The Flesh of The Orchid (22 page)

Kamp closed his eyes, groaned.

“She’ll boil,” he muttered feverishly. “She’ll boil her head off.”

“Then let her boil,” Lofty returned, the gas pedal flat on the boards. “Git on, you big lump of lazy iron,” he bawled, sitting forward. “Gimme a bit of speed!”

*     *     *

Carol’s legs suddenly refused to support her. She sank limply on the bed, the darkness in the room stifling her. Then something extraordinary seemed to happen inside her head. Her brain seemed to expand and contract as if it were breathing, and she gripped her temples between her hands. She was now scarcely aware that Steve had left her and was groping his way across the room to the door. He walked slowly; every step he made a tremendous effort, moving as if he were breasting a gale.

“Steve . . .” Carol whimpered. “Don’t leave me.”

But he had reached the door now, fumbled at the lock, opened it.

The Sullivans were waiting just outside. The white hard light of Max’s torch centred on Steve’s chest. For a moment nothing happened, no one moved, then Steve stiffened, put up his hands in a fighting stance: a helpless gesture of defiance.

“Here it is, Larson,” Max said softly.

A red, spiteful flash lit up the dark room; then another and another. Gunfire rattled the windows.

Steve took a step forward, hit out blindly, began to fall. Max fired again.

The crack of the gun synchronized with the sudden loud
snap!
that exploded inside Carol’s head.

For a split second everything that moved in the room— Steve falling, Max’s gun hand, Frank’s head as it flinched back, the wavering light of the flashlight—came to a sudden standstill. For that split second the scene looked like a photograph, then movement began again, but to Carol it was no longer the same. It was out of focus, dim-edged, almost soundless.

Her fear slid out of her like a dropping cloak. She stood up, moved along the wall, glided towards the Sullivans as they bent over Steve.

Max’s experienced hand touched Steve’s chest.

“O.K.,” he said, straightened. “Let’s get out of here.”

Frank gave a little shiver.

“This is our last job. Max,” he said. “I quit after this.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Max repeated, turned to the door.

Outside the night was made hideous by a roaring car engine, and a squealing of brakes as Lofty pulled up before the house.

“Back way,” Max said, moved swiftly down the corridor.

As Frank followed him an invisible hand came out of the darkness and gripped his arm. For one ghastly moment he thought Larson had come alive again, and he turned, his mouth drying with horror.

There was nothing to see except a black wall of darkness, but he could hear someone breathing close to him, and fingers like talons pinched his arm muscles.

“Max!” he cried shrilly, lunged forward, his fist sweeping up viciously, striking empty air, throwing him off balance.

Cold groping fingers passed across his face, swiftly and lightly like a draught of air. So light was the touch it was as if a cobweb had settled over his features, and he started back, terror paralysing him.

“Come on,” Max called impatiently from the head of the stairs.

“There’s someone here . . .” Frank quavered, groped into the darkness.

“Come on, you fool!” Max said sharply, then stiffened as Frank suddenly gave a blood-curdling scream.

Even Max’s iron nerves flinched at the sound, and he stood for a moment in dread. Something brushed past him and instinctively he jumped back. Hooked fingers grazed his neck, and he fired blindly: the crash of the gun reverberated through the house, and he heard footsteps running lightly down the stairs. He fired shot after shot, blindly and with growing panic. In the hall gunfire cracked in reply as Kamp and Lofty tumbled through the front doorway.

Max wheeled, crashed into Frank, caught hold of him as he began to scream again. Without hesitation, Max shortened his grip on his gun, hit Frank across the face with the barrel, stooped, slung him across his shoulder, darted along the passage.

He reached a window, lowered Frank to the sloping roof, scrambled through the window himself.

Frank lay on the tiles, only half conscious.

“I’m blind!” he moaned. “My eyes . . .  she got my eyes . . . !”

CHAPTER VI

ON a dull, airless afternoon, a month after the death of Steve Larson, a battered Cadillac swept up the drive and came to rest before the front door of the house on Grass Hill.

Veda, who had been watching from a window for the past half-hour, came quickly out on to the terrace and ran to meet Magarth as he climbed from the car.

