Джеймс Чейз - The Flesh of the Orchid

‘Let’s not worry about him,’ Frank said. ‘It’s the girl I’m worrying about. She was terrific! That red hair...’

Max turned on him.

‘If he’s alive he saw what happened,’ he said. ‘He’s the only witness we’ve ever let get away. He could blow our racket sky-high.’

Frank hadn’t thought of that.

‘We’d better find him,’ he said. ‘But where...?’

‘I want some sleep,’ Max grumbled. ‘Hell! We can’t go on and on... we’re not made of iron. Where can we get a bed?’

‘Ask her... she’ll know,’ Frank said, jerked his thumb towards the kitchen door.

‘Yeah,’ Max said, finished his coffee, slid off the stool, walked into the kitchen.

The girl was sitting on a table, talking to a negro cook. They both stared at Max, and the negro’s eyes rolled.

‘Where can we get a bed?’ Max asked, eying the girl.

‘There’s a hotel round the corner, next to the jail,’ the girl said.

‘O.K.,’ Max flipped a couple of nickels on to the table. ‘Where’s the hospital?’

‘There isn’t one. Nearest one’s at Waltonville, five miles from here.’

Max grunted, walked out, jerked his head at Frank.

‘Let’s get the hell out of here. I want to sleep.’

They walked down the deserted road. The big-faced clock over the station showed three o’clock.

‘There’s a hotel next to the jail,’ Max said.

‘Handy,’ Frank said, and giggled.

‘That’s it,’ Max said as they turned the corner, then he stopped abruptly, put his hand on Frank’s arm. ‘What goes on?’

They drew back as Sheriff Kamp came rushing down the steps of the jail. They watched him pull open the wooden doors of the garage next to the jail. His movements were those of a man in a frantic hurry. A moment later a battered Ford roared out of the garage, headed down the road.

‘The Sheriff’s in a hurry,’ Frank said, tilted his hat over his nose.

‘Something’s up,’ Max said. ‘Come on, we’re going to see.’

‘Thought you wanted a bed,’ Frank grumbled.

‘We’re going to see,’ Max repeated.

They set off down the road, their arms swinging, a sudden new life and spring in their stride.

The bedside telephone suddenly rang.

‘Let it ring,’ Veda said sleepily. ‘It’s only one of my affairs with an uneasy conscience.’

Magarth groaned, half sat up.

‘I moved in here for a little peace and quiet,’ he complained. ‘Must you carry your love life into my life as well?’

‘Don’t be a grouch, darling,’ Veda said. ‘He’ll tire of it in a moment and go back to bed.’

Magarth rubbed his eyes, sat bolt upright.

‘Stop chattering,’ he said tersely. ‘Maybe it’s for me,’ and he grabbed the telephone.

‘But no one knows you’re here... at least, I hope they don’t,’ Veda said in alarm.

‘My editor knows everything,’ Magarth returned, said ‘Hello?’ into the ’phone.

‘That you, Magarth?’

Magarth recognized his editor’s voice.

‘I think so,’ he returned, yawned. ‘Anyway, it’s someone very like me.’

‘I suppose you’re in bed with that woman?’

‘Who else would I be in bed with — a horse?’

‘Then get out of it, you licentious rat. They’ve found the Blandish girl!’

‘They’ve... what?’ Magarth exclaimed.

‘The Sheriff’s office ’phoned through just now. They’ve got her holed up in Doc Fleming’s cellar. Get going and take a camera. Kamp won’t do a thing until you arrive. The old bastard wants his picture taken making the capture. Hartman’s there; in fact every punk in town’s there except you. So get moving.’

‘I’m on my way,’ Magarth said, slammed down the ’phone and jumped out of bed. ‘Sweet suffering cats!’ he exploded. ‘They’ve found her! Found her while I’m taking a roll in the hay. That’s retribution!’ He struggled into his shirt. ‘Now what the hell am I going to do? Oh, my stars! What a break!’

‘Keep calm, darling,’ Veda said, snuggling down under the bedclothes. ‘It may turn out all for the best.’

‘All for the best!’ Magarth snorted, struggling into his coat. ‘If they get her back into that nut-house my story’ll go up in smoke. I’ve got to save her — somehow,’ and he rushed for the door.

‘But, darling,’ Veda called after him, ‘do try to be sensible, You’ve forgotten to put your trousers on.’

The narrow passage between Doc Fleming’s back and front doors was crowded. Doc Fleming with his wife stood half-way up the stairs. Simon Hartman stood in the waiting-room doorway. Magarth, a camera equipped with a flash-gun in his hand, leaned against the back door. Two State cops guarded the front entrance. Sheriff Kamp and George Staum faced the cellar door.

‘All right, boys,’ Kamp said. ‘You stick around. Mind, she’s dangerous.’ He glanced slyly at Magarth. ‘Get that picture as I bring her out.’

‘You haven’t got her out yet,’ Magarth reminded him. ‘Maybe she’ll bring you out. What you need is a trident and a net.’

Kamp ignored this, rapped on the cellar door.

‘We know you’re in there,’ he called. ‘Come on out in the name of the law.’

Carol crouched further back into the darkness of the cellar.

When she had recovered from the fall down the cellar stairs she quickly realized that she was trapped. By groping round the cellar walls she discovered there was no way out except through the door, which was now securely locked. If it hadn’t been for the thought of Steve lying helpless in the wood she would have given up, but she drew courage from her love and she told herself that she was going to get out and back to Steve and no one would stop her.

She found an electric light switch after a few minutes of groping and turned it on. The cellar was small and damp and full of rubbish, but it also contained the fuse-box and main switch for the light. She discovered a rusty steel poker among the rubbish, and this she picked up, balanced in her hand. When Kamp threw open the door, she crouched down by the steps leading into the cellar, her hand on the light switch, and waited. She had already turned off the light in the cellar, and although she could see Kamp peering into the darkness, he couldn’t see her.

‘Come on out,’ Kamp called, his face red with excitement; added for no reason at all, ‘We’ve got the place surrounded.’

No sound nor movement came from the dark cellar.

‘Be a man and fetch her out,’ Magarth said. ‘We’ll give you a decent burial.’ While he was speaking he was racking his brains for a plan to rescue Carol, but for the moment he was foxed.

‘Now come along,’ Kamp wheedled. He wasn’t feeling too happy about tackling a dangerous lunatic. He looked over his shoulder at Hartman. ‘Think I should go in there after her?’

‘Of course,’ Hartman said sharply. ‘But don’t handle her roughly. I won’t have her ill-treated.’

Magarth gave a macabre laugh.

‘That’s very, very funny,’ he said. ‘Never mind how she treats you, Sheriff.’

George Staum edged away when Kamp beckoned to him.

‘Not me,’ he said firmly. ‘Lunatics scare me. I ain’t going down there in the dark. Look what she did to that truck-driver.’

‘By rights the asylum people ought to handle it,’ Kamp said, hanging back. ‘Did anyone think to call them?’

‘No one,’ Magarth said cheerfully. ‘I’ll come in with you, Sheriff. I’m not scared. You go first and I’ll be right on our heels.’

Kamp drew in a deep breath.

‘Well, let’s go,’ he said, took a hesitant step towards the cellar, peered into the inky darkness. ‘Maybe someone’s got a torch?’ he went on hopefully.