The House Of Cain

by Arthur W. Upfield

  But the stranger possessing the body of Austiline Thorpe saw her chance to administer the coup de grace, to make certain that neither would desire to remain another day in that house. Standing erect, she threw back her head and laughed, the laugh of the wanton taxed with her sins.

  “Pathetic to the end!” she mocked. “But really I have no use whatever for an imitation man.” And then her voice rose to a scream and, turning her back to them, she cried: “Go! Go away! I never want to see you again. I hate the sight of affliction. Please go––at once!”

  “We are going; even now we are on the move,” replied the big man, he and Martin half way to the door. At the door itself he turned, to see her still with her back to them, a figure flooded by soft light, a figure whose shoulders shook and whose hands at the side clenched and unclenched spasmodically.

  Then it was he thought he understood. And, understanding, a flash of inspiration came to him. If she had been acting a part it was possible some one beside themselves was watching the play. Before he closed the door, he said lightly:

  “Good-bye, little butterfly! I will not forget the coffin-handles, but they will be of gold.”

  A minute of utter silence passed before Dr. Moore and his companion emerged from their hiding-places, the lank man smiling sardonically, “The Cat” showing his yellow teeth in a leer of balked desire.

  “Certainly you are to be congratulated on your histrionic talent, Miss Thorpe. I have never enjoyed a performance so much.” For a moment he waited for her to speak. Then: “Good evening!”

  An eternity elapsed before she heard the door close for the second time. Then the statue came to life, raised its hands above the auburn head, and laughed and shrieked alternately. Flinging herself on the sofa, she pressed a cushion to her mouth and tore the satin covering with her teeth; then, leaping to her feet again, her hair fell in a cloud about her writhing shoulders, and her fingers clutched at and tore her dress to ribbons in a paroxysm of terror and mental agony.

  Then the door was flung open and Mrs. Jonas, in a dressing-gown, ran to her with outstretched arms.

  CHAPTER XXV

  CIGARETTE SMOKE

  THE door closed behind them, Monty led his brother slowly along the underground passage, and, without speaking, guided him up the cork-paved steps to the movable panel giving outlet to the hall. The mechanism of this door was very simple. This panel was not meant to be a mystery to any of the inmates; the intention being merely to conceal the existence of the basement rooms from casual or unwanted visitors.

  On the inside a wooden knob operated the fastening, and, moving this, the brothers gained the hall. Meeting no one there, they walked to their bedroom. Once within, with the door shut, Martin groped his way to his bed, on which he flung himself with despairing abandon.

  In silence the big man removed his jacket and collar, and, seating himself near the open windows, produced pipe and tobacco. He felt that his ideas of women were inadequate to cover the situation; at the same time he was by no means clear what the situation really was. That Austiline had been acting he was certain. What baffled him was whether she had acted to serve her own end or ambition, or at the compelling behest of some one else, probably Anchor. In this latter case, he felt sure that the millionaire would want to know their personal opinion about it all, and would even go so far as to hide a dictaphone in their room to get it pure. That move he thought he could counter. He said:

  “Have a cigarette, Martin. It will steady you.”

  “Damn cigarettes!” the younger man said slowly, adding, with sudden access of rage: “What I want is sight, eyesight. Oh God! Why am I alive?”

  “Now, now! Don’t get into a paddy,” Monty exhorted. “It only serves you right for chasing after women. Perhaps now you’ll leave ’em alone.”

  “Monty!” There was both surprise and pain in Martin’s voice.

  “I mean it,” asserted the big man sternly. “Directly a man gets tangled with a bit of skirt he starts stumbling on jagged rocks.

  Women are all right as playthings. They amuse a man in his spare time, and it’s only a fool who allows them to be amused at him. For every Ruth there are ten thousand Rats. A man has got a better chance of winning the Melbourne Cup Sweep than he has of winning a Ruth. Forget her, Martin, old lad. Racehorses are better sport.”

