The Flesh of The Orchid Page 8

  “It’s all right,” he assured her, “but get me undone.”

  She pulled at the cords, but the knots were too tight and she ran to the kitchen, snatched up a knife. On her way back to the sitting-room she picked up Steve’s jacket, struggled into it, buttoned it across her.

  “Hurry, Carol,” Steve called as she ran into the room. “They’ll be back.”

  She slashed the cords and Steve struggled up, rubbed his wrists, smiled at her.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he said. “But we’ve got to be quick. . . .”

  She went to him, her arms going round his neck.

  “I love you, Steve,” she said. “I was so frightened when I saw those two. I thought . . . I don’t know what I’d do without you. . . .”

  He drew her to him and kissed her.

  For a moment of time they stood close, their lips touching, then he gently pushed her away from him.

  “I’ve loved you all along, kid,” he said. “But we mustn’t waste time. Come on, we’ve got to get away. Get your clothes on and be quick.”

  She ran into her bedroom, and Steve went out on to the verandah, looked across the yard. There was no sign of the Sullivans. He stood there, waiting, and in a moment or so Carol joined him. She was wearing her wool dress and there was a serene trusting look in her eyes as she ran to him.

  “We’ve got to get their car,” Steve said, slipping his arm round her. “Keep in the shadows and run. . . .”

  Together they ran down the verandah steps and across the yard. They could see the outline of the big Packard at the top of the road.

  “We’re going to do it,” Steve said, slipped his arm round Carol and rushed her across the open ground into the moonlight.

  The Sullivans, coming out of the wood at that moment, saw them.

  Max shouted.

  “Quick, Carol!” Steve panted. “Can you drive?”

  “Yes,” she returned, “but we go together. I won’t leave you. . . .”

  “I’m coming, but go ahead. I’ll try to stall them. Get the engine started. Run like hell, kid!”

  “Stop!” Max shouted, a sharp threatening note in his voice.

  Steve paused, turned to face them.

  The Sullivans began to run towards him. He heard Carol start the Packard, and he spun on his heel, ran to the car.

  Max shot from his hip.

  Steve lurched, stumbled, reached the open door of the car as Max fired again.

  “I’m hit, kid!” he gasped, pitched forward into the car, falling across Carol.

  Blood from him ran across her hand.

  Frantically she pushed him upright, saw the two Sullivans coming across the moonlit yard very fast. She roared the engine, released the clutch and the car swept forward.

  Max stopped, raised his gun, but Frank grabbed his arm.

  “Have a heart,” he said. “Not at her . . . not at six million bucks.”

  “But she’s getting away,” Max said, lifting his shoulders in a disgusted shrug.

  “We’ll find her again,” Frank returned. “We always find ‘em. She’s worth a little trouble. . . she and her dough.”

  They watched the tail light of the Packard flash down the mountain road to the valley.

  CHAPTER III

  To the north of Point Breese, spotted among the low-lying hills at the foot of the mountain range, are the country estates of the wealthy.

  Phil Magarth drove recklessly along one of these hill roads, swung his battered Cadillac with a scream of tortured tyres off the road and down a long twisty carriage-way that led to Veda Banning’s spacious Spanish-style house with its white stucco walls and red tiles.

  Veda was known as the bad girl of Point Breese, but in spite of her reputation she was liked and she had a lot of fun. She was rich; ran a five-thousand-acre orange plantation with smart efficiency, and was crazy about Magarth. She wanted to marry him.

  As Magarth stopped the Cadillac before the ornate front door he glanced at his watch. It showed 3.5 a.m. He opened the car door and slid out on to the white-tiled terrace. The house was in darkness, but he knew where Veda slept and walked quickly across the flower-ladened patio, climbed four broad steps to the verandah, stopped short before open french windows.

  “You awake?” he called, peered into the dark room, where he could just make out the huge ornate bed in which Veda slept.

  No movement came from the bed and he entered the room, sat on the bed and slid his hand under the bedclothes. There was a sudden flurry, a stifled shriek and Veda sat up, snapped on the light.

  “For heaven’s sake!” she exclaimed, flopped back on her pillow. “This is too much . . . how dare you come in here at this hour?”

