Джеймс Чейз - The Flesh of the Orchid

Gus ran his hand over his thinning hair.

‘Yeah, I guess I could,’ he said slowly. ‘You’ll give me this dough if I get rid of her?’

‘Yes... only get her out quick.’

‘I’ll chance it,’ Gus said, making up his mind, and he bent to pick up the money, pushing Carol aside with his foot to get at some of the notes.

‘Get her out first,’ Eddie said, wringing his hands.

‘Take it easy,’ Gus said. ‘I’ll take her down in the service elevator. She’s got a car in the garage; may as well use that. I’ll dump her outside the hospital if the coast’s clear. You’d better get out of town, Eddie,’ he went on, stuffing the last of the notes into the brief-case. ‘If the cops see your mug they’ll haul you in as a suspect.’

‘I’m going,’ Eddie gasped. ‘Thanks, Gus, you’re a pal.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ Gus returned, closed the brief-case. ‘I was always a sucker for a smart guy like you.’

Eddie went unsteadily across the room to where the other brief-case lay hidden behind the overturned armchair. As he picked it up Gus joined him with three quick, silent strides.

‘Wait a minute, pal,’ he said. ‘I’ll have that too.’

Eddie snarled at him.

‘It’s mine,’ he said, clutching on to the case. ‘She stole it.’

‘Too bad,’ Gus sneered. ‘Remind me to cry when I have a moment. Hand it over.’

‘It’s mine,’ Eddie repeated weakly. ‘You wouldn’t skin me, Gus? It’s all the dough I have in the world. I’ve gotta have dough if I’m to get away.’

‘You’re breaking my heart,’ Gus said. ‘Hand it over unless you want me to call the cops.’

Eddie flung the case on the floor.

‘You dirty rat!’ he cried. ‘Take it then, and I hope it poisons your fife.’

‘It won’t,’ Gus said, and winked. ‘So long, Eddie. Get out of town quick. I don’t want to see that scratched-up puss of yours for a long time. It makes me feel sad,’ and he laughed.

Not trusting himself to speak, Eddie half ran, half staggered from the room.

Ismi Geza sat in the waiting-room of the Montgomery Ward of the Santo Rio Memorial Hospital. It was a pleasant room; light, airy and comfortably furnished. The armchair in which he sat rested him, and he thought, rather to his surprise, how nice it would be to have an armchair as comfortable as this at home.

He thought about the armchair because he was afraid to think about Max. They had taken him away in an ambulance, and hadn’t allowed Ismi to travel with him. Ismi had been forced to follow behind in Max’s Packard. He hadn’t driven a car for years, and the journey had shaken his nerves.

Ismi guessed that Max had had a stroke. Apoplexy seemed to run in the family. Ismi had had a stroke when he had seen an old friend of his mauled by a lion. Max had had his stroke when he had found he had lost his money. The causes had been so different, Ismi thought sadly, but the results could be the same. He hoped not. He hoped that Max would recover. Ismi’s dragging leg bothered him: it would be an even greater trial to an energetic, impatient man like Max.

The door opened quietly and the Head Sister came in. Ismi liked her immediately. She had a grave, kind face. She was, he thought, a sensible-looking woman: a woman he could trust.

He was so frightened of what she was going to tell him that when she began to speak he went suddenly deaf, and only a few disjointed sentences got through to his bemused mind. She was saying something about haemorrhage from rupture of the cerebral artery... evidence of paralysis affecting the left side of the body... reflexes inactive.

‘I see,’ Ismi said when she paused. ‘But is he bad? Will he die?’

She saw at once that he hadn’t understood what she had said, and that he was frightened. She tried to make it as easy as she could for him.

No, he wouldn’t die, she told him quietly, but he might be paralysed; unable to walk again. It was too early to say-just vet; later they would know for certain.

‘He won’t like it,’ Ismi said miserably. ‘He is not a patient boy.’ He fidgeted with his battered felt hat. ‘You’ll do what you can for him? I don’t mind the expense. I’ve saved—’

‘You can see him for a few minutes,’ she said, feeling an unexpected sorrow for him. ‘Say nothing to worry him. He must be kept very quiet.’

Ismi found Max lying in bed in a small, neat room, his head and shoulders slightly raised. The old man scarcely recognized his son. The left side of Max’s face was pulled out of shape, giving him a grotesque, frightening appearance. The left corner of his lip was drawn down, and Ismi could see his white teeth set in a perpetual snarl.

Max’s eyes burned like two small embers. They fastened on Ismi as he came slowly up to the bed: terrible eyes, full of hatred, fury and viciousness.

By the window was Nurse Hennekey, a tall, dark girl with a curiously flat, expressionless face. She looked up with surprised interest when she saw Ismi come into the room, but she didn’t move nor speak.

‘They’ll do everything they can for you,’ Ismi said, touching the cold white bed-rail a little helplessly. ‘You’ll soon be better. I will come and see you every day.’

Max just stared at him, unable to speak, but the brooding look in his eyes did not change, nor did the hatred die out of them.

‘I won’t stay now,’ Ismi said, uneasy and afraid. ‘It is getting late, but I’ll come tomorrow.’

Max’s lips moved as he tried to say something, but no sound came from them.

‘You mustn’t talk,’ Ismi said. ‘They told me you must keep very quiet.’ He was surprised to feel a tear run down his fleshy cheek. He was remembering Max when he was a little boy. He had had great hopes of him then.

Max’s lips moved again. They formed the words ‘Get out!’ but Ismi didn’t realize what he was trying to say.

Nurse Hennekey, who was watching, read the words as they were formed by Max’s lips and she signalled Ismi to go.

‘I’ll be back,’ Ismi promised, touched the tear away with his finger. ‘Don’t worry about anything.’ He hesitated, added: ‘Don’t worry about money. I have enough. I’ve saved...’

Nurse Hennekey touched his arm, led him to the door.

‘Look after him please, nurse,’ he said. ‘He’s my son.’

She nodded briefly, looked away so he couldn’t see her little frown of distaste. She felt there was something horrible about Max; hated him for no reason at all; had a creepy sensation when she touched him.

Ismi walked slowly along the corridor with its double line of doors on each side of him. On each door was a small name-plate, and Ismi paused to read one of them. Then he turned back to satisfy himself that Max was receiving similar treatment. He wanted his son to have the best of everything. Yes, there was his son’s name printed on the plate. How quick and efficient these people were, he thought. The boy hadn’t been in the hospital more than a few hours and they had his name already on the door.

He heard footsteps, and glancing round saw a tall young fellow and a pretty girl coming along the corridor. They paused at a door opposite, knocked softly and waited.

Ismi liked the look of them, and he continued to watch until they entered the room and closed the door behind them. Curious, he went over to read the name-plate, and when he saw the name he started back with a shudder as if he had trodden on a snake.

Veda and Magarth stood looking down at Carol as she lay, white and unconscious, in the hospital bed. The resident doctor, Dr. Cantor, had his fingers on her pulse.

‘I hope I did right in sending for you,’ he was saying to Magarth. ‘I’ve read about Miss Blandish, of course, and when we found out who she was, I remembered you had been appointed her business executive and thought I’d better put a call through to you right away.’