The House Of Cain

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Ah, yes, the wuppy-wups!” Monty murmured, even more beamingly. “Sorry I was obliged to shoot the one Gilling brought. I thought it was a man, and I like shooting men. They jump higher than rabbits.”

  Anchor’s eyes clouded.

  “It was unfortunate,” he admitted. “Carlo was the finest but the most docile of the pack, of which but three remain. Now, au revoir till six. I advise a bed and pyjamas. Be ready for the gong at six. Already, I am told by Mrs. Jonas, we are becoming perilously short of china. During lunch to-day Johnston threw a glass jug at a cat which invaded his sanctum with a kitten in its mouth.”

  Nodding, he passed through the French windows to the dining-room, and a moment later was followed by the brothers, who unhurriedly walked to the hall, where they were met by Mrs. Jonas. As previously stated, Mrs. Jonas was good-looking, the face being well coloured, the expression thoroughly maternal. Yet her eyes, when she smiled, hinted at the tragedy which had sent her life under a cloud. Meeting her gentle smile, Monty found it hard to credit the story of her atrocious crime; looking into her large hazel eyes, he recognized the truth that a murderer is not necessarily a criminal.

  “I think we shall have a wind-storm presently,” she said in a clear, precise voice, fanning herself with a lace handkerchief. “I got Mabel to bring in the beds from the veranda, and if there is anything we can do for your comfort, be sure to let me know.”

  “You are most kind, Mrs. Jonas,” replied Monty, bestowing on the outcast woman his wonderfully attractive smile. “We hope we shall not be too much trouble to you.”

  “Yes; we should not like to think we were making extra work, Mrs. Jonas,” the blind man put in.

  Her eyes softened at sight of the afflicted man. Monty felt a sudden great pity for this refined and gentle female Cain, on noticing her gaze diverted to himself in a searching, appealing look of the naked soul that is totally without hope. When she spoke again her voice was hardly audible.

  “I ought not to speak to you,” she said, “but you are the first human beings without God’s terrible brand that I have seen for three years. No man could smile as you do and be unclean of soul, and meeting you is a little balm to my own.” Drawing a little closer and laying one hand on the big man’s sleeve, she added, in a tremulous whisper: “I wish you hadn’t come. Indeed I do. You must be very careful.”

  With a slight bow she turned and walked to a passage opposite that which led to their room; and the big man, with a wistful expression, led his brother from the hall without speaking. When the door of their room was shut Martin observed:

  “I am very sorry for that woman, Monty.”

  “You! Sorry for a murderess! A newspaper editor sympathizing with a murderess!” came the big man’s mock reproof.

  “I fear that what Anchor said about some killers sinning less than they were sinned against has some truth in it. The fact of her husband being a double liver of the worst kind certainly does not lessen the enormity of her crime; nevertheless, it put her to one of the most terrible tests known to human nature, and causes me to hope that God’s judgment will be more merciful than man’s.”

  “Too right,” Monty agreed, helping Martin to doff his clothes for pyjamas. “There’s many a murderer’s victim I’d have liked to have murdered myself. I reckon, though, that His Highness, My Lord William J., and that ruffian with the tinted spectacles, are not the sinned-against type of killers, and that they’ll bear watching. With that type murder becomes a habit, like smoking. Well, here is your bunk. Do a think, old lad. I leave the declaration of war to you. If you decide–– Jumping nannygoats!”

  CHAPTER XXI

  ANCHOR’S GAME OF CHESS

  AUSTILINE THORPE’S rapid spiriting away from Melbourne to the far-away wilds of South Australia had allowed her little opportunity to think. One vivid impression had followed another with the bewildering swiftness of film drama. Her arrival at Anchor’s house was succeeded by prostrating reaction, and only by degrees did the horror of gaol and the nightmare of a terrible death give way to more normal impressions.

  Mrs. Jonas found in Austiline scope for her instinct to serve, an instinct that the untimely death of her husband had deprived of its main outlet. Under the care, and what developed into affection of the housekeeper, Austiline rapidly regained her usual balance. Anchor exuded sympathy, Moore was ever courteous and interesting, Mabel Hogan had a personality that drew from her all her wonderful understanding.

