The Flesh of The Orchid Page 10

  His eyes strayed to the calendar hanging on the wall. Only another six days! Well, a lot could happen in six days—a lot must happen!

  As he reached for his whisky the telephone rang shrilly. He paused, his eyes suddenly hooded. Then without fuss or undue haste he picked up the receiver.

  “What is it?”

  “We’ve got her,” Staum shouted excitedly over the line. “Sheriff said I was to tell you.”

  “Don’t shout: I’m not deaf,” Hartman said coldly, but his face lightened: he looked younger. “Where is she?”

  “Doc Fleming’s got her. The Sheriff’s going over there right away. He says for you to go over.”

  “Certainly,” Hartman said. “Where exactly does Dr. Fleming live?”

  Staum gave directions.

  “All right. I’m leaving immediately,” Hartman said, hung up.

  For a moment he stared at himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece, and he smiled thinly.

  “The darkest hour comes before the dawn,” he thought. “Trite but true,” and he pulled back the curtains, looked down at the deserted main street.

  Above the rooftops was a band of light stretching like a ribbon behind the distant mountains. The sky was a faint grey; the stars were losing their lustre. In a little while it would be daylight.

  He picked up his hat, slipped on an overcoat—it would be chilly out at this hour—walked quickly to the door.

  While he waited for the elevator to take him to the street level he hummed tunelessly under his breath.

  A big empty truck rattled to a standstill outside an all-night cafe situated near the Point Breese railway yards.

  “As far as I go,” the driver said. “This do you?”

  The Sullivans climbed down from the cab.

  “Sure,” Frank said. “And thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” the driver returned, drove on through the big wooden gates guarding the yard.

  “We were lucky to get that lift,” Frank said, and yawned.

  “Shaddap!” Max snarled, walked across the road to the cafe, went in.

  Frank grimaced, followed him.

  The loss of the Packard had affected Max, whereas Frank was more philosophical. Possessions and comfort meant little to him. His weakness was women: his grimy pathological mind seldom thought of anything but women, and he left all the planning, the arrangements, the everyday routine, to Max.

  They sat on stools at the counter, called for coffee. The girl who served them was ugly, but she had a good figure. Frank wanted to disuss her figure with Max, but he knew Max wasn’t in the mood. Max didn’t bother about women: he regarded them the way he regarded food: a necessity, but uninteresting and unimportant.

  The girl was a little scared of the Sullivans, and when she had served them she went into the kitchen and left them alone. There was no one else in the cafe.

  “I wish I knew if I’d killed him,” Max said thoughtfully. “I know I hit him twice in the chest, but he’s big and tough. I should have aimed at his head.”

  “Let’s not worry about him,” Frank said. “It’s the girl I’m worrying about. She was terrific! That red hair . . .”

  Max turned on him.

  “If he’s alive he saw what happened,” he said. “He’s the only witness we’ve ever let get away. He could blow our racket sky-high.”

  Frank hadn’t thought of that.

  “We’d better find him,” he said. “But where . . .?”

  “I want some sleep,” Max grumbled. “Hell! We can’t go on and on . . . we’re not made of iron. Where can we get a bed?”

  “Ask her . . . she’ll know,” Frank said, jerked his thumb towards the kitchen door.

  “Yeah,” Max said, finished his coffee, slid off the stool, walked into the kitchen.

  The girl was sitting on a table, talking to a negro cook. They both stared at Max, and the negro’s eyes rolled.

  “Where can we get a bed?” Max asked, eying the girl.

  “There’s a hotel round the corner, next to the jail,” the girl said.

  “O.K.” Max flipped a couple of nickels on to the table. “Where’s the hospital?”

  “There isn’t one. Nearest one’s at Waltonville, five miles from here.”

  Max grunted, walked out, jerked his head at Frank.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here. I want to sleep.”

  They walked down the deserted road. The big-faced clock over the station showed three o’clock.

  “There’s a hotel next to the jail,” Max said.

  “Handy,” Frank said, and giggled.

