The Flesh Of The Orchid Part 10

"What? Speak up," a man said angrily. "Why do you always whisper? Who from Glenview?"

"The lunatic . . . Carol Blandish . . . the one they're looking for . . . go down and talk to her . . . I'll call the Sheriff," the woman said. "And hurry."

"But she's dangerous," the man said, a whine in his voice. "You talk to her. I'm too old. I don't want anything to do with her."

"Go down!" the woman said angrily. "You know you can't use the telephone. There's five thousand dollars reward for her capture. Don't you want that, you old fool?"

There was a long pause, then the man said: "Yes, I'd forgotten that. Perhaps I'd better go down."

Carol closed her eyes. She must be dreaming this, she thought. It must be another of those terrifying dreams that came so mysteriously: only this time more vivid than ever before. Perhaps Steve hadn't been hurt; perhaps the two men in black were also part of the dream and she would suddenly wake up in her bed in the cabin, her heart pounding, frightened but safe.

The lunatic . . . Carol Blandish . . . the one they're looking for . . .

She s.h.i.+vered, willed herself to wake up and slowly opened her eyes, praying that she would find herself in bed, safe, but the shabby little room was still there and looked too real to be a dream figment, and she backed across the room, staring with horror at the door, listening to the slow shuffling steps on the stairs.

Somewhere at the back of the house she heard a sharp ting! of a bell: a telephone-bell.

Go down and talk to her . . . I'll call the Sheriff . . . . There's five thousand dollars reward for her capture. . . .

Whether or not this was a nightmare she must get away from this house. These people meant her harm. They wouldn't help Steve. They would try to keep her here, away from Steve, and he would die.

But she was now so frightened that she could not move, and crouched in a corner, her heart hammering against her side, a nerve jumping and twitching at the side of her mouth.

The door was slowly pushed open, and a vast old man came into the room: a bald-headed, tired, sagging figure with a great hooked nose and a drooping tobacco-stained moustache. But it was his eyes that filled her with unspeakable terror: at least his right eye, which was like a dirty yellow clay marble: like a phlegm-clot, blind, but she felt somehow it probed right into her mind.

The old man was wearing a blanket dressing-gown; food stains encrusted the lapels and above the opening she could see heavy underwear: layers of old, overwashed wool.

"Go away I" she screamed to herself. "Let me wake up! Don't come near me!"

The old man closed the door, set his great bulk against it. He took a handkerchief from his dressing-gown pocket and mopped his left eye, which watered. The yellow clot over his right eye continued to stare at her, hypnotizing her.

"You're in trouble I hear," he said in a shaky, whining voice. "What do you want me to do?"

Carol squeezed herself further into the corner.

"Are you the doctor?"

"Yes," the old man said. "I'm Dr. Fleming." He touched his temples with the handkerchief. Little beads of moisture ran down his face.

He was horrible, Carol thought. She couldn't take him to Steve. She couldn't trust him.

"I've made a mistake," she said quickly. "I don't want you. I shouldn't have come here."

Fleming cringed. She realized that he was very frightened, and his fear increased her own terror.

"Now don't be hasty," he implored. "I'm old, but I'm a good doctor. Does my eye worry you? It's nothing: a clot. I'm always promising myself to have it removed, but I never have the time." His wrinkled hands fluttered up and down the lapels of the dressing-gown; they looked like big bleached spiders. The harsh electric light picked out the black hairs on his fingers.

"But it doesn't interfere with my work. My other eye- But won't you sit down? You must tell me what's wrong . . . ."

Carol shook her head.

"No!" she said. "I'm going. I shouldn't have disturbed you. Thank you for seeing me . . ." Her voice broke, rose a note. "There's nothing you can do."

Very slowly she pushed herself from the wall, took a hesitant step towards him.

"You'd better stay," Fleming said. "We want you to stay," and he spread his bulk across the door, his face grimacing at her in his fear. "Have some coffee. My wife . . . coffee will do you good." He waved the bleached spiders at her imploring her to be quiet, not to frighten him anymore.

Carol ceased to breathe, then suddenly she screamed, feeling her lungs emptying long after all the air was expelled and her diaphragm labouring long after her chest was empty. The scream was very thin and soft: like the scream of a trapped rabbit.

"No, please," Fleming said. "It's all right. Nothing is going to happen. We're good people . . . we only want you to be safe from harm. . . ."

A soft scratching sound came on the door, and the old man suddenly relaxed, his face white as chalk. He stood away from the door and his wife came in.

"What is it?" she asked, looked at Carol. "Why aren't you sitting down ? Has my husband . . ." Her eyes went to the old man. "Won't you go with her? Someone is ill."

"Yes, yes," Fleming said, sat abruptly on one of the hard chairs. "She's changed her mind." He put fingers to his throat. "This has upset me, Martha," he went on. "I shouldn't have come down. A little brandy, I think "

"Be quiet," the woman said sharply. "Don't think so much of yourself."

"I must go," Carol said. She was by the table now, her mouth fixed in a cringing grimace. "I shouldn't have disturbed you."

"But the doctor's going up to dress now," the woman said quickly. "He won't be a minute. Your friend's ill, isn't he? Someone you love?"

Carol's heart lurched.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I don't know what I'm thinking of." She touched her temple with her fingers. "Yes . . . he's bleeding. But why does the doctor sit there? Why doesn't he do something?"

