The House Of Cain

by Arthur W. Upfield

“I fear––but oh! I do so hope that the detectives will believe her innocent. I must ring up the headquarters at once.” For the second time Monty grasped his arm. He said earnestly:

  “Could we not agree to say nothing about Miss Thorpe being found by us holding the revolver?”

  “Tiens! No! Of what use to lie to these law-hounds?” Masters returned, throwing up his white, podgy hands. “Nothing will benefit any of us but the truth. The smallest lie will but injure Miss Thorpe. I must go. I will not use the telephone here. It will but alarm the lady. Mon Dieu! My hotel! I shall be ruined!”

  “Damn your hotel!” Monty breathed. “Damn the wind and the dust! It is going to be awkward for Austiline for an hour or so, but they’ll probably find the man or the way he got out.” And then, for the first time in his life, he doubted himself and his reasoning.

  Supposing they did not discover what he hoped they would?

  Supposing they examined only the surface facts? Supposing they concluded that Austiline was a liar, and therefore a taker of life?

  Martin! Poor old Martin! Suddenly he found his brother at his elbow.

  “Has Masters gone for the doctor?” Martin inquired.

  “Yes––and the police. This is going to be an unpleasant business, old lad.”

  “It’s horrible. I am afraid Austiline is going to be very ill,” the younger man said quickly. “The wedding will probably have to be postponed. Will it be necessary for us to say that we found her holding that gun?”

  Monty Sherwood blinked at the appealing look in the anguished grey eyes. He wondered if Martin doubted Austiline, even before he discovered or was told of the absence of the vital tracks; or merely wished to obscure any fact which might delay his wedding. Knowing what the police would discover, realizing that any attempt he made to ruffle the dust carpet would be futile and bring suspicion upon himself without in any way helping Austiline, he decided to be perfectly frank. Yet he could not bring himself to announce this decision just then. To gain time he said:

  “What are the other two rooms of this suite?” “A reception-room and a bedroom with a small dressing-room and bathroom beyond.”

  “Then why not take Miss Thorpe to the bedroom, away from that?” the big man suggested. “Try and calm her, so that she may answer the police questions coolly and collectedly. All of us must be like that, old son.”

  Martin agreed with a nod and rejoined Austiline, over whom he bent affectionately while speaking. Without replying, she arose and allowed him to half-lead, half-support her from the room. Monty, through half-closed eyes, watched them go, feeling an utterly new sensation, that of despair.

  Never before had he found himself in so helpless a mental cul-de-sac. Even then the police heads were doubtless listening to Master’s agitated report; even then the hounds were being unleashed. Time! Had there only been time! If Masters had not entered the suite with them, Monty felt that he could have done something…at the least have supported Austiline’s story by sweeping the veranda clear of dust, or, better, have supplied the missing tracks by means of borrowed boots. Now there was nothing to be done but wait inactively for crawling Nemesis. And waiting under such circumstances was a nightmare.

  Martin found him slumped down on the settee, his brows knit, his eyes closed. The younger man felt as if his brain were being hammered into a million separate pieces with a noise equal to ceaseless crackling thunder, in the tumult of which he struggled to collect his thoughts. A strange apathy was stealing over him, deadening the noise in his ears and softening the flare of strange lights before his eyes. Even while he stood beside the table regarding his brother he felt himself losing the power to think.

  From Monty his eyes moved slowly to the chiffonier set against a corner of the room, there to rest on a tantalus which Monty had taken from the cupboard. Like a sleep-walker, he moved over to it, and poured out half a tumbler of brandy with a hand that shook so badly that almost as much again was spilled on the shining walnut surface. The glass tapped against his even teeth so loudly that Monty looked up. But the brandy, shooting through his body, rose to his head and swept aside the noise, the lights, and swamped the feeling of lethargy. With quick steps he reached Monty’s side, and, bending forward till their eyes were level, said:

  “What do you think about all this, Monty?”

  “Think! What is there to think?”

