The Flesh Of The Orchid Part 6

"But why?" Steve demanded. "Why should they want to kill you?"

Roy caught hold of his coat.

"Bernie and I pulled a big bank robbery. I skipped with the dough. Bernie had been cheating me, and I wanted to get even. Twenty thousand dollars, and I've salted it away, but Bernie went to the Sullivans. He knew they'd fix me, and they will!"

"They won't find you here," Steve repeated.

"They'll find me," Roy groaned. "Keep the gun handy. Shoot at sight . . . they're like two black crows . . . that's what they look like . . . two black crows . . . ."

"Lie down. I'm going to bathe this blood away," Steve said, forced his brother back on the pillow. "Lie still."

Roy screamed when the wet cotton-wool touched his eyes.

Two black crows.

The description fitted the Sullivans. They were a sinister-looking couple in their black, tight-fitting overcoats, black slouch hats, black concertina-shaped trousers and black-pointed shoes. Knotted round each short thick throat was a black silk scarf.

A few years ago they had been the star act of a small travelling circus, and they had been billed as the famous Sullivan brothers. But they were not brothers: their real names were Max Geza and Frank Kurt. By profession they were knife-throwers and trick marksmen. The finale of their act was to throw phosphorus-painted knives at a girl who stood against a black velvet-covered board. The stage was in darkness and the audience could see only the flying knives, which gradually outlined the figure of the girl as the knives slammed into the board an inch from her s.h.i.+vering skin. It was a sensational act and might have gone on for years, only the Sullivans got bored with the circus and with the girl.

It was the girl really that made them want to break up the act. She was a nice little thing and willing enough, but she just didn't understand the Sullivans' technique after business hours; besides, she fell in love with a clown, and that added to her difficulties, too.

The Sullivans tried to get another girl, but for the money they paid they couldn't find a girl willing to risk the flying knives and also be accommodating after business hours. So they got fed up with the circus and told the manager they wanted to quit, but the manager refused to release them from their contract. Their act, he reckoned, kept the show together-and it did.

So one night Max solved all their problems by throwing a knife with deliberate aim and it pinned the girl through her throat to the board, and that finished the act, got rid of the girl and broke the contract. Max couldn't understand why he hadn't thought of the solution, which was simple enough, before.

It was Max's idea for them to become professional killers. Death interested him. Taking human life seemed to him to be G.o.d-like, and he liked to regard himself as a man set above and apart from other men. Besides, he wanted big money; he was tired of the peanut stuff they were making in the circus.

There were hundreds of men and women wis.h.i.+ng to get rid of someone, he reasoned. A professional killer would be a benefit to Society. Since no motive could be proved, the killer had an excellent chance of avoiding detection, and if the killing was carefully planned and executed there was no reason why they should ever be caught. Frank welcomed the idea. Frank was never strong on ideas himself, but he was a natural enthusiast. Max knew he couldn't wish for a better partner. So these two pa.s.sed the word round that they would undertake any killing for the fee of three thousand dollars and a hundred dollars a week expenses. Even the Sullivans were surprised how quickly the idea caught on in certain circles, and how many commissions came their way.

They travelled all over the country in a big black Packard Clipper: two black crows who brought death silently and secretly and were never detected. The police didn't know about them, for their victims feared the police and couldn't go to them for protection. There were times when word would reach the intended victim that the Sullivans were after him and he'd go into hiding. It was a matter of complete indifference to the Sullivans whether they had to hunt out their victim or whether they had merely to drive up to his house and shoot him as he opened the door. All they required was a photograph of the victim, his name and last address: finding him was part of their service. They were men of few needs. The hundred dollars they charged for their weekly expenses amply sufficed. The three-thousand-dollar fee was never touched, but salted away against the time when they should retire. Both Max and Frank were pa.s.sionately fond of birds, and they planned to buy themselves a bird business when they had saved sufficient capital to set up in a big way.

Little Bernie got in touch with them a day after Roy had gypped him out of the proceeds of the bank robbery. The Sullivans undertook to murder Roy for five thousand dollars. They felt that as Little Bernie was a big shot and had plenty of hired help to do his own killing he wouldn't come to them unless he antic.i.p.ated the job would be long and difficult. To be on the safe side they jacked up the fee.

The difficulty, of course, was to find Roy. He had been warned that the Sullivans were after him and had immediately vanished from his usual haunts. Enquiries showed that he had left New York and had covered his tracks so well that his trail ended at the Pennsylvania station: the task of picking up the trail again appeared to be a hopeless one.

But not to the Sullivans. They were expert man-hunters. To find your victim quickly, they reasoned, you must know his habits, where his relations are, whether he has a girlfriend, and if so, where she is. Once you have that data all you have to do is to exercise a little patience: sooner or later you'll find your man.

