The House Of Cain

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “A rule we practise here, my dear Mr. Cotton, is frankness. I have read your books––who has not?––and I admire your work because of your candour in treating the relations of the sexes. If you will but treat the affair which led to your being here among us with equal candour, you will interest us all and benefit your own mind. Monsieur Coué I consider to be one of humanity’s greatest benefactors.

  “You will have observed that we are a people who make a strong point of discussing our little affairs without reserve, and the object of that is to prevent brooding and––er––bad dreams. The more we discuss a thing, especially our cupboard skeleton––the more often we drag the skeleton out into the light of day, count its bones as it were, examine it calmly and at leisure from all points of view, the less able does the skeleton become to disturb our sleep. The skeleton held up to public view loses all its terrors, becomes almost comic.”

  The bearded man shuddered slightly. He consumed a scone, but made no attempt to speak.

  “There is a type of person,” Anchor continued, “who has no control over his or her imagination. Mrs. Jonas will not agree that imagination is acute consciousness, but to my mind the two are one. Your books, Mr. Cotton, prove that you are strongly imaginative. It follows that you are highly temperamental. As for that, we are all more highly strung than the ordinary person.

  “Unfortunately, imaginative people who experience regret––or remorse, to give it a conventional name––suffer in that the act regretted assumes enormous and ridiculous importance. We have here a Suicide Chamber, which I will presently take you to see. Should you at any time be so unfortunate as to find yourself unable to control your imagination, and desire to enter that state of blessed vacuity called death, I trust that you will make use of one of the dozen or so proved methods of self-annihilation which that chamber contains. My house is full of antique furniture and objects of art. I take special pride in my unmatched rugs and carpets. When a guest shot himself in the drawing-room last year, he ruined a priceless Persian rug. To avoid such losses I inaugurated the Suicide Chamber.”

  Again Mr. Cotton shivered. “I think it unlikely that ever I shall be courageous enough to destroy myself,” he said.

  “I am glad to hear you say that,” returned Anchor. “Thank you, Madeline!”––this in accepting a second cup of tea. “Believe me, Mr. Cotton, there is no truer saying than ‘Confession is good for the soul’. As I have just indicated examine your skeleton at all hours of the day, and the familiarity thus assured will prevent the skeleton from examining you at night. Tell us now, I pray you, the history of your great adventure.”

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  CONFESSION

  MARTIN SHERWOOD admits that he received Cotton’s recital with a calmness which later he could not understand. That his inherent sense of justice had lost some of its keenness he attributes in part to Anchor’s practice of making an open and everyday matter of the cupboard skeleton. In a way, too, it was the result of mixing on easy and familiar terms with this astonishing group. Continued contact with these persons would in the end, he doubted not, have brought him into real sympathy with them, a sympathy not in general to be justified. At the same time he realized, as a permanent impression, that in some cases, as that of Mrs. Jonas, his sympathy was not misplaced.

  When Cotton spoke, the blind man at once was perplexed by his voice. He had read some of Cotton’s books with mingled admiration for their eloquence and dislike for their lurid sex realism. Indeed, on the latter ground, he had criticized them severely in the Tribune. Although he could not remember having met the author before, he did consider it probable that he had heard his voice at some social gathering. That he had heard the voice long before his arrival at the House of Cain, he was positive. At first haltingly, then with accumulating confidence, Cotton told his story.

  “I will confide my trouble, although it will pain me severely,” Cotton said. “If only I could forget it!”

  “Exactly,” agreed Anchor. “Yet we can forget a thing by making it too familiar and commonplace to remember. The more we bully ourselves to forget it, the more unforgettable it will become.”

  “Well, well, I will make confession,” came the soft, tired voice. “I am, ladies and gentleman, a writer. I originate from Durban and came to this country twelve months ago, after living many years in London. I settled at Mount Barker, in the Adelaide Hills.

  “One of my near neighbours was a doctor with whose daughter I fell in love. I proposed and was accepted. Then followed a period of incessant work which so engrossed me that, I must admit, I neglected her shamefully. Pardonably furious with me, she fell like a ripe apple into the arms of a bounder named Ross. He poached on my preserves with success.

