The Flesh of The Orchid

by James Hadley Chase

  “There’s another nut inside, but she’s tied up,” he said. “Don’t you two girls get fighting.”

  Carol didn’t know the man was Sam Garland of the Glenview Mental Sanatorium, who had been into Kinston to collect a patient. She thought he must be drunk and she began to scream wildly.

  “Don’t excite yourself,” Garland said genially, unlocked the door and threw her into the dimly lit ambulance. He slammed the door, went round to the cab, climbed in and drove off.

  Carol half sat up, then froze into motionless terror.

  A woman was lying on one of the slung stretchers. She was plain to look at and her thick black hair hung in lank coils beyond her shoulders. She was in a strait-jacket and her ankles were strapped to the stretcher rails.

  She looked at Carol with bright, mad little eyes.

  CHAPTER V

  EXCITEMENT hung over Point Breese like a fine layer of dust. The Sullivans sensed it as they drove down the main street. It was not that there was anything to see. Point Breese was hidden under a blanket of darkness, and except for the saloon bars and the all-night cafe and the drug store, no lights showed. But the excitement was there: you could feel it seeping out of the dark houses; hanging in the cool night an.

  The Sullivans wondered about it, but they didn’t say anything to each other: not quite sure that they weren’t imagining things.

  They were very tired after the drive from the old plantation house. They had had no sleep worth speaking about for twenty-four hours, and although they didn’t need much sleep, they were now ready for a rest.

  Frank, who was driving the Buick, swung the car off the main street, round to the jail and the hotel. He slowed to a crawl when he saw the little group of men standing outside the jail.

  Max’s hand automatically went to his shoulder holster and his eyes grew watchful, but the men just glanced their way, tinned their heads again to stare up at the jail.

  “What’s up?” Frank asked out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Nothing we should worry about,” Max returned. “There must be a garage round the back. Get the car out of sight.”

  They found the hotel garage, left the car and retraced their steps to the front entrance. They kept in the shadows, but the group of men were too intent watching the jail to notice them.

  The clerk behind the reception desk was a pale little man with a moustache like a soot-mark on his upper hp. He gave Max a pen and pushed the register towards him.

  “A double room,” he asked, “or two singles?”

  “Double,” Max said, signed the book.

  Frank took the pen, read the fictious name Max had scrawled in the register, copied it.

  “Send up coffee and hot rolls at half past eight tomorrow morning,” Max said, “and the newspapers.”

  The clerk made a note on a sheet of paper, touched a bell.

  The bell-hop was a scraggy man with bags under his eyes. The pill-box hat he wore made him look as if he was going to a fancy dress party. He took the Sullivans’ pig-skin bag, led the way to a small, hand-propelled elevator.

  As they were being drawn creakily upwards, a muffled hammering sound jarred the silence of the hotel.

  “Fixing the scaffold,” the bell-hop said, and his fishy eyes sparkled with sudden excitement.

  “What scaffold?” Frank asked, although he knew.

  “For the hanging,” the bell-hop returned, brought the elevator to rest, pushing back the grill. “Ain’t you heard?”

  The Sullivans looked at him watchfully, moved out of the elevator into the corridor.

  A girl in a silk wrap and sky-blue pyjamas, carrying a sponge bag and towel, passed them. In her lips, painted into a savage cupid bow, dangled a cigarette. She looked at the Sullivans and her eyes smiled.

  Frank didn’t even notice her.

  “What hanging?” he asked the bell-hop.

  “Where’s our room?” Max broke in. “Come on, show us the room.”

  The bell-hop led them down the corridor, unlocked a door, pushed it open, turned on the lights. It was the usual sort of room you’d expect a hotel like this to offer you. It had been furnished for economy rather than for comfort: not the kind of room you’d wish to stay in for long.

  “What hanging?” Frank repeated, closing the door.

  The bell-hop rubbed his hands on the back of his trousers. He looked like a man with good news.

  “The Waltonville murderer,” he said. “Ain’t you read about him? He killed three dames all in the same evening and then gave himself up. I guess he won’t kill any more dames after nine o’clock tomorrow.”

