The Flesh of the Orchid

Chapter One

Somewhere in the building, above the roar of the wind that rattled doors and windows, a woman’s scream filtered through padded walls. It was an eerie sound of idiot degeneracy rather than of pain or fear, and it swelled to a muffled crescendo before dying away in a whimper of lunatic self-pity.

A young and attractive-looking nurse, carrying a supper-tray, walked down the broad corridor that ran the length of the building. She paused outside a door, set the tray on a white enamelled table against the wall.

As she did so a squat dark man with two gold teeth came round the bend in the corridor. He grinned cynically when he saw the nurse, but another scream from the woman upstairs twisted the grin into a wry grimace.

‘That yelling sets my teeth on edge,’ he said as he came to a slouching halt by the nurse. ‘I’d like to give her something to yell about.’

‘Oh, that’s number ten,’ the nurse returned, patted the corn-coloured curls that framed her pretty face under the edge of the stiff white cap she wore. ‘She’s always like this in a storm. It’s time they put her in a sound-proof room.’

‘They ought to give her a shot,’ the squat man said. ‘She gets on my nerves. If I’d known it was going to be like this I’d’ve never taken the job.’

‘Don’t be so fussy, Joe,’ the nurse said, and laughed unfeelingly. ‘What do you expect, working in a mental sanatorium?’

‘Not this,’ Joe said, shaking his head. ‘It gets on my nerves. That screw in number fifteen tried to hook my eyes out this morning. Did you hear about it?’

‘Who didn’t?’ the nurse said, and laughed again. ‘They said you shook like a leaf.’

‘Couldn’t think of any other way to get a nip of brandy out of Doc Travers,’ Joe said with a grin. ‘And the punk fed me salvolatile.’ He brooded for a moment, went on: ‘And listen to that wind. It’s creepy enough here without the wind moaning like a lost soul.’

‘You got that out of a book,’ the nurse said. ‘I like the sound of the wind.’

‘Then you can have it,’ Joe said shortly.

The woman’s screams changed suddenly to clear, high-pitched peals of mirthless laughter, unhysterical and unhurried: a weird, frightening sound against the background of the storm raging outside.

‘Maybe you like that giggle too?’ Joe said, his mouth tight, his eyes uneasy.

‘You get used to it,’ the nurse said callously. ‘Lunatics are like children: they want to express themselves.’

‘She’s doing fine, then,’ Joe said. ‘She ought to be proud of herself.’

There was a pause, then the nurse asked, ‘Are you going off duty now?’

Joe eyed her thoughtfully, a half jeering, half friendly expression on his face.

‘Is that an invitation?’ he asked, sidled closer.

The nurse laughed.

‘I’m afraid it isn’t, Joe,’ she said regretfully. ‘I’ve eight more suppers to serve. I won’t be through for another hour.’

‘Oh, the hell with that!’ Joe said. ‘I’m going to bed. Sam’s turned in already. We’ve gotta be up at four. Besides, I don’t want to listen to that nut sounding off. I’ve had enough of her.’

‘All right, go to bed,’ the nurse said, tossing her head. ‘I’m not hard up for company. Dr. Travers wants me to play gin-rummy with him.’

Joe sneered.

‘That’s about his top ambition. You won’t learn anything fresh from Doc Travers.’

‘I know that... Dr. Travers isn’t fresh — like you, Joe.’

Joe sniffed, eyed the supper-tray on the table.

‘They feed ’em good, don’t they?’ he said, took a stick of celery from the glass holder on the tray. ‘Before I came here I thought they shovelled raw meat at ’em through iron bars.’ He bit into the celery, chewed.

‘You leave my patient’s supper alone,’ the nurse said indignantly. ‘Where are your manners? You can’t do that sort of thing here.’

‘I’ve already done it,’ Joe said with simple truth, ‘and it cats swell. Besides, she won’t miss a bite of celery with all that dough to keep her warm.’

‘Oh, so you’ve heard about that, have you?’

