The House Of Cain

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “I was telling him that his protégé, William Hill, alias Bent Nose, was discovered last night in a mean street at Fitzroy suffering from bullet-wounds,” Oakes said with his usual blandness. “The doctors found one bullet in his groin, another near his left lung, and yet a third which passed almost through his shoulder. Some one was keen on getting Bent Nose.”

  “Apparently. Where is he now?”

  “In the Melbourne Hospital. He might live. The word ‘might’ is the doctor’s own.”

  Martin said nothing. Monty was pensive. The detective-sergeant regarded the fat man with the gimlet eyes hurrying to the barrier with the speculative interest of a student of physiognomy, for so far he had not met “Abe” professionally. Also he was wondering why the brothers were going to Adelaide.

  “See here, my romantic Nelson Lee,” Monty drawled, looking up, “I am going to treat you as a man just now, and not as a human bloodhound. I am taking Martin with me on a prospecting trip away up in South Australia, hoping that the dry heat and constant movement will quicken his progress to complete health. Our arrangements being all made, we cannot now well delay, even if a dozen Bent Noses have been shot up. However, as you are aware, Hill is a kind of ward of Martin’s, and his wife was Miss Thorpe’s cook at one time. I am going to write you out a cheque for two hundred pounds, and I am going to ask you, my dear old sleuth, to pay Mrs. Bent Nose four pounds every Saturday morning, and to see that no expense is spared in saving Hill’s life. I’ll keep in touch with you when possible, and, you can let me know how things go.”

  “Your interest in Bent Nose is amazing,” murmured Oakes, casually watching the bushman filling in a cheque.

  “There you are mistaken, my dear friend-enemy,” Monty replied, tearing the cheque out of his book. “You can’t expect Martin to write cheques properly, and no one seems to know where Miss Thorpe can be found. So long!”

  He rose, holding out his hand.

  “Well, well, I’ll do my best,” Oakes said, rising also with Martin. “I’ll do my best for the Hills. Good-bye! It is possible we may all meet again sooner than you expect. Give my regards to Miss Thorpe.”

  It was absolutely a shot in the dark-and it missed. There was not a trace of any change in Monty’s face when he said over his shoulder on his way with Martin to the barrier:

  “Righto, old lad! I am sure she will be pleased to know you remember her kindly. When you go out, you mind the steps. You’ll be breaking your neck one of these days.”

  Detective Oakes’s chance shot exercised the minds of both Monty and Martin for some considerable time during the journey to Adelaide. They wondered how much or how little the detective-sergeant knew. As for Oakes, he tried to guess the purpose underlying Monty’s prospecting trip and the reason of the big man’s generous provision for Mrs. Hill. But what were his actual deductions no one ever knew. He did, however, saunter along to the Government Tourist Bureau and dispatch several lengthy telegrams.

  Gimlet-eyes, who had acquainted himself with the exact position of the brothers in the train, made sure of being near them when they alighted at the Central Station, Adelaide. He heard the big man direct a porter to put the luggage in the cloak-room and ask the man the time the Broken Hill express was due to leave that night. Apparently that was the information he had travelled to Adelaide to obtain, for from the station he sent a telegram to “Smythe, 14, Wright Street, Adelaide,” reading: “Sherwoods leaving Adelaide tonight for Broken Hill. Abe.”

  He left by the Melbourne express some time before the Broken Hill train pulled out.

  At nine the following morning the blind man was guided by Monty out of Sulphide Street Station, Broken Hill, across the road to the Masonic Hotel. And, standing outside the hotel, was the very man Monty had held only a remote hope of meeting.

  “Strike me dead, if it ain’t ole Monty Sherwood!” roared the huge bearded giant who dashed off the hotel veranda to meet them. “Good ole Monty! How the flamin’ hell are yous?”

  The big man’s eyes twinkled with humour when they regarded the hairy, sun-blackened face and the equally hairy sun-blackened hand held out in greeting. Past experience of shaking hands with Mr. Henry Watkins, otherwise known as Squeezem Harry, warned him how not to accept the bearded man’s terrible grip. For a moment the two giants stood with hands clasped, squeezing with tremendous pressure, neither wincing, both grinning broadly.

  “Adelaide ain’t done no harm to your muscle, Monty,” Squeezem Harry said when their hands fell apart.

  “Apparently not,” Monty agreed. “This is my brother Martin.”

