The Flesh Of The Orchid Part 14

Frank leaned across Max, stared at Sherill with intent eyes.

"Watch her, Tex," he said. "I like that dame . . . I wouldn't like to lose the opportunity. I've got ideas about her."

"Get on," Max snarled. "You have too many ideas about too many women."

"That's not possible," Frank said, giggled, drove recklessly down the sandy, rutted by-road.

Miss Lolly crept up the stairs, entered her small neat bedroom. She was trembling and had to sit on the bed until her legs felt strong enough to carry her to the dressing-table. She spent some minutes brus.h.i.+ng her hair and beard. Then she put on stockings and shoes. She found a clothes-brush and carefully brushed the dust from her aging black costume.

When she came out of her room, Sherill was standing at the head of the stairs.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked harshly.

"I'm going to see her," Miss Lolly said firmly. "She wants a woman's care."

"You don't call yourself a woman, do you, you old scarecrow?" Sherill snarled. "You'll only frighten her."

Miss Lolly flinched.

"I'm going to see her," she repeated, and began to move towards the next flight of stairs.

"Well, see her, then," Sherill returned, "but no nonsense. You heard what Max said."

"Oh, I wouldn't interfere," Miss Lolly said hastily. "I only want to say a kind word . . . if the poor thing's crazy in the head, like they say, a kind word will help her."

Sherill took a key from his pocket, handed it to Miss Lolly.

"Lock her in when you're through," he said shortly. "I've got to get back to work," and he went down the stairs, his feet making a flat, slapping noise on the bare boards.

A moment or so later, with quickly beating heart, Miss Lolly unlocked the door of Carol's room, entered.

It was a small bare room and hot from the sun that baked down on the sheet-iron roof. The window that looked out on to the so-called orchard had two rusty iron bars cemented into its frame. The floorboards were dusty and bare. The only furniture in the room was a truckle bed, an old rocking-chair, a wash-stand and a tin bowl full of water on which floated a fine film of dust.

Carol lay on the bed, her hands at her sides, her legs straight, like an effigy on an ancient tomb. Her eyes were like holes cut in a sheet and as expressionless.

Although she heard the lock turn and the handle creak she did not look in the direction of the door. She looked straight in front of her at a cobweb that festooned the opposite wall and that moved gently in the draught. But she cringed inside at the sound, and without being able to help herself, her mouth formed into a soundless scream.

"It's only me," Miss Lolly said, standing shyly in the doorway. "It's Miss Lolly . . ."

Carol s.h.i.+vered, turned her head very slowly, saw the poor freak standing there, embarra.s.sed, nervous, her sad eyes blinking back sympathetic tears, her bony fingers fluttering in her beard.

"Please go away," Carol said, and began to cry helplessly, hiding her face in her hands.

Miss Lolly paused to look back down the stairway and to listen. The old house was silent. Somewhere in the garden she could hear Sherill sawing wood; more distant still came a sudden sharp bark of a dog.

"I didn't mean to frighten you, my dear," Miss Lolly said, added wistfully: "I'm human, really. I used to be in the circus with them . . . . Max and Frank."

"I'm not frightened of you," Carol said. "It's only . . . I must be left alone . . . just for a little while. . . ."

"Perhaps you'd like some coffee . . . or tea?" Miss Lolly asked. "I'm so sorry for you ,. we girls . . . it's the men, really, isn't it ? We are always sacrificing ourselves for the men. I've had my lovers . . . you mightn't think so . . . they shouldn't have brought you here . . . a nice girl like you . . . ."

Carol suddenly sat up.

"Who are you?" she cried. "What do you want with me?"

Miss Lolly blinked, stepped back.

"I'm Miss Lolly . . . you're too young to have heard of me. I'm Lolly Meadows . . . the famous bearded lady. I'm an artist, really . . . you have to be an artist to bear the cross I have to bear. I don't want anything of you . . . I only want to be kind. I know what kindness is; not that I've had much of it myself. When I heard you scream . . . saw how lovely you were . . . I thought I'd see if I could help you. There's not much I can do, but we girls . . . if we can't help each other in our troubles . . ."

Carol dropped back flat on the bed.

"I told them where he was," she moaned. "I thought nothing could make me tell, but I hadn't the courage . . . I told them and they've gone after him . . . and I love him so."

Miss Lolly came nearer.

