The Strange Case of Cavendish

by Randall Parrish

  CHAPTER XXXIII: THE REAL MR. CAVENDISH

  It was a hard, slow journey back across the desert. Moore's team andwagon were requisitioned for the purpose, but Matt himself remainedbehind to help Brennan with the prisoners and cattle, until the partyreturning to Haskell could send them help.

  Westcott drove, with Miss Donovan perched beside him on thespring-seat, and Cavendish lying on a pile of blankets beneath theshadow of the canvas top. It became exceedingly hot as the sun mountedinto the sky, and once they encountered a sand storm, which so blindedhorses and driver, they were compelled to halt and turn aside from itsfury for nearly an hour. The wounded man must have suffered, yet madeno complaint. Indeed he seemed almost cheerful, and so deeplyinterested in the strange story in which he had unconsciously bornepart, as to constantly question those riding in front for details.

  Westcott and Stella, in spite of the drear, dread monotony of thosemiles of sand, the desolate barrenness of which extended about in everydirection, and, at last, weighed heavily upon their spirits, found theride anything but tedious. They had so much to be thankful for,hopeful over: so much to say to each other. She described all that hadoccurred during her imprisonment, and he, in turn, told the story ofwhat himself and Brennan had passed through in the search for hercaptors. Cavendish listened eagerly to each recital, lifting his headto interject a question of interest, and then dropping wearily backagain upon his blankets.

  They stopped to lunch at Baxter Springs, and to water the team; and itwas considerably after dark when they finally drove creaking up themain street of Haskell and stopped in front of the Timmons House tounload. The street was devoid of excitement, although the Red Dog waswide open for business, and Westcott caught a glimpse of Mike busilyengaged behind the bar. A man or two passing glanced at themcuriously, but, possibly because of failure to recognise him in thedarkness, no alarm was raised, or any effort made to block theirprogress. Without Lacy to urge them on, the disciples of Judge Lynchhad likely enough forgotten the whole affair. Timmons, hearing thecreak of approaching wheels, and surmising the arrival of guests, camelumbering out through the open door, his face beaming welcome. Behindhim the vacant office stood fully revealed in the light ofbracket-lamps.

  As Westcott clambered over the wheel, and then assisted the lady toalight, the face of the landlord was sufficiently expressive ofsurprise.

  "You!" he exclaimed, staring into their faces doubtfully. "What theSam Hill does this mean?"

  "Only that we've got back, Timmons. Why this frigid reception?"

  "Well, this yere is a respectable hotel, an' I ain't goin' ter have itall mussed up by no lynchin' party," the landlord's voice full ofregret. "Then this yere gal; she wrote me she'd gone back East."

  Westcott laughed.

  "Stow your grouch, old man, and give us a hand. There will be nolynching, because Lacy is in the hands of the marshal. As to thislady, she never sent you that note. She was abducted by force, and hasjust escaped. Don't stand there like a fool."

  "But where did yer come from? This yere is Matt Moore's outfit."

  "From the Shoshone Desert, if you must know. I'll tell you the storylater. There's a wounded man under the canvas there. Come on, andhelp me carry him inside."

  Timmons, sputtering but impotent to resist, took hold reluctantly, andthe two together bore the helpless Cavendish through the desertedoffice and up the stairs to the second floor, where he was comfortablysettled and a doctor sent for. The task was sufficiently strenuous torequire all the breath Timmons possessed, and he managed to repress hiseager curiosity until the wounded man had been attended to. Once inthe hall, however, and the door closed, he could no longer controlhimself.

  "Now see yere, Jim Westcott," he panted, one hand gripping thestair-rail. "I've got ter know what's up, afore I throw open this yerehotel to yer free use this-away. As a gineral thing I ain't 'roundhuntin' trouble--I reckon yer know that--but this yere affair beats me.What was it yer said about Bill Lacy?"