It was an easy matter for them to discover that Roy had a brother, who, a year ago, was an insurance salesman in Kansas City. They wasted time going to Kansas City, for there they learned that Steve Larson had quit the insurance business and was believed to be fox-farming somewhere, but where no one seemed to know.

A week pa.s.sed while the Sullivans sat in their hotel bedroom and took it in turns to call every fox farm equipment store in the district and beyond, asking for the address of Steve Larson. They gave the name of a reputable firm of solicitors when making their call and stated that as Larson had come into a large sum of money they were anxious to get in touch with him. After making many calls their patience was finally rewarded. A firm in Bonner Springs had supplied Steve Larson with equipment and was delighted to give his address.

Three days later a big black Packard Clipper slid into Point Breese, a little valley town twenty miles or so from Blue Mountain Summit.

The Sullivans parked outside a saloon, left the Packard and entered the deserted bar. They had become so accustomed to their routine entrance into the circus ring that they unconsciously walked as one man, each taking the same short quick step, each swinging his arms the same length; one looking like the other's shadow. In their black clothes, moving as they did, they immediately attracted attention, and people stared after them, conscious of a feeling of uneasiness, of being spooked, as if they had seen an apparition.

Because in their circus days they had been supposed to be brothers, they had endeavoured to look alike, and the habit stuck. They both wore pencilled-line black moustaches and their hair cut very close. But here the similarity ended. Max was a couple of inches shorter than Frank. His face was small and white and he had tight lips. Frank was fat and soft. His nose was hooked, his mouth was loose, and he had a habit of moistening his tips with his tongue before he said anything. His eyes were as animated as gla.s.s marbles.

The Sullivans pulled up two high stools close to the bar and sat down, resting their gloved hands on the counter.

The barman eyed them over, thought they looked a dangerous, ugly pair, but he smiled because he was anxious to have no trouble.

"Yes, gentlemen?" he said, wiped the counter before them.

"Two lemonades," Max said. His voice was high-pitched, soft.

The barman served them, his face expressionless; then as he moved away Max crooked a finger at him.

"What goes on in this town?" he asked, sipped his lemonade, stared at the barman with dead eyes. "Tell us the news. We're strangers here."

"Right now there's plenty of excitement in town," the barman said, quite eager to talk about the topic of the hour. "We'll be on the front page of every newspaper in the country tomorrow. I've just heard it from a newspaper reporter."

"How come?" Max asked, raising his eyebrows.

"A mental patient escaped from Glenview Sanatorium," the barman explained. "It's only just leaked out she's the heiress to six million bucks."

"And where's Glenview Sanatorium?" Max asked.

"Up the hill; five miles from here on the Oakville road," the barman told him. "This dame got a ride in a truck as far as here. They found the wrecked truck a mile or so up the road. They reckon she killed the driver."

"But did they find her?" Frank asked, sipped his lemonade, then blotted his lips with the back of his glove.

"I guess not. They're still looking for her. We had the cops in here this morning. I've never seen so many cops."

Max's eyes flickered.

"How come a nut has all that dough?"

"She got it from John Blandish, the meat king. Maybe you remember the Blandish kidnapping? She's his grand-daughter."

"I remember," Frank said. "Must be twenty years ago."

"That's right," the barman said. "The kidnapper was the father. He was crazy in the head-so's the daughter. If they don't find her in fourteen days they won't be able to take her back. That's the law of the State. Then she'll come into the dough and no one can control it. That's why there's all this uproar."

The Sullivans finished their lemonade.

"She's a real nut-dangerous?" Max asked.

The barman nodded his head vigorously.

"You bet . . . a killer."

"Just in case we run into her, how does she look?"

"They say she's a redhead and a peach to look at. She's got a scar on her left wrist."

"We'll know her," Frank said. He put down a dollar bill on the counter. "Would there be a fox farm around here some place?" he went on casually.

The barman gave him change.

"Sure; Larson's Silver Fox farm up on Blue Mountain Summit."

"Far?"

"Best part of twenty miles."

Max looked at his watch. It was 9.30 p.m.

"We're interested in foxes," he said carefully. "We thought we might look 'em over. Is he in the market?"

"I guess so," the barman said, surprised. These two didn't look like fur men.

They nodded, turned to the door, turned back again.

"Is this fella up there alone?" Max asked softly.

"You mean does he run the farm alone? Sure, but there's a guy staying with him now. I saw them go through a week ago."

The Sullivans' faces were wooden.

"So long," Frank said, and together they walked out of the bar to the Packard Clipper.

Phil Magarth, lounging against a tree, watched them drive away. He pulled his long nose thoughtfully, tilted his hat further to the back of his head and wandered into the bar they had just left.