  “Monty, you know. I can see it in your troubled face.

  You know more about this ghastly affair than I do. What passed between you and Masters at the window?”

  “We were discussing the tracks left on the dusty floor of the veranda.”

  “Why discuss them, Monty? Tell me, please.”

  “Very well, then. But you must brace up,” Monty sighed.

  “Your girl said that the man who shot that feller escaped by the window. Unfortunately, she made a mistake there, which is going to be bad. No man crossed the veranda––only a cat walked along it within, at the least, an hour.”

  The brothers stared fixedly at each other, the big man still slumped on the settee, the other still bent forward, their faces level. Martin read plainly in the grey-blue, narrow-lidded eyes Monty’s doubt of Austiline’s story. Yet, because he was past feeling anything, because his brain was numbed by the recurring noises in his head, he showed no recoil from what must have been a stunning blow. To him Monty’s voice was very distant.

  “Steady, old lad! Here comes the Nosey Parkers.”

  CHAPTER IV

  INTO DARKNESS

  MARTIN SHERWOOD straightened up and faced about when the hall door was opened by Masters, who led within three men.

  One of the three was obviously a policeman; the other two might have been members of any profession. The younger brother knew them all. To them he was equally well known as editor of The Daily Tribune, as well as an influential and greatly respected member of society.

  The man who carried a small black bag stepped at once to the dead man and made an examination that was not unduly prolonged. Silently the others watched him. Not till he pushed aside the spilled flowers and began to write at the table, as though the incident had lost all interest for him, did the taller of his companions speak.

  “Murder or suicide, doctor?” he inquired, in a low, unemotional voice.

  “Murder, undoubtedly. No powder-marks.”

  “Humph!” The detective-sergeant languidly laid his raincoat over the back of a chair, his silver-mounted walking-stick he leant against the chair, and his hat and fawn-coloured gloves he placed on the seat of the chair. Then, with long-fingered, well-manicured hands, he absently patted his sleek hair and gracefully sank into the only masculine article of furniture in the room––Martin’s especial chair.

  “Now, Masters, as you communicated with headquarters, tell us please, your version of this affair,” he said, in what was nothing else but a purr.

  Fluently, but strangely without excitement, the little hotel manager described how he, with the brothers, had been obliged to force an entry, and what had met their astonished gaze when the drawing-room door had been splintered inward by Monty’s shoulder. Then, warming up, he exclaimed:

  “It is the very worst thing that has ever happened at my hotel. It will do it a great deal of harm.”

  “That cannot be helped. It’s done,” came the dispassionate voice of the detective-sergeant. “About what time did you hear the shot fired?”

  “I noticed the time was exactly four o’clock when I left my office and met these gentlemen. It must have been about three minutes later.”

  “It is well to establish the exact time. Your telephone-call to us was made at precisely twenty-six minutes past four. How was it that you did not ring us up sooner?”

  “I hardly know. Time seemed without measure. Miss Thorpe appeared as though in a trance, and it was a few moments before she could be induced to give up the revolver. Then I searched the other rooms for the man Miss Thorpe said she saw.”

  “Humph! Miss Thorpe! Where is she
now?”

  “In the next room,” replied Martin. “Naturally she is much upset. She will see you when you wish.”

  “Better make sure, Highatt.” At which the policeman who looked his part went out into the hall and, first barring the front door, knocked on that indicated to him. Being invited to enter, he merely replied that he wanted to know if she was any better from her shock, and on hearing an affirmative returned to the side of his colleague.

  “I understand, Mr. Sherwood, from a private source, that you are to be married to Miss Thorpe?” was the indolent detective-sergeant’s next query.

  “Yes; we are to be married next Wednesday.”

  “Unfortunate––I mean this affair is unfortunate. Have you anything to add to Mr. Masters’s testimony?”

  “No. But hadn’t a hue and cry better be raised for the murderer?” Martin said with accelerated quickness. “Time is so precious in this case.”