  "He's under arrest, charged with cattle-stealing, abduction,conspiracy, and about everything else on the calendar. Brennan's gothim, and likewise the evidence to convict."

  "Good Lord! Is that so!"

  "It is; the whole Mendez gang has been wiped out. Old Mendez has beenkilled. The rest of the outfit, including Juan Cateras, are prisoners."

  Timmons's eyes were fairly popping out of his head, his voice a merethread of sound.

  "Don't that beat hell!" he managed to articulate. "Where's themarshal?"

  "Riding herd at a place they call Sunken Valley, about fifty milessouth of here. He and Moore have got ten or twelve Mexicans, and maybethree hundred head of cattle to look after, until I can send somebodyout there to help him bring them in. Now that's all you need to know,Timmons; but I've got a question or two I want to ask you. Come onback into the office."

  Miss Donovan sat in one of the chairs by the front window waiting. Asthey entered she arose to her feet.

  Westcott crossed the room and took her hand.

  "He's all right," he assured her quickly, interpreting the question inher eyes. "Tired from the trip, of course, but a night's rest will dowonders. And now, Timmons," he turned to the bewildered landlord, "isthat man Enright upstairs?"

  "The New York lawyer? No, he got frightened and left. He skipped outthe next day after you fellers got away. Bill wanted him to go alongwith him, but he said he was too sick. Then he claimed to have atelegram callin' him East, but he never did. I reckon he must 've gotcold feet 'bout somethin'--enyhow he's gone."

  "And Miss La Rue?"

  "Sure; she took the same train," eager now to divulge all he knew."But that ain't her real name--it's a kind o' long name, an' beginswith C. I saw it in a letter she left up-stairs, but I couldn't makeit all out. She's married."

  The eyes of Westcott and Miss Donovan met. Here was a bit of strangenews--the La Rue woman married, and to a man with a long name beginningwith C. The same thought occurred to them both, yet it was evidentlyuseless to question Timmons any longer. He would know nothing, andcomprehend less. The girl looked tired, completely worn out, and theaffair could rest until morning.

  "Take Miss Donovan to a room," Westcott said shortly, "and I'll runup-stairs and have another look at Cavendish."

  "At who?"

  "Cavendish, the wounded man we just carried in."

  "Well, that's blamed funny. Say, I don't remember ever hearin' thatname before in all my life till just now. Come ter think of it, Ibelieve that was the name in that La Rue girl's letter. I got it yerein the desk; it's torn some, an' don't mean nothin' to me; soundskinder nutty." He threw open a drawer, rummaging within, but withoutpausing in speech, "Then a fellow blew in yere this mornin' off theLimited, asking about you, Jim, an' danged if I don't believe he saidhis name was Cavendish. The register was full so he didn't write itdown, but that was the name all right. And now you tote in anotherone. What is this, anyhow--a family reunion?"

  "You say a man by that name was here--asking for me?"

  "Yep; I reckon he's asleep up-stairs, for he never showed up at supper."

  "In what room, Pete?"

  "Nine."

  Westcott, with a swift word of excuse to Stella, dashed into the hall,and disappeared up the stairway, taking three steps at a time. Amoment later those below heard him pounding at a door; then his voicesounded:

  "This is Jim Westcott; open up."

  Timmons stood gazing blankly at the empty stair-case, mopping his facewith a bandanna handkerchief. Then he removed his horn-rimmedspectacles, and polished them, as though what mind he possessed hadbecome completely dazed.

  "Well, I'll be jiggered," he confessed audibly. "What's a comin' now,I wonder?"

  He turned around and noticed Miss Donovan, the sight of her standingthere bringing back a reminder of his duty.

  "He was a sayin' as how likely yer wanted to go to bed, Miss."

  "Not now; I'll wait until Mr. Westcott comes down. What is th
at paperin your hand? Is that the letter Miss La Rue left?"

  He held it up in surprise, gazing at it through his glasses.

  "Why, Lord bless me--it is, isn't it? Must have took it out o' therdrawer an' never thought of the darned thing agin."