  “Pleased-ter-meet-cher,” welcomed the bearded one.

  “Thank you! I, too, am delighted to meet a friend of Monty’s. I can’t see, but your voice tells me you’re honest.”

  “Honest! Hark at ’im, Monty!” Squeezem roared. “If you seen me and Monty knock over a bullock or two for a feed, you wouldn’t say that. What-erbout-er-drink?”

  “After breakfast, if you don’t mind,” Martin decided.

  “Yes; give us a chance, Harry,” pleaded Monty. “We’re heading for a feed just now. And then, after a sleep, we want to talk friendly with you.”

  “Righto! I’m going down the street to see a bloke about a dog. See you later. Hooroo!”

  The big man laughed softly when viewing the towering figure from the rear. Meeting Mr. Henry Watkins was like getting back home after a long absence, for Mr. Henry Watkins had been his partner on many a prospecting expedition; an invaluable partner, too, for what Squeezem Harry had forgotten about geology was the total knowledge possessed by many so-called geologists.

  That evening the three men sat on the hotel veranda facing one of the richest lines of lode in the world. The sun had set, but the air was heavy and temperature ran high. The ceaseless roar of the crushers beat upon the ears, but the noise which was irritating to Martin Sherwood was music divine to Squeezem Harry and a “homy” sound to Monty.

  “Where you been these last twelve months, Harry?” Monty asked when he had his pipe properly alight.

  “I bin dogging round Lake Frome,” Squeezem Harry replied, stretching his enormous legs across the concrete flooring. “Yep, an’ I didn’t do too bad neither. I got two hundred and sixty-odd scalps in nine months, and traded with the blacks for nearly four hundred more. What with them and close on two hundred fox pelts I didn’t do so bad. Still, when I’ve finished this yer jag, I’ll be as if I never went dogging in me life.”

  “Why don’t you go in for saving? You’ll be getting old in twenty years’ time,” Martin urged in his gentle way.

  “Naw––naw, yous don’t!” Harry countered quickly. “Old age don’t worry me. Not it. I’ve always earned good money––more’n good money sometimes; and I’ve had a danged good time spending of it. What! Save me money for the blasted Government to grab and spend on tours round Europe! Not if I know it. When I throw a seven (die), I won’t have a zac about me.”

  In the deepening dusk Monty smiled happily. Squeezem Harry was the most likable man in the world, a man absolutely free from cares and ties of any sort; the kind of man whose motto appeared to be: “Here’s joy to-day, and to hell with to-morrow!”

  Which motto is, perhaps, that of ninety-nine bushmen out of every hundred; for the bush is a kind mother, and those who live within her bosom are kind people. In all likelihood Squeezem Harry would stay in Broken Hill, living on credit, long after he had parted with his last note; eventually to roll his swag and walk north again to knock up another cheque. That would be looked upon as quite the correct thing.

  “Naw, naw! What yous kicking up such a shine for?” the bearded giant admonished in a soft voice; and Martin, who had never prospected with Squeezem Harry, was surprised to hear a plaintive “miou” at his side. “M’yes; just woke up, ’ave yer?” This to a half-grown white cat that wriggled out of his jacket-pocket. “I suppose youse reckons it’s time for another feed, eh?”

  “Are you talking to a cat?” Martin asked.

>   “You bet!” the giant answered seriously. “Let me introdoos yer to Judas Iscariot. He’s me wife and kids and aunts and relations all rolled up in a bunch of fur. Picked him up afore Christmas in a dog-trap. Yo’ll notice he’s only got three hoofs.”

  “But do you carry it about with you?”

  “Yep. ’E rides in me pocket, and when it’s too hot to wear a jacket, then in me shirt,” Mr. Henry Watkins explained, with more pride than the average newly-made father; adding: “I’ve ’ad lots of cats in me time. Haven’t been without one for years. The pity of it is that they get that danged heavy that I’ve got to exchange ’em for a little kitten. And when that ’appens I shed more tears than ’ud be in the waterworks ’ere. Yesterday I took Judas to a quack to see if he couldn’t squirt some stuff into ’im to stop ’im growing.”

  “And how did you get on?” asked the interested Martin, whilst Monty chuckled.

  “Oh! the quack reckoned he could get some stuff what he called umscumzioidroid gland. Said it would cost thirty quid. I told him to get it quick, and give him ’arf his blood-money. Sooner pay than shed more water. Exhausting thing shedding tears in this dry climate.”

