Джеймс Чейз - The Flesh of the Orchid

Sherill shifted his eyes. His bare feet, hard as leather, scratched uneasily on the boards.

‘You mean — she’s the Blandish girl?’

Max smiled: a cold, ferocious, humourless smile.

‘So you’ve heard about that?’

‘Who hasn’t? I read the newspapers. What are you doing with her?’

‘What do you think? She comes into six million bucks in a week from today; that is if she’s not caught. She’s going to be grateful, isn’t she?’

Sherill glanced back along the verandah.

‘Tied like that? Damned grateful, I’d say.’

‘She’s nuts,’ Max said patiently. ‘She won’t remember anything. You treat nuts like animals. So long as you feed ’em, they’re grateful.’ He drew off his gloves, flexed his sweating fingers. ‘We can talk her into anything.’

‘I don’t think you know much about lunatics,’ Sherill said, leaned to spit over the rail. ‘Well, it’s your funeral. What’s it worth to me?’

‘You’ll get a quarter of whatever we get.’

‘That could be too much or nothing at all,’ Sherill said uneasily. ‘I wish you hadn’t brought her here, Max. It’ll be unsettling.’

‘Aw, shaddap,’ Max said, stuffed his gloves in his pocket and stared moodily across the overgrown vista.

Sherill eyed him, lifted his shoulders.

‘They say she’s dangerous,’ he went on. ‘Homicidal.’

Max laughed.

‘Don’t talk soft. You used to perform in a lions’ cage. You and Miss Lolly can handle her.’

Slierill’s face tightened.

‘I don’t know if Miss Lolly will want to,’ he said. ‘She’s been acting odd these past days. I guess she’s going nuts herself.’

‘She was all right when last we were here,’ Max said, not interested. ‘What’s biting her?’

‘Nerves, I guess,’ Sherill said, shrugging. ‘She ain’t too easy to live with.’

‘To hell with her, then,’ Max said impatiently. ‘Got a room where you can lock this girl up? Somewhere safe?’

‘There’s a top room. The window’s barred. You can have that.’

‘O.K., then let’s lock her up. I’ve got to get back to Point Breese.’

‘Ain’t you staying?’ Sherill asked, startled.

‘I’ve things to do: a job to finish,’ Max said, and for a moment he showed his pointed white teeth. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of days.’

He walked with Sherill along the verandah.

‘Take that tape off,’ he said to Frank.

Frank was sitting on the floor at Carol’s feet, his head resting on the arm of the chair. There was a smirking, far-away expression in his eyes, but he got up as soon as Max drew near, and picking hold of the corner of the tape he gave it a savage jerk, peeling it off Carol’s mouth, sending her head twisting to the right.

She gave a little gasp of pain, sat up, faced the Sullivans.

‘O.K., now talk,’ Max said. ‘Where’s Larson? Where did you leave him?’

‘I’m not going to tell you,’ Carol said, her voice husky. ‘I’ll never tell you... you can do what you like to me.’

Max smiled.

‘You’ll talk,’ he said gently. ‘You wait and see.’ He turned to Sherill. ‘Let’s get her upstairs where I can work on her.’

A soft step behind them made them turn quickly. A woman, or rather a figure dressed like a woman, came towards them: a strangely startling, but pathetic-looking, freak. She — for it was a woman in spite of the long beard — was dressed in a dusty black costume that was at least ten years out of fashion; about her naked ankles a worn pair of man’s boots, unlaced, flapped when she moved. The lower part of her gaunt white face was hidden behind the luxuriant beard, which grew in soft, silky waves to a point some six inches above her waist.

Although Miss Lolly was now forty-five years of age, there was not one white hair in the beard that, not so long ago, had been morbidly stared at by thousands of people in many parts of the world as she sat in her little booth in the travelling circus that had been her home for most of her lonely life.

As she walked hesitatingly towards them her eyes, which must surely have been the saddest eyes in the world, fixed themselves on Carol.

There was a sudden tense silence, then the drowsy autumn afternoon reverberated with Carol’s scream.

Frank giggled.

‘She doesn’t appreciate your form of beauty,’ he said to Miss Lolly, who drew back, two faint spots of colour showing on her gaunt cheeks.

‘Come on,’ Max said impatiently, ‘let’s get her upstairs.’ He bent and cut the cord that tied Carol’s ankles, jerked her to her feet.

Miss Lolly watched them drag the struggling girl into the house; listened to the scuffling of feet as they climbed the stairs.

Carol began to scream as they forced her along a broad, dark passage.

Miss Lolly flinched. She hated violence, and she moved quickly into the big, barn-like kitchen. While she washed the vegetables she had gathered, her mind raced excitedly. That girl was beautiful, she thought. She had never seen such beauty. Her hair... her eyes... Miss Lolly inwardly flinched when she remembered the look of dazed horror that had come over Carol’s face at the sight of her. But she had no feelings of anger nor hatred for the girl: it was natural that one so beautiful should have been frightened, even revolted, at the sight of Miss Lolly.

‘A freak,’ she thought bitterly, and two tears swam out of her eyes, dripped into the muddy water amongst the potatoes. Why had the Sullivans brought her here? she wondered. She was scared of the Sullivans... hated them. They were cruel, vicious, dangerous. They laughed at her.

The kitchen door was pushed open and Sherill came in. He stood hesitating, looking at Miss Lolly, an uneasy gleam in his eyes.

‘Who is she?’ Miss Lolly asked, running more water into the bowl.

‘The Blandish girl,’ Sherill said. ‘The one you were reading about this morning.’

Miss Lolly dropped the bowl with a clatter into the sink, turned.

‘You mean that poor crazy thing? The one they’re searching for?’

‘Yes.’

‘What are those boys doing with her?’ Miss Lolly asked, clasping her hands, her eyes wide with horror. ‘They’re not fit to... a girl like that, needing care, shouldn’t be in their hands... she needs someone kind; someone who knows—’

A sudden wild agonized scream rang through the old house. Miss Lolly went very pale, took a step forward. Sherill scowled down at his bare feet, ran his hand lightly over his slicked-down hair.

Again came the scream: it cut through the wooden ceiling like a whiplash; a sound that froze Miss Lolly’s blood.

‘What are they doing to her?’ she said, started forward, but Sherill seized her matchstick of an arm, shoved her back.

‘Stay where you are,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know better than to interfere with the Sullivans?’

‘Oh, but I can’t let them hurt her,’ Miss Lolly said, her bony fingers fluttering in the soft silk of her beard. ‘I couldn’t let anyone suffer...’

‘Quiet!’ Sherill said.

‘No! Please... not again...!’ Carol screamed. Her voice, hitting the sides of the wooden walls of the upstairs room, started up vibrations so that each plank in the building seemed to whisper her words.

‘Go out into the garden,’ Sherill said suddenly. ‘Get out! Get out!’

He took hold of Miss Lolly and pushed her through the back doorway, into the hot sunshine.

‘Come on,’ he said, still holding her arm. ‘We’re not going to listen to anything. The less we know about this the safer it’ll be if those two bastards slip up.’

Miss Lolly went with him. She held a grubby handkerchief to her eyes and her head flopped limply as she moved.