The House Of Cain Read online

  “As Queen Anne,” Anchor confirmed. “I am indeed upset by his extraordinary behaviour, and must accept part responsibility for it. Indeed, I am most pained by this tragic affair. No wonder you are suspicious of strangers! Gilling, the lad who so madly attacked you, was under my care, and it was only after his absence with one of my guns had been noticed that Dr. Moore and I surmised he had unfriendly intentions towards you. Our surmise, so unfortunately correct, is the real cause of our coming to meet you. Please accept my sincere regrets.”

  The blind man smiled and placed the automatic in his pocket. Rising to his feet, he fearlessly held out his hand, which Anchor, stepping forward, took in a warm grasp; an action repeated by the tall man, who bent upon the bronzed face a piercing look.

  “You must be Mr. Martin Sherwood,” he said, in a well-bred drawl. “May I offer you my sympathies?”

  “Thank you! My affliction places me to a certain extent in your hands, as my brother is absent hunting the camels. However, your voices assure me you are gentlemen, and gentlemen never take unfair advantages, even in war.”

  “War, Mr. Sherwood!” came Anchor’s horrified tones.

  “That was the word I used,” Martin said quietly, adding with a smile: “Now, my brother, you know, unlike ourselves, regards war as the finest sport in the world. He simply loved that shooting duel with Gilling, saying it reminded him of dear old Gallipoli.”

  The airmen laughed. Anchor’s laugh was a genuine chuckle, the doctor’s less genuine––a fact the blind man’s sharp ears did not fail to detect. He continued:

  “I am sorry I cannot offer you a drink. You see, your late ward shot our water-drums to pieces, and we have but half a gallon of water left.”

  “Indeed! That is most awkward for you,” Anchor said seriously. “However, we can replace Gilling’s waste to a certain extent. Dr. Moore always carries a four-gallon waterbag on the ’plane. We must leave it with Mr. Sherwood, Moore.”

  “Certainly. I’ll get it.”

  “How far is it to your house, Mr. Anchor?” Martin inquired when the tall man had departed.

  “Some fourteen miles, I think,” Anchor replied, seating himself on a saddle and mopping the perspiration from his face with a silk handkerchief. “But the bore-drain runs this way, and you should reach its farthest point at not more than ten miles from here.”

  “That is good. We are sadly in need of a bath and clean linen.”

  “All of which you may obtain at my house, Mr. Sherwood. Everything it contains is at your disposal, I assure you.”

  “Thank you very much! But, really, we must make ourselves a little more presentable,” Martin countered, doubtful of Monty’s plans.

  “Well, well! Come as soon as you can. I am anxious to obliterate this afternoon’s unpleasantness by any service possible in this desert region. You will be made welcome. That’s right, Moore! Place the bag here, within Mr. Sherwood’s reach. With your permission, Mr. Sherwood, we will return home. I would have offered you a lift in the ’plane had there been room.”

  “Thanks! But we shall now be quite all right, with your most acceptable gift of water.”

  “Well, then, good-bye for the present! Oh! by the way, perhaps Mr. Montague Sherwood would be good enough to bring Gilling’s camel along. We saw it tied to a tree beyond a dead sandalwood tree east of here, tell him.”

  “We will bring it with pleasure.”

  “Thanks! Ah well, good day, then! We shall expect you not later than to-morrow.”

  Martin heard them moving away. Not a word about jealously guarded inventions, not a word of Austiline! Nothing but regret at Gilling’s hostility, and a warm welcome. What did all that mean? Welcome, when they expected a harsh rebuff!

  It was a problem that fully occupied his mind. He heard the aeroplane engine roar with life, heard it “zoom” in its swift upleap into the air, heard the noise fade slowly into silence. He was still pondering the baffling behaviour of William J. Anchor and Dr. James Moore when Monty’s cheerful voice and the tinkling of camel-bells came to him from across the flat.

  CHAPTER XVII

  CAIN’S WELCOME

  THE moon, three-quarters full, idealized the devastating ugliness T of the dying bush, changing it so that one thought it was the beautiful spirit risen from the decaying body. A many-curved bar of brilliant silver marked the course of the bore-drain where it found its natural level between the humped sand-hills.