Joe leered.

‘I don’t miss much. I had my ear clamped to the keyhole when Doc Travers was shooting his mouth off on the ’phone. Six million bucks. That’s what Blandish left her, ain’t it?’ He pursed his lips into a soundless whistle. ‘Think of it! Six million bucks!’

The nurse sighed. She’d been thinking about it all day.

‘Well, some people have all the luck,’ she said, leaned against the wall and studied Joe with an appreciative eye. She thought he had attractive ways.

‘What’s she like?’ Joe asked, waving the celery stalk at the door. ‘I’ve heard things about her. Sam says she’s juicy. Is she?’

‘I’ve seen worse,’ the nurse said noncommittally. ‘But she’s not your style, Joe.’

‘That’s what you think,’ Joe said, grinning. ‘With six million bucks as a sweetener Mrs. Astor’s horse would be my style. I’d marry that dame tomorrow if she’d let me dip into her purse. Maybe you could talk her into the idea.’

‘You wouldn’t like her for a wife, Joe,’ the nurse said, and giggled. ‘You’d be scared to close your eyes. She has homicidal tendencies.’

‘If she’s as good as Sam says I wouldn’t want to close my eyes,’ Joe returned. ‘Besides, I’d take my chance for all that dough. I guess I could handle her at that. I gotta hypnotic eye.’ He patted the nurse’s flank. ‘I’ll hypnotize you one of these days.’

‘I don’t have to be hypnotized,’ the nurse said, laughing. ‘You know that, Joe.’

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Joe said.

The nurse picked up the tray.

‘I’ll have to get on. Shan’t I see you tonight?’ She looked archly at him. ‘Are you really going to waste time in bed?’

Joe eyed her over.

‘O.K. Eight o’clock, then,’ he said. ‘But don’t keep me waiting. We can go to the garage and sit in a car. If we don’t do anything else, I can learn you to drive.’ He closed a jeering eye. ‘More useful than playing gin-rummy.’ He went off along the corridor, a shambling, squat figure, wrapped up in himself, indifferent to his conquest.

The nurse looked after him, sighed, as she fumbled for the key that hung from a thin chain at her waist. The woman on the second floor began to scream again. She seemed to have found a new source of inspiration, for her screams rang out high above the noise of the rain as it lashed against the stucco walls of the asylum. The wind, dying before a fresh blast, moaned in the chimney-stacks. A door slammed violently somewhere at the back of the building.

Unlocking the door, the nurse entered a plainly furnished room. There was a steel table by the window, an armchair facing the door. Both pieces of furniture were bolted to the floor. High up in the ceiling was an unshaded lamp, guarded by a wire basket. The walls of the room, a soft shade of blue, were quilted; padded and thick. By the wall, away from the door, was a bed, and in the bed was the outline of a woman, apparently asleep.

The nurse, a little absent-minded, her thoughts on Joe, set the tray on the table and crossed over to the bed.

‘Wake up,’ she said briskly. ‘You shouldn’t be asleep at this time. Come along, I’ve brought your supper.’

There was no movement from the form under the blanket, and the nurse frowned, uneasy suddenly for no reason at all.

‘Wake up!’ she repeated sharply, prodded the form. As her fingers sank into the pillowy softness she realized that this was no human form she was touching. She felt a prickle of alarm run through her as she snatched back the blanket. Her eyes had scarcely time to register the pillow and the rolled blanket where her patient should have been when steel fingers coming from under the bed closed round her ankles, wrenched them up and forward.

Terror choked the scream that rose in her throat as she felt herself falling. For what seemed a long moment of time she struggled frantically to regain her balance, then she crashed over backwards, her head and shoulders meeting the carpeted floor with a violence that turned her sick and faint. She lay there for a moment too stunned to move, then the realization that she was helpless and alone with a dangerous lunatic made her straggle desperately to get to her feet. She was dimly aware that a shadowy figure was standing over her and she gave a thin wail of terror as her muscles refused to respond. Then the tray with its contents of crockery and food smashed down on her upturned face.