  “Get out,” Max said without looking at him.

  The bell-hop stared.

  “I was only telling you, mister—” he began.

  “Get out!” Max said softly.

  The bell-hop went quickly to the door, hesitated, looking back at the Sullivans. They stared at him, still, intent, watchful. There was something about them that scared him. It was like losing your way in the dark and finding yourself suddenly in a cemetery.

  When he had gone, Max picked up the bag and tossed it on to the bed.

  Frank still stood motionless in the middle of the room. The muffled hammering held his attention.

  “I wonder what it feels like to be hanged,” he said suddenly.

  “I haven’t thought about it,” Max said, and for an imperceptible moment he paused in his unpacking.

  “To be locked in, to hear that hammering, knowing it was for you; to hear them come down the passage for you, and you not able to do anything about it,” Frank went on in a low voice. “Like a beast in a cage.”

  Max said nothing. He began to undress.

  “It could happen to us, Max,” Frank said, and little beads of moisture showed on his white, fattish face.

  “Get into bed,” Max said.

  They didn’t speak until they were in bed and Max had turned off the light, then Max said out of the darkness: “I wonder where we can find Magarth. It shouldn’t be difficult. The thing that will be difficult is to find out where he’s hidden Larson, and if Larson has talked.”

  Frank said nothing: he was still listening to the muffled hammering.

  “How long do you reckon they’ll keep up that noise ?” he asked.

  Max, who missed nothing, detected the slightest quaver m Frank’s voice.

  “Until they’ve fixed it good,” he said. “Go to sleep.”

  But Frank didn’t. He lay listening to the hammering and it got on his nerves. Max’s light, even breathing also got on his nerves. To think a guy could sleep with that going on, Frank thought angrily. He was angry because his nerve wasn’t as good as Max’s, and because he was frightened.

  After a while the hammering stopped, but still Frank didn’t sleep. Later, a sudden loud crash made him start up, and he snapped on the light.

  “What’s that?” he demanded, his nerves crawling on the surface of his skin.

  Max moved out of sleep into wakefulness as easily and as quickly as the turning on of an electric lamp.

  “They’re testing the trap,” he said calmly.

  “Yes,” Frank said, “I hadn’t thought of that,” and he put out the light.

  Now neither of the Sullivans slept. Frank was thinking about the condemned man, and his mind slipped back into the past; the faces of the men and women he had helped to murder floated out of the darkness; surrounded him, pressed in on him.

  Max didn’t sleep because he was thinking about Frank. For some time now he had been watching Frank. Although Frank had shown no outward sign, Max suspected that he was losing his nerve. He wondered how long it would be before Frank would be of no further use to him. The thought disturbed him, for he had known Frank a long time. They had developed their knife-throwing act together when they had been at school.

  But later they both slept, and woke at eight-thirty the following morning when the hotel maid brought them coffee and rolls. She also brought in with her the atmosphere of suppressed e
xcitement. It was more electric now than the previous night, but it didn’t affect Max. He sat up in bed, poured the coffee, passed a cup to Frank, who put it on the table at his side.

  “They’ll be coming for him in a few minutes,” Frank said, betraying that he was still thinking of the execution.

  “The rolls aren’t hot enough,” Max grumbled, got out of bed and went into the bathroom.

  He had just finished shaving when the trap was sprung. The crash left him unmoved. He continued to clean his razor, his white, cold face expressionless. A moment after the trap was sprung a vast sigh came up from the street in through the open bathroom window, and he looked out and saw the huge crowd standing before the jail.

  “Vultures,” he thought, and with sudden vicious hatred of them and their morbid curiosity he spat out of the window.

  When he returned to the bedroom Frank was quiet. He was still in bed, and his pillow was dark with sweat, and sweat ran down his face so that his skin glistened in the sunlight.

  The two men didn’t say anything to each other. Max noticed that Frank hadn’t touched his coffee nor his rolls.

