CHAPTER XI: DEAD OR ALIVE
Before Westcott finished his meal his mood had changed to tolerantamusement. That the girl had deliberately deceived him was plain,enough, revealed now in both her manner and words. What her truepurpose might have been in apparently seeking his friendship at firstcould not now be conjectured--indeed, made little difference--but itwas clear enough she really belonged to the Lacy crowd, and had no moreuse for him.
Westcott was sorry for the turn things had taken; he made no attempt todisguise this from his own mind. He was beginning to like MissDonovan, to think about her, to feel a distinct interest in her. Someway she had impressed him deeply as a young woman of character andunusual charm--a breath out of the East to arouse his imagination andmemory. He had begun to hope for a friendship which would endure, andnow--the house of cards fell at a single touch.
He could scarcely comprehend the situation; how a girl of her apparentrefinement and gentility could ever be attracted by a rough, brutaltype such as Ned Beaton so evidently was. Why, the man's lack of tastein dress, the expression of his face, his ungrammatical language,stamped him as belonging to a distinctly lower order.
There surely must be some other cause drawing them together. Yet,whatever it was, there was no doubt but that he had been very properlysnubbed. Her words stung; yet it was the manner in which she hadlooked at him and swept past at Beaton's side which hurt the most. Oh,well, an enemy more or less made small difference in his life; he wouldlaugh at it and forget. She had made her choice of companionship, andit was just as well, probably, that the affair had gone no furtherbefore he discovered the sort of girl she really was.
Westcott reached this decision and the outer office at the same time,exchanged a careless word or two with Timmons, and finally purchased acigar and retired to one corner to peruse an old newspaper. It was notso easy to read, however, for the news failed to interest or keep hismind from wandering widely. Soon he was staring out through theunwashed window, oblivious to everything but his own thoughts.
Who was this Beaton, and what connection could he have with Bill Lacy'sgang? The row last night had revealed a mutual interest between themen, but what was its nature? To Westcott's judgment the burly NewYorker did not resemble an Eastern speculator in mining property; hewas far more typical of a Bowery rough--a tool rather than an employerin the commission of crime.
Lacy's purpose he believed he understood to some extent--a claim thatit was an extension of the La Rosita vein which Westcott had tapped inhis recent discovery. There had been bad blood between them for sometime--threats of violence, and rumours of lawsuits. No doubt Lacywould resort to any dirty trick to get him out of the way and gaincontrol of the property. But he had no personal fear of Lacy: not, atleast, if he could once get the backing of Cavendish's money. Butthese other people--Beaton, Miss Donovan, and still another expected toarrive soon from the East--how were they connected with the deal?
How were they involved in the controversy? Had Lacy organised acompany and got hold of some money in New York? It might be possible,and yet neither the man nor the woman impressed him as financiersrisking fortunes in the exploitation of mines. The problem wasunsolvable; the only thing he could do was guard his property and waituntil they showed their hand. If he could only hear from FredCavendish----
He was so deeply engrossed in these thoughts, the smoked-out cigarsubstituted by a pipe, that he remained unaware that Timmons had leftthe office, or that the Chinese man-of-all-work had silently tiptoeddown the stairs and was cautiously peering in through the open doorwayto make sure the coast was clear. Assured as to this, the wilyOriental sidled noiselessly across the floor and paused beside him.
"Zis Meester Vest-c-ott?" he asked softly.
The miner looked up at the implacable face in surprise, lowering hisfeet.
"That's my name, John; what is it?"
The messenger shook a folded paper out of his sleeve, thrust it intothe other's hand hastily, and, with a hurried glance about, started toglide away as silently as he had come. Westcott stared at the note,which was unaddressed.
"Sure this is for me, John?"
"Ally same sure--for Meester Vest-c-ott."
He vanished into the dark hall, and there was the faint clatter of hisshoes on the stairs.
Westcott, fully aroused, cast his glance about the deserted room, andunfolded the paper which had been left in his fingers. His eyes tookin the few penciled words instantly.
Do not be angry. I had the best of reasons. Meet me near the lowerbridge at three o'clock. Very important.