  By gentle degrees only did she learn the history of her fellow guests; and, though shocked at first, daily familiarity brought about the easy intercourse usual in every well-ordered household. There was nothing about the life of the house which could suggest offence to the moral code even of a Quaker, Anchor proving himself both friend and, when necessary, master to all.

  Lane, Gilling, and “The Cat,” as well as the two younger women, all belonging to the worker class, and, consequently, having no financial standing, were expected to work at various tasks, for which they received handsome wages, plus a generous bonus; so that, when the time came for them to return to civilization without undue danger of being recognized, they each would possess a small nest-egg with which to start life afresh. The guests of higher degree were not expected to do menial work. Mallowing kept a set of books and looked after the stores; Earle supervised “The Cat” and Gilling, who tended the few cattle remaining from a substantial herd. Lane occasionally did blacksmithing and plumbing, while Mrs. Jonas served as housekeeper and general supervisor of decorum. Inmates of this latter class also found themselves possessed of ample means when they once more entered ordinary society.

  It was really because Austiline Thorpe knew herself to be free from the blood-brand that she decided she could not live at the expense of a murderer; insisting upon paying a monthly sum for residence and board, and intending eventually to refund the costs of her rescue from gaol. Anchor at first demurred, but on her showing firmness gave way, arranging to draw the money when she should return to the world. Certain difficulties he foresaw in connection with this arrangement caused him amusement, but he refrained from enlightening her.

  Morally, as has been indicated, Anchor’s household left nothing to be desired. Those guests whose moral code was not of the strictest dared not misbehave. While they respected Anchor’s suave firmness, they all appeared to regard Dr. Moore with not a little fear, a fear that on the surface seemed peculiar. Had it not been for his general fear of a man who was openly subordinate to the millionaire, Austiline would have considered her host’s model sanctuary almost as peaceful and harmless as a monastery. But the fear of Moore was a disquieting element. At first she was puzzled. It seemed so utterly baseless; for, if a little morose, Moore was an exceedingly well-read man of advanced and interesting opinions. .

  Then had occurred the affair of Mainwright, just after Christmas; which revealed the doctor in a new light, and in a measure accounted for the fear he inspired. Mainwright was a quarter-caste Malay pearl-diver of Broome, and had been spirited away from that place the day following the discovery of the bodies of two full-blooded Malays who had lodged at the same house as himself.

  The man showed little trace of the black blood running in his veins. His physique was magnificent. He had reached the very prime of life. It was his black, flashing eyes, set in a care-free face, which proclaimed the animal; it was the dark strain in his blood which gave him overbearing assurance. He was a human volcano.

  Immediately on his advent at the Home, the alluring smiles and inviting eye-play of Madeline Fox had captured his fancy. Mrs. Jonas at first frowned and then scolded; but the scolding came too late, for by that time the girl realized that she had focused on herself the desire of a lustful devil who would not rest until he had consumed her. During their Christmas dinner the ex-pearl-diver had bluntly asked Anchor to marry them.

  “Only a clergyman or minister can do that, and there is not one here,” Anchor had replied as bluntly, becoming aware of the prologue to a drama.


  “Then we’ll do without marriage,” came the passionate voice, low and menacing as the distant approach of a typhoon. At which Madeline had risen to her feet and laughed him to scorn.

  That the girl was a natural courtesan was evident. But, having made a conquest, her fear of Moore had checked her adventurous spirit, and her laughter proclaimed that she stood on the side of morality.

  A scene, probably of violence, had been averted only by Anchor’s deadly coolness: when, with his hand on the butt of an automatic in the pocket of his white drill coat, he had politely requested the quarter-caste to retire to his room. Mainwright, regardful of the bulge at Anchor’s hip, had obeyed with flashing eyes and proud carriage.

  Afterwards the millionaire had interviewed both the girl and the Malay; and, on discovering the situation created by the she-vampire, sent her running to her room with chalk-white face, and the man out into the fierce glare of the sun like a hunted beast.

