James Chase - No Orchids for Miss Blandish

“All right, all right,” Blandish said impatiently. “You’ve made your point. I’ll wait for her at home.” He started for the door, paused and went on, “I understand it was you who found the clue that started the hunt for this man. I’m not forgetting our bargain. When she is returned, you’ll get your money. I’ll be waiting at my house. Arrange to keep me informed how the hunt is going and when she is found.”

“I’ll fix that,” Fenner said.

Blandish nodded and went out.

Fenner shook his head, then waiting a few seconds to allow Blandish time to get clear, he returned to the Operations room.

He told Brennan what he had said to Blandish and the Chief nodded.

“You’re right,” he said. “We’ve just had another lead on this punk.” He put his finger on the map. “Ten minutes ago he was here with the girl. He badly wounded a State trooper who spotted the girl and even spoke to her. They got away but we know which way they are heading. We’ve tightened the cordon. We’ve called on the Army to help. It can’t be long now. I’ve got the local radio and television network to interrupt their programs warning everyone in the district to look out for the car.”

Fenner sat on the edge of the desk. He was surprised that the prospects of making thirty thousand dollars wasn’t giving him the bang it should. He kept thinking of the Blandish girl and what she had suffered at the hands of Grisson.

“You’ve got a sweet job on your hands when you do finally corner this rat,” he said. “As she’ll be with him, you won’t be able to blast him out.”

“I’ll worry my head about that when we have cornered him,” Brennan said. He accepted a cup of coffee from a police officer.

“Are you still holding Anna Borg?” Fenner asked, taking a cup of coffee from the tray.

“Only until I’ve got Grisson, then I’m turning her loose. We’ve got nothing on her,” Brennan said. “We sure have made a clean sweep of the Grisson gang. Phew! That old woman! I’ll remember her as long as I live. I thought we’d never cut her down. Even with five slugs in her, she kept on shooting until the goddamn gun was empty. I’m glad Slim isn’t like her. It’s my bet once the pressure’s on, he’ll crack. I’m relying on that.”

Fenner sat down and put his feet up on the desk. “That girl haunts me,” he said, frowning. “She’s had a hell of a break. Imagine being locked up with that degenerate for four months.”

“Yeah.” Brennan finished his coffee. “But the drug they were giving her would turn her into a zombie. I’m more sorry for her right now. The effects of the drug must be wearing off. After an experience like this, I doubt if she’ll ever be a hundred percent normal.”

“Her old man thinks the same,” Fenner said. “I could tell by the way he spoke. She’d be better off dead.”

The two men continued to talk idly against the background of activity. Time passed. At twenty minutes past twelve, one of the police officers who had been listening to a continuous stream of information coming in over the short wave radio, suddenly scribbled on a pad and passed the message to Brennan.

“They’ve found Grisson’s car: he’s ditched it,” Brennan said. “They found it at Pine Hill. Looks like he’s taken to the woods.” He bent over the map and Fenner, snapping upright, joined him. They studied the map. “Yeah: woods all around here and a couple of farms.” He turned to one of his men. “See if you can find out if these two farms are on the telephone. If they are, call them and warn them Grisson might be heading their way.”

The police officer grabbed a telephone and dialed information.

After some delay, he reported, “Waite’s farm isn’t on the telephone: that’s the distant one. Hammond’s farm is.”

“Call Hammond and warn him.”

“Can’t we go out there now?” Fenner asked. “This sitting around is giving me the ants.”

“I have close to two hundred men out there,” Brennan said. “What good would we do? As soon as I know where he is holed up — then we’ll go.”

But it wasn’t until five o’clock in the morning as the sun was coming up that the call they were waiting for came through.

The police officer said, “Grisson has been located at Waite’s farm, sir,” he said, speaking rapidly. “Waite spotted Grisson leaving one of the barns for water ten minutes ago. There’s no doubt it’s Grisson.”

“How about the girl?” Brennan asked, coming over. “Here — give me the phone.” He took the receiver. “Chief Brennan here. Let’s have it.”

“Sergeant Donaghue this end,” a voice returned. “No sign of the girl yet, sir. We have the farm completely surrounded. He can’t break out. Do we move in and get him?”

“You wait for me,” Brennan said. “Kill him if he tries to break out, but otherwise, keep out of sight and wait for me. I’ll be with you in under an hour.” He slammed down the receiver, saying to the police officer, “Alert that helicopter. I’m on my way.” He glanced at Fenner. “Do you want to come with me?”

“I’d like to see you try to stop me,” Fenner said and he was first out of the room.

Slim woke with a start. His brain became instantly alert. His gun jumped into his hand as he half sat up, blinking in a pale beam of sunlight coming through one of the many chinks in the barn walls. For some moments he couldn’t imagine where he was, then he remembered the long walk in the darkness through the woods, seeing the lights of the farmhouse, entering the barn, too weary to go further. He had had trouble in forcing Miss Blandish into the barn. She had been in such an exhausted state she could scarcely walk. He had dragged her up in the loft and pushed her down on the straw covered floor, then he had closed the trap door and had dragged straw across it.

It had been some time before he had fallen asleep. Now as he half sat up, his bones aching from the hard floor, he felt hungry and thirsty. He looked at his watch: it was close to five o’clock. Maybe they would have to stay up in the loft all day. They would have to have water. He looked over at where Miss Blandish lay sleeping, then he pulled aside the straw, opened the trap door and slid quickly down the ladder into the main part of the barn. He went out the door, gun in hand and studied the farmhouse some fifty yards away.

There was no sign of life. Soiled net curtains shielded all the windows. He stood watching for several minutes, then satisfied there was no one up, he moved cautiously into the open.

Old man Waite and his two sons who had been watching from behind the net curtains all night, stiffened at the sight of the tall thin figure in the shabby black suit who came out of the barn, gun in hand.

“That’s him,” Waite said. “Call the police, Harry. Hurry it up!”

Slim made for the water tank, bucket in hand. He dipped the bucket into the tank, then turning, he hurried back to the barn, unaware that the alarm had gone out and that police cars, packed with armed men, were already on the move towards the isolated farm.

He carried the bucket up into the loft, replaced the trap and set the bucket down. He wished he had been able to get food. He was hungry. He drank some of the water. Then he lay down.

Staring up at the roof of the barn, he tried to make up his mind what he was to do. He was regretting that he had ditched the car, but at the time it seemed the sensible thing to do. Everyone would be on the lookout for the Buick by now. But the long five mile walk through the woods now underlined the fact that he must have a car. Maybe there would, be a car on the farm he could take. He wondered how many people lived in the farmhouse. Maybe, later, they would go out into the fields and give him a chance to steal the car. He closed his eyes. An hour crawled by, and as the minutes passed, the tiny spot of panic in his mind gradually grew. He kept wondering what it would be like to die. What would happen to him when he was dead? This was something he couldn’t understand. He couldn’t believe he just snuffed out: something must happen to him, he thought, but what?