“Hello, honey,” he said, pulled her to him and kissed her. “I’ve got it all fixed up for her, and it’s been some job.” He linked his arm through hers and walked with her into the house. “How has she been?”

“Just the same,” Veda returned unhappily. “You’d never believe it was the same girl, Phil. She’s grown so hard and strange. She rather frightens me.”

“That’s bad. Does she still sit around brooding and doing nothing?” Magarth asked, taking off his hat and coat and following Veda into the sitting-room.

“Yes, and I can’t interest her in anything. I tried to keep the newspapers from her, but she managed to get hold of them, so she knows now about herself. It’s awful, Phil. After she read the papers she locked herself in her room, and I heard her pacing up and down for hours. I’ve tried to persuade her to confide in me, but she so obviously wants to be left alone that I haven’t the heart to worry her.”

“She was bound to find out sooner or later, but it’s bad she had to find out through the papers. They didn’t pull any punches,” Magarth said, frowning. “Well, I’ve fixed everything up for her now. The money’s hers. She’ll have about four million bucks, which isn’t so bad. Hartman has been helping himself, but we were in time to save the bulk of it.”

“Any news of him?”

“He’s skipped. He knew the game was up when we began the investigation. The Federal agents are after him, but I bet he’s out of the country by now. Well, I’d better go up and see her.”

“Now she has her freedom and her money I have a feeling she plans to leave us,” Veda said. “I do hope she won’t go just yet. Will you try to persuade her to stay a little longer? She’s not fit to be on her own, and she has no friends and nowhere to go. Do be firm with her, Phil.”

“I’ll do my best, but I have no hold on her. She’s free to do what she likes now, you know.”

“Well, do try. It’d worry me to death to think of her on her own with all that money and no one to advise her.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Magarth returned. “Has Dr. Kober seen her?”

“Only for a few minutes. He’s uneasy about her and suspects bone pressure after that truck accident, but she refused to be examined. Dr. Travers has also been here, but I wouldn’t let him see her. He says he won’t be responsible for what may happen if she is allowed to be free. I told him I didn’t believe she’s dangerous. But I do think she’s become a little queer, Phil. She’s not a bit like she was when we first saw her.”

“I’ll go up.”

He found Carol alone in her big, restful room. She was sitting by the window, and she didn’t turn her head as he came in. There was a cold stillness about her that made Magarth uneasy. He pulled up a chair near her, sat down and said with forced brightness: “I have good news for you, Carol. You’re a rich young woman now.”

At the sound of his voice she gave a little start, turned. Her large green eyes stared mechanically at him.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said in a flat, hard voice. “Did you say good news?”

Magarth gave her a quick searching glance. The changeless stillness on her white face and the icy blankness in her eyes perplexed and worried him.

“Yes, very good news. The money is now in your name. I have all the papers with me. Would you like to go through them with me?”

She shook her head.

“Oh, no,” she said emphatically, paused, then went on: “You say I’m rich? How much is there?”

“Four million dollars. It is a lot of money.”

Her mouth tightened.

“Yes,” she said, laced her slim fingers and stared out of the window. There was a bitter, brooding look in her eyes now, and she remained so still and silent that Magarth said quietly: “Are you pleased?”

“I’ve been reading about myself in the papers,” she said abruptly. “It’s not pretty reading.”

“Now, look, Carol, you mustn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers . . .” he began, but she silenced him with a movement of her hand.

“I’ve learned things about myself,” she said, still staring out of the window. “I am insane. That was news to me. I am also the daughter of a homicidal degenerate who caused the death of my mother. I have been in an asylum for three years, and if it wasn’t for the law of this State I’d be there now.” She suddenly clenched her hands. “I’m dangerous. They call me the homicidal redhead. They write of my love for Steve, and say that, if he had lived, I could never have married him. They describe that as a lunatic’s tragic love affair—”

She broke off, bit down on her lip and the knuckles of her hands showed white.

“Please, Carol,” Magarth said. “Don’t torture yourself like this.”

“But you tell me you have good news . . . that I’m worth four million dollars, and you ask me if I’m pleased. Yes, I am; very, very pleased,” and she laughed, a cold bitter laugh that sent a chill up Magarth’s spine.