  “Quite so, Mr. Sherwood,” was the gentle rejoinder. “But let us fully understand the case before we act. Have you anything to add, Mr. Montague Sherwood?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Very well. We will now examine Miss Thorpe. Ask her, Highatt, if she will be so kind as to come in here.”

  The subordinate did as bidden. During the ensuing silence Martin, suffering an agony of apprehension, searched the face of the detective-sergeant for the slightest indication of his thoughts so successfully veiled behind an almost vacuous mask. Upon the entrance of Austiline they rose to meet her, each of them regarding her in a different light, but each and all experiencing a thrill of admiration for her beauty and carriage. She had discarded her hat, but still wore her outdoor costume.

  Her eyes had lost all trace of hysteria, but seemed unnaturally wide and bright, two burning orbs in an ashen face. That she was suffering mental torture was evident at least to the shrewd police-surgeon; that only a powerful will enabled her to rise superior to feminine weakness, and terror was evident also.

  Torn between his loyalty to her, his love for her, and the prosaic assertion of his brother Monty regarding the absence of the tracks that would have corroborated her story, Martin went to meet her, and with almost pathetic devotion escorted her to the settee, where he made her comfortable with cushions and then stood beside her facing the examiner. Thus, he hoped, his nearness to her would lend her strength.

  “I think, Miss Thorpe, it would be much better if you were to tell us in your own words exactly what has happened here,” said the now seated indolent one, with a slight smile intended to be reassuring. “It is so much easier than telling it by answering questions.”

  She recited her story in practically the same words as before. She spoke simply, without hesitation, her eyes fixed intently on the face of her questioner. Almost as intently as she regarded him Monty gazed at her: and, quite suddenly, as though a searchlight had lit up his mind, he saw that she spoke the truth, that her story was based on real facts and was not the creation of a bewildered brain. A flood of joy surged over him, and Martin, noticing his face, wondered.

  “I do not remember anything that happened from the moment the man disappeared out of the window until I discovered Martin––I mean Mr. Sherwood––at my side. I did not hear them knock, nor did I hear the door being forced,” was her concluding statement.

  “This man––will you describe him, please?”

  “I––I don’t think I can. He was just an ordinary-looking person.”

  “Humph! Was he tall or short, thin or fat?”

  “He was neither, just ordinary.”

  “Well, what sort of clothes did he wear?”

  “Oh! a dark suit––dark blue, I think.”

  “Did he have any distinguishing marks about his face?”

  “I did not see his face properly. He wore a black silk handkerchief which concealed the bottom half of it.”

  “Ah! And what sort of a hat did he wear?”

  “A soft hat, I think! I don’t really remember.”

  The senior detective appeared to ponder on those, to him, possibly unsatisfactory answers.

  “I believe you said just now that the intruder fired from the door there. That you did not see him fire. Will you kindly stand just where you were when the shot was fired?”

  Austiline did as requested, taking a position between the table and the door. The examiner stood where the corpse had been discovered. It had since been removed, and now lay covered with a sheet behind the open door.

  “I am taking the place of the man who was shot––am I right, Miss Thorpe?”

  “Yes,” in a whisper.

  “You are certain you stand now where you did then?”

  “Quite.”

  “Did you, by any chance, feel the passage of the bullet––say, a puff of displaced air against your cheek?”

  “I don’t think I did.”

  “Thank you. Pray be seated, Miss Thorpe.”

  It was Martin again who attended her, and whilst thus engaged the detective jotted memoranda in a notebook.

  Monty frowned. He had been standing directly behind the detective-sergeant when the latter had taken the position of the murdered man, and he alone of the spectators guessed what the notes were that were jotted down. He had seen the object of the recent questions and the conclusion the detective-sergeant had drawn from the answers.

  For Austiline Thorpe had stood in direct line between the detective and the door, and anyone firing from the door must have been a very expert shot indeed to have missed her and hit the intended target.