S. D.
He read the lines over again, his lips emitting a low whistle, his eyesdarkening with sudden appreciation. Slowly he tore the paper intostrips, crossed the room, and flung the remnants into the stove. Ithad been a trick, then, a bit of play-acting! But had it? Was notthis rather the real fraud--this sudden change of heart? Perhapssomething had occurred to cause the girl to realise that she had made amistake; to awaken her to a knowledge that a pretence at friendshipwould serve her cause better than an open break.
This note might have a sinister purpose; be intended to deceive. No!He would not believe this. All his old lurking faith in her came backin a flash of revelation. He would continue to believe in her, trusther, feel that some worthy purpose had influenced her strange action.And, above all, he would be at the lower bridge on the hour set. Hewas at the desk when Timmons returned.
"What do I owe you, old man?"
He paid the bill jokingly and in the best of humour, careful to tellthe proprietor that he was leaving for his mine and might not returnfor several days. He possessed confidence that Timmons would make nosecret of this in Haskell after his departure. He was glad to noticethat Beaton observed him as he passed the Good Luck Saloon and wenttramping down the dusty road. He never glanced back until he turnedinto the north trail at the edge of town; there the path droppedsuddenly toward the bed of the creek, and he was concealed from view.In the rock shadow he paused, chuckling grimly as he observed the NewYorker cross the street to the hotel, hastening, no doubt, to interviewTimmons.
There was a crooked trail along the bank of the stream which joined themain road at the west end of the lower bridge. It led up the canonamid rocks and cedars, causing it to assume a strangely tortuouscourse, and its lower end was shadowed by overhanging willows. Alongthis Westcott lingered at the hour set, watchful of the road leadingtoward Haskell.
The only carriage belonging to the town livery passed soon after hisarrival, evidently bound for the station, and from his covert herecognised Beaton lolling carelessly in the back seat. This must meanthat the man expected arrivals on the afternoon train, importantarrivals whom he desired to honour. There was no sign, however, ofMiss Donovan; the time was up, yet with no evidence of her approach.
Westcott waited patiently, arguing to himself that her delay might becaused by her wish to get Beaton well out of the way before sheventured to leave the hotel. At last he strode down the path to thebridge, and saw her leaning over the rail, staring at the ripples below.
"Why," he exclaimed in surprise, "how long have you been here?"
"Several minutes," and she turned to face him. "I waited until thecarriage passed before coming onto the bridge. I took the foot-pathfrom the hotel."
"Oh, I see--from the other way. I was waiting in the trail below. Yousaw who was in the carriage?"
"Beaton--yes," quietly. "He expects some friends, and wishes me tomeet them--Eastern people, you know."
Her indifference ruffled his temper, aroused his suspicion of herpurpose.
"You sent for me; there is some explanation, no doubt?"
The lady smiled, lifting her eyes to his face.
"There is," she answered. "A perfectly satisfactory one, I believe;but this place is too prominent, as I have a rather long story to tell.Beaton and his friends will be returning soon."
"There is a rock seat below, just beyond the clump of willows, quiteout
of sight from the road," he suggested. "Perhaps you would go withme there?"
"What trail is that?"
"It leads to mines up the canon, my own included, but is not greatlytravelled; the main trail is farther east."
She walked to the edge of the bridge, and permitted him to assist herdown the steep bank. There was something of reserve about her manner,which prevented Westcott from feeling altogether at ease. In his ownmind he began once more to question her purpose, to doubt the sincerityof her intentions. She appeared different from the frankly outspokengirl of the night before. Neither broke the silence between them untilthey reached the flat boulder and had found seats in the shelter ofoverhanging trees. She sat a moment, her eyes on the water, her cheeksshadowed by the wide brim of her hat, and Westcott noted the almostperfect contour of her face silhouetted against the green leaves. Sheturned toward him questioningly.
"I was very rude," she said, "but you will forgive me when I explainthe cause. I had to act as I did or else lose my hold entirely on thatman--you understand?"
"I do not need to understand," he answered gallantly. "It is enoughthat you say so."
"No, it is not enough. I value your friendship, Mr. Westcott, and Ineed your advice. I find myself confronting a very complicated caseunder unfamiliar conditions. I hardly know what to do."
"You may feel confidence in me."