"Go on," the woman said to Fleming. "Get dressed. I'll make the young lady a cup of coffee."

Fleming still sat slumped in the chair. His breathing was heavy.

"Let her go," he said suddenly. "I don't want the money. I want peace. I'm old. Let her go before something happens. Look what she did to the truck-driver . . . ."

"Get upstairs, you old fool," the woman said angrily. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Don't disturb him," Carol said. "I'm going . . . I really must go," and she walked across the room very slowly, but determinedly.

Fleming hid his big floppy face in his hands. The woman hesitated, gave ground, backed against the wall, her hard eyes alight with rage and fear.

"You'd better stay," she said. "We know who you are. You'd better not make a fuss. You can't get away."

Carol opened the door.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, turning so that she could face them. "I thought you would help me." She turned quickly, ran to the front door, but it was locked. She whirled round to find the woman standing in the doorway of the waiting-room, watching her.

"Open this door," Carol said, her face like a small lead-coloured mask.

"It's all right," the woman said. "Why don't you come in and sit down? I'll make you a cup of coffee . . . ."

Carol ran down the pa.s.sage, past the woman, wrenched at the handle of another door that she thought might open on to the back garden. That too was locked.

Fleming had joined his wife and was standing just behind her. The yellow clot in his eye seemed to beseech her to be quiet and calm.

Trapped in the narrow pa.s.sage, between the two doors, Carol paused, her brain refusing to function.

"You see?" the woman said gently. "You can't get away. Your friends are coming. There's nothing you can do."

Then Carol saw another door; a small door half-hidden by a curtain, a yard or so from where she was standing.

Without taking her eyes from the two in the doorway, she edged towards the door, then s.n.a.t.c.hed at the handle. The door opened. At the same moment the woman darted forward.

Carol cried out, stepped back through the open doorway, threw up her hands toward the woman off. The woman pushed her, and the ground seemed to give way under her feet and she felt herself falling.

Sheriff Kamp lay flat on his back in his small truckle bed. His low, rasping snores vibrated round the room. He didn't hear the shrill ring of the telephone-bell in the main office of the county jail, nor did he hear his deputy, George Staum, cursing as he levered himself out of his desk chair.

But a minute or so later the door crashed open and Staum was shaking the Sheriff awake.

"Hey, hey, hey," Kamp growled, flinging off Staum's hand. "Can't you let a man sleep?"

"They've found her!" Staum said excitedly. His round fat face hung over Kamp like a Dutch cheese. "They've got her!" He was so excited that he couldn't get out his words.

"Got her? Got who?" Kamp demanded, still confused with sleep, then he started up, grabbed hold of Staum. "You mean -her? Who's got her?"

"Doc Fleming . . . Mrs. Fleming's just 'phoned. . . ."

"h.e.l.l!" Kamp struggled into his trousers. "Fleming! That old punk! Five thousand bucks! It would be him. Never did a day's work in his life and he has to find her."

"Mrs. Fleming says to be quick," Staum spluttered, his eyes popping. "She's scared something will happen."

"Can't be quicker," Kamp growled, slipping his heavy revolver belt round his waist. "Get Hartman on the 'phone. Get the Press. I'm going to get something out of this! Fleming! My stars! I bet it fell into his lap."

Staum ran into the office.

"Do you want me to come with you?" he bawled over his shoulder.

"Follow on. Get Hartman and the Press first, then come on as fast as you can. I want a cameraman there. If I don't get that five thousand I'm going to have my picture in all the papers," Kamp said, grabbed up his hat, ran from the room.

Simon Hartman couldn't sleep. He sat in a big easy chair in his luxury hotel suite, a gla.s.s of whisky on the table beside him, a cigar clamped between his small sharp teeth.

Hartman was short and thick-set. The lines in his thin, sallow-complexioned face made him look older than his fifty-five years. There was a cold, brooding expression in his eyes, and his thin lips were turned down. Although the hour was a minute or so before 3 a.m., he had no inclination to sleep. For years now he had slept but little, and then only in uneasy cat-naps.

Hartman was the senior partner of Simon Hartman & Richards, solicitors, whose reputation at one time had stood as high as any of the big New York firms. But since Richards had retired the business had gone to pieces, and Hartman, an inveterate gambler, had been tempted to use his clients' money to play the markets, and recently he had been juggling with securities that were not his own, with disastrous results.

He had almost reached breaking-point when John Blandish died and the Blandish Trust was formed. Here, then, was a chance in a lifetime, and Hartman was quick to seize the opportunity. Richards and he were appointed trustees and as Richards took no interest in business the trust was entirely in Hartman's hands.

It came as a tremendous shock to Hartman when he learned of Carol's escape. He knew that if she avoided capture for fourteen days she could claim the Trust money . . . what there was left of it. For even in that short s.p.a.ce of time Hartman had already dug deeply into Blandish's fortune.

The girl had to be found! If she wasn't found, he'd be ruined, and Hartman had no intention of being ruined. He had already taken charge of the search. The Sheriff was a fool. Dr. Travers was irresponsible. The police were worse than useless. But he had galvanized them into action; had offered five thousand dollars reward for the girl's capture. Now everyone in Point Breese was searching for the girl.

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 l.u.s.tre. 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.