Джеймс Чейз - The Flesh of the Orchid

‘I guess so,’ the barman said, surprised. These two didn’t look like fur men.

They nodded, turned to the door, turned back again.

‘Is this fella up there alone?’ Max asked softly.

‘You mean does he run the farm alone? Sure, but there’s a guy staying with him now. I saw them go through a week ago.’

The Sullivans’ faces were wooden.

‘So long,’ Frank said, and together they walked out of the bar to the Packard Clipper.

Phil Magarth, lounging against a tree, watched them drive away. He pulled his long nose thoughtfully, tilted his hat further to the back of his head and wandered into the bar they had just left.

‘Hi, Tom,’ he said, dragging up a stool and folding himself down on it wearily. ‘Let’s start a famine in whisky.’

‘Hello, Mr. Magarth,’ the barman said, grinning. ‘Any more news of the nut?’

‘Not a sound,’ Magarth returned, helping himself from the black bottle the barman had set before him.

‘I was telling those two guys about your story. Did you see them? Two guys in black.’

‘Yeah.’

The barman hesitated, scratched his head.

‘Nasty-looking couple; said they were ha furs.’

‘Did they?’ Magarth looked interested. ‘Don’t look like fur men, do they? I’ve seen ’em before. In fact I’ve seen them three times over a period of a couple of years, and each time a guy died suddenly and violently. Make anything of that?’

The barman stared at him.

‘What do you mean, Mr. Magarth?’

‘I don’t know,’ Magarth said truthfully. ‘Only you wouldn’t forget a couple of guys like those two, would you? Ever heard of the Sullivan brothers?’

‘I guess not.’

‘Maybe they don’t exist, but there’s a story going round that the Sullivans are professional killers. They call on a guy anywhere in the country and he turns his toes up quick. I wonder if those two are the Sullivans.’ He was now talking his thoughts aloud. ‘What did they want?’

‘They were asking for Steve Larson,’ the barman said, worried. ‘Asked if he was alone.’

‘The fox farmer?’ Magarth asked. ‘Up on Blue Mountain Summit?’

‘Yeah, that’s the fella. Nice guy. Buys his whisky from me. I see him once a month. Saw him a week ago, but he didn’t look in. He was going through with another guy.’

‘He was? And these two were asking for him?’

The barman nodded.

‘You don’t think—’

‘I never think,’ Magarth said. ‘I find out; and when I’ve found out I sit at my typewriter and hammer out a lot of crap that you read at breakfast. Hell of a life, isn’t it?’ He turned to the door, turned back again. ‘Maybe you don’t read,’ added, ‘Keep this under your bonnet, Tom. No talk,’ and left the bar quickly.

Roy’s eyelids were so swollen that it was impossible to tell yet whether or not serious damage had been done. Steve had stopped the bleeding, and working quickly he made his brother as comfortable as he could.

‘I’m going after Carol,’ he said when he had finished. ‘I can’t—’

But Roy’s wail of protest cut him short.

‘No!’ Roy cried, starting up. ‘You can’t leave me like this. She may be hiding out there, waiting for you to come after her. That’s what she wants... she wants to finish me!’

‘Oh, shut up!’ Steve exclaimed savagely. ‘I’m going; so stop whining.’

‘Don’t be a fool, Steve,’ Roy gasped, reached out blindly. ‘She’s dangerous... she’ll kill you... claw you up the way she clawed me.’

Steve looked out into the moonlit night. He didn’t want to go out there in the dark, but he couldn’t let Carol roam around without making an effort to find her. He thought of the truck-driver’s lacerated eyes, remembered the sly animal cunning he had seen in Carol’s face as she paced the verandah the previous night, looked down at the sobbing wreck who whined not to be left alone, and a chill ran through him. Suppose she was dangerous... a lunatic? Suppose that bang on the head had done something to her? But that wasn’t possible. You were born a lunatic. Bangs on the head didn’t make you homicidal. She had been scared silly. That was the explanation. First the truck-driver had tried to assault her; then Roy. Well, they had got what was coming to them. She wouldn’t do that to him. So long as he didn’t frighten her it’d be all right.

‘I’m going, Roy,’ Steve said, and shoved the gun into his brother’s hand. ‘Hang on to that. If she does comes back, fire into the ceiling. I’m not going far.’

He struggled into his clothes, deaf to Roy’s protests.

‘You won’t come back,’ Roy moaned. ‘I know you won’t. She’ll lie in wait for you. You don’t know how strong she is. She’ll kill you, Steve, and then what’ll happen to me? I’m helpless! I can’t see!’ His voice rose and he sat up in bed. ‘I’m blind! Stay with me, Steve! Don’t leave me!’

‘Will you shut up?’ Steve exclaimed, exasperated. ‘You asked for it and you damn well got it. So stop squealing.’

He snatched up his electric torch, went out into the yard. All was quiet. The moon rode high above the pine trees, casting deep shadows.

There was no sign of Spot, and Steve felt unpleasantly alone. He walked down to the lake, stood at the water’s edge, listening, his eyes trying to pierce the thick darkness of the woods. ‘That’s the way she went,’ he thought uneasily. Was she hiding there, watching him?

He began to walk along the path by the lake. A sudden flurry in a near-by tree brought him to an abrupt stop. His heart began to thud against his ribs. A bird crashed through the branches of the pines, flew away across the lake. Steve drew in a sharp breath. He hadn’t realized how strung up he was.

Ahead the path curved away from the lake and wound into the wood. It was dark there and he stopped again, hesitating to leave the moonlit path and enter the blackness that yawned before him.

‘Carol!’ he called sharply. ‘It’s Steve. Where are you, Carol?’

The faint echo of his voice floated across the lake.

Where are you, Carol?

It had a spooky sound, like a voice without a body, jeering at him.

He moved on and darkness closed in on him. He could see nothing now and he turned on his electric torch. The powerful beam lit up the narrow path. Overhead the branches of the pines seemed to be reaching down, threatening him. He kept on, pausing every now and then to listen. He became suddenly aware that he was not alone, that he was being watched, and turning quickly, he flashed the beam of the torch around, lighting up bushes and trees, but he could see no one.

‘Are you there, Carol?’ he called. His voice was a little shaky, ‘It’s Steve. I want you, Carol.’

Behind him a shadowy figure rose out of the bushes, crept silently upon him.

In front of him a dead branch snapped loudly. He swung the beam of his torch in that direction, caught his breath sharply. A man stood in the bright light of the torch: a man dressed in black; a heavy .45 revolver in his hand.

‘Reach up, Larson,’ Max said softly.

Two hands patted his pockets from behind. He glanced round, a chill crawling up his spine, saw a second man in black: Frank.

‘The two black crows: the Sullivans!’ Steve thought, and his mouth went dry.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, keeping his voice steady with an effort.

‘Button up,’ Max said, shoving the barrel of the .45 into Steve’s ribs. ‘We’ll do the talking. Who’s Carol? And what are you doing out here?’

‘She’s a friend, staying with me,’ Steve said shortly. ‘I was looking for her.’

Max and Frank exchanged glances.

‘Roy up at the cabin?’ Max asked softly.