The woman on the second floor began to laugh again. It was still as mirthless and as idiotic as the laugh of a hyena.

Joe, lifting his shoulders as if he expected a blow at the back of his head, hurried down the dark passage, down a flight of stairs to the basement of the building. He was glad to reach his bedroom, which he shared with Sam Garland, Dr. Travers’s chauffeur. Garland, still in his shirt and trousers, lay under a blanket on his small cot. His broad, good-tempered face was up-tilted to the ceiling, his eyes were closed.

‘What a night!’ he said when Joe came in. ‘I don’t remember it so bad in years.’

‘And creepy, too,’ Joe said, going over to the fireplace and sitting in the armchair. ‘There’s a judy upstairs laughing and screaming her head off. Got on my nerves.’

‘I heard her. Suppose she got loose and crept down here while we were asleep?’ Garland said, hiding a grin. ‘Ever thought of that, Joe? She might come in here in the dark with a carving-knife and cut our throats while we slept. That’d give her something to laugh at, wouldn’t it?’

‘Shut up!’ Joe said with a sudden shiver. ‘What are you trying to do — give me goose-flesh?’

‘A dame did that once here,’ Garland lied, relaxing on his soiled pillow. ‘She got into one of the nurse’s rooms with a razor. They found her playing football with the nurse’s head up and down the corridor. That was before you came.’

‘You’re lying,’ Joe said angrily. ‘Pipe down! I tell you my nerves are shot tonight.’

‘I was only telling you,’ Garland grinned, closed his eyes again. ‘You want to take it easy. This is a good job if you take it easy.’

‘My luck,’ Joe said, scratching his head. ‘I gotta date with that blonde nurse on floor one at eight. I don’t reckon I’ll be happy with her out in the dark.’

‘Oh, that one,’ Garland said scornfully. ‘She makes dates with all the new hands. She ain’t so hot.’

‘She’s got a sweet disposition in the back of a car,’ Joe said. ‘I had a dress rehearsal a couple of nights back. That dame’s keen.’

‘That’s her trouble,’ Garland said. ‘She’s too keen.’

But Joe wasn’t listening. He sat forward, stared at the door.

‘What’s biting you now?’ Garland asked, puzzled.

‘There’s someone outside,’ Joe whispered.

‘Maybe it’s a mouse or your blonde destiny getting impatient,’ Garland said with a grin. ‘Why shouldn’t there be someone outside, anyway?’

But the look of uneasy fear in Joe’s eyes startled him and he sat up and listened too.

Outside a board creaked, then another. A sliding sound, a hand touching the wall, came nearer.

‘Maybe it’s Boris Karloff,’ Garland said, but his grin was fixed. ‘Have a look, Joe. See who it is.’

‘Have a look yourself,’ Joe whispered. ‘I wouldn’t go out there for a hundred bucks.’

Neither man moved.

A hand fumbled at the door, a board creaked again, then a sudden patter of feet on the wooden floor outside brought both men to their feet: Garland throwing off his blanket, and Joe kicking back his chair. A moment later the back door slammed, and a great rush of cold air came up the passage.

‘Who was it?’ Joe said, starting back.

‘Only someone going out, you dope,’ Garland growled, sitting on the bed again. ‘What’s the matter with you? You’re making me jumpy now.’

Joe ran his fingers through his hair.

‘I’ve got the jitters tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s that dame yelling her head off and the storm.’ He still listened, still stared at the door.

‘Quit getting your vitamins in an uproar,’ Garland said sharply. ‘They’ll be putting you in a padded cell next.’

‘Listen!’ Joe said. ‘Do you hear that? It’s the dog. Listen to him.’

Somewhere in the garden a dog began to howl mournfully. The sound was caught up and swept away by the wind.

‘Why can’t the dog howl if it wants to?’ Garland demanded uneasily.

‘Not like that,’ Joe said, his face set. ‘A dog only makes a noise like that when he’s scared bad. Something out there’s frightening him.’

