"Sit down there and don't try any tricks!" Kaylor snapped out at last, pointing the gun toward an upturned flower tub. "I'll deal with you later!"
He paused, half in surprise, as he suddenly became aware of a slim but amazingly firm green hand gripping his revolver wrist.
'You!' Kaylor gasped almost foolishly, staring up into the lustrous eyes of his creation and feeling the warmth and perfume that seemed to ooze from her. "I—Let go!" He snapped out the last words savagely, suddenly realizing what was taking place.
Rowland leaped up from the tub, intent on finishing the work he had started, but to his vast surprise—and Kaylor's—the voice of the woman warned him back!
"Stand exactly where you are! Kaylor belongs to me! Obey, or it will be the worse for you!"
Sudden fear wrenched at Kaylor's heart. The plant woman's left hand had come now to join the right. It closed fondly about his throat. The heavy scarlet lips came toward his; fragrant breath blew on his heated face.
Then his horrified gaze became fixed as in response to her suddenly resumed wails the tree became abruptly alive. Some of its sinuous branches began to twirl horribly, writhing and twitching in a revolting fashion like a giant octopus. From the midst of the tangle there presently rose one vicious head, swaying with indescribable menace. Jeff Rowland gulped and stared—why, the thing was a viper! A viper in this plant? It moved sinuously downward to coil about the woman's smooth shoulders, rearing its wicked little head in the perfumed air.
Kaylor's agonized eves stared at it unbelievingly, then he renewed his frantic efforts to escape. God—a serpent, spawned of this plant, was not even attempting to hurt the woman! True, Helen Vine had once trained and befriended snakes. Was it possible that she was now actually spawning them as plant branches? Incredible!
Calvin Kaylor, traitor to medicine, felt he was going mad. And as he struggled frantically in the woman's immovable grip, he saw heads of other snakes wriggling and twisting in the green gloom, realized that most of the plant branches were snakes of all descriptions—puff-adders, cobras, even the deadly fer-de-lance!
Then indeed his heart went sick with horror as he caught a glimpse of a massive main stem twitching and sliding toward him with an immutable inevitability. He screamed wildly, tore and struggled with insane ferocity, but there was something about those slender hands on his wrist and neck pulse that held him in a vise of agony. The slightest movement sent sheer torture pounding through him. With bulging eyes, her face staring down into his, he listened to the screaming wail from those lips, and saw reptilian death squirming toward him!
Jeff Rowland jerked his eyes away from the snakes coiling about the woman to the thing Kaylor was staring at—and his heart missed a beat. What had been the trunk of the plant woman was actually a reawakened boa constrictor!^ Aroused now by the woman's cries, it slid along with easy swiftness, a full eight feet in length, and presently coiled itself gently but irresistibly about Kaylor's threshing feet, binding them immovably together.
Only then did the woman release the surgeon and stand there, watching implacably. Kaylor screamed in mad pain and horror as that slimy length slid in cold filthy tautness about him. Tighter drew the coils, and far tighter, encircling his waist, his chest, his neck Breath ceased to enter his lungs. His face turned purple with the constriction
"Remember Helen Vane,' muttered the plant woman, implacable in her hatred.
Rowland turned away, sickened, and listened in silent horror to the cracking rend of bones under the snake's frightful power. Kaylor died horribly, mangled by a pitiless foe.
Only when he was a crushed, dying pulp on the floor did the plant woman wail again, this time with a different note. In response the constrictor slid reluctantly from its victim and crawled back to its former position One by one the remaining serpents uncoiled and slid back to the branches.
Rowland twisted around and watched blankly, unbelievingly, as he saw the woman make a sudden effort and rise from the pit! She stood revealed for a moment as a perfect figure in an amazingly tight but elastic substance that covered her to the ankles. Beneath them were incongruous rubber shoes!
With a faint but bitter smile she hobbled from the plant bed and reached up to the electric light bulb, sliding off the green shade. In the return of white light Rowland stared at her incredulously. She was smothered in green grease paint; her black hair was drawn over her breast in sudden modesty. Her eyes were mascaraed into big circles, her lips were laden with lipstick—even perfume still radiated from her. But of one fact there was no possible shadow of doubt—she was Helen Vane!
