Джеймс Чейз - The Flesh of the Orchid

He got out of bed, went to the window. There was no one on the verandah. He could see Spot down by the outhouses. The dog was looking towards the cabin, but it made no sound.

Steve shook his head, yawned, turned back to bed.

‘Guess I was dreaming,’ he thought, then something prompted him to go over to Roy’s bed: it was empty. Instantly he thought of Carol, ran to the door.

A wild, agonized scream rang through the cabin. There was a moment’s silence, then a sobbing, croaking voice yelled: ‘Steve! Quick! Help me!’

The hair on Steve’s neck bristled at the sound of Roy’s voice, and he flung open the door, stepped into the passage.

Roy was coming towards him, bent double, his hands hiding his face. Blood ran between his fingers, dripped on to the floor.

‘What’s happened?’ Steve gasped, standing frozen.

‘It’s my eyes!’ Roy sobbed. ‘She’s blinded me! Help me! For God’s sake, do something!’

Steve caught hold of him.

‘What have you done to her?’ he cried, pushed the groaning man aside and ran into Carol’s room. The room was empty. He ran to the window and came to an abrupt stop.

Carol was standing on the top verandah step looking towards him. She was naked to the waist, and her eyes glowed like cat’s eyes in the moonlight.

He stood transfixed. He had never seen a wilder, more beautiful creature as the one he looked at now. Her red hair, gleaming like beaten bronze in the white light of the moon; the satin-white lustre of her skin, cold-looking against the dark shadows of the cabin wall; the curve of her breasts; her tense, dangerous attitude like a jungle cat, and the way she held her hands before her like two claws, startled him, and yet strangely excited him.

Then she turned and ran down the steps and across the yard.

‘Carol!’ Steve cried, starting forward. ‘Carol, come back!’

But she had already vanished into the pine wood. She had moved with incredible swiftness.

Not knowing what to do, Steve stood hesitating, then the sound of his brother’s groans made him return to the passage.

‘Pull yourself together,’ he said impatiently. ‘You can’t be so badly hurt.’

‘She’s blinded me, damn you!’ Roy screamed frantically, and took his hands from his eyes.

Steve stepped back, sick and cold.

Roy’s eyes swam in blood. Cruel long nail-marks ran down his forehead, across his eyelids, down his cheeks. He was on the point of collapse and sagged against the wall, moaning, his body shivering.

‘Save my eyes,’ he begged. ‘Don’t let me go blind. Don’t leave me, Steve. She’ll come back. She’s mad... a killer... look what she’s done to me.’

Steve took hold of him, half carried, half dragged him into the bedroom.

‘Take it easy,’ he said curtly as he laid the sobbing wreck on the bed. ‘I’ll fix you up. Just take it easy.’ He ran from the room for his medical chest, snatched up a kettle from the stove.

‘Don’t leave me!’ Roy wailed. ‘I can’t see! She’ll come back!’

‘All right, all right,’ Steve shouted from the kitchen, unnerved himself. He returned to the bedroom. ‘I’m here now. Let me bathe your eyes. I think it’s only because they’re bleeding so badly you can’t see.’

‘I’m blind! I know I’m blind,’ Roy groaned. ‘Stick by me, Steve. They’re after me... they’ll kill me if they ever find me. I’m helpless now. I can’t save myself.’

‘Who’re after you?’ Steve asked sharply as he poured the warm water into a bowl.

‘The Sullivans,’ Roy said, his hand groping vainly for Steve’s. ‘They mean nothing to you. No one knows them. They work secretly... professional killers. Little Bernie’s hired them to get me.’

‘They won’t get you here,’ Steve said shortly. ‘You’re safe here. Lie still. I’m going to bathe your eyes. It may hurt.’

‘Don’t touch me!’ Roy cried, cowering back. ‘I can’t stand any more pain.’

Steve waited.

‘What did you do to her?’ he asked when Roy had calmed down a little.

‘Nothing!’ Roy groaned. ‘She wanted me to come to her. She said so. She let me kiss her. Then I couldn’t get away from her. She’s strong. She had me round the neck. She bit my mouth. It was hell... her eyes were like lamps. I fought her off, and as I got away she slashed me. It was like a tiger striking. She’s mad... a wild beast.’

‘She was frightened,’ Steve said, chilled. ‘I warned you to leave her alone.’

‘If the Sullivans come now... what shall I do? Steve! You won’t let them kill me?’ Roy sat up, groped wildly under his pillow. ‘Here, take the gun. You must shoot at sight... you can’t mistake them...’

‘Take it easy,’ Steve said impatiently. ‘You’re safe here...’

‘You don’t know them. They’re professional killers. They never let up once they’re hired to kill. They go on and on. Little Bernie’s paid them well. They’ll find me. I know they’ll find me.’

‘But why?’ Steve demanded. ‘Why should they want to kill you?’

Roy caught hold of his coat.

‘Bernie and I pulled a big bank robbery. I skipped with the dough. Bernie had been cheating me, and I wanted to get even. Twenty thousand dollars, and I’ve salted it away, but Bernie went to the Sullivans. He knew they’d fix me, and they will!’

‘They won’t find you here,’ Steve repeated.

‘They’ll find me,’ Roy groaned. ‘Keep the gun handy. Shoot at sight... they’re like two black crows... that’s what they look like... two black crows...’

‘Lie down. I’m going to bathe this blood away,’ Steve said, forced his brother back on the pillow. ‘Lie still.’

Roy screamed when the wet cotton-wool touched his eyes.

Two black crows.

The description fitted the Sullivans. They were a sinister-looking couple in their black, tight-fitting overcoats, black slouch hats, black concertina-shaped trousers and black-pointed shoes. Knotted round each short thick throat was a black silk scarf.

A few years ago they had been the star act of a small travelling circus, and they had been billed as the famous Sullivan brothers. But they were not brothers: their real names were Max Geza and Frank Kurt. By profession they were knife-throwers and trick marksmen. The finale of their act was to throw phosphorus-painted knives at a girl who stood against a black velvet-covered board. The stage was in darkness and the audience could see only the flying knives, which gradually outlined the figure of the girl as the knives slammed into the board an inch from her shivering skin. It was a sensational act and might have gone on for years, only the Sullivans got bored with the circus and with the girl.

It was the girl really that made them want to break up the act. She was a nice little thing and willing enough, but she just didn’t understand the Sullivans’ technique after business hours; besides, she fell in love with a clown, and that added to her difficulties, too.

The Sullivans tried to get another girl, but for the money they paid they couldn’t find a girl willing to risk the flying knives and also be accommodating after business hours. So they got fed up with the circus and told the manager they wanted to quit, but the manager refused to release them from their contract. Their act, he reckoned, kept the show together — and it did.

So one night Max solved all their problems by throwing a knife with deliberate aim and it pinned the girl through her throat to the board, and that finished the act, got rid of the girl and broke the contract. Max couldn’t understand why he hadn’t thought of the solution, which was simple enough, before.

It was Max’s idea for them to become professional killers. Death interested him. Taking human life seemed to him to be God-like, and he liked to regard himself as a man set above and apart from other men. Besides, he wanted big money; he was tired of the peanut stuff they were making in the circus.