The Flesh Of The Orchid Part 7

The faint echo of his voice floated across the lake.

Where are you, Carol?

It had a spooky sound, like a voice without a body, jeering at him.

He moved on and darkness closed in on him. He could see nothing now and he turned on his electric torch. The powerful beam lit up the narrow path. Overhead the branches of the pines seemed to be reaching down, threatening him. He kept on, pausing every now and then to listen. He became suddenly aware that he was not alone, that he was being watched, and turning quickly, he flashed the beam of the torch around, lighting up bushes and trees, but he could see no one.

"Are you there, Carol?" he called. His voice was a little shaky, "It's Steve. I want you, Carol."

Behind him a shadowy figure rose out of the bushes, crept silently upon him.

In front of him a dead branch snapped loudly. He swung the beam of his torch in that direction, caught his breath sharply. A man stood in the bright light of the torch: a man dressed in black; a heavy .45 revolver in his hand.

"Reach up, Larson," Max said softly.

Two hands patted his pockets from behind. He glanced round, a chill crawling up his spine, saw a second man in black: Frank.

"The two black crows: the Sullivans!" Steve thought, and his mouth went dry.

"Who are you?" he demanded, keeping his voice steady with an effort.

"b.u.t.ton up," Max said, shoving the barrel of the .45 into Steve's ribs. "We'll do the talking. Who's Carol? And what are you doing out here?"

"She's a friend, staying with me," Steve said shortly. "I was looking for her."

Max and Frank exchanged glances.

"Roy up at the cabin?" Max asked softly.

Steve hesitated. There was no point in lying. They had only to go up there and see for themselves.

"Yes," he said.

"You watch this guy, Frank," Max said. "I'll handle Roy."

"And the girl?"

"If she doesn't show up, it don't matter. If she does, we'll fix her," Max said. "Better bring him along."

He walked away towards the cabin.

Frank pushed his gun into Steve.

"Get moving," he said, "and don't try any tricks. I know 'em all. And don't shout when you get near the cabin. You'll only be throwing your life away."

Steve walked after Max. He was pretty sure that when these two had killed Roy, they'd kill him too. But he wasn't worrying about himself. He was thinking of Carol. What would happen to her? He was surprised to find that he had a sudden tightness in his throat when he thought of her. Whatever happened, he decided, she mustn't be allowed to fall into the hands of these two.

"Can't you fellows leave us alone?" he said. "We're not doing you any harm."

"Skip it," Frank said. "You don't want to make it any harder for yourself. We ain't worrying about you: it's Roy we're after."

"But what's he done to you?" Steve asked. "If it's money you want, I've enough. You don't have to kill him."

"We've got our dough," Frank returned. "Once we take a guy's dough we give him satisfaction. That's the way we do our business."

There was a note of flat finality in his voice that told Steve it would be useless to plead for his brother. He walked on, a sick feeling in his stomach. It was like living through a realistic nightmare.

At the head of the road leading to the cabin he saw the big black Packard. It had been reversed up the road; its long hood pointing to the valley.

"If I could reach that," he thought, "I might ditch these two, but there's nothing I can do for Roy."

There was nothing he could do for Roy. Max was already looking through the open french windows at Roy, who lay on the bed, his hand grasping the gun.

Max came up the verandah steps like a shadow, his rubber-soled shoes soundless on the wooden boards.

Roy had been listening all the time, his nerves tight, fear gripping his throat. He listened with an intentness that made his head ache, expecting any moment for Carol to come in out of the night and finish him. He didn't think of the Sullivans. He was now sure he was safe from them, believed because they always worked so quickly that, as they hadn't found him before, they would never find him.

He wondered how long Steve would be: whether he would return. The pain in his eyes had turned to a dull ache. He was sick with self-pity and fear.

Max moved silently into the room, saw the gun in Roy's hand and grinned sourly. He crept across the room until he was by the bed. It would have been easy to have finished Roy now: too easy. Max was bored with easy death.

Roy groaned to himself, let go of the gun to hold his aching head between his hands. Max picked up the gun, shoved it into his hip-pocket. He waited, watching the blind man, wondering how he would react when he had found the gun gone.

After a moment or so Roy put his hand down on the exact spot where the gun had been. His fingers moved to the right and then to the left. Then he muttered under his breath, moved his hand further along the bed. His movements were at first controlled. He thought the gun had slipped along the blanket. But as he touched nothing but the bedclothes he began to scrabble feverishly, then sat up, using both hands, sweat starting out on his face.

Max lifted a chair very gently, set it down soundlessly by the bed, lowered himself into it. It amused him to see Roy's growing panic, to be so close to his victim knowing he was unaware of his presence.

"Must have fallen on the floor," Roy muttered to himself, leaned over the side of the bed and groped blindly on the strip of carpet.

Max still sat, his gloved hands folded in his lap, his chin sunk into his black scarf, and he didn't move, but waited, an interested, bland expression in his eyes.