"Oh, I do; indeed, you cannot realise how thoroughly I trust you," andimpulsively she touched his hand with her own. "That is why I wroteyou to meet me here--so I could tell you the whole story."
He waited, his eyes on her face.
"I received my letter this morning--the letter I told you I expected,containing my instructions. They--they relate to this man Ned Beatonand the woman he expects on this train."
"Your instructions?" he echoed doubtfully. "You mean you have beensent after these people on some criminal matter? You are a detective?"
There must have been a tone of distrust to his voice, for she turnedand faced him defiantly.
"No; not that. Listen: I am a newspaperwoman, a special writer on theNew York _Star_." She paused, her cheeks flushing with nervousness."It--it was very strange that I met you first of all, for--for it seemsthat the case is of personal interest to you."
"To me! Why, that is hardly likely, if it originated in New York."
"It did"--she drew in a sharp breath--"for it originated in the murderof Frederick Cavendish."
"The murder of Cavendish! He has been killed?"
"Yes; at least that is what every one believes, except possibly oneman--his former valet. His body was found lying dead on the floor ofhis private apartment, the door of his safe open, the money and papersmissing. The coroner's jury brought in a verdict of murder on thesefacts."
"And the murderer?"
"Left no clue; it was believed to be the work of a burglar."
"But when was this?"
She gave the date, and he studied over it.
"The same day he should have received my telegram," he said gravely."That's why the poor fellow never answered." He turned to hersuddenly. "But what became of my others," he asked, "and of all theletters I wrote?"
"That is exactly what I want to learn. They must have been deliveredto his cousin, John Cavendish. I'll tell you all I know, and thenperhaps, between us, we may be able to figure it out."
Briefly and clearly, she set before him the facts she and Willis hadbeen able to gather: the will, the connection between Enright and JohnCavendish, the quarrel between John and Frederick, the visit of John toEnright's office, the suspicion of Valois that the murdered man was notCavendish, and, finally, the conversation overheard in Steinway's, thetorn telegram, and the meeting between Celeste La Rue and Enright.
When she had finished, Westcott sat, chin in hand, turning the evidenceover in his mind. "Do you believe Frederick Cavendish is dead?" heasked suddenly.
"Yes."
Westcott struck his hand down on the rock, his eyes glowing dangerously.
"Well, I don't!" he exclaimed. "I believe he is alive! My theory isthat this was all carefully arranged, but that circumstances compelledthem to act quickly, and before they were entirely ready. Twounexpected occurrences hurried them into action."
She leaned forward, stirred by his earnestness.
"What?"
"The quarrel in the restaurant, leading to the making of the will," heanswered gravely, "and my telegram. The two things fit togetherexactly. He must have received my first message that same night. Inmy judgment he was glad of some excuse to leave New York and determinedto take the first train West. His quarrel with John, coupled with hisdisgust of the company he kept, caused him to draw up this willhurriedly. He left the club intending to pack up and take the firsttrain."
"And was killed before he could do so?"
"Possibly; but if that dead man had no scar on his chest, he was notFrederick Cavendish; he was an impostor; some poor victim deliberatelysubstituted because of his facial resemblance. Tell me, if it was Fredwho was murdered, what became of the money he was known to have in hisprivate safe? What became of the original copy of the will he had inhis pocket when he left the club?"
She shook her head, convinced that his argument had force.
"I--I do not know."
"Yet these things are true, are they not? No money, no will was found.There is but one reason possible, unless others entered after themurder and stole these things. My belief is that Fred returned to hisapartments, took what money he required, packed his valise, anddeparted without a word to any one. He often did things likethat--hastily, on the spur of the moment."
"But what happened afterward?"
"The rest is all theory. I do not know, but I'll make a guess. Insome way the conspirators learned what had occurred, but not in time tointercept his departure; yet they had everything ready for action, andrealised this was the opportunity. Frederick had disappeared leavingno trace behind; they could attend to him later, intercept him,perhaps---- Wait! Keep still. There comes the carriage from thetrain."
He drew her back into the denser undergrowth and they looked outthrough the leaves to where the road circled in toward the bridge. Thehoof-beats of horses alone broke the silence.
The Strange Case of Cavendish Page 11