  "May I see it?"

  "Sure; 'tain't o' no consequence ter me; I reckon the woman sorterpacked in a hurry, and this got lost. The Chink found it under thebed."

  She took it in her hand, and crossed the room, finding a seat beneathone of the bracket-lamps, but with her face turned toward the hall. Itwas just a single sheet of folded paper, not enclosed in an envelope,and had been torn across, so that the two parts barely held together.She stared at it for a moment, almost motionless, her fingers nervouslymoving up and down the crease, as though she dreaded to learn what waswithin. She felt that here was the key which was to unlock the secretof this strange crime. Whoever the man upstairs might prove to be--thereal Cavendish or some impostor--this paper she held in her hands wasdestined to be a link in the chain. She unfolded it slowly and hereyes traced the written words within. It was a hasty scrawl, writtenon the cheap paper of some obscure hotel in Jersey City, extremelydifficult to decipher, the hand of the man who wrote exhibiting plainlythe excitement under which he laboured.

  It was a message of warning, he was leaving New York, and would sailthat evening for some place in South America, where he did not say.Love only caused him to tell her what had occurred. A strange wordpuzzled her, and before she could decipher it, voices broke thesilence, followed by steps on the stairs. She glanced up quickly; itwas Westcott returning, accompanied by a tall, rather slender man witha closely-trimmed beard. The two crossed the room, and she met themstanding, the opened letter still in her hand.

  "Miss Donovan, this is Frederick Cavendish--the real FrederickCavendish. I have told him something of the trouble he has been to usall."

  The real Frederick Cavendish smiled down into her eyes, while he heldher fingers tightly clasped in his own. She believed in him, liked himinstantly.

  "A trouble which I regret very much," he said humbly. "Westcott hastold me a little, a very little, of what has occurred since I left NewYork so hurriedly two months ago. This is the first I knew about it,and the mystery of the whole affair is as puzzling as ever."

  Her eyes widened wonderingly.

  "You cannot explain? Not even who the dead man was found murdered inyour apartments?"

  "I haven't the least idea."

  "Fred has told me all he knows," broke in Westcott "but it only extendsto midnight when he left the city. He was in his apartments less thanten minutes after his valet retired. He supposed he left everything ingood order, with a note on the writing-table instructing Valois what todo during his absence, and enclosing a sum of money. Afterward, on thetrain, he discovered that he had mislaid the key to his safe but thisoccasioned no worry, as he had taken with him all the cash it held, andthe papers were of slight importance."

  "But," she broke in impatiently, "where did he go? How did he escapeencountering Beaton and why did he fail to answer your message?"

  The eyes of the two men met, and they both smiled. "The very questionsI asked," replied Westcott instantly. "In the instructions left Valoiswas a check for five thousand dollars made to my order, to be forwardedat once. Fred's destination was Sonora, Mexico, where he had somelarge copper interests. He intended to look after these and returnhere to Haskell within a week, or ten days. But the war in Mexico madethis impossible--once across the border he couldn't get back. He wroteme, but evidently the letter miscarried."

  "And Beaton missed him entirely."

  "By pure luck. Fred phoned the New York Central for a lower toChicago, and they were all gone. Enright must have learned, in someway, of his calling that office, and so informed Beaton, who took thattrain. Later, from his own rooms, Cavendish secured accommodations onthe Pennsylvania."

  He paused, endeavouring to see out through the window, hearing the hoofbeats of an approaching team.

  "What's that, Pete?" he asked of Timmons, who was hovering as closelyas he dared. "Pretty late, isn't it?"

  "Guests, I reckon; the Overland was three hours late; sure, they'restoppin' yere."

  CHAPTER XXXIV: MISS DONOVAN DECIDES

  Two men came in through the door together, each with a small grip inhis hand, which Timmons took from them, and deposited beside the stove.The larger wrote both names in the register, and then straightened up,and surveyed the landlord.