  It was the night following the rifle duel between the youth, Gilling, and Monty Sherwood. To be precise, it was midnight, and the brothers were newly encamped beside the drain at a point the bushman estimated to be two miles from the bore-head.

  They had been discussing Austiline Thorpe’s apparent lack of warmth at the possibility of receiving them, Martin voicing a growing impression that perhaps Austiline found it impossible to continue loving a blind man. Strangely enough, it was the big, casual man and not the lover who championed her.

  “Women, old son, are all difficult to understand for the simple reason that we men do not seriously try to understand ’em,” he said, when his pipe was properly alight. “The difference between the sexes is simple enough. A man’s body is governed by his mind; a woman’s mind is governed by her body. You take a real man, the sort of man ‘A. E. Titchfield’ writes about. Old clothes, even rags and tatters, don’t affect his mind; but is there a woman who can be pacified and content when her body is arrayed in old rags? I mention clothes, but there are other things which govern woman’s mind.

  “When the little boy put the cracker underneath the cat, he didn’t know which way the cat would jump, least of all did he expect it to jump on him. Now, to my mind, every woman can be placed in one of three classes, and if they belong to either of the first two you know perfectly well what they are going to do when the cracker explodes. Interested?”

  “I most certainly am. Go on, please.”

  “There is a very small class of woman which I have named T.T., or the True Type,” Monty expounded. “They are those women exemplified by the scriptural Ruth, who are prepared to suffer hardship, a broken heart, even death, rather than be parted from those they love. Another class, more numerous maybe, comprise those women who shrink from adversity. This class may be labelled R.T., or Rat Type. Like the rats which leave a sinking ship they will desert husband, children, parents, or lover if there comes a cloud on the horizon, especially a financial cloud.

  “I know several women, and I expect you do also, who can be placed in this latter class. Old Mrs. Montrose and Mary and Mrs. Minter, you and me can fully agree to put in the classed called True Type, and of those I have named Mrs. Minter is the most splendid example.

  “The great majority of women, old lad, can be put in my third class, which can be ticketed simply by the letter X, meaning unknown quantity. Until adversity proves them with its fire we cannot tell with any degree of certainty how they will act in given circumstances, although we can often shrewdly guess.

  “No, I’m a pretty good guesser, Martin, old lad, and as far as we know Austiline is still in the X class. But I am guessing she will hop right into the T.T. class when the time comes. I like the way Austiline looks at a man. There is no veil before her eyes. There is no veil in front of the eyes of Mrs. Minter, and I’ll stake my life against your cigarette-butt that if old Minter went blind she wouldn’t turn him down. There are times, Martin, when you make me feel inclined to jump on you with both feet.”

  “Why don’t you?” Martin said seriously. “Do you know, old man, there are times when I wish you would. I envy you your cleanness of mind and abhor the thoughts which sometimes come to me, thoughts engendered by the daily reading of the sins of humanity. I am saturated with the details of murder, rape, and arson, trickery, unfaithfulness, and debauch. Because Austiline didn’t send me a love letter by Gilling and a love message by Anchor, I unconsciously almost persuade myself that she will make my affliction an excuse to break our engagement. I know Austiline. I ought to have more faith i
n her. I am ashamed.”

  “I agree with you,” said Monty, his eyes soft, his voice blunt. “Let Austiline prove herself before we decide which class to put her in. That’s only fair. It’s my belief that there is something sinister behind the letter she wrote me. It’s my belief, too, that she didn’t know of Anchor’s visit to us to-day. It’s my belief in the third place that we’re due for a gay old time.”

  An hour later Monty was squatting over a fire with the blind man asleep beside him. The big man likened his brother to a thoroughbred racehorse, alert, fine in aspect, but nervous of the crowd, quite expecting to be frightened by and therefore quite ready to shy at any unfamiliar object. That Martin was worried was obvious; that he should look at the underside of every black cloud was probably natural in a lover, and in a blinded lover more than natural.