“You mustn’t go on like this,” he said firmly. “It’ll get you nowhere. Veda and I want to help you—”

She turned, caught hold of his wrist.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll do something evil to you?” she demanded. “They say I am dangerous . . . like my father. Do you know what they say of my father? It’s here in the paper. I’ll read it to you.” She picked up a creased and badly folded newspaper that was lying on the floor by her side. “This is what they say:

“Slim Grisson was a killer: born a mental degenerate, his love of cruelty got him into trouble at an early age. His schoolmaster caught him cutting up a live kitten with a pair of rusty scissors, and he was expelled from school. When he was fifteen he abducted a little girl, who was found a week later half crazed with terror. She had been a victim of a particularly brutal assault. But Grisson was never caught, for his mother, the notorious Ma Grisson, smuggled him out of the town.

“Ma Grisson built her son into a gangster. At first he made mistakes and drifted in and out of prison on short sentences, but Ma Grisson would wait patiently until he was free and then continue her coaching. He learned not to make mistakes and got in with a powerful gang, working bank hold-ups. He climbed slowly into the saddle of leadership by the simple method of killing anyone who opposed him, until the gang finally settled down and accepted him as their leader. There has never been in the history of American crime a more vicious, more deadly, more degenerate criminal than Slim Grisson—”

“Stop,” Magarth said sharply. “I don’t want to listen to any more of that. Carol, do be sensible. Where is all this getting you?”

She dropped the newspaper with a little shudder.

“And he was my father. . . .  I have his blood in my veins. You talk about helping me. How can you help me? How can anyone help me with a heritage like that?” She got to her feet and began to pace up and down. “No . . . please don’t say anything. I know you mean to be kind. I’m very grateful to you both. But now . . .” She paused, looked at him from under her eyelids. There was a cold menace in her stillness that startled Magarth. “Now I must be alone. Perhaps I am dangerous . . . as my father was. Do you think I want to endanger the lives of people like you and Veda?”

“But this is nonsense, Carol,” Magarth said sharply. “You have been with us for more than a month, and nothing has happened. It only makes things worse if you—”

“I have made up my mind,” Carol said, interrupting him. “I leave here tomorrow. But before I go there are things I want you to do.”

“But you mustn’t go . . . not yet, anyway,” Magarth protested. “You’re still suffering from shock. . . .”

She made a quick, angry gesture of impatience and the right side of her mouth began to twitch.

“I have made my plans and no one will stop me,” she said, a curious grating note in her voice. “For a month I have sat here making plans. I would have gone sooner if I had money. Now I am ready to go.”

Magarth saw it was useless to argue with her. She was in an implacable mood, and, looking at her, he realized that Dr. Travers had some foundation when he said she was dangerous.

“But where are you going?” he asked. “You have no friends, except Veda and I. You have no home. You can’t go off into the blue, you know.”

Again she made the angry, impatient gesture.

“We are wasting time. Will you take over my affairs? I know nothing about money and I don’t want to know anything about it. I have talked with the lawyer. He tells me I should appoint someone to look after my investments and to represent me. My grandfather had a number of business activities that have come to me. Will you represent me?”

Magarth was startled.

“I’ll gladly do what I can,” he said, “but I have my other work “

“You will be well paid. I have made all the arrangements with the lawyer,” she went on in the same cold, impersonal voice. “You can give up your newspaper work. You and Veda can marry. You want to marry her, don’t you?”

“I guess so,” Magarth said, ran his fingers through his hair. The turn of the conversation embarrassed him.

“Then you will see my lawyer? You’ll discuss it with him?”

He hesitated a moment, then nodded.

“All right,” he said, added, “but what do you intend to do?”

“When can I have some money?” she asked abruptly, ignoring his question.

“As soon as you like . . . now, if you want it.”

“Yes, now. I want two thousand dollars, and I want you to arrange that I can draw cash anywhere in the country at a moment’s notice. I want you to buy me a car and have it here by tomorrow morning. Go and see the lawyer and bring me the necessary papers to sign so you can take over my affairs immediately. I wish to leave here tomorrow morning.”