  “That’s it,” Max said as they turned the corner, then he stopped abruptly, put his hand on Frank’s arm. “What goes on?”

  They drew back as Sheriff Kamp came rushing down the steps of the jail. They watched him pull open the wooden doors of the garage next to the jail. His movements were those of a man in a frantic hurry. A moment later a battered Ford roared out of the garage, headed down the road.

  “The Sheriff’s in a hurry,” Frank said, tilted his hat over his nose.

  “Something’s up,” Max said. “Come on, we’re going to see.”

  “Thought you wanted a bed,” Frank grumbled.

  “We’re going to see,” Max repeated.

  They set off down the road, their arms swinging, a sudden new life and spring in their stride The bedside telephone suddenly rang.

  “Let it ring,” Veda said sleepily. “It’s only one of my affairs with an uneasy conscience.”

  Magarth groaned, half sat up.

  “I moved in here for a little peace and quiet,” he complained. “Must you carry your love life into my life as well?”

  “Don’t be a grouch, darling,” Veda said. “He’ll tire of it in a moment and go back to bed.”

  Magarth rubbed his eyes, sat bolt upright.

  “Stop chattering,” he said tersely. “Maybe it’s for me,” and he grabbed the telephone.

  “But no one knows you’re here . . . at least, I hope they don’t,” Veda said in alarm.

  “My editor knows everything,” Magarth returned, said “Hello?” into the ‘phone.

  “That you, Magarth?”

  Magarth recognized his editor’s voice.

  “I think so,” he returned, yawned. “Anyway, it’s someone very like me.”

  “I suppose you’re in bed with that woman?”

  “Who else would I be in bed with—a horse?”

  “Then get out of it, you licentious rat. They’ve found the Blandish girl!”

  “They’ve . . . what?” Magarth exclaimed.

  “The Sheriff’s office ‘phoned through just now. They’ve got her holed up in Doc Fleming’s cellar. Get going and take a camera. Kamp won’t do a thing until you arrive. The old bastard wants his picture taken making the capture. Hartman’s there; in fact every punk in town’s there except you. So get moving.”

  “I’m on my way,” Magarth said, slammed down the ‘phone and jumped out of bed. “Sweet suffering cats!” he exploded. “They’ve found her! Found her while I’m taking a roll in the hay. That’s retribution!” He struggled into his shirt. “Now what the hell am I going to do? Oh, my stars! What a break!”

  “Keep calm, darling,” Veda said, snuggling down under the bedclothes. “It may turn out all for the best.”

  “All for the best!” Magarth snorted, struggling into his coat. “If they get her back into that nut-house my story’ll go up in smoke. I’ve got to save her—somehow,” and he rushed for the door.

  “But, darling,” Veda called after him, “do try to be sensible, You’ve forgotten to put your trousers on.”

  * * *

  The narrow passage between Doc Fleming’s back and front doors was crowded. Doc Fleming with his wife stood half-way up the stairs. Simon Hartman stood in the waiting-room doorway. Magarth, a camera equipped with a flash-gun in his hand, leaned against the back door. Two State cops guarded the front entrance. Sheriff Kamp and George Staum faced the cellar do
or.

  “All right, boys,” Kamp said. “You stick around. Mind, she’s dangerous.” He glanced slyly at Magarth. “Get that picture as I bring her out.”

  “You haven’t got her out yet,” Magarth reminded him. “Maybe she’ll bring you out. What you need is a trident and a net.”

  Kamp ignored this, rapped on the cellar door.

  “We know you’re in there,” he called. “Come on out in the name of the law.”

  Carol crouched further back into the darkness of the cellar.

  When she had recovered from the fall down the cellar stairs she quickly realized that she was trapped. By groping round the cellar walls she discovered there was no way out except through the door, which was now securely locked. If it hadn’t been for the thought of Steve lying helpless in the wood she would have given up, but she drew courage from her love and she told herself that she was going to get out and back to Steve and no one would stop her.