They listened to the mournful howling of the dog, then Garland gave a sudden shiver.

‘You’re getting me going now,’ he said angrily, got up, peered out of the window into the wet darkness. ‘There’s nothing to see. Shall we go down and give him something to howl about?’

‘Not me,’ Joe said, sat down again. ‘Not out there in the dark; not for any money.’

A new sound — the shrill ringing of a bell — brought him to his feet again.

‘That’s the alarm!’ Garland shouted, snatching up his coat. ‘Come on, Joe, we gotta get up there quick.’

‘Alarm?’ Joe said stupidly. He felt a chill run up his spine into the roots of his hair. ‘What alarm?’

‘One of the nuts is loose,’ Garland bawled, pushing past Joe to the door. ‘Whether you like it or not, you’re going out there into the dark now.’

‘That’s what we heard — why the dog’s howling,’ Joe said, hanging back.

But Garland was already running down the passage, and Joe, scared to be on his own, blundered after him.

Above the flurry of the wind and the rain the dog howled again.

Sheriff Kamp wooshed water from his black slouched hat, followed the nurse into Dr. Travers’s office.

‘Hear you have trouble up here. Doc,’ he said, shaking hands with a tall, angular man who crossed the room to meet him. ‘One of your patients got loose, huh?’

Travers nodded. His deep-set eyes were anxious.

‘My men are out looking for her now,’ he said, ‘but we’ll need all the help we can get. It’ll be nervy work; she’s dangerous.’

Sheriff Kamp pulled at his straw-coloured, tobacco-stained moustache. His pale eyes looked startled.

‘Is that right?’ he said slowly.

‘I’m in a very awkward position,’ Travers went on. ‘If this gets into the newspapers it could ruin me. She was the one patient I had no business to lose.’

‘I’ll help if I can, Doc,’ Kamp said, sitting down. ‘You can rely on me.’

‘I know,’ Travers said, pacing up and down, and went on abruptly: ‘The patient is John Blandish’s heiress. Does that mean anything to you?’

Kamp frowned.

‘John Blandish? The name’s familiar. You don’t mean the millionaire fella whose daughter was kidnapped some twenty years ago?’

‘That’s right. We’ve got to get her back before anyone knows she’s escaped. Look at the publicity that followed Blandish’s death last year. If this leaks out it’ll start all over again and I might just as well close down.’

‘Take it easy, Doc,’ Kamp said quietly. ‘We’ll get her back.’ He pulled at his moustache, went on: ‘You say she’s Blandish’s heiress? What was he doing leaving his money to a lunatic? Doesn’t make sense.’

‘She was his illegitimate grand-daughter,’ Travers said, lowering his voice. ‘And that’s for your information only.’

‘Can I have that again?’ Kamp asked, sitting bolt upright.

‘Blandish’s daughter was kidnapped by a homicidal mental degenerate,’ Travers said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘She was in his hands for months before she was found, and you’ll remember she committed suicide — threw herself out of a window before her father could reach her. She died of her injuries.’

‘Yeah, I know all that,’ Kamp said impatiently.

‘This is what you don’t know: before she died she gave birth to a daughter. The father of the child was the kidnapper, Grisson.’

Kamp blew out his cheeks.

‘And this child is your patient — grown up? Is that it?’

Travers nodded.

‘The child, Carol, was exactly like her mother in appearance, and Blandish couldn’t bear to have her near him. Carol was brought up by foster-parents. Blandish never went near her, but she lacked for nothing. The fact that her father was a mental degenerate made Carol suspect, but for the first eight years of her life she showed no sign that she had inherited anything from her father. But she was watched and when she was ten she ceased to mix with other children, became morose, developed violent tempers. Blandish was informed and engaged a mental nurse to watch her. Her tempers became more violent and it soon became obvious that she wasn’t to be trusted with anyone weaker than herself. By the time she was nineteen it was necessary to have her certified. For the last three years she has been my patient.’