  “What’s too much?” Magarth asked, grinning at her. “You always say you’ll be glad to see me . . . well, here I am; be glad.”

  Veda struggled up in bed, stretched, yawned. Magarth admired her figure, which was exceptional.

  “You look swell; good enough to eat, but things are popping. Is that little thing you call your brain awake yet?”

  “There are times when I wonder what I see in you,” Veda said, reached for a hand mirror on the table beside her, studied herself. She had green-blue eyes, thick lashes, gold-brown hair, hanging straight down past I er shoulders and curling under at the ends: hair that looked like burnished copper. She was beautiful, and she knew it. There was a sultry, sulky look to her mouth and dark smudges under her eyes. She could have been younger than twenty-six, but not much.

  “At least I don’t look a fright,” she said, yawned again, flopped back on her pillow. She had on a low-cut nightdress of blue crepe-de-Chine and black lace. “You are hell, Phil,” she went on. “You might have awakened me in a more gentlemanly manner: I bruise so easily.”

  “You should worry: it won’t show,” Magarth grinned, got up and walked over to the cupboard. He found a bottle of Canadian rye and a glass. “The stock’s running low, sugar. You’d better get in some more.”

  “I will,” Veda said, watching him and thinking how handsome he was. “Give me a cigarette, you beast.”

  Magarth came back with the bottle, gave her a cigarette, took a drink, lit a cigarette for himself.

  “I’m on to something big,” he said, sitting on the bed close to her. “I could make a fortune out of it if I handle it right. And if I do I might marry you, so listen carefully.”

  Veda eyed him from over the top of the blanket.

  “I’ve heard that so many times I could play a flute obbligato to it,” she said scornfully.

  “But this is the McCoy,” Magarth told her. “I’m after the Blandish girl.”

  “You’re . . . what?” Veda demanded, sitting up, her eyes snapping.

  “Now don’t get your nightie in a knot,” Magarth said hurriedly. “This is strictly business. Six days from tomorrow morning she comes into her money . . . if she isn’t caught before then. I thought at first it’d be smart to help capture her and get an eye-witness account for my syndicate. But now I’ve a smarter idea. I’m going to help her avoid capture, help her get her money. If I steer her right she’ll be grateful, won’t she? I’ll be in on the ground floor. The great American public will want to know what she’ll do with all that dough . . . six million dollars! And I’ll be there to tell them. I’m going to bring her here. Then when we’ve got the money, we’ll take her around, get her a car, buy her a house, buy her clothes, take a camera-man around with us . . . it’ll be terrific! Exclusive to my syndicate. I can ask my own terms.”

  Veda closed her eyes.

  “I guessed it,” she said wearily. “Of all the dumb ideas this is the dumbest. The girl’s a lunatic, my pet. Remember? She’s dangerous. She might kill us. Do you think I want to be killed?”

  Magarth snorted.

  “You wouldn’t let a little thing like that stop me getting some money, would you?” he asked reproachfully. “Besides, I can handle her. Remember the time I spent two hours in an orangoutang’s cage to get a sens
ational story?”

  “Well, the orang-outang wasn’t in the cage, so I don’t see that makes you very brave,” Veda said.

  “Never mind,” Magarth said impatiently. “It must prove something. Anyway, I’m not scared of a girl. Ever since I was knee-high to an ant—”

  “I know. I’ve heard it all before. But this is different—”

  “No, it isn’t. I’ve had a word with the girl’s nurse. What a cute little number she turned out to be! She has a figure like a Coney Island switchback.”

  “You once told me switchbacks made you feel sick,” Veda said coldly.

  Magarth leered at her.

  “That depends how fast you go over them,” he said.

  Veda kicked him through the blanket.

  “Well, what did the nurse say?”

  “She told me Carol’s got a split mind. She gets these attacks now and then—and more then than now. She’ll go for months being a sweet, normal girl, and all she needs is watching.” He sighed. “Watching a sweet normal girl is right up my alley.”

  Veda kicked him again.

  “You’re a rat,” she said simply.