  She found an electric light switch after a few minutes of groping and turned it on. The cellar was small and damp and full of rubbish, but it also contained the fuse-box and main switch for the light. She discovered a rusty steel poker among the rubbish, and this she picked up, balanced in her hand. When Kamp threw open the door, she crouched down by the steps leading into the cellar, her hand on the light switch, and waited. She had already turned off the light in the cellar, and although she could see Kamp peering into the darkness, he couldn’t see her.

  “Come on out,” Kamp called, his face red with excitement; added for no reason at all, “We’ve got the place surrounded.”

  No sound nor movement came from the dark cellar.

  “Be a man and fetch her out,” Magarth said. “We’ll give you a decent burial.” While he was speaking he was racking his brains for a plan to rescue Carol, but for the moment he was foxed.

  “Now come along,” Kamp wheedled. He wasn’t feeling too happy about tackling a dangerous lunatic. He looked over his shoulder at Hartman. “Think I should go in there after her?”

  “Of course,” Hartman said sharply. “But don’t handle her roughly. “I won’t have her ill-treated.”

  Magarth gave a macabre laugh.

  “That’s very, very funny,” he said. “Never mind how she treats you, Sheriff.”

  George Staum edged away when Kamp beckoned to him.

  “Not me,” he said firmly. “Lunatics scare me. I ain’t going down there in the dark. Look what she did to that truck-driver.”

  “By rights the asylum people ought to handle it,” Kamp said, hanging back. “Did anyone think to call them?”

  “No one,” Magarth said cheerfully. “I’ll come in with you, Sheriff. I’m not scared. You go first and I’ll be right on our heels.”

  Kamp drew in a deep breath.

  “Well, let’s go,” he said, took a hesitant step towards the cellar, peered into the inky darkness. “Maybe someone’s got a torch ?”-he went on hopefully.

  No one had a torch, and Hartman irritably told Kamp to get on with his duty.

  As he stooped to pass through the low doorway Carol snapped down the main switch, grabbed hold of his arms and jerked him forward.

  Kamp gave a wild yell, plunged into space.

  Magarth was quick to realize what had happened, decided to cause as much confusion as he could. He gave a ghoulish shriek, charged George Staum and hurled him against the two State Police as they crowded forward in the dark.

  “Look out!” Magarth bawled. “She’s right in amongst us.”

  Staum lost his head, hit out blindly, knocked one of the police officers cold, tried to rush up the stairs out of the way. The other police officer struck out right and left with his nightstick, but failed to hit anything. Magarth kept up his yelling and for a long moment of time confusion and panic reigned.

  It was enough for Carol. She had reached the passage, heard the shouting and the sounds of a struggle going on by the front door, opened the back door, slipped into the garden.

  Magarth saw her, followed her.

  Carol ran blindly down the garden path, swerved to her right when she heard Magarth’s thudding steps behind her. She increased her speed and seemed to fly over the ground. Try as he would, Magarth couldn’t overtake her.

  But he kept on, wondering how long it would be before the Sheriff came after them.

  Carol was heading for a dense thicket that lay a few hundred yards ahead. Beyond the thicket was the main road into Point Breese but she didn’t know this. She thought once she could get into the wood, she might be able to hide, and she redoubled her speed, confidence making her careless. Suddenly she caught her foot in a thick tree-root and went sprawling, rolled over, the breath knocked out of her.

  For a moment or so she lay stunned, then she struggled to sit up as Magarth bent over her.

  They stared at each other.

  “It’s all right,” Magarth said. “Don’t be frightened. I want to help you. It was me who helped you escape. Don’t look so scared.”

  Although Carol shied away from him, there was something about him that reassured her.

  “Who are you? What do you want with me?” she panted.

  “I’m Phil Magarth—a newspaper man. You’re Carol Blandish, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” Carol said, holding her head. “I don’t know who I am. I had an accident . . . I lost my memory.” She sat up, clutched his arm. “Will you really help me? It’s Steve . . . he’s badly hurt . . . will you come with me?”

  Magarth frowned.

  “Steve Larson? Is that who you mean?”

  “Oh, yes. Do you know him?”