  "Any chance to eat?" he asked. "We're both of us about starved."

  Timmons scratched his head.

  "I reckon there's plenty o' cold provender out thar," he saiddoubtfully, "an' maybe I could hustle you up some hot coffee, but wedon't aim ter do no feedin' at this time o' night. What's the matterwith the diner?"

  "Hot box, and had to cut her off; be a good fellow, and hustle us upsomething."

  "I'll see what there is," and Timmons started for the kitchen, "but Iwouldn't wake Ma Timmons up fer a thousand dollars. She'd never gitover it."

  The large man, a rather heavy-footed fellow, with scraggly greymoustache, turned to his companion.

  "Better luck than I expected at that, Colgate," he said, restored togood humour. "The old duffer seems to be quite human."

  His eyes caught sight of Cavendish, and hardened, the grizzly moustacheseeming to stiffen. His mouth was close to the ear of his companion,and he spoke without moving his lips.

  "Our bird; stand ready."

  The three were talking earnestly, and he was standing before thembefore any of the group marked his approach. His eyes were onCavendish, who instantly arose to his feet, startled by the man'ssudden appearance.

  "There is no use making a scene, Burke," the big man said sternly, "formy partner there has you covered."

  "My name is not Burke; it is Cavendish."

  "So I heard in Denver," dryly. "We hardly expected to find you here,for we were down on another matter So you are not Gentleman Tom Burke?"

  "No."

  "I know he is not," interposed Westcott. "I have been acquainted withthis man for nearly twenty years; he is a New York capitalist."

  "And who the hell are you--a pal?" the fellow sneered. "Now, see here,both of you. I've met plenty of your kind before, and it is mybusiness not to forget a face. This man is under arrest," and he laida hand heavily on Cavendish's shoulder.

  "Under the name of Burke? On what charge?"

  "Robbery, at Poughkeepsie, New York; wanted also for burglary andassault in Denver. My name is Roberts," he added, stiffly, "assistantsuperintendent of the Pinkerton agency; the man with me is an operativefrom the New York office."

  Cavendish glanced past Roberts toward Colgate, who stood with one handthrust in his side pocket.

  "You know this man Burke?" he asked.

  "I saw him once; that's why I was put on the case. You certainly gaveme some hot chase, Tom."

  "Some chase? What do you mean?"

  "Well, I've been on your trail ever since that Poughkeepsie job--let'ssee, that was two months ago. You jumped first to New York City, and Ididn't really get track of you until the night of April 16. Then acopper in the Pennsylvania depot, to whom I showed your picture, gaveme a tip that you'd taken a late train West. After that I trailed youthrough Chicago, down into Mexico, and back as far as Denver. Itwasn't hard because you always signed the same name."

  "Of course; it's my own. You say you had a photograph of me?"

  "A police picture; here it is if you want to look at it--taken inJoliet."

  Westcott grasped the sheet, and spread it open. It was Cavendish'sface clearly enough, even to the closely trimmed beard and the peculiartwinkle in the eyes. Below was printed a brief description, and thisalso fitted Cavendish almost exactly.

  "Well," said Roberts, none too pleasantly, "what have you got to saynow?"

  "Only this," and the miner squared his shoulders, looking the otherstraight in the eyes. "This man
is not Tom Burke, but I can tell youwhere Tom Burke is."

  "Yes, you can?"

  "Yes, I can. I cannot only tell you, but I can prove it," he went onearnestly. "This description says that Burke had a small piece clippedout of one ear, and that he had a gold-crowned tooth in front, ratherprominent. This man's ears are unmarked, and his teeth are of theordinary kind."

  The two detectives exchanged glances and Roberts grinned sarcastically.

  "You'll have to do better than that," he said gruffly. "All right. Isthere any mention in that description of a peculiar and vivid scar onthe chest of this man Burke? It would be spoken about, if he had any,wouldn't it?"

  "Sure; they never overlook them things."