"You mustn't excite yourself," she said. "I heard them . . . they said they didn't expect to find him. I'll get you a cup of tea."

"Help me get away from here," Carol cried, sitting up. "Please help me to get away. Don't let them keep me here. I must get back to Steve. They shot him. I left him in a wood, and they're going there to finish him."

Miss Lolly's eyes showed her shocked fear.

"Oh, I never interfere," she said quickly. "I want to make your stay comfortable. I want to do what I can for you, but I don't meddle. I couldn't help you to leave here . . . that would be meddling."

"I'm sure you understand," Carol said. "You said just now you had lovers. You must know what it means when you love someone and he needs you. I told them where to find him. I tried not to." She buried her face in her hands. "Oh, you don't know what they did to me."

Miss Lolly dabbed her eyes.

"Oh, you poor thing," she said. "I'd like to help you. I didn't know . . . do you love him so much?" She glanced over her shoulder. "But I mustn't stay here talking . . . I'll get you some tea. You'll feel better after a cup of tea . . . it's a long walk to the main road," she went on for no apparent reason. "There'll be money on the hall-stand . . ." and she went out, closed the door and ran down the stairs.

Carol remained motionless, staring at the door. Then her heart gave a sudden lurch. She hadn't heard Miss Lolly turn the key. Very slowly she got off the bed. Her legs felt weak, and the distance between the bed and the door seemed to lengthen as she struggled across the bare boards. She touched the bra.s.s doorhandle, turned it and pulled. The door opened. For a moment she stood staring into the dingy pa.s.sage, scarcely believing that the way was open for her escape.

She crept out on to the landing, looked down the staircase well into the dark hall three flights below. She could hear someone sawing wood in the garden and the rattle of crockery in the kitchen. They were homely, rea.s.suring sounds in a nightmare of terror.

She moved to the head of the staircase, and holding her breath, her heart thudding against her side, she began a silent descent.

There lived in one of the ruined shacks of the abandoned logging camp on Blue Mountain Summit an old man who was known as Old Humphrey: a half-witted old fellow, very poor and dirty, and who had a remarkable power over birds. He was as timid as a field mouse, and had selected the logging camp for his home since no one ever came to the place. He had been considerably startled when Carol had driven the big s.h.i.+ny Packard into the clearing and had left Larson there while she drove frantically away in search of Doc Fleming.

Old Humphrey had approached Larson with the utmost caution and then had returned to his shack to await developments. He fell asleep while waiting, and awoke with a start when Phil Magarth drove up in his battered Cadillac.

Old Humphrey knew Magarth. Some months ago Magarth had tried to persuade Old Humphrey to give a demonstration of his power over birds, but the old fellow wasn't having any. So when he saw Magarth drive up he thought he had come to worry him again, and it was with relief when he saw Magarth carry the unconscious Larson to the car and drive off again.

Old Humphrey hoped that he had seen the last of these unwelcome visitors, but the following evening, as he sat before his log fire cooking his supper, the door of his shack was pushed open and the Sullivans came in.

The Sullivans hadn't expected to find Steve Larson in the camp clearing: that was too much to hope for. But following their usual method of tracking down their intended victim, they were content to start at the place where their victim had last been.

They had seen smoke coming from Old Humphrey's chimney, had exchanged glances and had walked silently to the ruined little shack.

"h.e.l.lo, Dad," Frank said, and kicked the door shut.

Old Humphrey crouched over the fire. His wizened, dirty old face twitched with fright; his thin, filthy hand gripped the handle of the frying-pan that hissed on the fire until his knuckles showed white under the grime.

Max leaned against the mantelpiece, lit a cigarette. The light of the match reflected in his eyes: they were like glittering pieces of gla.s.s: black and expressionless.

"You talk to him," he said to Frank.

Frank sat down on an upturned box close to Old Humphrey, took off his hat to comb his hair. He smiled, and the smile struck a chill into Old Humphrey's palpitating heart.

"We're looking for a guy," Frank said. "A guy who's sick. What happened to him?"

"I don't know nothing about any sick guys," Old Humphrey whined. "I just want to be left alone."

Max moved restlessly, but Frank still smiled.

"Come on, Dad," he said softly. "You know all about it. We mean business. Don't make it hard for yourself. What was he to you?"

Old Humphrey didn't say anything. He lifted his shoulders as if he expected a blow, brooded down at the mess in the frying-pan, his eyes sightless with fear.