  “Naturally I was much upset, and was in an ill frame of mind when, five evenings ago, I met my love cooing into the ear of this Ross fellow. The meeting occurred not far from my home, at a lonely place on a by-track. We broke into heated words. My former sweetheart fled. I struck the blackguard and felled him. His head must have hit against a stone, because when I examined him he was dead.”

  “Quite a Sunday School kind of murder,” Monty murmured; but, if Cotton heard, he made no remark. Continuing his story with his head sunk between his hands, and his voice hardly audible, he said:

  “With the blood of my enemy on my hands I rushed home, and, hurriedly packing a few things, drove myself to Adelaide, left the car outside the Post Office, and took a room at the Bull’s Hoof Hotel under an assumed name.

  “The afternoon papers of the following day were full of my dreadful deed. I read the account of it in the bar of the hotel. I remember seeing a lounger regarding me keenly. I knew he guessed who I was. When he left hurriedly, I thought he had gone for the police. Somehow I cared but little.

  “I was trying to drown my thoughts in whisky, and was astonished by the fact that, though the spirit affected my legs, my brain remained clear and my thoughts like crystal. A gentleman approached me and asked me to accompany him. He did not look like a detective, but I believed he was. I felt glad. I hoped they would hang me quickly. On the pavement he said:

  “‘Are you Mr. Cotton?’

  “I said I was, and without another word he led me to a waiting car and took me to a house in Glenelg. At Glenelg, late that night, I was put aboard a small hell-fast motor-boat which finally deposited me at Port Augusta. The rest you know.”

  When the big man glanced at the company at the close of this haltingly given recital, a replica of millions of similar crimes dating back to that first slaying in the dawn of time, he found each one raptly attentive. Mabel Hogan appeared tragically sad; Mrs. Jonas gazed steadily at the teapot; Moore appeared about to doze; Anchor was smiling gently; Mallowing and “The Cat” were merely interested; Lane’s eyes glittered with strange intensity; whilst Madeline Fox regarded Mr. Cotton with undisguised approval.

  Madeline Fox was almost as enigmatic as Mrs. Jonas. She was fair and pretty. Her smile, however, was studied. It never varied in expression. Her blue eyes were big and she used them at the slightest opportunity. She had given up the idea of enslaving Monty, for the bushman no longer responded to her smiles and coquettish glances, she being one of the few women he distrusted and disliked. At all times did she display her feminine arts and graces, no matter who the man. With her, to make herself desirable or desired was a mania.

  From Madeline Fox, who returned his stare with a grimace, Monty’s gaze reverted to the new guest. It was the enormous Lane who broke the silence with the accents of Wapping.

  “You got me sympathy, Mr. Cotton,” he said in a wheezing voice. “This wouldn’t be a bad sort o’ world if a bloke got a free go with a clinah, and other blokes didn’t butt in. No bloke butts into my little playground and enjoys ’isself long.”

  Anchor tapped the distraught Cotton on the shoulder.

  “Cheer up, my dear Mr. Cotton,” he said gently. “You will find that after a few days the little cloud hanging over your mind will vanish. Talk a
bout your little incident on every occasion, bring it out of the cupboard at every opportunity, and you will come to regard it as of no importance whatever. After all, it is not really of any importance, you know, unless to rid the world of one cad is important.” Rising, he urged Mr. Cotton to his feet, saying: “By way of agreeable diversion, allow me to show you our Suicide Chamber, our private graveyard, and the other amenities of our monastic estate.”

  It was the signal for general dispersal, and a minute later only the brothers remained on the veranda. Monty hitched his chair closer.

  “Martin, old feller-me-lad, I’ve made a plan to get going tonight,” he said softly. “I have finished the water-drums, and have only a little work to do on the pack-bags. Now, when it gets dark tonight, I’m going to quiet the wuppy-wups. I hate doing it, but needs must when Anchor drives. The dogs put to sleep, I’ll slip out for the camels and camp ’em on the other side of yonder sand-hill.