She smiled at him rather wearily as he stood gaping, unable to credit his senses.
"I don't know your name, but your face is familiar," she said quietly. "You are the one who watched my act at the circus every night from the front row, aren't you?"
"Why, yes, but—I'm Jeff Rowland," he stammered. "But look here! I saw you cut in half by this butcher here—"
"Not me—my sister Marjorie," she interrupted in a low voice. "She was my twin, and resembled me. But there were certain differences at close range. That was why I pretended I didn't like white light and had this place made subdued. White light would have given things away."
She broke off and turned aside, calling loudly. In response the main skylight of the roof rose up and a group of men's faces appeared.
"All over," she said curtly. "Take him away. I'm through with this fiend. He's dead."
The men nodded, and Rowland wonderingly watched as they tossed down a rope ladder and entered the conservatory, bringing with them various boxes and commencing to coax the snakes into them.
"My snakes, of course," the girl murmured, turning back again. "You know that I train them because of my circus act. The fangs are drawn on all of them. You see, in my display of magic, which comes before my snake act, my sister helps me—or rather she did. She resembled me closely, especially with make-up, so of course it made many disappearing acts very baffling. This devil here captured her in the circus grounds from outside our caravan. Why, I don't know."
"He mistook her for you," Rowland answered grimly. "Kaylor was a biological and botanical fiend with a mad obsession—maybe brought on by the constant derision of his contemporaries."
The girl's eyes were thoughtful. "Evidently he mistook Marjorie for me because he'd only seen me from the distance of the circus ring," she said. "Anyhow, some of the boys saw him carrying her off in his car. They called me right away and we followed the tracks to this place. That wasn't very difficult, with the cross-diamond tire tread he used. For some reason the conservatory roof was open—"
"For me," Rowland nodded, and briefly explained. "He must have forgotten to close it again in his excitement."
"Well, anyhow, I climbed up on the roof and was just in time to see this fiend planting my poor sister in the soil, I heard his words to her, of course—all that he expected she was going to do. When things finally calmed down—after you'd been in to see her, too—I climbed inside and found she was stone dead, horribly, brutally murdered."
The girl paused and shuddered at the recollection. Then she went on again slowly.
'The very fiendishness of her death did something to me. I went outside again and told the boys; they were all for rushing this place and tearing Kaylor limb from limb, but I wanted to make him suffer as my poor sister had done. I would give up everything to do that. So I developed my idea.
"We returned to the circus and collected my snakes, together with other odds and ends—a rope ladder, make-up box, and so forth. In the night all was quiet. We got into this conservatory again and removed poor Marjorie's remains for decent burial. The snakes we fixed up in this plant. Then I stripped myself to the waist and put on this elastic sheathing, used in my professional work. Green grease paint did the rest. My own make-up was easy, especially with this black wig. The boys took the tackle outside and one or other of them was always around on guard, in case things got too hot."
Helen Vane sm
iled bitterly. "Since Kaylor wanted a plant woman, he should have one. I stood in this pit with galoshes on my feet and mackintosh wrapped around my legs—standing a little higher every time, to convey the idea of growth. In the intervening times I simply sat down and waited for my chance to come. I nearly managed it the first time. You see, I wanted him to come close enough to enable me to get a ju-jitsu grip on him. But at first he was too wary. Once I had him in my grip, the boa would finish the job; I knew that. When he threatened to shoot me tonight, I was in a tight corner, but fortunately you blundered in and saved everything."
"But the perfume? The wailings by day? The corridor noises?" Rowland asked, puzzled.
"The perfume was nothing much—only a gag to heighten the illusion. I had two full bottles of cheap essence of acacia in my make-up box. A little goes a long way. Last night I emptied a whole bottleful in the corridor. I heard you call, but I did not release you because my vengeance had still to be gained. Of course, I soaked myself in perfume as well. A sweetish odor of that sort can be very suggestive to a man in Kaylor's state of mind—especially if it comes from a supposed plant woman. As to the wailings, they were merely to keep the snakes awake. They know my particular call, of course."