‘Just how dangerous is she?’ Kamp asked.

‘It’s difficult to say,’ Travers returned. ‘She has always been under observation, and in the hands of trained specialists who know how to look after themselves. I don’t want you to think she is violent or dangerous all the time — far from it. In fact, she is, most of the time, a very lovely, sweet-natured girl. She will go for months behaving normally, and it seems a wicked shame to have to keep her under lock and key. But without warning she’ll attack anyone within reach. It’s an odd kind of mental sickness: a form of schizophrenia.’ Seeing Kamp’s face go blank, he went on: ‘A split mind if you prefer it: a Jekyll-and-Hyde mentality. It is as if there’s a mental shutter inside her head that drops without warning, turning her into a dangerous homicidal lunatic. The trouble, as I have said already, is that there are no warning signs of the attack. It just happens and she goes for anyone with great violence and strength. She is a match for any man when she gets out of control.’

‘Has she ever killed anyone?’ Kamp asked, pulling at his moustache.

‘No, but there were two very ugly incidents which led to the certification. The final incident occurred when she came upon a fellow beating a dog. She is fond of animals, and before her nurse could make a move she had flown at the man and slashed his face with her nails. She has great strength in her hands and the fellow lost the sight of one eye. It was only with the greatest difficulty that the nurse and passers-by got her away from him. It is certain that she would have killed him if she had been on her own. He brought an action, and this led to her being certified. It was hushed up, and cost Blandish a pretty hefty sum.’ Travers ran his fingers through his hair, shook his head. ‘But now she is free to go where she likes, any unsuspecting person who happens to run into her could be in serious danger.’

‘Well, that’s a bright lookout,’ Kamp said. ‘And hunting for her in this pesky storm isn’t going to make things easier.’

‘She must be found quickly and without publicity,’ Travers said. ‘You may have heard that Blandish’s will has just been proved and that the estate is to be administered by trustees. It involves a sum of over six million dollars. But if it is known that she has escaped and is wandering about the countryside, some unscrupulous person may try to get hold of her and exploit her for her money.’

‘But if there are trustees the money’s safe enough, isn’t it?’

‘Not necessarily. We have a law in this State concerning certification. If a certified person escapes from an asylum and remains at liberty for fourteen days, re-certification is necessary before that person can be put under restraint again. I understand also that the terms of Blandish’s will direct that if the girl should leave here, and is no longer certified, she gains complete control of the money, and the trusteeship is automatically cancelled. You see, Blandish would never believe the girl was incurable, and that’s why he worded the will like that. I believe he regretted that he washed his hands of her in her early childhood, and this was his way of retribution.’

‘So if she’s not found within fourteen days you can’t bring her back?’

‘Not unless a judge issues an order for her detention and the order is supported by two doctors’ certificates, and they won’t consider her case on her past record. She’ll have to give them proof that she is certifiable before they’ll act, and that may be impossible if she moves from one State to another.’

‘Looks like we’ve got to find her quick,’ Kamp said. ‘Did she have any money on her?’

‘Not that I know of. I’d say no.’

‘Got a photograph of her?’

‘I don’t believe there’s one in existence.’

‘Then let’s have a description,’ Kamp said, pulled out a tattered note-book from his pocket.

Travers frowned. ‘She’s not easy to describe: not to do her justice. Let’s see. I’d say she was about five foot five; red hair and big green eyes. She’s an extraordinarily beautiful girl: good figure, graceful. At times she has a peculiar habit of looking at you from under her eyelids, which gives her a calculating, distinctly unpleasant expression. She has a nervous tic on the right side of her mouth, the only outward sigh of her mental disorder.’

Kamp grunted, scribbled in his note-book. ‘Any distinguishing marks?’

‘She has a two-inch jagged scar on her left wrist,’ Travers told him. ‘She got that when she tried to open a vein in a fit of temper when she first came here. The most obvious thing about her is her hair. It is the reddest hair I’ve ever seen: real red, not red-brown. It’s most unusual and attractive.’