"Hi, Tom," he said, dragging up a stool and folding himself down on it wearily. "Let's start a famine in whisky."

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Magarth," the barman said, grinning. "Any more news of the nut?"

"Not a sound," Magarth returned, helping himself from the black bottle the barman had set before him.

"I was telling those two guys about your story. Did you see them? Two guys in black."

"Yeah."

The barman hesitated, scratched his head.

"Nasty-looking couple; said they were ha furs."

"Did they?" Magarth looked interested. "Don't look like fur men, do they? I've seen 'em before. In fact I've seen them three times over a period of a couple of years, and each time a guy died suddenly and violently. Make anything of that?"

The barman stared at him.

"What do you mean, Mr. Magarth?"

"I don't know," Magarth said truthfully. "Only you wouldn't forget a couple of guys like those two, would you? Ever heard of the Sullivan brothers?"

"I guess not."

"Maybe they don't exist, but there's a story going round that the Sullivans are professional killers. They call on a guy anywhere in the country and he turns his toes up quick. I wonder if those two are the Sullivans." He was now talking his thoughts aloud. "What did they want?"

"They were asking for Steve Larson," the barman said, worried. "Asked if he was alone."

"The fox farmer?" Magarth asked. "Up on Blue Mountain Summit?"

"Yeah, that's the fella. Nice guy. Buys his whisky from me. I see him once a month. Saw him a week ago, but he didn't look in. He was going through with another guy."

"He was ? And these two were asking for him ?"

The barman nodded.

"You don't think-"

"I never think," Magarth said. "I find out; and when I've found out I sit at my typewriter and hammer out a lot of c.r.a.p that you read at breakfast. h.e.l.l of a life, isn't it?" He turned to the door, turned back again. "Maybe you don't read," added, "Keep this under your bonnet, Tom. No talk," and left the bar quickly.

Roy's eyelids were so swollen that it was impossible to tell yet whether or not serious damage had been done. Steve had stopped the bleeding, and working quickly he made his brother as comfortable as he could.

"I'm going after Carol," he said when he had finished. "I can't-"

But Roy's wail of protest cut him short.

"No!" Roy cried, starting up. "You can't leave me like this. She may be hiding out there, waiting for you to come after her. That's what she wants . . . she wants to finish me!"

"Oh, shut up!" Steve exclaimed savagely. "I'm going; so stop whining."

"Don't be a fool, Steve," Roy gasped, reached out blindly. "She's dangerous . . . she'll kill you . . . claw you up the way she clawed me."

Steve looked out into the moonlit night. He didn't want to go out there in the dark, but he couldn't let Carol roam around without making an effort to find her. He thought of the truck-driver's lacerated eyes, remembered the sly animal cunning he had seen in Carol's face as she paced the verandah the previous night, looked down at the sobbing wreck who whined not to be left alone, and a chill ran through him. Suppose she was dangerous . . . a lunatic? Suppose that bang on the head had done something to her? But that wasn't possible. You were born a lunatic. Bangs on the head didn't make you homicidal. She had been scared silly. That was the explanation. First the truck-driver had tried to a.s.sault her; then Roy. Well, they had got what was coming to them. She wouldn't do that to him. So long as he didn't frighten her it'd be all right.

"I'm going, Roy," Steve said, and shoved the gun into his brother's hand. "Hang on to that. If she does comes back, fire into the ceiling. I'm not going far."

He struggled into his clothes, deaf to Roy's protests.

"You won't come back," Roy moaned. "I know you won't. She'll lie in wait for you. You don't know how strong she is. She'll kill you, Steve, and then what'll happen to me? I'm helpless! I can't see!" His voice rose and he sat up in bed. "I'm blind ! Stay with me, Steve ! Don't leave me!"

"Will you shut up?" Steve exclaimed, exasperated. "You asked for it and you d.a.m.n well got it. So stop squealing."

He s.n.a.t.c.hed up his electric torch, went out into the yard. All was quiet. The moon rode high above the pine trees, casting deep shadows.

There was no sign of Spot, and Steve felt unpleasantly alone. He walked down to the lake, stood at the water's edge, listening, his eyes trying to pierce the thick darkness of the woods. "That's the way she went," he thought uneasily. Was she hiding there, watching him?

He began to walk along the path by the lake. A sudden flurry in a near-by tree brought him to an abrupt stop. His heart began to thud against his ribs. A bird crashed through the branches of the pines, flew away across the lake. Steve drew in a sharp breath. He hadn't realized how strung up he was.

Ahead the path curved away from the lake and wound into the wood. It was dark there and he stopped again, hesitating to leave the moonlit path and enter the blackness that yawned before him.

"Carol!" he called sharply. "It's Steve. Where are you, Carol?"