James Chase - Lay Her Among the Lilies

I said very distinctly and slowly, “It isn’t odd because Malloy happens to be my name.”

“I see.” He reached for the book and began to flip over the pages. “Then if you are not Edmund Seabright why are you here?”

“It’s a long story,” I said, and it seemed to me to be suddenly tremendously important to make this blond man believe me. If he didn’t, who else would? “I am a sort of private investigator and I am engaged on a case. I have found out Dr. Salzer is responsible for the murder of Eudora Drew. It’s too involved to go into now, but because of what I have found out I have been kidnapped.” I don’t know how I got those last words out. It sounded terrible, but to save my life I couldn’t have put it any better. A little spark of panic began to well up inside me as I saw the look of polite incredulity on Hopper’s face.

“Dr. Salzer?” he said, and gave his charming smile. “A murder? That’s interesting. And you are some sort of detective? Is that right?”

“Now, look,” I said, struggling up in bed. “I know what you are thinking. You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“Of course not, Mr. Seabright,” he said gently. “I don’t think anything of the kind. I know you aren’t very well, but not crazy: definitely and certainly not.”

I licked my dry lips.

“You’re sure about that?”

“Of course.”

But I saw by the amused sly expression in the deep-set eyes that he was lying.

Hopper told me that around nine o’clock Bland would come in to turn out the light.

“In about five minutes,” he said, consulting his wrist-watch. “Bland lets me have this watch because I give him a hundred cigarettes a week. My father sends them in to me, and, of course, I am not allowed to smoke. They seem to think I would set fire to the bed.” He laughed, showing small, even, white teeth. “Ridiculous, of course, but I suppose they mean well.”

Under cover of the sheet I had been trying to work my hand out of the handcuff. If I could once get free, I told myself, nothing, not even a machine-gun, would stop me getting out of this place. But the cuff was shaped to my wrist, and, short of cutting off my hand or having the key, there was no way out of it.

“What day is it?” I asked suddenly.

Hopper opened a drawer in the night table and consulted a diary.

“It’s the 29th of July. Don’t you keep a diary? I do. Tomorrow is an anniversary. I have been here three years.”

But I wasn’t listening. I had to think long and carefully before I remembered that it had been the 24th of July when Maureen had taken me to her retreat. Five days! Paula and Kerman would be searching for me. Would they think to look here? Even if they thought I was here, how could they get at me? Salzer had Brandon’s protection, and Brandon wouldn’t pay attention to anything Kerman said.

If Sherrill—and I was sure the man in the scarlet sweatshirt had been Sherrill—hadn’t been absolutely sure that no one could get at me here, wouldn’t he have put a slug through my head and chucked me into the sea? Why hadn’t he done that, anyway? Perhaps he stopped at murder. Stevens hadn’t been murdered. His death had been an accident. But Salzer didn’t stop at murder; unless Dwan had exceeded his orders. It might even he better, I thought, to be murdered than left locked up in a padded cell for the rest of my days.

Pull yourself together, Malloy, I said to myself. Snap out of it! All right, you have been bashed on the head and by the woolly feeling behind your eyes and in your mouth you have had a cart-load of drug pushed into you, but that’s no excuse to go off at half-cock now. Paula and Kerman will get you out of this. Hang on, and take it easy until they do.

The door opened suddenly and silently, and a short, dark man came in. He had a pair of shoulders you would expect to find on a gorilla, and his round red face was freckled and creased in a fixed, humourless grin. He was dressed in a white lap-over short coat, white trousers and white, rubber-soled shoes. He carried a tray covered with a towel, and he moved as silently and as lightly as a feather settling on the floor.

“Hello, Hoppie,” he said, putting the tray on a table by the door. “Beddy-byes now. How are you? Did you get any dope out of that book?”

Hopper waved his hand towards my bed.

“Mr. Seabright is with us now,” he said.

Bland—for this must be Bland—came to the foot of my bed and stared at me. The smile was still there: a little wider if anything. The greenish eyes were as hard and as cold and as sharp as ice-chips.

“Hello, baby,” he said. He had a curious whispering voice; hoarse and secretive, as if something was wrong with his larynx. “I’m Bland. I’m going to look after you.”

I found myself starting to clutch hold of the sheet, but I stopped that. Take it easy, I told myself. Relax. Don’t rush things.

“Hello,” I said, and my voice sounded as tight as a piano wire. “You don’t have to look after me. Where’s Salzer? I want to talk to him.”

“Doctor Salzer, baby,” Bland said reprovingly. “Don’t be disrespectful.” He gave Hopper a long, slow wink. “You’ll see him tomorrow.”

“I want to see him now,” I said steadily.

“Tomorrow, baby. The Doc has to have a little time off. If there’s anything you want, you tell me. I’m boss of this floor. What I say goes.”

“I want Salzer,” I said, trying to keep my voice under control.

“Tomorrow, baby. Now, settle down. I gotta little shot for you, and then you’ll sleep.”

“He thinks he’s a detective,” Hopper said, suddenly scowling. “He says Dr. Salzer has murdered someone.”

“Very disrespectful, but what does it matter?” Bland said, taking a hypodermic syringe from its case.

“But it does matter. That’s hallucinations,” Hopper said crossly. “It says so in this book. I don’t see why I should have him in with me. I don’t like it. He may be dangerous.”

Bland gave a short barking laugh.

“That’s funny, coming from you. Button up, baby; I gotta lot to do.” He screwed in the needle and filled the syringe with colourless liquid.

“I shall complain to Dr. Salzer,” Hopper said. “My father wouldn’t like it.”

“Nuts to your father, and double nuts to you,” Bland said impatiently. He came over to me. “All right, let’s have your arm: the right one.”

I sat up abruptly.

“You don’t stick that in me,” I said.

“Don’t be that way, baby. It won’t get you anywhere,” Bland said, his fixed grin widening. “Lie down, and take it easy.”

“Not in me you don’t,” I said.

He caught hold of my wrist in his right hand. His short thick fingers clamped into my flesh like a vice.

“If you want it the hard way,” he said, his red. freckled face close to mine, “it’s okay with me.”

I exerted my muscles in a quick twist, hoping to break his hold, but instead I nearly broke my arm. I heaved forward, trying to hit him in the chest with my shoulder, but that didn’t work either.

He retained his grip, grinning at me, waiting to see what else I would do. I didn’t keep him waiting long, and tried to kick my legs free of the sheet, but that wasn’t possible. The sheet was as tough as canvas, and had been tucked in so tightly there was no shifting it.

“Finished, baby?” he asked, almost cheerfully. “I’m going to stick the needle in now, and if you struggle it’ll break off in you, so watch your step.”

I gritted my teeth and heaved away from him, pulling him off-balance, so he stumbled. He recovered immediately, and his grin vanished.

“So you think you’re strong, do you?” he whispered. “Okay, baby, let’s see how strong you are.”