.
If he is a drummer, she thought, his line would be whisky; then, almostas suddenly, it occurred to her that perhaps he may prove to be NedBeaton, and she drew in her breath sharply, determined to break the ice.
The waitress spread out the various dishes before her, and she glancedat them hopelessly. As she lifted her gaze she met that of her_vis-a-vis_ fairly, and managed to smile.
"Some chuck," he said in an attempt at good-fellowship, "but not toremind you of the Waldorf-Astoria."
"I should say not," she answered, testing one of her dishes cautiously."But why associate me with New York?"
"You can't hide those things in a joint like this. Besides, that's theway you registered."
"Oh, so you've looked me up."
"Well, naturally," he explained, as though with a dim idea that anexplanation was required, "I took a squint at the register; then Ibecame more interested, for I'm from little old New York myself."
"You are? Selling goods on the road away out here?"
"Not me; that ain't my line at all. I've got a considerable miningdeal on up the canon. I'll earn every dollar I'll make, though, eatingthis grub. Believe me, I'd like to be back by the Hudson right now."
"You've been here some time, then?"
"'Bout a month altogether, but not here in Haskell all that time. Whendid you leave New York?"
"Oh, more than a week ago," she lied gracefully.
He stroked his moustache.
"Then I suppose you haven't much late New York news? Nothingstartling, I mean?"
"No; only what has been reported in the Western papers. I do notrecall anything particularly interesting." She dropped her eyes to herplate and busied herself with a piece of tough beef. "The usualmurders, of course, and things of that kind."
There was a moment's silence, then the man laughed as though slightlyill at ease.
"These fellows out here think they are a pretty tough lot," he saidgrimly, "but there are plenty of boys back on the East Side who couldshow them a few tricks. You know that part of the old town?"
"Not very well," she admitted with apparent regret, "but of course Iread a good bit about it in the papers--the desperate characters,gunmen, and all those the police have so much trouble with. Are thosestories really true?"
"There ain't a third of them ever told," and he leaned forward, quiteat his ease again. "I have some business interests down that way, andso hear a good deal of what is going on at first hand. A New Yorkgunman is so much worse than these amateurs out here there ain't nocomparison. Why, I know a case----"
He stopped suddenly and took a sip of coffee.
"Tell me about it."
"'Tisn't anything to interest you, and, besides, it wouldn't sound wellhere at the table; some other time, maybe, when you and I get betteracquainted. What ever brought a girl like you down in here?"
She smiled.
"I'm a feature writer; I'm doing a series on the West for_Scribbler's_," she told him. "I visit New Mexico next, but I'm aftersomething else besides a description of mountains and men; I'm alsogoing to hunt up an old friend interested in mining, who told me if Iever got o
ut this way I must look him up.
"I haven't seen him for years. He was continually singing thisvalley's charms, and so here I am. And I'm planning a great surpriseon him. And, of course, I'm literally drinking in atmosphere--to saynothing of local colour, which seems mostly to be men and revolvers."
The man opposite wet his lips with his tongue in an effort to speak,but the girl was busy eating and apparently paid no attention. Hercalm indifference convinced him that her words were entirely innocent,and his audacity returned.
"Well," he ventured, "do you agree with this prospector friend?"
"The scenery, you mean?" glancing up brightly. "Why, it is wonderful,of course, and I am not at all sorry having made the journey, althoughit hardly compares with Tennessee Pass or Silver Plume. Still, youknow, it will be pleasant to tell Mr. Cavendish when I go back that Iwas here."
He choked and his face seemed to whiten suddenly.
"Mr. Cavendish?" he gasped. "Of New York? Not the one that waskilled?"
It was her turn to stare across the table, her eyes wide with horror,which she simulated excellently.
"Killed! Has a man by that name been killed lately in New York? Itwas Frederick Cavendish I referred to." Her pretence was admirable.
He was silent, realising lie had already said too much; the red hadcome back into his cheeks, but his hand shook as it rested clenched onthe table.
"Tell me," she insisted, "has he been killed? How do you know?"
Her earnestness, her perfect acting, convinced him. It was a merecoincidence, he thought, that this name should have cropped up betweenthem, but, now that it had, he must explain the whole affair so as notto arouse suspicion. He cleared his throat and compelled his eyes tomeet those across the table.
"Well, I don't know much about it, only what I read," he began, feelingfor words. "But that was the name; I remembered it as soon as youspoke, and that the papers said he had been mining in Colorado beforehe came into money. He was found dead in his apartments, apparentlykilled by a burglar who had rifled his safe."
"Is this true? Why have I never heard? When did it happen?"
"It must have been a month ago."
"But how did you learn these particulars? You have been West thatlength of time."
"I read about it in a New York paper," he answered a trifle sullenly."It was sent to me."
She sat with her chin in the palm of one hand, watching him frombeneath the shadow of lowered lashes, but his eyes were bent downwardat his plate.
"Are you through?" he questioned suddenly.
"Yes; this--this awful news has robbed me of all appetite."
Neither had noticed Westcott as he entered the room, but his firstglance about revealed their presence, and without an instant ofhesitancy the big miner crossed the room and approached the table wherethe two were sitting.
Beaton, as though anticipating trouble, arose to his feet, but Westcottmerely drew back a vacant chair and seated himself, his eyes ignoringthe presence of the man and seeking the uplifted face of the girlquestioningly.
"I hope I do not interrupt," he said pleasantly. "I had reason tosuppose you were unacquainted with Mr. Beaton here."
"What reason?" her surprised tone slightly indignant.
"I believe the gentleman so informed me. It chanced that we had aslight controversy last night."
"Over me?"
"Over his curiosity regarding you--who you were; your presence here."
She pushed back her chair and stood up.
"A natural curiosity enough, surely. And you felt important enough torebuke him on my behalf? Is that what I am to understand?"
"Why," he explained, startled by her strange manner, "I informed himthat it was none of his business, and that if he mentioned your name inmy presence again there was liable to be trouble. We scrapped it out."
"You--you scrapped it out? You mean there was a fight over me--abarroom squabble over me?"
"Not in the barroom; in the hotel office. Beaton drew a gun, and I hadto slug him."
"But the affair originated over me--my name was brought into it?" sheinsisted. "You actually threatened him because he asked about me?"
"I reckon that was about how it started," he admitted slowly. "Yousee, I rather thought I was a sorter friend of yours, and that I oughtto stand up for you."
"Did--did this man say anything against me?"
"No--not exactly; he--he just asked questions."
Her eyes were scornful, angry,
"Indeed! Well, permit me to say, Mr. Westcott, that I choose my ownfriends, and am perfectly competent to defend my own character. Thiscloses our acquaintanceship."
She moved about the end of the table, and touched Beaton's sleeve withher fingers.
"Would you escort me to the foot of the stairs?" she asked, her voicesoftening. "We will leave this belligerent individual to his owncompany."
Neither of them glanced back, the girl still speaking as theydisappeared, but Westcott turned in his chair to watch them cross theroom. He had no sense of anger, no desire to retaliate, but he feltdazed and as though the whole world was suddenly turned upside down.So she really belonged with that outfit, did she? Well, it was a goodjoke on him.
The waitress spoke to him twice before he was sufficiently aroused togive his order.
The Strange Case of Cavendish Page 10