“To hell with her, then,” Max said impatiently. “Got a room where you can lock this girl up? Somewhere safe?”
“There’s a top room. The window’s barred. You can have that.”
“O.K, then let’s lock her up. I’ve got to get back to Point Breese.
“Ain’t you staying?” Sherill asked, startled.
“I’ve things to do: a job to finish,” Max said, and for a moment he showed his pointed white teeth. “I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
He walked with Sherill along the verandah.
“Take that tape off,” he said to Frank.
Frank was sitting on the floor at Carol’s feet, his head resting on the arm of the chair. There was a smirking, far-away expression in his eyes, but he got up as soon as Max drew near, and picking hold of the corner of the tape he gave it a savage jerk, peeling it off Carol’s mouth, sending her head twisting to the right.
She gave a little gasp of pain, sat up, faced the Sullivans.
“O.K., now talk,” Max said. “Where’s Larson? Where did you leave him?”
“I’m not going to tell you,” Carol said, her voice husky. “I’ll never tell you. . . you can do what you like to me.”
Max smiled.
“You’ll talk,” he said gently. “You wait and see.” He turned to Sherill. “Let’s get her upstairs where I can work on her.”
A soft step behind them made them turn quickly. A woman, or rather a figure dressed like a woman, came towards them: a strangely startling, but pathetic-looking, freak. She—for it was a woman in spite of the long beard—was dressed in a dusty black costume that was at least ten years out of fashion; about her naked ankles a worn pair of man’s boots, unlaced, flapped when she moved. The lower part of her gaunt white face was hidden behind the luxuriant beard, which grew in soft, silky waves to a point some six inches above her waist.
Although Miss Lolly was now forty-five years of age, there was not one white hair in the beard that, not so long ago, had been morbidly stared at by thousands of people in many parts of the world as she sat in her little booth in the travelling circus that had been her home for most of her lonely life.
As she walked hesitatingly towards them her eyes, which must surely have been the saddest eyes in the world, fixed themselves on Carol.
There was a sudden tense silence, then the drowsy autumn afternoon reverberated with Carol’s scream.
Frank giggled.
“She doesn’t appreciate your form of beauty,” he said to Miss Lolly, who drew back, two faint spots of colour showing on her gaunt cheeks.
“Come on,” Max said impatiently, “let’s get her upstairs.” He bent and cut the cord that tied Carol’s ankles, jerked her to her feet.
Miss Lolly watched them drag the struggling girl into the house; listened to the scuffling of feet as they climbed the stairs.
Carol began to scream as they forced her along a broad, dark passage.
Miss Lolly flinched. She hated violence, and she moved quickly into the big, barn-like kitchen. While she washed the vegetables she had gathered, her mind raced excitedly. That girl was beautiful, she thought. She had never seen such beauty. Her hair . . . her eyes. . . . Miss Lolly inwardly flinched when she remembered the look of dazed horror that had come over Carol’s face at the sight of her. But she had no feelings of anger nor hatred for the girl: it was natural that one so beautiful should have been frightened, even revolted, at the sight of Miss Lolly.
“A freak,” she thought bitterly, and two tears swam out of her eyes, dripped into the muddy water amongst the potatoes. Why had the Sullivans brought her here? she wondered. She was scared of the Sullivans . . . hated them. They were cruel, vicious, dangerous. They laughed at her.
The kitchen door was pushed open and Sherill came in. He stood hesitating, looking at Miss Lolly, an uneasy gleam in his eyes.
“Who is she?” Miss Lolly asked, running more water into the bowl.
“The Blandish girl,” Sherill said. “The one you were reading about this morning.”
Miss Lolly dropped the bowl with a clatter into the sink, turned.
“You mean that poor crazy thing? The one they’re searching for?”
“Yes.”
“What are those boys doing with her?” Miss Lolly asked, clasping her hands, her eyes wide with horror. “They’re not fit to . . . a girl like that, needing care, shouldn’t be in their hands . . . she needs someone kind; someone who knows “
A sudden wild agonized scream rang through the old house. Miss Lolly went very pale, took a step forward. Sherill scowled down at his bare feet, ran his hand lightly over his slicked-down hair.