  “By the look of the sky to westward we’re in for a dark night, which is why I have decided to hasten matters. Once I have the camels in camp, I’ll carry our gear, or what I can of it, to them and load up. Then I’ll come back for you. Then I’ll come back for Bubbles.”

  “Bubbles!” exclaimed Martin.

  “Certainly. Bubbles is my adopted son. Mabel Hogan gave him to me. When I have given Bubbles into your charge––probably fast asleep––I’ll come back for Austiline.”

  “But she may not want to come,” objected the blind man.

  “I think she will. Anyhow, she’s coming. I’ll interview her about midnight, and, should she threaten to kick up a row, I shall pacify her with chloroform. She is coming, willingly or not, as far as Broken Hill. If then she wishes to return, I will extend her every assistance.”

  “But the poison and the chloroform, where will you get them?”

  “From the well-furnished Suicide Chamber.”

  “Ah! Well, proceed.”

  “We should be able to leave our temporary camp not later than one o’clock. We shall get at least six hours’ start. After that, our greatest danger is from the aeroplane. But, unless Anchor has bombs or a machine-gun mounted on it, we can give almost as good as we get––with luck, better.”

  “Your plan can be slightly improved, Monty.”

  “Improve away, general.”

  “If you were to remove Dr. Moore before we left, the aeroplane would be out of commission. He is the only pilot. Anchor admitted to me as much.”

  “You would have me corpse him?”

  “Well, yes, if he resists,” Martin said with, for him, unnatural hardness. “The risks of our escape will be increased, but once away we shall run no danger of being overtaken and shot down from the ’plane. Pack-saddle forts will be no protection against the sky.”

  For a little while Monty regarded his brother with wonder. That Martin should advocate killing was indeed a new side to his character. Monty’s silence was read correctly by the blind man.

  “Remember, mine eyes, that we are dealing with ruthless men. Remember, too, that you have in your charge a child, a woman, and a blind man. You will find the child more useful than I can be. Austiline is of the most importance. If we are right in our suspicions that she is the centre of some intrigue, or if we are wrong and she actually wishes to marry Anchor, it makes no difference to the fact that she must be got away from here. I agree with you there. If anyone objects to that, they must be dealt with drastically. I myself will shoot to kill without compunction. My hearing, at least, is good.”

  “Good old gladiator!” murmured the surprised Monty. “Here comes Bluebeard himself, so I will leave you and go to finish my repair work. We were just talking about friend Cotton, Mr. Anchor. Martin says that no matter the provocation Cotton was not justified in handing a wallop to Ross, or whatever his name was. You try to convince him of the contrary. I have further work to do.”

  “I will do my best to put the matter in a reasonable light,” Anchor drawled, taking Monty’s vacated seat.

  This time without the help and general supervision of the delightful Bubbles, the big man plied needles and waxed cotton to restore his leather gear within the confines of the tool-house. And he had not been there a quarter of an hour when Mabel Hogan stepped inside, her eyes, both eager and wistful.

  “Are you still decided to take little Freddie with you?” she asked without preamble.

  “I certainly am,” replied the big man, smiling at her. “And you had better come as well.”

  Sighing, she said: “I would like to, but I daren’t. No, I must remain.”

  Monty had been sitting with his work on his knees. He now put down his pack-bag and, rising, drew near to her. Then, hardly above a whisper, he said:

  “It is going to be a dark night, Miss Hogan. My brother and I intend taking advantage of it. Could you have little Bubbles dressed and ready for me about midnight?”

  “But why midnight? Miss Thorpe insists upon herself seeing you and Mr. Martin depart sometime to-morrow. I overheard Mr. Anchor telling Dr. Moore.”

  “Ah! Anchor must have changed his mind.”

  “All he will require from you is your word of honour not to betray us to the police. You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  “In the circumstances, no,” he said. “My brother, as well as Miss Thorpe, owes a great deal to him. I am going to owe you a great deal for Bubbles. Do you know Miss Thorpe very well?”

  “We’ve had long talks.”

  “She tells us that she is going to marry Anchor. Do you think she is in love with him?”