  “This weapon, which you say the man thrust into your hand, was, of course, his own?”

  “No; it was mine.”

  “Indeed!” The detective-sergeant permitted his eyebrows to go up the fraction of an inch. “Are you not aware that it is an offence to have a weapon in your possession without police permission?”

  “No; I am not aware of it.”

  “Why, then, did you purchase it?”

  “Well, you see, I live alone in these rooms. My maid lives elsewhere in the hotel. There are so many burglaries––and I became nervous.”

  “The dead man––what was his name?” came the next politely spoken question.

  “Peterson,” was her answer.

  “What was the hold he had over you?”

  “Oh! I cannot, I cannot tell you,” she burst out.

  “It would so simplify matters if you would,” said the man coaxingly.

  “No, no! I cannot––indeed, I cannot tell you.”

  “Well, well; I won’t press you. But how much money was there in the roll of notes?”

  “Two hundred pounds.”

  “Two hundred! Quite a large sum. What were the denominations?”

  “They were five-pound Treasury notes.”

  “Ah! And from what bank did you draw them?”

  “From the Bank of Commerce.”

  “Have you any idea of the precise time?”

  “Oh! I don’t know. I got there just before the big doors shut.”

  “Humph! three o’clock.” Her interrogator seemed to ponder over that, gazing steadily at his immaculate shoes, whilst his audience watched him anxiously. His expression was still blandly uncommittal when, looking up, he said:

  “Now, as far as we can make out, the murder occurred at three minutes past four, which leaves approximately one hour unaccounted for. What did you do between the time you were at the bank and your entering this room?”

  “Really, I don’t know,” she admitted. “I must have walked about in the street. I dreaded to meet Peterson. He always filled me with loathing.”

  Again the detective-sergeant wrote in his elegant notebook. Then, rising, he motioned Highatt to the windows, saying:

  “Please allow me to examine the balcony.”

  They watched the two human bloodhounds stroll to the fatal windows, saw them thrust forward their heads to examine the dusty floor with keen, observant, trained eyes. They heard whispered conversation––an ejacul
ation. The doctor was called to them, and then the hotel manager

  Monty began to walk slowly to and fro across the room, his hands clasped behind him, his head sunk upon his mighty chest. Martin, turning, faced the wall so that none should see the agony writ so plainly on his ghastly face. As for the woman, she looked at them alternately with puzzled eyes. Of them all, she was the least perturbed, in spite of her serious position; for, so she thought, her ordeal had been left behind.

  The tiny clock set on the writing-desk in a corner ticked with accentuated loudness during these minutes of suspense. From without came the rumbling roar of the traffic and the passing crowd. A caged cockatoo somewhere near shrieked defiance. A camera clicked thrice, followed by the sound of a steel tape being unwound. To the brothers an eternity elapsed before the party on the balcony and at the windows returned to the centre of the room.

  Monty, ceasing to pace the room, saw the bland detective-sergeant nod to the other man, who came and stood beside the seated woman. That action, simple enough yet so significant, made the blood rush to his face and his great hands clench into formidable fists.

  “Miss Thorpe,” said the silken voice, “I regret that it is my most painful duty to arrest you on suspicion of causing the death of the man Peterson. I have to warn you that anything you say may be used against you as evidence.”

  “Arrest me!”

  “My God!”

  “Jumping nannygoats! you’re a fool.”

  “So I have been called before, Mr. Sherwood. Will you, Mr. Martin, kindly procure the lady’s outdoor things? By the way, Miss Thorpe, where is your maid?”

  In the comparative silence that followed, Austiline rose to her feet with slow, deliberate action. Her leaden lips were parted as though her breathing had stopped. When she spoke her voice trembled a little.

  “I––I––Oh! my maid is away for the day,” she said, then, turning to her lover, went on pleadingly. “Martin! Martin! don’t let them take me to prison. Oh Martin! it will spoil our Wednesday.”

  Martin’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. For a second or two she waited, then to Monty said: