The Flesh of The Orchid Read online

  James Hadley Chase

  The Flesh Of The Orchid

  1948

  Synopsis

  Carol Blandish was the daughter of Miss Blandish and a maniac killer. She was beautiful. She was the heir to six million dollars. And she was a prisoner in a mental home. All she had to do to inherit the money was escape, and stay out for fourteen days . . . . But a whole lot of other people were after the Blandish fortune — and that meant they were after Carol : once outside the mental home, she found herself mixed up in a deadly hide-and-seek of violence and sudden death . . . There was Roy Larson, who couldn't keep his hands off that beautiful body : and there were the Sullivans, professional killers who'd rather have their hands on the money. . .

  James Hadley Chase scores again with a sensational sequel to the unforgettable No Orchids For Miss Blandish.

  This e-book was made from the original (Jarrolds) unabridged edition of the book because subsequent editions exit where certain contents of the book were omitted.

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER I

  SOMEWHERE in the building, above the roar of the wind that rattled doors and windows, a woman’s scream filtered through padded walls. It was an eerie sound of idiot degeneracy rather than of pain or fear, and it swelled to a muffled crescendo before dying away in a whimper of lunatic self-pity.

  A young and attractive-looking nurse, carrying a supper-tray, walked down the broad corridor that ran the length of the building. She paused outside a door, set the tray on a white enamelled table against the wall.

  As she did so a squat dark man with two gold teeth came round the bend in the corridor. He grinned cynically when he saw the nurse, but another scream from the woman upstairs twisted the grin into a wry grimace.

  “That yelling sets my teeth on edge,” he said as he came to a slouching halt by the nurse. “I’d like to give her something to yell about.”

  “Oh, that’s number ten,” the nurse returned, patted the corn-coloured curls that framed her pretty face under the edge of the stiff white cap she wore. “She’s always like this in a storm. It’s time they put her in a sound-proof room.”

  “They ought to give her a shot,” the squat man said. “She gets on my nerves. If I’d known it was going to be like this I’d’ve never taken the job.”

  “Don’t be so fussy, Joe,” the nurse said, and laughed unfeelingly. “What do you expect, working in a mental sanatorium?”

  “Not this,” Joe said, shaking his head. “It gets on my nerves. That screw in number fifteen tried to hook my eyes out this morning. Did you hear about it?”

  “Who didn’t?” the nurse said, and laughed again. “They said you shook like a leaf.”

  “Couldn’t think of any other way to get a nip of brandy out of Doc Travers,” Joe said with a grin. “And the punk fed me salvolatile.” He brooded for a moment, went on: “And listen to that wind. It’s creepy enough here without the wind moaning like a lost soul.”

  “You got that out of a book,” the nurse said. “I like the sound of the wind.”

  “Then you can have it,” Joe said shortly.

  The woman’s screams changed suddenly to clear, high-pitched peals of mirthless laughter, unhysterical and unhurried: a weird, frightening sound against the background of the storm raging outside.

  “Maybe you like that giggle too?” Joe said, his mouth tight, his eyes uneasy.

  “You get used to it,” the nurse said callously. “Lunatics are like children: they want to express themselves.”

  “She’s doing fine, then,” Joe said. “She ought to be proud of herself.”

  There was a pause, then the nurse asked, “Are you going off duty now?”

  Joe eyed her thoughtfully, a half jeering, half friendly expression on his face.

  “Is that an invitation?” he asked, sidled closer.

  The nurse laughed.

  “I’m afraid it isn’t, Joe,” she said regretfully. “I’ve eight more suppers to serve. I won’t be through for another hour.”

  “Oh, the hell with that!” Joe said. “I’m going to bed. Sam’s turned in already. We’ve gotta be up at four. Besides, I don’t want to listen to that nut sounding off. I’ve had enough of her.”

  “All right, go to bed,” the nurse said, tossing her head. “I’m not hard up for company. Dr. Travers wants me to play gin-rummy with him.”

  Joe sneered.

  “That’s about his top ambition. You won’t learn anything fresh from Doc Travers.”

  “I know that . . . Dr. Travers isn’t fresh—like you, Joe.”

  Joe sniffed, eyed the supper-tray on the table.

  “They feed ‘em good, don’t they?” he said, took a stick of celery from the glass holder on the tray. “Before I came here I thought they shovelled raw meat at ‘em through iron bars.” He bit into the celery, chewed.

  “You leave my patient’s supper alone,” the nurse said indignantly. “Where are your manners? You can’t do that sort of thing here.”

  “I’ve already done it,” Joe said with simple truth, “and it cats swell. Besides, she won’t miss a bite of celery with all that dough to keep her warm.”

  “Oh, so you’ve heard about that, have you?”

  Joe leered.

  “I don’t miss much. I had my ear clamped to the keyhole when Doc Travers was shooting his mouth off on the ‘phone. Six million bucks. That’s what Blandish left her, ain’t it?” He pursed his lips into a soundless whistle. “Think of it! Six million bucks!”

  The nurse sighed. She’d been thinking about it all day.

  “Well, some people have all the luck,” she said, leaned against the wall and studied Joe with an appreciative eye. She thought he had attractive ways.

  “What’s she like?” Joe asked, waving the celery stalk at the door. “I’ve heard things about her. Sam says she’s juicy. Is she?”

  “I’ve seen worse,” the nurse said noncommittally. “But she’s not your style, Joe.”

  “That’s what you think,” Joe said, grinning. “With six million bucks as a sweetener Mrs. Astor’s horse would be my style. I’d marry that dame tomorrow if she’d let me dip into her purse. Maybe you could talk her into the idea.”

  “You wouldn’t like her for a wife, Joe,” the nurse said, and giggled. “You’d be scared to close your eyes. She has homicidal tendencies.”

  “If she’s as good as Sam says I wouldn’t want to close my eyes,” Joe returned. “Besides, I’d take my chance for all that dough. I guess I could handle her at that. I gotta hypnotic eye.” He patted the nurse’s flank. “I’ll hypnotize you one of these days.”

  “I don’t have to be hypnotized,” the nurse said, laughing. “You know that, Joe.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Joe said.

  The nurse picked up the tray.

  “I’ll have to get on. Shan’t I see you tonight?” She looked archly at him. “Are you really going to waste time in bed?”

  Joe eyed her over.

  “O.K. Eight o’clock, then,” he said. “But don’t keep me waiting. We can go to the garage and sit in a car. If we don’t do anything else, I can learn you to drive.” He closed a jeering eye. “More useful than playing gin-rummy.” He went off along the corridor, a shambling, squat figure, wrapped up in himself, indifferent to his conquest.

  The nurse looked after him, sighed, as she fumbled for the key that hung from a thin chain at her waist. The woman on the second floor began to scream again. She seemed to have found a new source of inspiration
, for her screams rang out high above the noise of the rain as it lashed against the stucco walls of the asylum. The wind, dying before a fresh blast, moaned in the chimney-stacks. A door slammed violently somewhere at the back of the building.

  Unlocking the door, the nurse entered a plainly furnished room. There was a steel table by the window, an armchair facing the door. Both pieces of furniture were bolted to the floor. High up in the ceiling was an unshaded lamp, guarded by a wire basket. The walls of the room, a soft shade of blue, were quilted; padded and thick. By the wall, away from the door, was a bed, and in the bed was the outline of a woman, apparently asleep.

  The nurse, a little absent-minded, her thoughts on Joe, set the tray on the table and crossed over to the bed.

  “Wake up,” she said briskly. “You shouldn’t be asleep at this time. Come along, I’ve brought your supper.”

  There was no movement from the form under the blanket, and the nurse frowned, uneasy suddenly for no reason at all.

  “Wake up!” she repeated sharply, prodded the form. As her fingers sank into the pillowy softness she realized that this was no human form she was touching. She felt a prickle of alarm run through her as she snatched back the blanket. Her eyes had scarcely time to register the pillow and the rolled blanket where her patient should have been when steel fingers coming from under the bed closed round her ankles, wrenched them up and forward.