  While Max dressed the only sound came from the shuffling feet of the crowd as they broke up and returned to their homes. Frank stared up at the ceiling, listening to the shuffling, and sweat continued to darken his pillow.

  “I’ll be back in a little while,” Max said at the door. “You’d better wait for me here.”

  Frank didn’t trust his voice, so he didn’t say anything, and Max didn’t seem to expect him to say anything.

  * * *

  “Any news?” Magarth asked as he pushed open the door to the Sheriff’s office and entered the dingy little room.

  Kamp glanced up.

  “I’ve just got back from the execution,” he said. There was still a faint greenish tinge in his brick-red complexion. It was his first execution in five years and it had upset him. He grimaced, went on: “I’ve had a report that the Packard Clipper we want was seen in Kinston midday yesterday and was headed for Campville, but nothing else has come in—no trace of the girl. Campville’s sheriff is keeping his eyes open. We’ll hear if anything else turns up.”

  Magarth sat on the edge of the desk.

  “I wonder if they have got her,” he said, a worried look in his eyes. “Seems odd they should be leaving the district. I was willing to bet they’d have had a shot at finishing Larson. Of course, if they have got her, they might be taking her some place we wouldn’t think to look for her, and then come back here after Larson. Think we should comb the country around Campville?”

  “It’s being done,” Kamp said. “And we’re watching all roads into Point Breese for the Packard in case they try to slip back here.”

  “Good enough,” Magarth said approvingly. “Well, there’s not much else we can do. I’m going over to Miss Banning’s place to see how they’re getting on. I saw Doc Kober just now. He thinks Larson has a fighting chance, but he mustn’t be worried for a day or so. I sent young Riley up to the farm to look after his foxes.”

  “Hartman’s been in again,” Kamp said, pulling a wry face.

  “That reminds me,” Magarth said. “I told you we were investigating Hartman’s background. We’ve just received a report. He’s been playing the markets and has sustained some heavy losses, but he always manages to find enough money to meet his commitments and continues to plunge. No one knows where he gets the money from, but I can guess. It mightn’t be a bad idea if the Blandish girl wasn’t found until next week. If she comes into her money a thorough investigation could be made, and I bet we’d dig up enough to put Hartman away for a long time.”

  “You newspaper guys are the most suspicious men in the world,” Kamp said, pulling at his moustache. “Anyway, the girl’s dangerous. We have to find her as quickly as we can.”

  “I wonder if she is,” Magarth returned. “She seemed normal enough to me when I talked to her.”

  “Doc Travers explained that to me,” Kamp said. “She has a split mind. She may go for weeks acting normal before she has an attack, but when she’s that way she’s highly dangerous.”

  “I can’t imagine it,” Magarth said stubbornly. “I’ve talked to her; you haven’t.” He shrugged, slid off the table. “I’ll be getting along. Give me a call if anything breaks. You can reach me at Miss Banning’s place. I’ll be there all morning.”

  As he ran down the steps of the jail Jedson, the owner of the big service station close by, hailed him by name, crossed the street to speak to him.

  Max, standing on the hotel steps, heard Jedson hail Magarth and without appearing to move, edged behind one of the big pillars supporting the hotel porch. He watched Magarth exchange a few words with Jedson, then climb into his battered Cadillac and drive off.

  Jedson moved towards the hotel and Max strolled down the steps to meet him.

  “Was that Magarth, the newspaper man?” Max asked as Jedson was about to pass him.

  Jedson paused, looked Max over, nodded briefly.

  “That’s right, mister,” he said, made to pass on.

  “That’s my bad luck,” Max went on. “I’m supposed to do business with him. It’s my first visit to this town. Know where he’s gone?”

  Jedson shook his head.

  “Maybe he’s gone to Miss Banning’s place,” he said helpfully. “You could put a call through if it’s urgent.”

  “Thanks,” Max said. “It’s urgent all right. Who’s Miss Banning?”

  “She runs a big orange plantation upon Grass Hill,” Jedson said; then, realizing he was talking a lot, gave Max a sharp glance.

  “Grass Hill?” Max said, and smiled, shoving his white pointed teeth. “Thanks.”