Again came the scream: it cut through the wooden ceiling like a whiplash; a sound that froze Miss Lolly’s blood.
“What are they doing to her?” she said, started forward, but Sherill seized her matchstick of an arm, shoved her back.
“Stay where you are,” he said. “Don’t you know better than to interfere with the Sullivans?”
“Oh, but I can’t let them hurt her,” Miss Lolly said, her bony fingers fluttering in the soft silk of her beard. “I couldn’t let anyone suffer . . .”
“Quiet!” Sherill said.
“No! Please . . . not again . . .!” Carol screamed. Her voice, hitting the sides of the wooden walls of the upstairs room, started up vibrations so that each plank in the building seemed to whisper her words.
“Go out into the garden,” Sherill said suddenly. “Get out! Get out!”
He took hold of Miss Lolly and pushed her through the back doorway, into the hot sunshine.
“Come on,” he said, still holding her arm. “We’re not going to listen to anything. The less we know about this the safer it’ll be if those two bastards slip up.”
Miss Lolly went with him. She held a grubby handkerchief to her eyes and her head flopped limply as she moved.
“So beautiful,” she muttered to herself. “We poor girls . . . trouble . . . always trouble.”
They remained in the garden for some time, and then they saw the Sullivans come out of the house. They had changed their black suits and black overcoats. They now looked like morticians on a holiday. Each wore a light grey suit, a pearl-grey fedora and brown shoes.
As Sherill moved towards them Frank climbed into the Packard and drove it round to the barn at the back of the house.
Max sat on the last step of the stoop. Leaning to a cupped match, his profile was hard and cruel.
“Going now?” Sherill said.
“Yeah,” Max returned. He dabbed his sweating face with a crisp, clean handkerchief. “He’s at the Blue Summit Logging Camp. It’ll be a long trip.”
Sherill didn’t ask who was at the Blue Summit Logging Camp. He knew better than to ask questions. He shuffled his feet in the hot sand. The dry rustling of the sand was the only sound between the two men.
Then Sherill said, “So she talked?” There was an embarrassed, furtive look in his eyes.
“They always talk,” Max said in a tired, flat voice. “They never learn sense.”
The soft sound of a powerful motor engine starting up came from the barn, and a moment later a big dark-blue Buick swept round the corner, pulled up beside Max.
Frank leaned out of the window.
“All set,” he said.
Sherill eyed the changed suits, the changed car, and his eyebrows lifted.
“You boys expecting trouble?”
“We’re going back to a place where we’ve been already,” Max said, climbing into the car. “We don’t put on the same act twice.
Even without their black suits there was something coldly menacing about these two.
“Shall you be long?” Sherill asked.
“Two days; maybe three, not more,” Max said. “Sooner if he’s still there, which he probably won’t be.”
“That’s why she talked,” Frank said crossly. “I bet that’s why she talked. She had that amount of sense.”
“We’ll go there, an
yway,” Max returned, pulled his hat over his eyes. “And Sherill . . .”
Sherill stiffened.
“Yes?”
“Watch her. And when I say watch her . . . I mean watch her. If she ain’t here when we get back, you best not be here, either.”
“She’ll be here,” Sherill said shortly.
“See she is,” Max said. “Get on,” he said to Frank.
Frank leaned across Max, stared at Sherill with intent eyes.
“Watch her, Tex,” he said. “I like that dame . . . I wouldn’t like to lose the opportunity. I’ve got ideas about her.”
“Get on,” Max snarled. “You have too many ideas about too many women.”
“That’s not possible,” Frank said, giggled, drove recklessly down the sandy, rutted by-road.
Miss Lolly crept up the stairs, entered her small neat bedroom. She was trembling and had to sit on the bed until her legs felt strong enough to carry her to the dressing-table. She spent some minutes brushing her hair and beard. Then she put on stockings and shoes. She found a clothes-brush and carefully brushed the dust from her aging black costume.