  As for Monty, he felt that he was faced by a dark wall which effectually hid events that might be either harmless or sinister, but which could not be gauged or met by forethought.

  Anchor, indeed, might be nothing worse than a secretive inventor; on the other hand, why did he harbour a suspected murderess and a degenerate like Gilling? Supposing Austiline Thorpe was detained against her will, or kept in ignorance of Travers’s confession? Would not her word of honour have been sufficient to protect her gaol-breakers from the consequences of that episode? What other motive could Anchor have for keeping her virtually a prisoner?

  They had discussed the position before Martin turned in, agreeing that Anchor’s welcome was somewhat similar to the invitation so cordially extended by the spider to the fly. That Anchor was aware of their journey and its object was, of course, evident. But his attitude to them had none of the hostility he had evinced when a wandering dogger had ventured to call for water and rations. Why?

  The most likely reason, Monty decided after long cogitation, was that Anchor was sure of the fulfilment of some plan he had conceived. Perhaps, being unable to prevent their calling on him, he had decided to remove them “without trace” at a favourable opportunity––an action that would be simplicity itself on account of the remoteness of his house from civilization. Possibly once in a year a police-trooper might pay him a duty call, and, since such visitors are invariably the guests of the squatters, Anchor probably would be notified of the approximate date of the trooper’s arrival, if nothing was suspected against him by the law.

  Assuming that Anchor was villain enough and clever enough to remove them “without trace,” and the inevitable search for them instigated by Mary Webster and Sir Victor Lawrence were made, the search party would be obliged to accept Anchor’s word that the Sherwoods called and went on in some direction. He would have plenty of time to prepare for the search party, even to the extent of forming a camp with their gear beside some dried-up water-hole-a sure enough indication that the brothers had perished in the search for water. The tale would read that they had separated at the waterhole, or that Monty first and then Martin had wandered aimlessly from the camp to be swallowed up by the ever-moving sand-hills.

  Feeling that Anchor held all the trump cards as well as any quantity of spare aces, Monty had advocated a bold, ruthless offensive against the supposed inventor, assuming him black guilty until he proved himself white innocent. Martin, however, had urged diplomacy and caution until Anchor showed his hand. It took much persuasion to win Monty’s consent to this latter course––he argued that Anchor would probably play his hand without showing it; but, having once accepted this diplomatic policy, the big man was thorough in prosecuting it.

  The moon becoming obscured by a thick, high-level haze which gave it two great rings, Monty buried a quantity of tinned foods, and a small iron box filled with flour and other rations, at the foot of a blue-bush growing on the flat, and but a few yards from the naturally formed bore-drain. In another cache he put the Winchester rifle and Gilling’s revolver, together with cartridges fitting those weapons. The time might well arrive when they would wish to be independent of Anchor’s hospitality, or when they might, whilst Anchor’s “guests,” find themselves without most necessary weapons.

  When Martin had wakened to take his turn at watch duty, the big man acquainted him with what he had done, and urged him to think of “any further measures of precaution” whilst he, Monty, took his sleep as arranged for that night.

  Not till nearly eleven o’clock the next day did they leave camp for the inventor’s house, which came into view in less than an hour; when, rounding a bluff and still following the bore-drain, they moved slowly towards it; Monty, for one, wondering how many aces the waiting Anchor held.

  It was a large, rambling structure encircled by wide, fly-netted verandas, the whole painted a light brown shade, excepting the corrugated iron roof. There was an absence of the plants and creepers with which most homesteads are surrounded; the reason for this lack of plant life being the scarcity of rain-water, since the flow from the bore was too heavily charged with minerals.

  Clustered about the main dwelling were numerous outhouses, from one of which came the “chug-chug” of a petrol engine.

  Circling the entire homestead was a six-foot, partly netted fence, the posts squared and painted white. Outside this fence were the stockyards and kennels, and at these Monty observed three great hounds regarding them with bristling manes and greeting them with savage bays.