Jeff Rowland looked at her thoughtfully. "Now I know where I heard those sounds—at the circus," he muttered. "But they were less horrible there, perhaps because the area was bigger. You took a long chance."
Her shoulders shrugged. "I was prepared to risk anything, even my life, to avenge Marjorie. The law could only give that fiend the chair—I wanted something more potent. Nobody will ever know what killed him… As to my professional act, it's ruined."
Rowland remained silent for a moment. Then he patted her arm.
"Maybe it'll work out all right," he said gently. "I wanted to meet you, you know—but not like this. Let's get out of this damned place. My car's somewhere around outside. Maybe we'll think up something together."
They did think up something. Bereft of her sister and finding her snakes always gave her poignant memories of that hideous night in the conservatory, Helen Vane became Mrs. Jeff Rowland in the course of healing time.
BOOMERANG
IF THIS CONFESSION should ever get out of my prison cell I hope it may serve as a warning to those who think they can cheat Fate. It just cannot be done—and I am the proof of it.
The trouble started when I boarded the train at Edinburgh one icy January evening. I was feeling bitter, depressed, and generally sick of everything. My husband had deserted me when we had seemed to be so happy together; money had almost come to an end—so there was apparently nothing else for it but for me to return to my native heath of London and try to find employment. Anything for a fresh start.
I had been seated in a corner of the compartment for about ten minutes, drowsy after the walk through the cutting Scottish air, when my rather vain hope of a corner to myself was shattered by the arrival of a young woman of about my own age from the corridor outside. Noisily she flung her traveling case up beside mine on the rack, then she settled down in the opposite corner.
I watched her lazily through my eyelashes, too comfortable to essay much movement. She was dark, like myself—and, unlike myself, very well dressed. Of similar build, too; I daresay we would have passed as sisters anywhere.
Presently the train got on the move and the gradual crescendo of clicking joints in the rails, the gentle swaying of the carriage, and the night outside the windows opposite the corridor lulled me completely. I would have dropped asleep had not a sudden thud awakened me.
My half opened eyes settled on my traveling companion's handbag. It had slipped to the floor with the movement of the train, spewing forth all its contents. Before the girl's hands could retrieve it I noticed a wad of five and ten pound notes—there must have been several hundred pounds worth—a small automatic, a powder compact, a bunch of keys, and a scattering of about half a dozen visiting cards upon which was the name of Dorothy Eaton. The address I could not quite make out…
But there was something else—the most amazing thing. A snapshot of my husband, David! David, who had deserted me for no apparent reason!
No apparent reason indeed! Now it was clear. He had deserted me for this overpainted, overdressed female by the name of Dorothy Eaton! For this I had been flung to the wall!
The clicking of the wheels drummed in my brain. My eyes jerked from the snapshot to an automatic lying amidst the fallen conglomeration… an automatic?
Faster clicked the wheels, with ever increasing rhythm. Two bridges sighed past and were gone. We two women were in a world of our own.
Then, much to Dorothy Eaton's surprise—and to a certain extent my own—I was helping her to pick the articles up. I helped her scoop back everything into the handbag—except the automatic. This I retained in my hand. Slowly she put the handbag on the seat beside her and gazed at me fixedly.
The wheels blurred into a crescendo of rattle as we swung over points. Lurching from side to side, we two women gazed at each other. The roof light glinted on the gun.
"I'd like my automatic, please." Dorothy Eaton's voice was just a little nervous.
For answer I pulled the blinds down against the corridor side. A plan had formed in my brain in those few seconds of appraisal—a cold, ruthless plan.
"This is your gun?" I asked in a low voice, and my heart was thudding along with the wheels.
"Yes, of course. I have a license for it. I'm alone a good deal, and—"
"Except when you're with my husband!" I interrupted, and it was a sheer joy to see the color fade and betray the rouge on her cheeks.