  For several days tranquillity had resumed its sway, the man temporarily cowed, the girl visibly afraid of him, but much more so of Anchor. Then came the night when, at two o’clock in the morning, Madeline’s screams had aroused the household, whose members, rushing in a body to her room, witnessed a struggle which undoubtedly would have ended in tragedy.

  Whilst Mainwright held the girl, one hand over her mouth, in an effort to stifle her screams, oblivious to the entry of Moore, Anchor, and Mabel Hogan, the doctor had deftly administered a hypodermic injection which in less than half a minute had reduced the ravenous tiger to a whipped cur. Like a man stupefied, the quarter-caste had followed Moore to his laboratory, in which he remained for several days.

  On his reappearance he was an absolute madman, a gibbering idiot. Austiline, with Anchor and his henchman, was sitting on the veranda when, somehow, the man escaped from the laboratory and walked out of the French windows. His head was bandaged, but the terrible contortions of his face caused Austiline to scream. Seeing her, the madman sidled toward her, being stopped almost as he came within reach by a bullet from Anchor’s automatic.

  “Not quite a success, Moore, I am afraid,” Anchor had drawled when, with unruffled politeness, he led Austiline from the scene of horror.

  Until the arrival of the brothers she had enjoyed full freedom. It was only a week before their coming that she had been made acquainted with Travers’s confession. But her newfound joy had been short-lived.

  In his suave tones Anchor had congratulated her, and then had gone on without the slightest trace of emotion to propose marriage. That Austiline was both surprised and shocked may have been due to the fact that, shortly after her arrival, she had informed him of her engagement to Martin, for whom she handed Anchor a letter which she begged him to dispatch to assure Martin that she was well and safe.

  Naturally she had rebuffed Anchor’s approach. Yet her cool demeanour was assumed, since by that time she realized Anchor’s cynical heartlessness and Moore’s utter ruthlessness in his quest for knowledge. When she regained her apartment she became very much afraid.

  The next day, when Anchor joined her in the library, she implored him to send her even to Marree, promising to repay him all the money he had expended upon her, with the addition of any interest he might fix; but, smiling, he had regretted his inability to comply with her requests, and again had proposed marriage as calmly as if it meant as little as a stroll in the cool of the evening.

  But, though his smile was gentle, his eyes glared into hers with the fixed stare of a cobra; and she, realizing her terrible position, shrank from him in horror. His words had appeared to come to her from a far distance.

  “I regret, Austiline, that you see fit to refuse my suit,” he had said. “You have the honour to be the first woman ever to refuse me. That, of course, raises you greatly in my estimation. I love you intensely and offer you marriage; but, after all is said and done, the mere ceremony is not allimportant.”

  Before she could recover sufficiently to reply to this veiled threat, he had proceeded:

  “I am informed, my dear Austiline, that the two Sherwoods are on their way to this part of the country in search of you. We cannot, of course, have them here; and, because I love you, you cannot go to them. Even if I were indifferent to your womanly charms, your liberty would now be a menace to ours.”

  “But you would accept my word of honour, surely?” she had cried, starting up in terror when the appalling implications of this speech penetrated her mind.

  This appeal, however, had drawn from him only a low, cynical laugh and an intimation that honour had perished with the Crusaders; after which he suggested that she might like to write to Monty Sherwood, since Martin was blind.

  “You see, Austiline, you must inform them that you desire to be left in peace: At all cost to your natural feelings––and mine, for I am by nature hospitable––they must be turned back. If they persist in coming, our difficulties will be increased and their persons will be in danger of violence.”

  Deceived by his face, always disguised by a mask of laughing cynicism, she had failed at first to grasp his hidden meaning, but this he proceeded to make unmistakably clear by adding:

  “You understand––of course you must understand––that their presence here, as is your own, will be a serious menace to every legitimate guest in my Home. Such being unfortunately the case, in order to maintain peace and security, it would be necessary to––ah––remove them without trace. A simple illustration of the first law of nature––self-preservation––you know.