  “Sure. We’re good friends. What happened? Those two guys in black. . .?”

  Carol shuddered.

  “Yes. He’s shot. I went to Dr. Fleming. He must be mad. They locked me in the cellar . . . .”

  Magarth stared at her.

  Could she be Carol Blandish? She seemed so normal: not a trace of madness. He caught hold of her left wrist. Yes, there was the scar. Then had she really lost her memory?

  “You mean you really don’t know who you are?” he asked.

  “No . . . but, please, if you’re going to help me, don’t waste time. He’s so badly hurt. Will you come with me ? Will you help me?”

  “You bet I will,” Magarth said, helped her to her feet. “Where is he?”

  “Up on the mountain road. There’s a logging camp up there. That’s where I left him.”

  “I know the place,” Magarth said, looked to right and left. “It’ll be light soon. You mustn’t be seen. I’ll get my car. You’d better wait here. Go over to that wood. Just beyond it is the main road. You’ll see me from the wood. Keep out of sight until I come. I shan’t be mora than ten minutes. Will you do that?”

  “Yes,” Carol said. She felt she could trust him. “But please be quick. I’m so frightened . . . he was bleeding so badly.”

  “Don’t worry,” Magarth said briskly. “We’ll fix him up all right. You get under cover and wait for me.” He patted her arm and then ran quickly back to Doc Fleming’s house.

  Now she was alone, Carol suddenly felt uneasy. The half light of the dawn, the cold mist that rose from the ground, the still, silent wood silhouetted blackly against the sky, produced a threatening atmosphere.

  As she began to move towards the wood she had a presentiment of danger and her heart began to thud against her side.

  She wished now that she had gone back with Magarth. Anything seemed better than being alone in this dim, silent wood. She screwed up her courage and kept on, and some way ahead through the trees she could see the main road.

  That was where she was to meet Magarth, she told herself, and fighting down this strange feeling of panic, she walked through the wood towards the distant clearing.

  Then suddenly she stopped. Something moved ahead of her. She caught her breath sharply, stared. From behind a big tree-trunk the brim of a man’s hat appeared. She stood petrified, unable to move, even to blink her eyeli
ds.

  A man in a black overcoat and a black slouch hat slid round the tree-trunk, stood directly in her path: it was Max.

  “I want you,” he said softly. “Don’t make a fuss.”

  For one brief moment she stared at him, her heart freezing, then with a thin wail of terror she turned to run blindly in the opposite direction. But Frank was there behind her, and as she came to an abrupt stop he smiled, raised his hat.

  Carol stood rigid. Both the Sullivans could hear her wild breathing.

  “Don’t make a fuss,” Max said, and walked slowly towards her.

  “Oh, no!” Carol cried, cringing back. “You mustn’t touch me . . .” She felt her muscles shrinking. Her face was as wan as a small ghost. “Please go away . . . I’m waiting for someone . . . he’ll be back any moment now . . . you mustn’t stay. . . .”

  “No fuss,” Max said, reaching her. “Come on. We want you.”

  She backed, then suddenly whirled and ran towards Frank, who watched her with his fixed smile. He threw out his arms, barring her path.

  Again she whirled, stood rigid.

  “Where’s Larson?” Max asked. “We want him too.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know anything.”

  “You will,” Max said gently. “We know how to make girls talk. Where is he?”

  “Oh, leave me alone . . .” Carol said, looked round wildly, then began to scream.

  Frank jumped forward, twined his short fat fingers in her hair, dragged her head back.

  “Hit her,” he said to Max.

  Max stepped up to her. She saw him raise his fist and she threw up her hands to protect herself, screamed wildly again. Max brushed her hands aside; then four bony knuckles smashed against the side of her jaw.

  CHAPTER IV

  MAGARTH came out on to the sun-drenched verandah, sat down, stretched out his long legs, closed his eyes.

  “A pint of black coffee laced with brandy might set me up,” he said, smothered a yawn, “but it’s bed I really want. And I’ve got to go see the Sheriff in a moment.”