‘And how was she dressed when she escaped?’

‘A dark blue wool dress and stout walking shoes are missing. My chauffeur reports that his trench coat, which was hanging in the passage outside his door, has gone. I think we can assume that she took that with her.’

Kamp stood up.

‘O.K., now we can make a start. I’ll notify the State Patrol and get them to watch all roads, and I’ll organize a search-party to comb the hills. Don’t worry, Doc, we’ll find her.’

But as Travers listened to the Sheriff’s car roar down the drive he had a presentiment that they wouldn’t find her.

The truck drifted to a stop before Andy’s café. Dan Burns climbed wearily from the cab of the truck, stumbled through puddles, his head bent against the driving wind and rain, pushed open the door. He fumbled his way through the overpowering heat and thick haze of tobacco smoke to a table away from the stove.

Andy, big, fat, boisterous, came over.

‘Hello, Dan,’ he said. ‘Glad to see you again. You look whacked, son. Not going on tonight, are you? Most of the boys are staying over. There’s room for you.’

‘Got to get on,’ Dan said. His face was stiff with fatigue and his eyelids kept drooping. ‘Let’s have a cup of coffee, Andy, and make it snappy. I gotta make Oakville by tomorrow.’

‘You’re crazy,’ Andy said in disgust. He went away, came back almost immediately with coffee. ‘You truck-drivers are all crazy. Why don’t you catch up some sleep? I bet you ain’t been to bed for days.’

‘Think I do it for fun?’ Dan growled. ‘With the freight rates as they are and me ten weeks behind in the truck payments, what the hell else can I do? I don’t want to lose the truck, Andy.’

‘You watch out. You look bad. You ain’t in a condition to take that heavy truck over the mountain.’

‘Cut it out!’ Dan said shortly. ‘I tell you I gotta get on.’ He sipped the scalding coffee, sighed. ‘I got five hundred cases of grapefruit and the damn stuff’s going rotten on me. I gotta shift it, Andy. It’s all the dough I’ve got coming to me.’

Andy grunted.

‘Well, if it’s like that... How’s Connie and the kid? Hope you’ll bring them over next trip. I’d like to see them again.’

Dan’s fact lit up.

‘They’re fine. Can’t bring them on a trip, Andy. It’s too tough. I gotta hustle all the time.’ He finished his coffee. ‘I reckon to get home for a night before long. I ain’t been home in weeks.’

‘You’d better. That kid of yours will be socking you in the eye when you kiss Connie if you don’t see more of him.’

‘That’s right,’ Dan said, got to his feet. ‘This rain gives me colic. Hark at it.’

‘It won’t stop tonight,’ Andy said. ‘Watch yourself, son.’

‘Sure. Well, so long. See you next trip if I’m lucky to get a load.’

‘You’ll get one,’ Andy said cheerfully. ‘Keep awake over the mountain.’ He picked up the money Dan had dumped on the table. ‘So long.’

It was cold in the cab after the warmth of the café, and Dan felt more awake. He gunned the engine, pulled out into the road, sent the truck roaring into the darkness and the rain.

Away to the right, off the highway, he could see the lighted windows of the Glenview Mental Sanatorium, and he wrinkled his snub nose in an uneasy grimace. Each time he passed the Sanatorium he had the same morbid thought: if he didn’t run off the road, hit something, get burned up in the truck, he’d land up in a nut-house. The long hours at the wheel, the monotonous roar of the truck engine, the constant lack of sleep were enough to drive anyone crazy in time. He looked again at the receding lights of Glenview. Well, he wouldn’t be locked up there: only rich nuts could afford Glenview.

The wind slammed against the truck, and the rain beat down on the hood. It wasn’t easy to see the road, but he drove on, his hands clenched on the wheel so tightly that they hurt.

Suddenly he leaned forward, peered through the windshield. His headlights picked out a girl standing by the side of the highway. She seemed oblivious to the rain that poured down on her, made no sign as the truck approached.