  “Your best course, Austlline, is to drop them a line or two, ordering them back to Melbourne, and allaying their anxiety on your behalf. Your success in that direction would best serve Mr. Martin Sherwood, believe me. And to revert to my love for you. Remember that had it not been for my brains, my money, to-day you would have been but a tragic memory. You owe me your life. I want but a husband’s share in it.”

  He was still smiling gently, humour and kindliness in his expression, but the relentlessness of Satan in his eyes, when, starting to her feet, she had fled.

  And late that night she had concocted the message Monty received, hoping that its very brutality would arouse in him opposition to her expressed wishes. For she, having seen and spoken to the bushman, felt that he would prove extremely difficult to “remove without trace”; that, once he understood the awful position in which she was placed, Anchor and his company would experience at least a time of trouble and unpleasantness.

  William J. had smiled sardonically over her letter, purposely left unsealed for his inspection. He, too, read the hidden desire to provoke Monty Sherwood into continuing his search of her, but had sent Gilling off with it early the next morning. Austiline had unwittingly strengthened his hold over her.

  Then had come the morning of the brothers’ arrival, when Anchor presented himself at the door of her sitting-room and requested audience.

  “I have to inform you,” he said, “that the Sherwoods have arrived, thereby creating difficulties, to overcome which your co-operation is necessary.”

  She stood regarding him with an expression of haughty disdain alternating with dread, her bronze-coloured eyes blazing into his slaty orbs regarding her with unveiled admiration and determination to possess.

  “Moore and I have discussed the difficulties,” he went on. “I am for quietly dispatching them, but Moore wants them as experimental subjects. I only object on account of the effect of his experiments, as shown by Mainwright, the quartercaste Malay, whom you may perhaps remember.

  “Being friends of yours, my objection will hold. You must send them away, Austiline. You must give Martin his congé, and then I will accept their words to keep our existence a profound secret.”

  “Oh, Mr. Anchor! surely, surely you cannot be so heartless,” she cried, her voice breaking. “Let me go with them; please, let me go! I can never love you, as you must know. Let us go; and, far from informing on you, we shall always think of your kindness with gratitude.”

  “Austi
line, Austiline!” he murmured, as though her name were music to him. “Always have I got what I wanted, excepting women’s love. But I’ll make you love me for the happiness I and my wealth can give you. Even if you break your wings against the bars, I’ll have you.” And then, suddenly drawing near, he caught her in his arms, crushed her to him, and, forcing back her head, kissed her on the lips once, twice, a dozen times, she coldly impassive in his embrace until the storm subsided and he let her go.

  Triumphantly he smiled at her, thinking he had conquered. Without hate in her eyes, without passion of any sort, she deliberately wiped her lips with a handkerchief. The flimsy wisp of cambric she regarded as if she expected to see dirt on it from her lips. Again she wiped them. Then, with the essence of all womanly scorn and loathing in her eyes and voice, she whispered the four words:

  “Lower than a dog!”

  It may not have been the words; probably it was the loathing in her eyes and the contempt playing about her mouth that stung him, that stripped him of his cynical armour, tore aside the outer semblance of a gentleman, of a decent man even. For a moment he saw himself as she saw him, stripped, a thing exciting unutterable disgust. He saw that she judged his handling of her a crime far worse than murder. He read her mind with ease. A dog would kill another dog, but never attack a bitch.

  Yet the pose of cynical humour, the habit of a lifetime, was easy to regain. When he spoke his voice was gentle, suave, belying the terrible import of his words.

  “After dinner to-night I will bring the Sherwoods here, Austiline,” he said. “When they arrive, Dr. Moore and ‘The Cat’ will be concealed behind those wall-hangings. You will be given the opportunity of sending them away satisfied that no longer do you love Martin Sherwood, satisfied that you freely desire to remain. If you fail in that, if you cry for their help, my friends will shoot down Montague, and afterwards Dr. Moore will experiment on Martin. For by then I shall have no objection. If I remember rightly, Mainwright did not look nice. Good morning!”