Джеймс Чейз - The Flesh of the Orchid

‘I’ll go and look at her now,’ Nurse Bradford said. ‘You get off, and don’t be late in the morning.’

The two nurses left the room, and Max opened his eyes. He listened intently, heard a murmur of voices outside, heard a door open and Nurse Bradford say, ‘Isn’t she lovely!’

So Carol Blandish was opposite: within a few yards of him, Max thought, and a little red spark of murder lit up in his brain. If only he could move! If only he could get at her! His lips came off his teeth in a snarl. But the nurse... he would have to settle the nurse first.

What was he thinking of? He was already making plans as if he could carry them out. Perhaps he could carry them out. He tried to raise himself on his right arm, but the left side of his body, dead and cold, was too heavy. He tried again, exerting all his strength, succeeded in rolling over on his left side. From that position he could look down on to the floor. If he let himself fall, he might be able to drag himself to the door. He rolled back again as the door opened and Nurse Bradford came in.

She was young with corn-coloured hair, and big, rather stupid blue eyes.

‘Oh, you’re awake,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m the night nurse. I’m going to make you comfortable.’

Max closed his eyes in case she should see intended murder in them.

‘Let me straighten the bed,’ she went on cheerfully.

He was going to do it, Max told himself. With this nurse out of the way, he would get at Carol Blandish if it killed him. But first, the nurse...

As she began to rearrange the blanket and sheet, Max lifted his right hand, beckoned to her.

‘Do you want anything?’ she asked, looking at him.

Again he beckoned, tried to speak, and she leaned down, her face close to his to catch the mumbled words.

With a snarl Max grabbed her throat in his right hand, dragged her down, kicked his right leg free from the blanket and hooked it across her struggling body, pinning her to the bed. She was stronger than he expected, and it wasn’t easy to keep his grip, which she tore at with both hands.

He hung on, cursing silently, feeling his fingers sliding off her smooth throat as she scratched and pulled at his hand. ‘She’s going to get away,’ he thought frantically. ‘She’ll scream!’ Her terrified eyes stared into his; her cap had fallen off in the struggle and her corn-coloured hair fell about her shoulders. He would have to do something quickly. She was nearly free. He released his grip, tore his hand free, and raising his clenched list smashed it down on her upturned face as if he were hammering a nail into wood.

Stunned now, she could only struggle feebly, and once again his fingers fastened on her throat. Then his shoulders seemed to grow lumpy and sweat ran down his twisted face. The nurse’s face turned blue and her eyes protruded, blind. Still cursing, Max exerted all his strength. The nurse’s slender body writhed. One hand began to beat on the bed mechanically, without force.

Max closed his eyes and strained. The nurse’s hand suddenly stopped beating, opened and closed and opened again, hung limp. There was a muffled crack, almost immediately followed by a sharper one, and he let the nurse slide from the bed to the floor.

Then Max lay still, his breath came in great shuddering gasps. The struggle had been almost too much for him, and he realized, in alarm and rage, how weak he had become. But the red spark of murder that burned in his brain urged him on. There was no time to lose. Someone might come in: you never knew who was coming in when you were a prisoner in a hospital. If he was to finish Carol, he must act at once. But he made no move in spite of the urgency. He felt as if he were suffocating, and blood pounded in his head, turning him sick and dizzy.

So he waited, his right fist clenched, his nails digging into his sweating palm until his breathing became easier. As new strength began to creep back into his twisted body he heard someone coming down the passage and his heart began to bump like a disturbed pendulum against his side. But the footfalls passed, died away.

It was an almost impossible task he had set himself, he thought. He would have to crawl across the passage, and anyone passing would immediately see him and raise the alarm. If only he had a gun! No one would stop him if he had a gun!

But he refused to give up. It was too late to give up, anyway. He would go through with it.

He threw off the blanket, slowly worked himself to the edge of the bed. Looking down, he stared into the dead face of the nurse, and he drew back his lips in a grimace. She looked hideous. The mottled blue of her complexion clashed horribly with her corn-coloured hair.

Slowly, he leaned out of bed until his right hand touched the floor, then he let his body slide off the bed, and he checked his progress with his hand. But as his heavy, dead leg began to move there was nothing he could do to control it, and suddenly he felt himself falling and thudded on to the floor, the breath driven out of his body and pain surging over him like a white-hot wave, drowning him in a sea of darkness.

He had no idea how long he remained on the floor, but gradually he recovered consciousness to find his head resting on the nurse’s hair, his right arm across her body. He rolled away from her, shuddering, began to drag himself across the smooth polished floor towards the door.

To his surprise he found that he made quick progress in spite of having to drag his left arm and leg, which had no feeling in them. He reached the door, stretched up and turned the handle, pulled the door open a few inches, then paused to rest. He was feeling bad now. The blood pounding in his head threatened to burst a blood-vessel and his breathing made a loud snoring noise at the back of his throat. Again he waited, knowing that if he went out into the passage someone would be certain to hear him.

And while he waited his brain slowly became inflamed with vicious fury at the thought of being so close to Carol, and, in a little while, of being able to lay his hands on her.

As he was about to move again he heard someone coming, and he quickly pushed the door to and waited, trying to hold his breath, snarling at the possibility of discovery.

He heard something going outside, and cautiously he pulled the door open an inch or so and glanced out.

A nurse was standing opposite him. She was taking a number of bed sheets from a cupboard. She was a tall, good-looking girl and she hummed softly under her breath. For no reason at all Max stared at the long ladder in her stocking. It was the only thing about her that held his attention. With a pile of sheets in her arms, she closed the cupboard door with her foot, walked quickly away down the corridor.

Max felt sweat running down Iris face. It was as if his face was a sponge full of water, and he could feel the sweat in his hair. He looked across the corridor at the opposite door, tried to read the name-plate, but the printing was too small. There were two other doors a little farther up the corridor, and he wondered with sudden panic in which room Carol lay.

He would have no time to crawl up and down the corridor, for he moved too slowly. He would have to go straight into the room opposite and chance to luck that she was in there. He placed his ear to the floor and listened. The vast building seemed for that moment to be stilled, then the soft whirring sound of the express elevators as they raced between the floors came to him; but no other sound.

Drawing a deep breath, he pushed open the door and crawled into the passage.

‘If you saw him now,’ Ismi said, ‘you wouldn’t worry like this. I know he hasn’t been a good boy, but now...’ He broke off, shook his head sadly.

Miss Lolly continued to pace up and down, her hands clasped, her gaunt face set.