Dan automatically kicked his brake pedal, skidding the back wheels. He pulled up beside the girl, hung out of the cab. She was now out of the beam of the headlights and he couldn’t see her clearly, but he could see she was hatless and her hair was plastered flat by the rain.

He was puzzled and a little startled.

‘Want a ride?’ he shouted, pitching his voice to get above the roar of the wind. He swung open the door.

The girl didn’t move. He could see the white blur of her face, felt unseen eyes probing at him.

‘I said do you want a ride?’ he bawled. ‘What are you doing out there, anyway? Don’t you know it’s raining?’

‘Yes, I want a ride,’ the girl said. Her voice was flat, casual.

He reached down, caught her hand, swung her up into the cab beside him.

‘Pretty wet,’ he said. ‘Pretty damn wet night.’

He leaned across the girl, slammed the cab door shut. In the dim light from the dashboard he saw she was wearing a man’s trench-coat.

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Yeah, pretty damn wet,’ Dan repeated, not sure of her, puzzled. He released his brakes. The engine roared as he changed up and he drove on into the darkness.

In the distance there came a faint sound of a tolling bell.

‘What’s that?’ Dan asked, cocking his ears. ‘Sounds like a bell.’

‘It’s the asylum alarm,’ the girl said. ‘It means someone’s been lucky to get away,’ and she laughed softly, an odd metallic little laugh that somehow set Dan’s teeth on edge.

The mournful sound of the bell, carried by the wind, pursued them.

‘You mean one of the loonies has escaped?’ Dan asked, startled. He peered into the darkness, half expecting to see a wild, gibbering figure spring out at the truck from the thick bushes lining the road. ‘I bet you’re glad I came along when I did. Where are you heading for?’

‘Nowhere,’ the girl replied. She leaned forward to peer through the rain-lashed windshield. The light from the dashboard fell on her long narrow hands, and Dan noticed a deep puckered white scar on her left wrist. ‘Near the artery,’ he thought; ‘must have given her a scare at the time.’

‘Nowhere?’ he repeated, and laughed. ‘That’s a hell of a long way away.’

‘I’ve come from nowhere and I’m going nowhere and I’m nobody,’ the girl said. There was a strange bitter note in her hard fiat voice.

‘Telling me to mind my own business and not pulling any punches,’ Dan thought, and said: ‘I didn’t mean to be curious. I’m going to Oakville if that’s any use to you.’

‘It’ll do,’ she said indifferently, fell silent.

They were climbing now and the engine grew hot, filling the cab with warm fumes, making Dan sleepy. His body ached for sleep and his brain grew numb, so that he drove automatically, forgot the girl at his side, swayed like a rag doll to the lurching of the truck.

He had had only six hours’ sleep in four days and his resistance was now stretched to breaking-point. Then he suddenly couldn’t keep awake any longer and he fell forward, his head striking the steering-wheel. He awoke immediately, Straightened up, cursing himself under his breath. He saw the edge of the road rushing towards him: the grass vividly green in the headlights. He dragged over the wheel, and the truck skidded round with a screaming of tortured tyres. The off-wheels mounted the grass verge, thudded back on to the tarmac. The great towering load of cased grapefruit, lashed down by a tarpaulin, creaked and shuddered, swayed dangerously. For one sickening moment Dan thought the truck was going to turn over, but it righted itself, continued to crawl up the twisting road.

‘Gee! I’m sorry,’ he gasped, his heart banging against his ribs. ‘I guess I must have dozed off.’ He glanced at the girl, expecting to see her shaking with fright, but she sat peering through the windshield, calm, quiet — as if nothing had happened. ‘Weren’t you scared?’ he asked, a little irritated at her calmness. ‘We nearly went over.’

‘We’d’ve been killed, wouldn’t we?’ the girl said softly. He scarcely heard her above the noise of the wind as it slammed against the cab. ‘Would you be afraid to die?’

Dan wrinkled his snub nose.