When she came out of her room, Sherill was standing at the head of the stairs.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked harshly.
“I’m going to see her,” Miss Lolly said firmly. “She wants a woman’s care.”
“You don’t call yourself a woman, do you, you old scarecrow?” Sherill snarled. “You’ll only frighten her.”
Miss Lolly flinched.
“I’m going to see her,” she repeated, and began to move towards the next flight of stairs.
“Well, see her, then,” Sherill returned, “but no nonsense. You heard what Max said.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t interfere,” Miss Lolly said hastily. “I only want to say a kind word . . . if the poor thing’s crazy in the head, like they say, a kind word will help her.”
Sherill took a key from his pocket, handed it to Miss Lolly.
“Lock her in when you’re through,” he said shortly. “I’ve got to get back to work,” and he went down the stairs, his feet making a flat, slapping noise on the bare boards.
A moment or so later, with quickly beating heart, Miss Lolly unlocked the door of Carol’s room, entered.
It was a small bare room and hot from the sun that baked down on the sheet-iron roof. The window that looked out on to the so-called orchard had two rusty iron bars cemented into its frame. The floorboards were dusty and bare. The only furniture in the room was a truckle bed, an old rocking-chair, a wash-stand and a tin bowl full of water on which floated a fine film of dust.
Carol lay on the bed, her hands at her sides, her legs straight, like an effigy on an ancient tomb. Her eyes were like holes cut in a sheet and as expressionless.
Although she heard the lock turn and the handle creak she did not look in the direction of the door. She looked straight in front of her at a cobweb that festooned the opposite wall and that moved gently in the draught. But she cringed inside at the sound, and without being able to help herself, her mouth formed into a soundless scream.
“It’s only me,” Miss Lolly said, standing shyly in the doorway. “It’s Miss Lolly . . .”
Carol shivered, turned her head very slowly, saw the poor freak standing there, embarrassed, nervous, her sad eyes blinking back sympathetic tears, her bony fingers fluttering in her beard.
“Please go away,” Carol said, and began to cry helplessly, hiding her face in her hands.
Miss Lolly paused to look back down the stairway and to listen. The old house was silent. Somewhere in the garden she could hear Sherill sawing wood; more distant still came a sudden sharp bark of a dog.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, my dear,” Miss Lolly said, added wistfully: “I’m human, really. I used to be in the circus with them . . . . Max and Frank.”
“I’m not frightened of you,” Carol said. “It’s only . . . I must be left alone . . . just for a little while. . . .”
“Perhaps you’d like some coffee . . . or tea?” Miss Lolly asked. “I’m so sorry for you ,.» we girls . . . it’s the men, really, isn’t it ? We are always sacrificing ourselves for the men. I’ve had my lovers . . . you mightn’t think so . . . they shouldn’t have brought you here . . . a nice girl like you . . . .”
Carol suddenly sat up.
“Who are you?” she cried. “What do you want with me?”
Miss Lolly blinked, stepped back.
“I’m Miss Lolly . . . you’re too young to have heard of me. I’m Lolly Meadows . . . the famous bearded lady. I’m an artist, really . . . you have to be an artist to bear the cross I have to bear. I don’t want anything of you . . . I only want to be kind. I know what kindness is; not that I’ve had much of it myself. When I heard you scream . . . saw how lovely you were . . . I thought I’d see if I could help you. There’s not much I can do, but we girls . . . if we can’t help each other in our troubles . . .”
Carol dropped back flat on the bed.
“I told them where he was,” she moaned. “I thought nothing could make me tell, but I hadn’t the courage . . . I told them and they’ve gone after him . . . and I love him so.”
Miss Lolly came nearer.
“You mustn’t excite yourself,” she said. “I heard them . . . they said they didn’t expect to find him. I’ll get you a cup of tea.”
“Help me get away from here,” Carol cried, sitting up. “Please help me to get away. Don’t let them keep me here. I must get back to Steve. They shot him. I left him in a wood, and they’re going there to finish him.”
Miss Lolly’s eyes showed her shocked fear.