  Terror choked the scream that rose in her throat as she felt herself falling. For what seemed a long moment of time she struggled frantically to regain her balance, then she crashed over backwards, her head and shoulders meeting the carpeted floor with a violence that turned her sick and faint. She lay there for a moment too stunned to move, then the realization that she was helpless and alone with a dangerous lunatic made her straggle desperately to get to her feet. She was dimly aware that a shadowy figure was standing over her and she gave a thin wail of terror as her muscles refused to respond. Then the tray with its contents of crockery and food smashed down on her upturned face.

  * * *

  The woman on the second floor began to laugh again. It was still as mirthless and as idiotic as the laugh of a hyena.

  Joe, lifting his shoulders as if he expected a blow at the back of his head, hurried down the dark passage, down a flight of stairs to the basement of the building. He was glad to reach his bedroom, which he shared with Sam Garland, Dr. Travers’s chauffeur. Garland, still in his shirt and trousers, lay under a blanket on his small cot. His broad, good-tempered face was up-tilted to the ceiling, his eyes were closed.

  “What a night!” he said when Joe came in. “I don’t remember it so bad in years.”

  “And creepy, too,” Joe said, going over to the fireplace and sitting in the armchair. “There’s a judy upstairs laughing and screaming her head off. Got on my nerves.”

  “I heard her. Suppose she got loose and crept down here while we were asleep?” Garland said, hiding a grin. “Ever thought of that, Joe ? She might come in here in the dark with a carving-knife and cut our throats while we slept. That’d give her something to laugh at, wouldn’t it?”

  “Shut up!” Joe said with a sudden shiver. “What are you trying to do—give me goose-flesh?”

  “A dame did that once here,” Garland lied, relaxing on his soiled pillow. “She got into one of the nurse’s rooms with a razor. They found her playing football with the nurse’s head up and down the corridor. That was before you came.”

  “You’re lying,” Joe said angrily. “Pipe down! I tell you my nerves are shot tonight.”

  “I was only telling you,” Garland grinned, closed his eyes again. “You want to take it easy. This is a good job if you take it easy.”

  “My luck,” Joe said, scratching his head. “I gotta date with that blonde nurse on floor one at eight. I don’t reckon I’ll be happy with her out in the dark.”

  “Oh, that one,” Garland said scornfully. “She makes dates with all the new hands. She ain’t so hot.”

  “She’s got a sweet disposition in the back of a car,” Joe said. “I had a dress rehearsal a couple of nights back. That dame’s keen.”

  “That’s her trouble,” Garland said. “She’s too keen.”

  But Joe wasn’t listening. He sat forward, stared at the door.

  “What’s biting you now?” Garland asked, puzzled.

  “There’s someone outside,” Joe whispered.

  “Maybe it’s a mouse or your blonde destiny getting impatient,” Garland said with a grin. “Why shouldn’t there be someone outside, anyway?”

  But the look of uneasy fear in Joe’s eyes startled him and he sat up and listened too.

  Outside a board creaked, then another. A sliding sound, a hand touching the wall, came nearer.

  “Maybe it’s Boris Karloff,” Garland said, but his grin was fixed. “Have a look, Joe. See who it is.”

  “Have a look yourself,” Joe whispered. “I wouldn’t go out there for a hundred bucks.”

  Neither man moved.

  A hand fumbled at the door, a board creaked again, then a sudden patter of feet on the wooden floor outside brought both men to their feet: Garland throwing off his blanket, and Joe kicking back his chair. A moment later the back door slammed, and a great rush of cold air came up the passage.

  “Who was it?” Joe said, starting back.

  “Only someone going out, you dope,” Garland growled, sitting on the bed again. “What’s the matter with you? You’re making me jumpy now.”

  Joe ran his fingers through his hair.

  “I’ve got the jitters tonight,” he said. “It’s that dame yelling her head off and the storm.” He still listened, still stared at the door.

  “Quit getting your vitamins in an uproar,” Garland said sharply. “They’ll be putting you in a padded cell next.”

  “Listen!” Joe said. “Do you hear that? It’s the dog. Listen to him.”