  Although not understanding the reason for this remarkable and most un-Monty-like speech, the blind man instinctively guessed that Monty would render an excellent one in due course. Still, the pain of the wounds inflicted by Austiline was in no way alleviated; for, sightless as he was, only her voice was his guide, whereas her actions had aroused Monty’s suspicions.

  “I am going to carry the beds out to the veranda,” Monty announced after an interval of silence. “Then I’m going to sleep. I allow no woman to interfere with my sleep. If you do, you’re an ass. To-morrow I’ll repair the water-drums, and the day after we’ll poke off back.”

  The part of the veranda immediately beyond this room was partitioned off from the remainder by fine-meshed fly-gauze, which shut in the whole. This formed another room, an ideal sleeping-place in summer, when the nights are almost as hot as the days. He had observed that a door gave exit to the compound beyond, on the further side of which were arranged the several small outhouses, one of which contained their gear.

  Martin, too sick at heart to talk, allowed himself to be undressed, and to be conducted, with a reassuring pressure on his arm, to his bed outside. Five minutes later Monty lay on his own, smoking his asthmatic pipe.

  The night was exceedingly dark despite the full moon, for as yet the high-level sand-cloud had not passed away. The soft southerly wind coming through the fly-gauze was appreciated, nevertheless the house still radiated its sun-stored heat.

  For half an hour the big man lay still, listening. The reflection of a light in a room farther along the veranda vanished suddenly. Twice he heard doors closed; never once did he hear footsteps. A dingo barked from a great distance. The only continuous sound was the fall of water from the bore-mouth. It was a quarter to eleven when––emulating Martin––he removed his watch-glass and felt the position of the hands.

  A riddle to Monty Sherwood was a most objectionable form of mental exercise, yet he was engaged in solving one whilst lying on his luxurious bed, his hands clasped beneath his head. There appeared to be no possible answer to the riddle, the riddle of Austiline Thorpe. Instead of answers, came other riddles.

  Why, in the first place, did she take upon herself the unpleasant task of telling them personally of her transferred affections, and in so insulting a manner? Why did she smoke cigarettes when it was so evident she was unused to smoking? Again, what was behind her possession of Moore’s case and match-box?

  Had she been acting a part? If she had, then she was a wonderful, a superb actress, a trained actress, and that he knew she was not. He recalled the tremble of her mouth when she looked at Martin. Again he saw her standing with her back to them, her shoulders twitching, her hands clenching and unclenching; and once again believed, perhaps almost was convinced, that she had played a part.

  Granted that she had, what was the reason? To use her own metaphor, that was where his head met a brick wall, and, in spite of what he had said, this wall refused to collapse under the impact. If she had been compelled to act, who had compelled her? If Anchor, why? He had intimated that he and his associates would obstruct their departure, so that he could not have compelled her to act, under dire penalties should she refuse, just to get rid of them.

  It was no light riddle for anyone to solve; it was a dark enigma. Whatever might be the solution, he felt sure they would not be allowed to leave without a fight. Another thing he was sure of was that, when they did leave, Austiline Thorpe would leave with them, even if he had to carry her off.

  Having thus decided, he slid off his bed with an entire absence of sound, and on hands and knees crept to that occupied by his brother. Martin, still awake, started violently when he felt Monty�
��s fingers on his face, and was relieved to hear the big man’s breathed reassurance. Then, with his mouth right against the blind man’s ear, Monty whispered:

  “Some one might have been listening, or some patent eaves-dropping machine might have been fixed up,” he said, “That’s why I gave that little sermon on women a while ago, and moved our beds here. I had no wish to sting you, old son, but I figured that Anchor would be keen to know our views of Austiline as quickly as possible. Can you hear me?”

  Martin moved his head in assent. The big man continued: “I don’t want to raise any false hopes, but I suspect that your girl was playing a part––a kind of part she didn’t like playing in the least. If she acted, her acting was mighty good, and she is wasting her talents writing books.