  The blind man laughed heartily, and Monty felt proud of the humorous imagination of his friend. Martin said:

  “I suppose you are serious?”

  “Serious! Of course I’m serious. Ain’t I, Monty?”

  “Yes, Harry, quite. I’ve never known Harry to be without a cat, Martin,” the big man explained. “In fact, I was wondering which pocket the current cat would poke out of.

  By the way, Harry, what is the country like north of Lake Frome?”

  “Dry––danged dry. Same as me. Wot-er-about-er-drink?” pleaded Mr. Henry Watkins.

  “Not just yet,” Monty evaded. “Any water in the lake?”

  “A little in the north end. Mostly mud.”

  “And the feed?”

  “No ground feed at all.”

  “No buckbush?”

  “Buckbush all blown away.”

  “Humph! What’s the feed like between Turrowangee and Tibooburra, Harry?”

  “Patchy. There’s a bit t’other side o’ Fowler’s Gap, and it’s not bad around Cobham Lake. Thinking of going up that way?”

  “Yep. I’ve got my camels at Turrowangee, and was wondering if it would be better to go up along the Border Fence instead of by the mail route.”

  “You’d certainly get more scrub. Here, Judas, you come here. Them blasted Afghan camel-drivers ’ave got all the feed eat out along the road. Where you making for, Monty?”

  Monty was prepared for that question.

  “Was thinking of making up to Innaminka,” he said. “You see, my brother here has just recovered from a severe illness and I’m reckoning on a long dry trip doing him good. Say, Harry, do you remember that trip down from the Strzelecki Creek when we came across that house in open country? First time either of us knew it was there. The feller that lived there cut his throat afterwards.”

  “Yes, I remember,” the bearded man said slowly. “Lemme see. Bloke there now called Anchor––William J. Anchor––mad as a fiddler’s dog. Living there with a couple of women and half a dozen blokes looking after pedigree cattle.”

  “Women, did you say? Describe ’em.”

  “No, you don’t, Monty,” admonished Mr. Henry Watkins, poking an iron-hard finger into Monty’s ribs. “No––no, you don’t, now. I’m surprised at you. At your age, too. Thought you ’ad more sense than go gallivanting around after women.”

  The big man grinned and his blue eyes softened. His eyes gave him away to the penetrating gaze of the cat-lover. Heaving a stupendous sigh, he said:

  “I thought so, Monty. You’re in love, sure. Now let me tell you this, Monty: directly a man gets tangled with a woman, it’s good-night. He becomes an also-ran, a back-number, a has-been. To his fellow-men he’s never more of any account. Instead of hearing: “Hullo, Monty! how the hell are yous?’ you’ll hear: ‘Good day, Mr. Sherwood! and how’s the wife and kids?’ You take on respectability, but you lose respect, real men’s respect. For heaven’s sake, Monty, my old mate, get as drunk as Paddy at a wake! Booze is the only thing that’ll cure you. Just you think, now. Think of all the glorious busts you’ve had, all the lovely arguments. Think again of squalling kids, and a wife with ’er hair done up in curling irons, or done off by the barber; of tax-collectors and all the other swindlers wot worry a man into the grave. Would you rather have a yowling woman at yer side in a stinking city, or hear the camel-bells on a quiet night in the bush while yous smoke yer bedtime pipe in peace, perfect peace? Yous think of all that, Monty. I’d sooner see yer take strychnine than a wife. Strychnine’s quicker, and less painful.”

  The brothers seemed to find huge enjoyment in this homily, delivered with all the solemnity of the immortal Mr. Barlow in The Fairchild Family. In the gathering darkness Mr. Henry Watkins looked exceedingly perturbed.

  “It’s no laughing matter, Monty,” he reproved. “Marriage is a funny thing. I’ve known blokes wot used to go on the drunk every year regular, until they got married. Then they changed. They cast their eyes up in the air as though lookin’ for galahs in a box-tree, and smile like old Judas did when I found him in the trap, and tell you how wonderful love is. Bosh! Then, after a year at most, they’re on the booze again. The year after that they’re in the d.t.s., and the next year they are as stiff as a crutch and as cold as a dog’s nose.”

  “Well, well! if you won’t tell us of the women, at least describe this William J. Anchor,” Monty said, between chuckles. “Is he dinkum mad?”