  Somewhere in the garden a dog began to howl mournfully. The sound was caught up and swept away by the wind.

  “Why can’t the dog howl if it wants to?” Garland demanded uneasily.

  “Not like that,” Joe said, his face set. “A dog only makes a noise like that when he’s scared bad. Something out there’s frightening him.”

  They listened to the mournful howling of the dog, then Garland gave a sudden shiver.

  “You’re getting me going now,” he said angrily, got up, peered out of the window into the wet darkness. “There’s nothing to see. Shall we go down and give him something to howl about?”

  “Not me,” Joe said, sat down again. “Not out there in the dark; not for any money.”

  A new sound—the shrill ringing of a bell—brought him to his feet again.

  “That’s the alarm!” Garland shouted, snatching up his coat. “Come on, Joe, we gotta get up there quick.”

  “Alarm?” Joe said stupidly. He felt a chill run up his spine into the roots of his hair. “What alarm?”

  “One of the nuts is loose,” Garland bawled, pushing past Joe to the door. “Whether you like it or not, you’re going out there into the dark now.”

  “That’s what we heard—why the dog’s howling,” Joe said, hanging back.

  But Garland was already running down the passage, and Joe, scared to be on his own, blundered after him.

  Above the flurry of the wind and the rain the dog howled again.

  * * *

  Sheriff Kamp wooshed water from his black slouched hat, followed the nurse into Dr. Travers’s office.

  “Hear you have trouble up here. Doc,” he said, shaking hands with a tall, angular man who crossed the room to meet him. “One of your patients got loose, huh?”

  Travers nodded. His deep-set eyes were anxious.

  “My men are out looking for her now,” he said, “but we’ll need all the help we can get. It’ll be nervy work; she’s dangerous.”

  Sheriff Kamp pulled at his straw-coloured, tobacco-stained moustache. His pale eyes looked startled.

&nbs
p; “Is that right?” he said slowly.

  “I’m in a very awkward position,” Travers went on. “If this gets into the newspapers it could ruin me. She was the one patient I had no business to lose.”

  “I’ll help if I can, Doc,” Kamp said, sitting down. “You can rely on me.”

  “I know,” Travers said, pacing up and down, and went on abruptly: “The patient is John Blandish’s heiress. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Kamp frowned.

  “John Blandish? The name’s familiar. You don’t mean the millionaire fella whose daughter was kidnapped some twenty years ago?”

  “That’s right. We’ve got to get her back before anyone knows she’s escaped. Look at the publicity that followed Blandish’s death last year. If this leaks out it’ll start all over again and I might just as well close down.”

  “Take it easy, Doc,” Kamp said quietly. “We’ll get her back.” He pulled at his moustache, went on: “You say she’s Blandish’s heiress? What was he doing leaving his money to a lunatic? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “She was his illegitimate grand-daughter,” Travers said, lowering his voice. “And that’s for your information only.”

  “Can I have that again?” Kamp asked, sitting bolt upright.

  “Blandish’s daughter was kidnapped by a homicidal mental degenerate,” Travers said, after a moment’s hesitation. “She was in his hands for months before she was found, and you’ll remember she committed suicide—threw herself out of a window before her father could reach her. She died of her injuries.”

  “Yeah, I know all that,” Kamp said impatiently.

  “This is what you don’t know: before she died she gave birth to a daughter. The father of the child was the kidnapper, Grisson.”

  Kamp blew out his cheeks.

  “And this child is your patient—grown up? Is that it?”

  Travers nodded.

  “The child, Carol, was exactly like her mother in appearance, and Blandish couldn’t bear to have her near him. Carol was brought up by foster-parents. Blandish never went near her, but she lacked for nothing. The fact that her father was a mental degenerate made Carol suspect, but for the first eight years of her life she showed no sign that she had inherited anything from her father. But she was watched and when she was ten she ceased to mix with other children, became morose, developed violent tempers. Blandish was informed and engaged a mental nurse to watch her. Her tempers became more violent and it soon became obvious that she wasn’t to be trusted with anyone weaker than herself. By the time she was nineteen it was necessary to have her certified. For the last three years she has been my patient.”