Джеймс Чейз - The Flesh of the Orchid

She had decided to see him first. If he was as ill and as helpless as Ismi had said, she wouldn’t betray him. But she knew Max: had long distrusted him. Ismi was simple, believed well of anyone. It seemed unlikely to her that Max could ever be harmless.

She suddenly paused as Max’s name caught her eye. There it was, printed neatly on a white card. ‘To think they should make such a fuss of such a brute,’ she thought indignantly. She listened outside the door, heard nothing and found she was suddenly trembling. She remembered the last time she had seen him; remembered the cold viciousness in his eyes and the vindictive way he had looked at her. How he had deliberately struck her, so quickly that she had had no chance of protecting herself.

Her hand instinctively gripped the handle of the knife she kept hidden under her coat, and turning the door-handle she looked into the room.

For a moment or so the shock of seeing the dead nurse huddled on the floor brought Miss Lolly’s heart almost to a bumping standstill. She saw the empty bed, realized instantly what it meant. Had she arrived in time? She knew there wasn’t a second to lose, and pulling herself together she whirled on her heel and sprang across the corridor to the opposite door.

She had now no thought for herself; her one aim was to save Carol and throwing open the door she blundered into the semi-dark room.

Max, crouching in the darkness, recognized her immediately, and suppressed a cry of fury as she came blundering into the room. He knew she wouldn’t be able to see him for a moment or so until her eyes became accustomed to the dim light. In that time he must settle her, if he was going through with his vengeance. He dragged himself towards her, holding his breath, but as he reached her Miss Lolly saw him.

She didn’t know what it was that was moving towards her. She could just make out a dark menacing mass that was reaching out for her, and she guessed immediately it was Max.

Catching her breath in horror, she stepped back, felt his hand grip the hem of her dress, hang on. Blind terror seized her, and bending over him she struck at him with the knife: struck with all her strength.

The blade of the knife cut into Max’s side, seared through his flesh and buried itself into the hard wood of the floor. For a second or so these two looked at each other, then swinging his fist Max hit Miss Lolly on the side of the head, knocking her flat.

But he was alarmed, feeling the blood running down his side, and he wondered if she had cut an artery. It had been a wild, stupid stroke. To Max, who was an expert, such a stroke was inexcusable. She had had him at her mercy: she should have finished him.

He gripped the knife-handle, his lips coming off his teeth. He scarcely felt the cold edge of the knife as it bit into him. He had now what he wanted. The old fool had brought him the one weapon with which he was expert.

But she had driven it so firmly into the floor that he could not move it. He became aware that his strength was very gradually slipping away from him as his blood flowed from his side. In a sudden frenzy he tugged and jerked at the knife, saw Miss Lolly struggling slowly to her feet. Everything was going wrong, he thought furiously, and shouted at her, although no sound came from his twitching, twisted lips.

She was on her feet now, her grotesque hat on the side of her head, her eyes wild with fear. Supporting herself by the bed-rail, she placed herself between him and the silent, unconscious Carol.

He took a new grip on the knife-handle, began to work it backwards and forwards, feeling it slowly loosening, and his face lit up with ghastly triumph.

‘No!’ Miss Lolly said breathlessly. ‘Leave it alone. Take your hand off it.’

He snarled at her, wrenched and jerked at the knife-handle, feeling it slowly, and as if reluctantly, coming free.

Miss Lolly saw his look of triumph, knew what would happen if he once got possession of the knife, and looked around wildly for a weapon. Standing in a corner was an iron cylinder of oxygen. She ran to it, snatched it up and turned.

Even as she did so the knife came loose, and rolling over, M ax sent it flying through the air.

Miss Lolly gave a hoarse scream, swung up the cylinder as the knife struck her in the middle of her narrow, bony chest. She stood for a moment, the cylinder above her head, the knife growing out of her outmoded black dress, her eyes sightless; then her knees buckled, the cylinder crashed to the floor, narrowly missing Max, and she dropped.

Slowly now, he crawled over to her, and leaning over her he spat in her face. He knew she had finished him. He could tell that he was bleeding to death, and a cold drowsiness was already creeping over him. He could feel his blood running down his side, flowing out of him, carrying away his evil spirit.

But there was still a chance, he thought, if he were quick. If he could get the knife out of Miss Lolly’s body he might still have enough strength to throw it. From where he lay Carol made a perfect target.

He again gripped the knife-handle, again pulled at the knife. The handle was slippery with blood, but he kept at it until it was free. But then he found lie had become so weak that he could scarcely lift the knife. He turned on his side, looked across the dim room.

Suddenly his mind was projected back to the days when he and Frank worked in the circus. The girl in the bed, lit by the blue light, reminded him of a girl who once stood against a board and let him throw phosphorus-painted knives at her. He remembered the time he had so carefully aimed the knife at her throat. It had been a clever throw, for it had been done in the dark. He could still do it: even now, when he was dying.

His father had said over and over again: ‘There is no knife-thrower like you in the world. I have never known you to miss any target once you have made up your mind to hit it.’

That was true, Max thought, and gathered together his last remaining strength.

It was not a difficult target. He could see Carol’s throat just above the white sheet, but it was a pity that the knife was now so heavy. He raised it with an effort, balanced it, then paused.

There suddenly seemed to be a cold breath of air in the room, and he saw a shadow move; then a figure came out of a corner into the dim light.

He gripped the knife tightly, feeling the hair rise on the back of his neck, and a chill run up his spine.

Frank came out of the darkness. Frank, smiling his fat tight smile. Frank in his black overcoat and black hat and black concertina-shaped trousers.

‘You’ve left it too late, Max,’ Frank said. ‘You’ll never do it now,’ and he laughed.

Max snarled at him, again balanced the knife, and his brain commanded his muscles to throw. Nothing happened. The knife began to slip out of his cold fingers.

‘You’ve left it too late, Max,’ Frank whispered to him from out of the shadows.

The knife clattered to the floor and Max’s arm dropped.

‘Come on, Max,’ Frank urged. ‘I’m waiting for you.’

Before Max died, he thought with satisfaction that he had not spoilt his reputation: he had not missed his target, for he hadn’t made the throw.

A little later Carol sighed and opened her eyes. From where she lay she could not see the horror that surrounded her on the floor, and she lay still, her mind washed clear of the past, and waited for someone to come to her.