  “Don’t keep interrupting,” Magarth said severely. “One of the trustees, an old crum with a face like a squeezed lemon who calls himself Simon Hartman, has shown up at the Sanatorium. And the nurse tells me he’s half crazy with rage that Carol’s escaped. He sees the trusteeship going up in smoke and six million dollars sliding through his fat little paws.” He gave himself another drink. “And I’ll tell you something else. I don’t believe the girl is anything like as dangerous as they make out. I don’t believe she should have been certified. I think she’s been railroaded into that nut-house so old Hartman could collar the six million.”

  “Don’t talk such drivel,” Veda said sharply. “John Blandish had her put away . . . three or four years ago.”

  “Blandish knew nothing about her. He wasn’t interested in her. Hartman did it all. Hartman looked after Blandish’s affairs. The girl was put away because she went for a lug who was beating a dog. Wouldn’t you go for a lug who beat a dog?”

  Veda stared at him.

  “But she’s dangerous. Look what she did to that poor truck-driver.”

  Magarth waved that aside.

  “She was protecting her honour,” he said airily. “You wouldn’t know what that means, but let me tell you some girls take that sort of thing very seriously.”

  “All right,” Veda sighed. She didn’t feel like arguing. “Have it your own way. You haven’t found her yet.”

  Magarth tapped the side of his nose.

  “But I’m coming on. I’ve found where she’s been hiding these past days. I’ve just been there.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Veda groaned; went on: “I think I’ll have a little whisky after all. My nerves are beginning to fray.”

  “Not a chance. I wouldn’t waste the stuff on you. Just relax and listen. I saw a couple of guys tonight in a big black Packard They were asking for Steve Larson, who has a fox farm up on Blue Mountain Summit.”

  “I’ve seen him,” Veda said enthusiastically. “He’s big and fair and cute and made my heart go pit-a-pat.”

  “Never mind how cute he is,” Magarth said sourly. “Your mother must have been frightened by a pair of trousers just before you were born. You have men on the brain. Let me get on, will you?”

  “Well, it. won’t kill me to listen,” Veda said, closed her eyes again.

  “These two were asking after Larson and I recognized them. I think they’re the Sullivan brothers—professional killers.”

  “What do you mean?” Veda asked, opening her eyes and staring.

  “If you wanted to get rid of anyone you’d get into touch with the Sullivan brothers, give ‘em some dough and they’d do the rest; and that’s no fairy tale,” Magarth said. “Anyway, I thought I’d sniff around and I went up to Larson’s place. It was deserted. The lights were on, the doors open, the Buick van was in the garage and the dog, scared silly, in its kennel. I went through the cabin and found this”—he dropped a handkerchief on the bed. “I bet that’s Carol Blandish’s property. See, it has her name in the corner. And another thing: I found the trench coat belonging to Doc Travers’s chauffeur; the one Carol took when she escaped from Glenview.”

  Veda looked intrigued.

  “But where does all this get you?”

  Magarth scratched his head.

  “I wish I knew,” he said, “but it’s a start. Larson has been hiding her up. These two—the Sullivans, if they are the Sullivans —have smoked them out into the open. That’s the point. They’re out in the open. Maybe the Sullivans are after them. I don’t know. If I can get to her before anyone else I’ll bring her here. No one would think of looking for her here. If I don’t find her, then I’m out of luck and our marriage is as far off as ever.”

  Veda pulled him down, slid her arms round his neck.

  “It needn’t be, Phil,” she said softly, nibbled at his ear. “I’ll give you all my money and then we can live happily ever after.”

  Magarth pushed her away, stood up.

  “I may be a rat, but even a rat has its pride,” he said, began to loosen his collar and tie. “Do you think I’m going to stand for everyone saying I married for money? Not a chance. Now move over, I’ve got to get me some rest before daylight, and when I say rest, I mean rest.”

  * * *

  Carol gripped the steering-wheel of the Packard, stared through the windshield at the bright blob of light coming from the headlights that raced ahead of her, lighting up the twisty mountain road.

  Her heart seemed frozen, her brain numbed with shock and fear. In the light of the dashboard she could see Steve’s white face as he lay crumpled up on the floorboards, his eyes closed. She wanted to stop, but the thought of the Sullivans forced her on. She would stop in a little while, when she was sure that the Sullivans couldn’t reach them, and she prayed it would not be too late; that she would be able to do something for Steve.