  Jedson watched Max walk quickly into the hotel and up the stairs. He lifted his hat to scratch his head. “Now, I wonder who he is?” he said to himself.

  * * *

  While the Sullivans had been trying to sleep in their hotel bedroom, Sam Garland drove his ambulance along the dark highway towards Point Breese. He was excited and jubilant. When his headlights had picked out Carol as she walked along the lonely road, and he caught a glimpse of her red hair, he had automatically slammed on his brakes. Surely there was no other girl in the district with hair like that? he said to himself. She must be Carol Blandish. And when he turned his spotlight on her he recognized her immediately.

  Even now that she was securely locked in the ambulance he could scarcely believe his luck. The five-thousand-dollar reward was still unclaimed, and it would be his—and he Could use five thousand dollars.

  He wondered suddenly if he shouldn’t have strapped Carol to a stretcher. You never knew what tricks a nut would get up to. Garland had been a mental nurse for a number of years before he got sick of it and took on the job of Doc Travers’s chauffeur and ambulance-driver. He had learned how to handle dangerous lunatics and wasn’t scared of them. He half hesitated whether to stop and fix Carol before going on. Then as there was silence in the ambulance, he decided not to waste time, but to get to Glenview as quickly as he could. He was looking forward to seeing Joe’s face when he arrived.

  But he wasn’t to know of the whispered conversation that was going on inside the ambulance.

  The mad woman who was travelling with Carol—her name was Hatty Summers—had been in a home for years. At first she seemed harmless enough, but recently she had developed homicidal tendencies, and arrangements had been made to transfer her from the home in Kinston to Glenview, where the staff were better able to handle dangerous patients.

  As soon as Carol set eyes on Hatty Summers she knew she was locked in with a mad woman, and her blood ran cold.

  “So they’ve got you too,” Hatty whispered, and laughed. “Picked you off the road, did they? Now that’s what I call real smart: knew you as soon as they saw you.”

  Carol crouched away from the bright little eyes that seemed to probe right into her mind. Again she experienced the feeling that she was asleep and dreaming.

  “
They’ll take you to Glenview,” Hatty went on, “and they’ll lock you up. I’ve heard of Glenview. That’s where I’m going, because the nurses are afraid of me at Kinston.” She raised her head, added, “And they’re right to be afraid of me.” She laughed, went on: “Glenview’s nice, but I’m sick of being locked up. I want to be free to do what I like.”

  Glenview!

  The name stirred a dormant chord in Carol’s memory, conjuring up a shadowy picture of a room with blue walls and a nurse who stared and pointed at her, but said nothing.

  “I must get away,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud. “I must get away before anything happens. . . ,”

  She ran to the door and tried to open it, but her fingers slipped over the smooth surface, unable to find a purchase.

  “They won’t let you get away,” Hatty said, giggling with excitement. “You’re mad like me. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “I’m not mad!” Carol cried, twisting round and setting her back against the door.

  “Oh, yes, you are,” Hatty said. “I know. You’re clever. You can hide it from most people, but not from me.”

  “I’m not mad,” Carol repeated, and hid her face in her hands.

  “You are,” Hatty whispered. “You may call it by some other name, but you’re mad as I am. I can always tell.”

  “I’m not mad,” Carol said, but cold fingers seemed to squeeze her heart. Could she be mad? she asked herself. Was that the explanation of these extraordinary things that were happening to her? Were they delusions of a diseased mind? Was that why she couldn’t remember who she was? Was that the explanation of the odd, infrequent snapping noise that sounded in her head which turned everything into a badly focussed film?

  “Losing confidence?” Hatty asked, watching her closely. “Well, don’t give up hope. I didn’t mean to make you unhappy.”

  “Oh, stop talking to me!” Carol burst out, and began to beat on the door of the ambulance.

  “Hush, you little fool,” Hatty said. “It won’t do any good. He won’t let you out until you get to Glenview, and then it’ll be too late. Do you want to get away?”

  Carol looked at her over her shoulder.