Frank kicked his ankle gently.

"Come on, Dad," he said. There was a genial note in his voice. "What happened to the sick guy?"

"I ain't seen a sick guy," Old Humphrey said. "I mind my own business."

Max suddenly s.n.a.t.c.hed the frying-pan out of the old man's hand and threw it across the room.

Frank giggled.

"What happened to the sick guy?" he asked again.

Old Humphrey stared at the frying-pan lying in the corner, at the food that dripped down the wooden wall on to the floor, and he clawed at his beard.

"The newspaper man took him away," he said shrilly. "That's all I know."

"What newspaper man?" Max said.

"Magarth," Old Humphrey mumbled. "He's worried me before. Everyone worries me. Why can't they leave me alone?"

Frank stood up.

"No one will worry you anymore," he said softly, stepped to the door.

Old Humphrey turned, sliding his broken boots over the dirty floor, clutching at his ragged overcoat.

"Close your eyes," Max said. "We don't want you to see us leave."

"I won't look, mister," Old Humphrey said.

"Close your eyes," Max repeated softly.

The grimy, wrinkled eyelids dropped: like two shutters of an untenanted house.

Max slipped his gun from the shoulder holster, touched Old Humphrey's forehead lightly with the barrel, squeezed the trigger.

Half-way down the broad stairs, on the landing leading to the final flight of stairs, stood an old grandfather clock.

As Carol crept past it it gave off a loud whirring sound and began to chime.

For an instant she stood very still and watched herself run out of her body, down the stairs, whirl and run back into her body again. Then she realized it was only the old clock chiming and she leaned against the creaking banister-rail, sick with shock. She went on down the stairs towards the dark hall and the front door that led into the open.

She reached the hall, stood for a moment to listen.

Miss Lolly poured boiling water into a tea-pot. She put a cup and saucer, a bowl of sugar, a jug of milk on the tray.

Carol heard all this, knew exactly what Miss Lolly was doing. In a minute or so Miss Lolly would be coming out into the hall with the tray.

The hall door was ajar and the warmth of the sunbaked garden seeped through the opening, wound like an invisible ribbon around Carol's limbs.

She moved quickly and silently past the big oak hall-stand on which lay a dirty ten-dollar bill. There'll be money on the hall-stand, Miss Lolly had said. Carol picked up the note: it felt dry and brittle in her nervous fingers. She held it tightly, not quite believing it was real, and went on to the front door.

She opened the door, which creaked sharply, making the nerves in her body stiffen like pieces of wire. She looked back over her shoulder.

Miss Lolly was watching her from the kitchen door. She was crying. Tears ran down her gaunt face and sparkled like chips of ice in her beard. She held the tea-tray before her: the crockery rattled faintly because her hands were trembling.

They stared at each other, sympathy and terror bridging the gulf between them, then Carol ran out on to the verandah, closed the front door behind her, shutting off the sight of Miss Lolly's triumphant but agonized expression.

Close by the rasp of a saw biting into hard wood jarred the peaceful stillness. Carol paused to reconnoitre the ground. There was an overgrown path that led from the house down to a white-wood gate. Beyond the gate was the by-road, sandy and rutty, that led into the jungle of cypress and brier. It's a long walk to the main road, Miss Lolly had said.

The sound of the saw abruptly ceased: a silence full of hot suns.h.i.+ne fell over the old plantation house. Carol walked swiftly, and carefully across the verandah to the head of the four rotten wooden steps that led to the path. There she paused again to listen.

She did not hear Sherill come round the side of the house. His naked feet made no sound in the soft, hot sand. She first became aware of him when he arrived at the bottom of the stoop and was staring at her with angry, frightened eyes as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

Beyond his tall, upright figure lay the by-road and freedom.

"Get back to your room," he said harshly.

Carol looked quickly to right and left. The rail of the verandah, rotten as it was, fenced her in. It was impossible to retreat: only the dark hall yawned behind her, but it offered no escape. Escape lay ahead, beyond this angry, frightened man who barred her path.

"Don't touch me," she said fiercely. "I'm going . . . you can't stop me . . ."

"You're not," Sherill send. "Go back to your room. I don't want to hurt you . . . but I shall if you don't go back."

The thought of further pain made Carol cringe, but she didn't move, and when Sherill began a cautious approach she still did not move.

"Get back," he said, reached out and caught her arm.