Roy's groping fingers touched Max's pointed toe-cap, pa.s.sed on, then paused. Back came the fingers, slowly now, hesitant. Again they touched the toe-cap, moved up, touched the frayed trouser-end. Then Roy s.h.i.+vered. His breath came through his clenched teeth like an escape of compressed steam.

Someone was sitting by his bed!

He s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away, wedged himself back against the wall.

"Who's there?" he croaked. His voice sounded less human than a parrot's.

"The Sullivans," Max said softly.

For a long moment of time Roy crouched against the wall, scarcely breathing, his face livid, sweat soaking the bandage across his eyes.

Then: "Steve!" he screamed wildly. "Quick, Steve! Save me!"

"He can't help you," Max said, crossing his legs. "Frank's watching him. Nothing nor n.o.body can help you now. We've come to take care of you."

"You wouldn't kill a blind man," Roy implored. "I'm blind! Look at me. I'm through . . . can't you see I'm through? I'm no use to anyone."

Max was staring at the bandage across Roy's eyes.

"Take that rag off," he said. "I don't believe you're blind."

"I am," Roy said, beating his clenched fists together. "I can't take it off . . . my eyes will bleed."

Max grinned, reached out, hooked his fingers under the bandage and jerked.

"Then let 'em bleed," he said.

Roy screamed.

"Enjoy yourself," Frank called from the verandah.

Max was gaping at the ruin of Roy's eyes.

"Hey, Frank," he said. "Look at this punk's mug. He's had his eyes scratched out."

"That's fine," Frank said languidly. "Saves us doing it."

"You should see him," Max urged. "It's a sight for sore eyes," and he laughed.

"Can't be bothered," Frank returned. "Me and my pal are comfortable out here."

"Well, he's sure in a mess," Max said, tapped Roy's shoulder. "How did it happen, ol' man?"

Roy caught at the gloved hand, but Max shoved him off.

"She did it. She's crazy and . . . a lunatic."

"Who is?" Max asked, his dead eyes coming to life.

"The girl. . . Carol . . . we found her up on the hill. There'd been a truck smash . . . Steve nursed her . . . and she turned on me."

Max leaned forward.

"What's she like to look at?"

"A redhead," Roy gasped. His face was a s.h.i.+ny mask of blood: blood ran into his mouth, stained his teeth. He looked inhuman. When he spoke he sprayed blood into Max's face.

Max gave a little sigh, wiped his face with the back of his glove, went out on to the verandah.

"You're taking your time, ain't you?" Frank asked, surprised.

"That nut with the six million bucks," Max said tersely. "The one the barman told us about: she's here."

Frank gave a sharp giggle.

"Don't we get all the luck," he said, poked Steve with his gun. "Pal, if only you knew what lucky guys we are. Where is she? Where have you hidden her?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Steve said, bewildered.

"Yes, you do. The redhead . . . Carol, isn't that her name? Where is she?"

"She's run off. I was looking for her when you arrived."

"Did she scratch him up like that?" Max asked.

Steve nodded.

"But she's not mad. She was scared. . . ."

"O.K., so she's not mad," Max said, winked at Frank. "But we'd better find her." He looked across the lake at the distant mountains. "Six million dollars is a lot of do-ra-me to be roaming around those peaks."

"Yeah," Frank said, "but first things first. What about the punk?"

"Sure; I haven't forgotten him. We'll fix him now. How shall we do it?"

"Little Bernie wanted it nice and slow," Frank said. "Nothing fast and easy. We could drown him in the lake."

Max shook his head.

"You've got drowning on the brain," he said. "You always get wet when you drown anyone. When will you learn? Remember that twist we surprised in her bath? That was your idea: flooded the G.o.dd.a.m.n bathroom, spoilt a nice-looking ceiling and I got a cold. It hung around for weeks. No drowning for me."

"I forgot," Frank said apologetically. "Suppose we open his veins?"

"Too easy for him; besides, it's messy. I thought if we got rid of these two we might stay here for a few days. I like it up here. We don't want to mess up the cabin."

"Keep the redhead until the fourteen days are up, is that what you mean?" Frank asked.

"That's the idea. Then we could look after her-and her dough."

Frank brooded for an inspiration.

"We could shove his face in a bucket of mola.s.ses. He'd suffocate slow that way," he said at last, looked enquiringly at Steve. "Got any mola.s.ses, pal?"

Steve shook his. head. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen Roy creeping along the verandah.

"Why don't you give him a break?" he demanded loudly. "What's he done to you?"

Roy had stopped and was crouched against the cabin wall, his head turned in their direction. The Sullivans had their backs to him, but he didn't know that.

"We could make a bonfire of him," Max suggested, ignoring Steve.

"Now that's a swell idea," Frank said. "Saves us burying him, too."

At that moment Roy made his bid for freedom. He crept across the verandah, swung his leg over the rail, dropped to the ground. Then he began to run blindly.

The Sullivans glanced round, saw him.