  “Mad! Course he’s mad,” Squeezem Harry exploded. “They say he’s an inventor and went up there to be safe from spies. Flies an aeroplane to Marree for his mail. Mad! Bet-cher-life he’s mad. Going to pay ’im a visit?”

  “Might do so on our way.”

  “Hum! Well, you have your squirt handy. Keeps dogs, does William J.––big dogs, biggest dogs I ever seed. They come at me, half a dozen of ’em, as I rode up to the house. William J. went terrible crook when I shot a couple of ’em stone dead. Said I was the first caller in two years, and reckoned I was one too many. Ordered me orf the place. Would have walloped him one on the kisser, only I seed he had a hand on a gun in his pocket.”

  “Kind-hearted sort of man!”

  “Most! I’ll meet him one day in town, and I’ll kick his boots up through his neck. Wot-er-about-er-drink?”

  CHAPTER XII

  THE LAND OF HOPE

  TEN days later found the brothers in camp adjacent to the South Australian Border Fence on Quinyambie Station, approximately one hundred and sixty miles north of Broken Hill. In spite of the thoughtful attention lavished on the blind man at all times by his brother, Martin found those ten days a veritable nightmare of prolonged, disjointed fatigue.

  The day they left the Silver City the shade temperature rose to 106 degrees at about three in the afternoon. Here, at Quinyambie Station, ten days later and in the last week of February, the mercury rose as high as 118 degrees in what little shade could be found. Dwellers in the Australian cities who fly to iced food and drinks should the weather become a little warm, have no more idea of the heat, the flies and the dust of the Northwest Corner of New South Wales in February than have the Esquimaux.

  Politicians and motor-car explorers invariably shun “The Corner” during the summer months. Even the imaginative writers of immigration literature leave well alone and cultivate a blissful ignorance of the heat, dust-storms and pests which make Australia’s central districts unfashionable for nine months in the year.

  Martin, his muscles flabby and his blood thick and sluggish from many years of city life and a long illness, wondered often if he stood before the very gates of hell itself. The sun blistered red-raw his hands and neck. The cloud of flies which never left his head from dawn till dark, being kept at bay solely by a gauze fly-net, hummed so loudly that hearing was a hardship and speaking a labour. While the dust-stor
m that raged for eighteen hours, during which it was impossible to eat or smoke, or indeed to sleep, left its mark even on the axe-hewn face of the giant Monty.

  Not for Martin’s sake only did they travel between sunset and sunrise. Monty knew that to attempt to journey during the heat of the day would be futile, because the camels would find the sandy ground so hot to their rubbery padded feet that they would refuse to move from the shade of a tree. And, if a camel makes up its mind, only a fool argues with it with whip or waddy. Like the elephant, the camel has an exceedingly good memory for its persecutors, with the accompaniment of poisonous teeth lining a vice-like jaw.

  Monty saw to it that they travelled in all possible comfort, which is to say comfort as compared with the usual amenities of bush life so far beyond the railway. Their pack-bags bulged with tinned foods and dried vegetables; nevertheless, their bread was powder-bread baked in the hot ashes of a fire, and their meat was canned: for to keep meat fresh beyond a few hours in that heat is an impossibility.

  On the tenth night out from Broken Hill they reached Starvation Lake, a large expanse of bone-dry country as flat as sheet-iron. Following the boundary-rider’s pad along the New South Wales side of the six-foot wire-netted State Dividing Fence, Monty filled the six five-gallon water-drums and gave the camels a well-earned drink at the tank almost in the centre of the lake.

  Towards dawn, having travelled a further ten miles, they came across the boundary-rider of that section of fence, working at night. It was really because of the rider’s hearty welcome and pressing invitation to camp with him a day, that Monty decided to give his brother and the animals a longed-for rest.

  “Just as well camp for a day or so,” the tall, lean, sun-blackened boundary-rider suggested in the inimitable bush drawl. “Your mokes are watered and there is fair-conditioned mulga round here for them. It’ll soon be daylight, so I’ll boil the billy, and we’ll have a feed afore them dratted flies get busy.”

  And when the flies woke up, which was before it was light enough to see them, the three men were sound asleep within their mosquito-nets which served as fly-nets, lying on canvas stretcher-beds to keep them off the ant-infested ground, with no covering over their pyjamas.