  The narrow, twisting road made speeding impossible, but she drove as fast as she could, skidding at corners, jolting the big car recklessly over potholes and ruts, her only thought to put as much distance between the Sullivans and herself as she could in the shortest time.

  A few more minutes’ driving brought her out on to the State Highway and she sent the Packard hurtling forward. A mile or so farther on she slowed down, looked for a place where she could stop. Ahead she saw a clearing, leading to an abandoned logging camp, and she drove the car off the road, bumped over the rough track which led to a number of half-ruined shacks that had, at some time or other, given shelter to the lumberjacks.

  Hidden now from the road, the Packard slid to a standstill and Carol bent over Steve.

  “I must keep calm, “she said to herself. “I must control myself.” The thought that he was dead or even badly hurt filled her with such dread that every muscle in her body was trembling and her teeth chattered.

  “Steve, darling,” she said, her hand touching his face. “What is it? Tell me. How badly hurt are you?”

  Steve made no movement, and when she lifted his head it felt heavy and lifeless.

  For a long moment she sat still, her fists clenched, controlling the scream that rose in her throat; then she opened the car door, got out, stood on the pine needles, holding on to the door for support. She thought she was going to faint; her heart was beating so hard she felt suffocated. She stumbled round the car, opened the off-side door, supported Steve as he rolled through the doorway. He was heavy, but she managed to get him from the car and on to the soft pine needles. She adjusted the spot-lamp, switched it on, caught her breath when she saw the blood on his coat. She ran to him, opened his coat, saw the blood-soaked shirt.

  She put her hand over his heart, felt the faint, uneven beat, and choked back a sob of relief. He wasn’t dead! But unless she got help he might easily die. He was still bleeding, and that would have to be stopped.

  She turne
d back to the Packard. In the back of the car, on the floor, she found two suitcases. Feverishly she opened one of them, found shirts and handkerchiefs, began ripping the shirts up for bandages.

  “Carol!” Steve called faintly.

  She gave a little cry, ran to him. He was blinking in the strong light of the spot-lamp, but he didn’t move: his eyes looked dull and lifeless.

  “Oh, my dear,” she said, falling on her knees beside him. “What am I going to do? Does it hurt? I’m trying to stop the bleeding.”

  “Good kid,” Steve muttered, and his face twisted with pain. “It’s pretty bad, Carol. Somewhere in my chest.”

  For a moment she lost control of herself and sobbed wildly, hiding her face in her hands.

  “What am I going to do?” she thought hysterically. “He mustn’t die . . . I couldn’t bear him to die . . . and I’m the only one who can save him. . . .”

  “Come on, kid,” Steve gasped. “Don’t get scared. I know how you feel. But don’t lose your nerve. See if you can stop the bleeding.”

  “Yes . . .” she brushed her tears away, bit down on her lip. “I’ll stop it, darling. It’s—it’s just . . . Oh, my dear, I feel so helpless. . . .”

  She ran back to the car for the makeshift bandages, returned and undid his shirt. The caked blood and the feel of the soaked material sickened her, but her fear that he might die stiffened her nerve, but when she opened his shirt and looked at the two small black holes oozing blood in the centre of his chest, darkness came down on her and she sat hunched up, her head in her hands, shivering.

  “Don’t let it scare you,” Steve said, raised his head with difficulty and looked at the wounds. His mouth tightened—it was worse than he thought. There was a cold feeling creeping up his legs, and pain, like white-hot wires, stabbed his chest. “Carol! Come on, sweet. Stop this bleeding.”

  “I can’t do it!” she cried. “I’ve got to get help. Where can I go, Steve? Where can I take you?”

  Steve lay still, tried to think. He felt the whole of his chest had been laid open and that a salt wind was blowing down on the exposed nerves and flesh.

  “Doc Fleming,” he managed to say. Carol could scarcely hear his murmur. “Straight down the road through Point Breese, the second turning on the left. A small house off the road, stands by itself.” He struggled against the faintness, forced it away, went on: “It’s a good twenty miles. There’s no one else.”