  Mabel saw the grey-blue eyes boring into hers. There was no evading them.

  “I know that she is not,” she whispered.

  “Thank you, Miss Hogan.”

  “What do you intend doing?”

  For a moment he regarded her steadily. Then:

  “In spite of your being here, I believe that you are a good woman––”

  “I am a murderess. I poisoned a man because he called me a street woman when I implored him to marry me to save my honour and give my child a name.”

  “You did right,” he told her grimly. “It doesn’t affect my belief in your general goodness. That’s why I’m going to trust you. I am not leaving this place to-night, to-morrow, or at any time, without Miss Thorpe. Do you think you could get to her and tell her that––tell her to hold herself in readiness for instant departure? Probably about midnight tonight?”

  He saw her face blanch, her hands rise to a suddenly heaving chest.

  “Would you, if––if things went wrong, protect Freddie with your life? Would you see to him––first?”

  “Naturally, he would take first place. I am beginning to wonder why I didn’t marry years ago, and have a baby like Bubbles.”

  “Then I will tell Miss Thorpe what you say. But, if Mr. Anchor ever knows, he will give me over to Dr. Moore for his terrible experiments.”

  “Then you had better come with me. As for experiments, I have thought of a few to entertain Dr. Moore with, when circumstances permit.”

  She wavered. He saw her jaw harden. She shook her head.

  “No, Mr. Sherwood. Even if I were given a free pardon for the crime I committed, I mustn’t keep Freddie. Don’t you see what it might lead to? In after years some one might tell him of me. In any case, nothing can undo the fact that I am a murderess. My nearness to him would harm him. I am unclean. He would be contaminated.”

  “I think you are looking at it from the wrong angle,” he told her. “But I appreciate your nobleness and capacity for sacrifice. Think it over, and let me know some time this evening.”

  “I shall not change my mind. I know––oh, I know!––that I can trust you with my baby. But I must go now. They are watching and will suspect.”

  “One more question. Why does Miss Thorpe say she is to marry Anchor when she does not love him?”

  “He––Mr. Anchor––is a beast,” she said with sudden fierceness. “She is to be his reward for allowing your brot
her and you to go without hindrance.”

  “Ah!” Monty saw the light at once; and, after looking at his changed face for a second, Mabel Hogan turned and vanished through the doorway.

  Monty never could smoke while he worked; he never could think without smoking. Whilst he loaded his cracked pipe he was filled with self-pride at having judged Austiline’s character correctly.

  Up till then, he admitted to himself, he had looked upon Anchor and Moore with easy-going tolerance. He recognized that Austiline owed them a debt; in fact, she owed Anchor her life. His tolerance, therefore, was on that account. His mind flew back to the dreadful scene in Austiline’s room, and the lines about his mouth deepened when he finally grasped the significance of her wonderful acting and understood the reason. To save Martin she was prepared to sacrifice herself.

  More than thankful was he to see daylight at last. He rejoiced for Martin’s sake that the uncertainty was at an end––the uncertainty about Austiline, which after all had not been so very great. Now there was clear going! He knew now precisely what to do. Austiline, his brother and Bubbles must be got away that night. Moore must be put out of action, and for that he would have to ascertain the location of the doctor’s room.

  Later, when he had got his charges safely to Broken Hill, or even Melbourne, and under police protection in case of under-world activities, he would return alone and discuss, with Anchor, the millionaire’s unspeakable conduct towards Austiline. The discussion, he promised himself, should be conducted according to the established Monty Sherwood rules, which usually left the subject a safer if not a better man to live with.

  During the afternoon he took occasion to report to Martin his conversation with Mabel Hogan, and reiterated his intention of carrying out his plan to get away that night.

  “If I had a mate who was a good bushman, I’d bale up this crowd at breakfast to-morrow and keep ’em fixed for several hours while he got you all well away,” he said. “As things are, I have to superintend the get-away, and therefore we cannot afford to risk much opposition. If anything goes wrong and the crowd gets lively, then it’s shoot first, shoot quick, and keep on shooting. Diplomacy, my lad, is our cue.”