  The artesian bore, also outside the fence, gave a constant supply of water, the iron casing conducting it to the service being bent at the top so that the flow gushed steaming hot into a concrete basin, from which it flowed away along its self-made drain for several miles before it wasted into the ground. Here, along the edges of the drain, the ground was snow-white with crystals from the sun-evaporated water; but within a few yards of the basin, as well as on the floor of the basin itself, there grew and thrived a fungus of brilliant green, slimy to the touch, and looking much like the first growths adhering to ships’ bottoms.

  Beside the bore-head stood a cane-grass shed protecting the distillery plant. Another shed erected near the basin was obviously a laundry, for when they drew near a young woman issued thence with a basket of clothes which she dumped into the concrete basin, from which clouds of steam arose. It was labourless laundering, for so loaded with minerals was the water that all she had to do was to fish them out at the end of five minutes, allow to cool, and rinse in a tub of blue.

  “Good day-ee, Miss,” Monty drawled, now walking and leading his string of beasts. “It looks as though we’re in for a wind-storm.”

  “And a cool change after, I hope,” she said pleasantly.

  “Do you want Mr. Anchor?”

  She was a pretty woman, about twenty-five years old; but in her large dark eyes was a hunted look, quite out of keeping with the peace of her surroundings. Rather over medium height, but well proportioned and graceful in movement, an air of tragedy appeared to weigh upon her. She smiled as though smiling were an effort when the big man smiled at her.

  He was still arrayed in the garments of a bushman: elastic-sided brown boots, spotless khaki drill trousers, and white shirt open at the neck and rolled up above the elbows; but Martin, having failed to induce his brother to don city clothes, had himself accepted the white duck, the white canvas shoes, and the white pith helmet so necessary to a gentleman, even in a shade temperature of 120 degrees.

  The younger man bestrode his riding-camel, and it was the significantly aimless stare of his sightless eyes that caused the woman’s mouth to droop commiseratingly. From him her eyes wandered along the train; pausing at the unsheathed Savage rifle so attached to the saddle that it could be snatched and used at a moment’s notice, and finally to rest on the magnificent figure of the giant. Monty observed her study of him, and when their eyes met she blushed a little.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said in a cultured voice; “but visitors are so rare that I forgot.”

  “It’s quite excusable,” Monty said laughing. “A great, hulking brute of a man always creates interest, like a li
on escaped from a circus. Yes, I think Mr. Anchor is expecting us. “

  “Good morning, gentlemen!” greeted a masculine voice, and, turning about, Monty saw a little tubby man, round-faced, clean-shaven, pink-complexioned, looking at them alternatively with twinkling blue eyes. His collar and tie, tweed trousers, and dancing pumps decided Monty that he was the bookkeeper. Irrepressible joyousness radiated from him.

  “Good day-ee!”

  “Mr. Anchor asked me to introduce myself and to convey his regrets that he cannot personally welcome you. As a matter of fact, he is just now engaged upon a very delicate experiment which chains him to his laboratory until its completion. If you will accompany me, I will show you where to store your gear and paddock your camels.”

  “Righto!” agreed Monty, and, raising his felt to the laundress, walked beside the little man” to the wide iron gates giving entrance to the compound.

  “By the way, you must be Mr. Montague Sherwood,” chirped the guide, speaking then over his shoulder. “We are to have another dust-storm by appearance, Mr. Martin Sherwood. However, the house provides adequate protection, and we will soon have you comfortable.” Then, as though to both of them: “My name is Mallowing––George Mallowing––and let me add my personal welcome to that of Mr. Anchor. I am delighted you have come: visitors are, indeed, a luxury to us.”

  Martin heard Monty say something in reply, and then the three vertical lines between his brows deepened. He was searching his memory. Where had he seen the name of George Mallowing? He was sure that the name at some time had been given publicity. His camel came to a halt, and he heard the man chirp:

  “Mr. Anchor has placed this hut at your disposal, Mr. Sherwood. Not for your persons, of course, but for your gear. Here is Earle. He will entertain Mr. Martin whilst we unload.”

  Earle bowed to the big man with old-fashioned courtesy. He was stoop-shouldered, spectacled, and dreadfully thin. His cheeks were two patches of bright red in a face of alabaster. Grey-haired and clean shaven, he looked like the proverbial university professor.