  “You try and answer me these questions in the morning. One, what was Austiline doing with Moore’s cigarette-case, for that was what she took her smokes from? Two, why was she smoking at all, for you have told me that is not one of her habits, and I could see she has not got the trick of it yet? Three, why did her lips tremble when she looked at you, which was about twice, and why was she trying to stop her sobs when we were leaving the room, turning her back to us to hide the effort? If she was genuinely stuck on Monsoor Anchor, why the sobs, why the melodramatic interview when a letter would have done, why the cigarettes, why––oh, a hell of whys!”

  “Can’t you make a guess, Monty?”

  “Nope, Lazarus, I can’t. I’m no good at all on the thought stakes. As for Austiline, I’m half convinced that she was speaking lines written by some one not herself. She seemed just a little too narked with us, just a little too anxious that we should leave in a hurry. Our best policy is to wait a day or two and see what the sun brings up out of this stinking ground. Bye-bye!”

  The big man stole back to his bed, happy to have dressed the wound in Martin’s heart. From his mind he put the enigma of Austiline’s strange behaviour, and began to plan his future actions. That war was inevitable with Anchor was evident. The question which was less difficult to answer was: should he wait for Anchor to declare war on him, or should he throw down the gage on the morrow? Had Martin not been blind, or had he remained in Melbourne, Monty knew that without hesitation he would have opened hostilities that night. He had decided that his best policy was to gather his camels early the next night or the night after, endeavour to remove at least one pack and one riding-saddle, with rations, from the store opposite, and get Martin away to a camp established at some distance. Then to return and remove Austiline, using force if necessary. By forced night marches he was confident he could reach Minter’s Selection.

  Just then one of the great hounds barked in a half-hearted manner, and, raising his head to listen, he discerned a light in one of the outhouses. The time then was twenty minutes past one.

  It is quite probable that had his mind been free from sinister suspicion the bushman would not have felt sufficient interest in that light to investigate it; but, his brain demanding relief from complex thinking, and his rested body action, he quietly changed into dark trousers and shirt––for his night attire was white––and soundlessly left the veranda.

  Knowing that an upright figure would be seen too easily by any watcher at the house, he bent almost double and made rapidly to the line of outbuildings. He moved with the noiselessness of a shadow over the deep, fine-grained sand covering the compound.

  And then that happened which made him pause but two yards from the building containing his gear. The light proceeded from a weather-board and iron hut at the end of the row. At several places cracks between the sun-warped boards were visible, and at the house side a small square of light showed where there was a window. And at this window, looking in with his face low down in one corner, Monty recognized Dr. Moore.

  Dr. Moore was greatly interested in something going on inside; he also displayed caution in not allowing himself to be seen by anyone within. The big man decided that what interested the lank medico would assuredly interest him.

  Slowly he gained the rear of his store-hut, and along that side of the row crept to the end building, at the rear of which he crouched with his eyes on a level with a chink between two of the wall-boards.

  Monty found himself surveying a chamber of horrors. To his left stood an instrument which he had often read about, but never seen. Between shortened uprights gleamed the heavy and polished blade of a guillotine, set deep into the half-circular cut of the neck-rest. Before this weapon of a nation’s insane wrath, now considered the most humane instrument of human execution in current use, stood the emaciated Earle, his, hair dank and ruffled, his face besmirched with semi-grimed sweat-marks, his white duck suit dilapidated and dirty.

  Without any show of haste Earle seized a cord which ran through several small pulley-blocks and raised the massive blade to the full height of the supports, where it came to rest with a slight click. For a moment he regarded the glittering blade with a faint smile playing about his sunken mouth. Then, taking another dangling cord, a red cord with a bulb at the end like that which releases a camera shutter, he pressed the bulb and witnessed the blade flash downwards with a resounding thud.

  For a while the man stood slightly swaying on his feet, gazing down at the deep broad blade. Five, ten, thirty seconds he remained thus, a whimsical smile on his chalk-white face, his head moving slowly sideways like that of a clockwork bear.

  Monty heard him sigh deeply, saw him turn to a small table. There he took up a shining lancet and laid it gently against the main artery of his left wrist. Putting that back, he examined closely several small bottles, reading the written matter on the labels.