  "Good; unbutton the front of your shirt, Fred."

  The two stared at the scar thus revealed, still incredulous, yet unableto refute the evidence of its existence. Roberts touched it with hisfingers to better assure himself of its reality.

  "Darn it all," he confessed. "This beats hell."

  "It does," coincided Westcott. "This whole affair has been of thatkind. Now I'll tell you where Tom Burke is--he lies buried in theCavendish family lot in Brooklyn."

  He turned to Colgate, who stood with mouth half open.

  "You're from New York; ever hear of the Cavendish murder?"

  "Only saw a paragraph in the Chicago papers. It wasn't my case, andthe only thing that interested me was that the name happened to be thesame as assumed by the man I was following--why?"

  "Because this gentleman here is Frederick Cavendish, who was reportedas killed--struck down in his apartments on the night of April 16.Instead he took the midnight flier West and you followed him. The deadman was Tom Burke; wait a minute and I'll tell you the story--all Iknow of it, at least."

  He told it rapidly, yet omitting no detail of any interest. The twodetectives, already half convinced of their mistake, listenedfascinated to the strange narrative; it was a tale of crime peculiarlyattractive to their minds; they could picture each scene in all itscolours of reality. As the speaker ended, Roberts drew in his breathsharply.

  "But who slugged Burke?" he asked. "The fellow went in there afterswag; but who got him?"

  "That is the one question I can't answer," replied Westcott gravely,"and neither can Fred. It doesn't seem to accord with the rest of ourtheories. Enright told Lacy he didn't know who the dead man was, orwho killed him."

  Miss Donovan pushed her way in front of Cavendish, and faced theothers, her cheeks flushed with excitement, a paper clasped in one hand.

  "Perhaps I can help clear that up," she said clearly. "This is theletter found under Miss La Rue's bed. I have read part of it. It waswritten by Jack Cavendish just as he was taking a boat for SouthAmerica. It is not a confession," she explained, her eyes searchingtheir faces, "just a frightened boy's letter. I wouldn't understand itat all if I didn't know so much about the case. What it seems to makeclear is this: The La Rue girl and Patrick Enright schemed to getpossession of the Cavendish property through her marriage to John; thispart of the programme worked out fairly well, but John could not gethold of enough money to satisfy them.

  "Enright and the girl decided to put Frederick out of the way, butlacked the nerve to commit murder--at least in New York. Their schemeseems to have been to inveigle their victim away from the city, andthen help him to get killed through an accident. In that case the lawwould award the entire estate to John. They never told John this plan,but their constant demands for money fairly drove the young man todesperation.

  "The making of the will, and the sudden proposed departure of Frederickfor the West, compelled immediate action, yet even then John was keptlargely in the dark as to what they proposed doing. All he knew wasthat Frederick had made a will disinheriting him; that he left theCollege Club with this document in his pocket, and intended later totake a night train."

  She paused, turning the letter over in her hands, and the men seemed todraw closer in the intensity of their interest.

  "Some of what I say I learned from this letter," she went on quietly,"and some I merely deduce from the circumstances. I believe the boywent home half mad, his only thought being to destroy that will. Inthis state of mind, and fortified by drink, he stole later intoFrederick's apartments. I don't believe the boy actually intended tomurder his cousin, but he did intend to stun him with a blow frombehind, seize the paper, and escape unseen. It was a wild,hare-brained project, but he was only a boy, half drunk, worked intofrenzy by Celeste La Rue. He got into the room--probably through thebath-room window--unobserved, but after Frederick had departed. Thisother man--Burke--was then at the table, running through the papers hehad taken from the safe, to see if any were of value. John, convincedthe man was his cousin, stole up behind him and struck him down. Hehad no idea of the force of the blow delivered, and may even have leftthe apartment without realising that the blow had been a fatal one.Afterward there was nothing to do but keep still, and let matters taketheir own course."

  "And what happened then?"