“Oh, I never interfere,” she said quickly. “I want to make your stay comfortable. I want to do what I can for you, but I don’t meddle. I couldn’t help you to leave here . . . that would be meddling.”
“I’m sure you understand,” Carol said. “You said just now you had lovers. You must know what it means when you love someone and he needs you. I told them where to find him. I tried not to.” She buried her face in her hands. “Oh, you don’t know what they did to me.”
Miss Lolly dabbed her eyes.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she said. “I’d like to help you. I didn’t know . . . do you love him so much?” She glanced over her shoulder. “But I mustn’t stay here talking . . . I’ll get you some tea. You’ll feel better after a cup of tea . . . it’s a long walk to the main road,” she went on for no apparent reason. “There’ll be money on the hall-stand . . .” and she went out, closed the door and ran down the stairs.
Carol remained motionless, staring at the door. Then her heart gave a sudden lurch. She hadn’t heard Miss Lolly turn the key. Very slowly she got off the bed. Her legs felt weak, and the distance between the bed and the door seemed to lengthen as she struggled across the bare boards. She touched the brass doorhandle, turned it and pulled. The door opened. For a moment she stood staring into the dingy passage, scarcely believing that the way was open for her escape.
She crept out on to the landing, looked down the staircase well into the dark hall three flights below. She could hear someone sawing wood in the garden and the rattle of crockery in the kitchen. They were homely, reassuring sounds in a nightmare of terror.
She moved to the head of the staircase, and holding her breath, her heart thudding against her side, she began a silent descent.
* * *
There lived in one of the ruined shacks of the abandoned logging camp on Blue Mountain Summit an old man who was known as Old Humphrey: a half-witted old fellow, very poor and dirty, and who had a remarkable power over birds. He was as timid as a field mouse, and had selected the logging camp for his home since no one ever came to the place. He had been considerably startled when Carol had driven the big shiny Packard into the clearing and had left Larson there while she drove frantically away in search of Doc Fleming.
Old Humphrey had approached Larson with the utmost caution and then had returned to his sha
ck to await developments. He fell asleep while waiting, and awoke with a start when Phil Magarth drove up in his battered Cadillac.
Old Humphrey knew Magarth. Some months ago Magarth had tried to persuade Old Humphrey to give a demonstration of his power over birds, but the old fellow wasn’t having any. So when he saw Magarth drive up he thought he had come to worry him again, and it was with relief when he saw Magarth carry the unconscious Larson to the car and drive off again.
Old Humphrey hoped that he had seen the last of these unwelcome visitors, but the following evening, as he sat before his log fire cooking his supper, the door of his shack was pushed open and the Sullivans came in.
The Sullivans hadn’t expected to find Steve Larson in the camp clearing: that was too much to hope for. But following their usual method of tracking down their intended victim, they were content to start at the place where their victim had last been.
They had seen smoke coming from Old Humphrey’s chimney, had exchanged glances and had walked silently to the ruined little shack.
“Hello, Dad,” Frank said, and kicked the door shut.
Old Humphrey crouched over the fire. His wizened, dirty old face twitched with fright; his thin, filthy hand gripped the handle of the frying-pan that hissed on the fire until his knuckles showed white under the grime.
Max leaned against the mantelpiece, lit a cigarette. The light of the match reflected in his eyes: they were like glittering pieces of glass: black and expressionless.
“You talk to him,” he said to Frank.
Frank sat down on an upturned box close to Old Humphrey, took off his hat to comb his hair. He smiled, and the smile struck a chill into Old Humphrey’s palpitating heart.
“We’re looking for a guy,” Frank said. “A guy who’s sick. What happened to him?”
“I don’t know nothing about any sick guys,” Old Humphrey whined. “I just want to be left alone.”
Max moved restlessly, but Frank still smiled.
“Come on, Dad,” he said softly. “You know all about it. We mean business. Don’t make it hard for yourself. What was he to you?”
Old Humphrey didn’t say anything. He lifted his shoulders as if he expected a blow, brooded down at the mess in the frying-pan, his eyes sightless with fear.
The Flesh of The Orchid Page 12