"You're Sheila Lacy!" she said hoarsely, staring at me "Sheila Lacy! How did you get in here with me?"
"Pure chance—Heaven sent! So, you are the one who got me into this mess! You sit there in your fancy clothes and with a roll of notes, while I don't know which way to turn! But I've got the gun… See! Here! In my hand!"
"Don't be a fool," she whispered, her breast heaving up and down as her heart obviously raced. "I couldn't help Dave liking me, could I? Besides, I've left him now! That's why I am on this train. I'm returning to London. We had an awful row, and—" Her voice was drowned out for a while as the train rushed onwards over a water-trough.
"I'm not interested in you, or Dave!" I snapped. "All I am interested in is in paying you back—with interest! Like this!"
And before I realized it I had pulled the trigger of the automatic. Above the roar of the train as she took up water, the report was muffled somewhat. I saw a red patch defile the white of Dorothy Eaton's blouse just above the heart—and it began to spread. She just sat, staring at me unblinkingly.
My pulses were going like trip hammers now in sympathy with the wheels on the rails. Gradually I began to realize what I had done. Leaning across, I gripped her wrist and felt for a pulse. She was dead. My one shot must have gone right through her heart.
'Tickets! Tickets please!"
Great God, now what? The inspector was only two compartments away. Somehow I kept myself calm, for I had a plan—but it would demand plenty of nerve…
At top speed I searched the dead girl's handbag and found her ticket. Then, heaving her into her corner seat, I pulled her costume coat well over her bloodstained blouse and left her in a sleeping position with her head drooping forward. When the inspector locked inside in the dim light I sat on the automatic and handed him two tickets.
As he handed the tickets back he looked at me keenly.
"Everything all right in here, miss?"
I felt myself becoming suddenly hot. "All—all right?" I repeated, trying to sound casual. "Why surely. Why not?"
"Oh, nothing; I'm asking them all the same thing in this part of the train. I thought I heard a sort of crack from somewhere about here. Maybe a stone against one of the windows as we took up water."
"I expect that would be it," I agreed, and with that he went out and slammed the door on me.
Now for my plan! I picked up
Dorothy Eaton's handbag from the seat opposite and searched through it, pulled out one of the visiting cards and studied it. Dorothy Eaton. So far so good. My next move was simple. I exchanged her bag for my own, except that I retained the money. In my old bag were two visiting cards with my own name on them. To them I added a brief suicide note and signed it with my own name—Sheila Lacy. Then, into Dorothy Eaton's stiffening fingers I fitted the automatic, concealing it by drawing her arm up a little inside her coat. To the casual observer she would seem to be asleep. By the time the truth was found out I would be far away.
The police, I reasoned, would assume it to be real suicide, and since I had been—and still was—wearing gloves only Dorothy's fingerprints would be on the gun. So few people had known me in Edinburgh that they would probably swear Dorothy was me if it came to it. Dave himself would know different, of course, but since enquiry would involve him, I reasoned he would be careful how much he said.
I was still vaguely uneasy, though. Finally I dislodged the automatic again from Dorothy's tight hold and examined it—broke it open. Surprisingly, two bullets had been fired. Either I had fired two in my excitement, or else—Well, it didn't signify, anyway. Everything was perfect. So I put the gun back again in that tightening clutch.
And the inspector who thought that he had heard a shot? Well, if anything, that would verify the suicide. The police would be told that I had handed up her ticket as though I were a friend of hers. Quite right—but they would have to find me first to make me a witness. Besides, I would say then that she must have shot herself while I had left the compartment to get some air.
I was Dorothy Eaton now. I possessed nearly five hundred pounds as a basis on which to start anew. I had justifiably killed the woman who had started my troubles—killed her in absolute safety. My scheme was foolproof.
When we got to Euston Station I took down her traveling case and escaped on to the busy platform. I had no trouble at the barrier—but I ran into trouble just beyond it. Two men suddenly came out of nowhere and blocked my path!
Liquid Death And Other Stories Page 20