  "Naturally this: the La Rue woman wormed the truth out of him, and toldEnright. From that moment the boy was entirely in their hands. Whilethey remained in New York they helped him keep his nerve, but as soonas he was left alone, he went entirely to pieces. He was no criminal,merely a victim of circumstances. At last something happened tofrighten him into flight."

  The four men straightened up as her voice ceased speaking. ThenRoberts laughed, as though ashamed of the breathless interest he hadexhibited.

  "I guess she's got that doped out about right, Colgate," he said,almost regretfully. "And it's clear enough that we are on the wrongtrail. Anyhow this man here isn't Tom Burke, although he would deceivethe very devil. What is it, landlord? Am I ready to eat? Just leadthe way, and I'll show you." He glanced about at the others. "Any ofyou missed your supper? If so, we'd be glad to have your company."

  "I'll accept the invitation," returned Cavendish. "I was asleepup-stairs, and failed to hear the bell. Perhaps you gentlemen can tellme what steps I'd better take in a case like mine."

  The three passed out together, following the guidance of Timmons, andas the sound of their voices subsided into a confused murmur, Westcottglanced into the face beside him.

  "You must be very tired, dear."

  "I am tired, Jim," she said, "but I mustn't allow it. I have a big jobon hand. Farriss will want three thousand words of this and he'll wantit to-night so that he can scoop the town."

  "Scoop the town?" Westcott repeated.

  "Yes, that means my paper gets a story that no other paper gets. Andthis Cavendish case is going to be my scoop. Will you walk with medown to the station?"

  Big Jim Westcott nodded silently and took her arm in his and togetherthey went out into the night.

  Each stone, shrub, each dark frowning cliff reminded them of theirmeeting, and silently, with their hearts full, they walked along untila dilapidated box car hove into view, with one oil-lamp still burning,twinkling evidence that Carson had not retired for the night; and asthey came abreast the door they found him dozing.

  "Wake up, Carson," cried Jim, tapping him on the shoulder, "wake up andget ready to do a big job on the keys. And keep your ears open, too,old timer, for it's interesting, every word of it--Miss Donovan isgoing to tell a story."

  Carson rubbed his eyes, sat up, gave ample greeting, got up, litanother lamp, and tested his wire.

  "East wire free as air, Jim," he said. "You can begin that there storywhenever you want."

  And so, weary as she was, and with nerves still high-pitched, StellaDonovan began, slowly at first, until she got the swing of her "lead,"and then more rapidly; one after another the yellow sheets on which shewrote were fed past Westcott's critical eyes and into the hands ofCarson, who operated his "bug" like a madman.

  An hour went past, an hour and a quarter--Stella Donovan was stillwriting. An hour and a half. Westcott saw her face tensing under thestrain, saw it grow wan and w
hite, and, reaching down he gripped thefingers that clenched the pencil.

  "No more, Stella," he said firmly, "you've sent four thousand!"

  She looked at him tenderly. "Please, Jim," she begged, "just let meadd one more paragraph. It's the most important one of all."

  The miner released her hand and the girl wrote hurriedly, this timepassing the sheets direct to Carson. Heroically the station agentstuck to his task, and as he tossed the first of the sheets aside, aneddying wisp of wind caught it, danced it a moment on the table-top,then slid it over under the very palm of big Jim Westcott's right hand.Slowly he picked it up and read it.

  "So!" he said, with something strangely like a cry in his deep voice,"so you've resigned from the _Star_, and you're going to stay inHaskell?"

  The girl looked at him, her lips trembling.

  "I never want to be a lady reporter again," she whispered. "Never!"

  They were in the open doorway now, and through the lush, warm gloom abelated light twinkled down in Haskell, slumbering like a bad child inthe gulch below. And as they stood there watching a fair young moonmaking its first bow in a purple sky, their lips met in a long tenderkiss; when they lifted their eyes again it was to let them range overthe eternal misty hills with their hearts of gold in which lay thefuture--their future.