  A garrotting chair next interested him. It was set in the corner to the right of the window, and for the time Dr. Moore’s face vanished. By the side of the chair was a lever which Earle pulled forward, whereupon the steel arms winging the neck-rest opened wide. A red cord he suddenly jerked sharply, when the steel arms snapped shut and from the neck-rest protruded a shining steel spike. Earle shuddered visibly, and, passing the window, paused at a second table, upon which lay a box of cigarettes and a match-holder. When Monty looked at the window opposite it was again to see Moore watching with strangely glittering, unspectacled eyes.

  When the big man’s gaze reverted to Earle, the latter was selecting one of the cigarettes, which were of unusual length. Having applied a match, he inhaled deeply, a feat which astonished the bushman, remembering as he did Earle’s racking cough during his appearance before the diners that evening.

  Beside the cigarette box lay a dainty, ivory-handled five-chambered revolver, which Earle picked up and examined. With a start, Monty saw him reverse it in one hand and pick up a mirror with the other. The watcher held his breath. Earle placed the muzzle of the gun against his forehead and held the mirror before his eyes.

  It was an intense moment. Monty drew in his breath sharply, preparatory to giving vent to a distracting yell; but he made no sound and exhaled his breath normally when Earle laid down revolver and mirror and shook his head slowly for the second time.

  Had it not been for the proximity of Dr. Moore, Monty probably would have entered the chamber of lethal instruments and sought to know what Percival Earle was doing there at that hour. Beginning to feel satisfied that the consumptive had no design against himself, the big man decided to remain inactive and learn what lay behind Moore’s secret interest.

  Like a visitor to a museum, Earle passed round the hut till he stood before a weighing machine such as may be seen on any railway station. Above the dial was a paper with two rows of figures undistinguishable by the entranced watchers. And from a stout beam dangled a rope with a noose at the end lying on the floor immediately behind Earle.

  For almost a full minute he gazed at the weighing machine; then, turning, at the rope. When he turned again to the weighing machine his attitude was one of deep cogitation. The face beyond the solitary window had become glued to it.

  When Earle again moved it was to stand on the w
eighing machine. His weight noted, he ran his finger down the left-hand column of figures, pausing a little way down, when it moved to the right and rested beneath the corresponding figures.

  It came quite suddenly to Monty that the right-hand figures indicated the drop required for the execution of a man who weighed the figures given in the left-hand column. Beyond realizing this the big man’s thoughts did not travel. His brain was too busy with what he saw.

  He saw the skeleton of a man pick up the sinuous rope and examine the noose, before climbing a chair and altering its length at the overhead beam. Although Monty was quite aware of Earle’s actions, he was honestly unaware of his intentions.

  The bushman was experiencing a growing wonder at the almost spiritual light emanating from the ascetic face. It seemed as if a look of supreme happiness shone from the hazel depths of his large and brilliant eyes; the gentle smile transformed his face, giving it an ethereal beauty that the big man never forgot. Then Earle nodded vigorously, as though agreeing to some plan or request, and, stooping, picked up the rope and slid the noose over his head.

  The watchers saw him tighten the noose against a staying knot beneath his left ear. Once he glanced down at the floor and moved a little forward. Now, with his face thrown a little upward, the cigarette still between his lips, he appeared to be listening––listening for what?

  The rapt look of wondrous happiness still played about his features, giving it dignity as well as beauty, as though before his fixed eyes some scene of heavenly glory was unfolding. Again he nodded vigorously, blinking now from the cigarette smoke curling upward from the butt. He was still gazing at that wonderful picture when he stretched out his hand and caught a dangling red cord with a camera shutter release.

  The next moment he had vanished.

  Monty, who wanted to yell and could not, saw the taut rope twitching in the yawning trap which the red cord had released. Beside it a thin spiral of cigarette smoke was still mounting; and in that smoke, cutting it as moths dancing in a sunbeam in a darkened room, he fancied he saw shapes, baby shapes, floating down to the thing at the end of the rope.