Джеймс Чейз - The Flesh of the Orchid

‘Open this door,’ Carol said, her face like a small lead-coloured mask.

‘It’s all right,’ the woman said. ‘Why don’t you come in and sit down? I’ll make you a cup of coffee...’

Carol ran down the passage, past the woman, wrenched at the handle of another door that she thought might open on to the back garden. That too was locked.

Fleming had joined his wife and was standing just behind her. The yellow clot in his eye seemed to beseech her to be quiet and calm.

Trapped in the narrow passage, between the two doors, Carol paused, her brain refusing to function.

‘You see?’ the woman said gently. ‘You can’t get away. Your friends are coming. There’s nothing you can do.’

Then Carol saw another door; a small door half-hidden by a curtain, a yard or so from where she was standing.

Without taking her eyes from the two in the doorway, she edged towards the door, then snatched at the handle. The door opened. At the same moment the woman darted forward.

Carol cried out, stepped back through the open doorway, threw up her hands to ward the woman off. The woman pushed her, and the ground seemed to give way under her feet and she felt herself falling.

Sheriff Kamp lay flat on his back in his small truckle bed. His low, rasping snores vibrated round the room. He didn’t hear the shrill ring of the telephone-bell in the main office of the county jail, nor did he hear his deputy, George Staum, cursing as he levered himself out of his desk chair.

But a minute or so later the door crashed open and Staum was shaking the Sheriff awake.

‘Hey, hey, hey,’ Kamp growled, flinging off Staum’s hand. ‘Can’t you let a man sleep?’

‘They’ve found her!’ Staum said excitedly. His round fat face hung over Kamp like a Dutch cheese. ‘They’ve got her!’ He was so excited that he couldn’t get out his words.

‘Got her? Got who?’ Kamp demanded, still confused with sleep, then he started up, grabbed hold of Staum. ‘You mean — her? Who’s got her?’

‘Doc Fleming... Mrs. Fleming’s just ’phoned...’

‘Hell!’ Kamp struggled into his trousers. ‘Fleming! That old punk! Five thousand bucks! It would be him. Never did a day’s work in his life and he has to find her.’

‘Mrs. Fleming says to be quick,’ Staum spluttered, his eyes popping. ‘She’s scared something will happen.’

‘Can’t be quicker,’ Kamp growled, slipping his heavy revolver belt round his waist. ‘Get Hartman on the ’phone. Get the Press. I’m going to get something out of this! Fleming! My stars! I bet it fell into his lap.’

Staum ran into the office.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ he bawled over his shoulder.

‘Follow on. Get Hartman and the Press first, then come on as fast as you can. I want a cameraman there. If I don’t get that five thousand I’m going to have my picture in all the papers,’ Kamp said, grabbed up his hat, ran from the room.

Simon Hartman couldn’t sleep. He sat in a big easy chair in his luxury hotel suite, a glass of whisky on the table beside him, a cigar clamped between his small sharp teeth.

Hartman was short and thick-set. The lines in his thin, sallow-complexioned face made him look older than his fifty-five years. There was a cold, brooding expression in his eyes, and his thin lips were turned down. Although the hour was a minute or so before 3 a.m., he had no inclination to sleep. For years now he had slept but little, and then only in uneasy cat-naps.

Hartman was the senior partner of Simon Hartman & Richards, solicitors, whose reputation at one time had stood as high as any of the big New York firms. But since Richards had retired the business had gone to pieces, and Hartman, an inveterate gambler, had been tempted to use his clients’ money to play the markets, and recently he had been juggling with securities that were not his own, with disastrous results.

He had almost reached breaking-point when John Blandish died and the Blandish Trust was formed. Here, then, was a chance in a lifetime, and Hartman was quick to seize the opportunity. Richards and he were appointed trustees and as Richards took no interest in business the trust was entirely in Hartman’s hands.

It came as a tremendous shock to Hartman when he learned of Carol’s escape. He knew that if she avoided capture for fourteen days she could claim the Trust money... what there was left of it. For even in that short space of time Hartman had already dug deeply into Blandish’s fortune.

The girl had to be found! If she wasn’t found, he’d be ruined, and Hartman had no intention of being ruined. He had already taken charge of the search. The Sheriff was a fool. Dr. Travers was irresponsible. The police were worse than useless. But he had galvanized them into action; had offered five thousand dollars reward for the girl’s capture. Now everyone in Point Breese was searching for the girl.

His eyes strayed to the calendar hanging on the wall. Only another six days! Well, a lot could happen in six days — a lot must happen!

As he reached for his whisky the telephone rang shrilly. He paused, his eyes suddenly hooded. Then without fuss or undue haste he picked up the receiver.

‘What is it?’

‘We’ve got her,’ Staum shouted excitedly over the line. ‘Sheriff said I was to tell you.’

‘Don’t shout: I’m not deaf,’ Hartman said coldly, but his face lightened: he looked younger. ‘Where is she?’

‘Doc Fleming’s got her. The Sheriff’s going over there right away. He says for you to go over.’

‘Certainly,’ Hartman said. ‘Where exactly does Dr. Fleming live?’

Staum gave directions.

‘All right. I’m leaving immediately,’ Hartman said, hung up.

For a moment he stared at himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece, and he smiled thinly.

‘The darkest hour comes before the dawn,’ he thought. ‘Trite but true,’ and he pulled back the curtains, looked down at the deserted main street.

Above the rooftops was a band of light stretching like a ribbon behind the distant mountains. The sky was a faint grey; the stars were losing their lustre. In a little while it would be daylight.

He picked up his hat, slipped on an overcoat — it would be chilly out at this hour — walked quickly to the door.

While he waited for the elevator to take him to the street level he hummed tunelessly under his breath.

A big empty truck rattled to a standstill outside an all-night café situated near the Point Breese railway yards.

‘As far as I go,’ the driver said. ‘This do you?’

The Sullivans climbed down from the cab.

‘Sure,’ Frank said. ‘And thanks.’

‘You’re welcome,’ the driver returned, drove on through the big wooden gates guarding the yard.

‘We were lucky to get that lift,’ Frank said, and yawned.

‘Shaddap!’ Max snarled, walked across the road to the café, went in.

Frank grimaced, followed him.

The loss of the Packard had affected Max, whereas Frank was more philosophical. Possessions and comfort meant little to him. His weakness was women: his grimy pathological mind seldom thought of anything but women, and he left all the planning, the arrangements, the everyday routine, to Max.

They sat on stools at the counter, called for coffee. The girl who served them was ugly, but she had a good figure. Frank wanted to discuss her figure with Max, but he knew Max wasn’t in the mood. Max didn’t bother about women: he regarded them the way he regarded food: a necessity, but uninteresting and unimportant.

The girl was a little scared of the Sullivans, and when she had served them she went into the kitchen and left them alone. There was no one else in the café.

‘I wish I knew if I’d killed him,’ Max said thoughtfully. ‘I know I hit him twice in the chest, but he’s big and tough. I should have aimed at his head.’