‘It’s unlucky to talk like that in a truck. Guys get killed every day in trucks,’ he said, and rapped with his knuckles on the wooden dashboard.

He slowed to take a sharp bend which would bring them on to the mountain road.

‘This is where we climb,’ he went on, shifting in his seat to bring himself closer to the steering-wheel. ‘You watch it — it’s some road.’

They were hedged in now; on one side by the towering granite mountain and on the other side by a sheer drop into the valley. Dan changed down. The truck began to crawl up the steep gradient, its engine roaring.

‘The wind’ll be bad half-way up,’ he shouted to the girl. And already the wind seemed to increase in violence, and somewhere ahead heavy falls of rock crashing into the valley added to the din. ‘It blows across the plain and smashes itself against the mountain. I did this trip last year in a wind like this and I got stuck.’

The girl said nothing, nor did she look at him.

‘Rum kid,’ he thought. ‘I wish I could see more of her. She shapes like a looker.’ He yawned, gripped the steering-wheel tightly. ‘I’m nobody from nowhere. Funny thing to have said. Maybe she’s in trouble: running away from home.’ He shook his head, worried about her.

But as he turned into the next steep bend he forgot everything but the handling of the truck. The wind suddenly pounced with the ferocity of a wild beast. The engine stalled and the truck came to a shuddering standstill. It was as if they’d run into a brick wall, and they were headed right into the teeth of the wind and received its full blast. Rain like a jet from a hydrant made the windshield creak. It was impossible to see through the torrents of water that hammered down on the truck.

Cursing, Dan started the engine again, let in his clutch. The truck jerked forward, shuddered against the wind, then suddenly began to rock violently. There was a crash as cases of grapefruit, torn from under the slapping tarpaulin, thudded on to the road.

‘Christ!’ Dan gasped. ‘The load’s going!’

More cases crashed on to the road as he threw the truck into reverse, began to back down the incline to the shelter of the mountain-side round the bend.

The truck wobbled and he felt the off-side wheels lift.

‘We’ll be over,’ he thought, stiff with fear. He wanted to open the cab door and jump clear, to save himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon the truck and his load.

The truck began to slide towards the edge of the road, and, struggling desperately to steer against the skid, Dan gunned the engine, shooting the truck backwards, took the bend with the rear wheel almost over the edge, reached shelter. He braked, cut the engine, scarcely believing they were safe, and sat back, every muscle in his body fluttering, his mouth dry.

‘That was something,’ he said, shoved his cap to the back of his head, wiped his streaming forehead with his sleeve. ‘That was certainly something.’

‘What are you going to do now?’ the girl asked. She was as calm as a patchwork quilt.

He couldn’t bring himself to speak, but climbed down into the rain to inspect the damage.

In the light of the headlamps he could see the wooden cases scattered all over the road. Some of the cases had broken open: bruised yellow balls glistened in the rain. He would have to wait for daylight now, he thought, too bitter even for anger. There was nothing else for it. He was stuck on the mountain with a lost load the way he’d been stuck last year.

Soaking wet, tired beyond endurance, he dragged himself into the cab.

The girl was sitting in his place, behind the steering-wheel, but he was too tired to ask her to move. He slumped in the other corner of the cab, closed his eyes.

Before he could think of any plan for the next day, before he could estimate what he had lost, he was asleep, his head falling on his chest, his eyelids like lead weights.

Then he dreamed he was driving the truck. The sun was high above the mountain and a soft wind sang as the truck skimmed down the downhill stretches. It was fine, driving like that. He didn’t feel tired any more. He felt fine and he gunned the engine and the speedometer needle showed seventy, flicking back and forth. His wife, Connie, and his kid were at his side. They were smiling at him, admiring the way he handled the truck, and the kid yelled for him to go faster, to outrace the wind, and the truck seemed to fly over the road with the grace and speed of a swallow.

Then suddenly the dream became a nightmare. The steering-wheel crumpled in his hands as if it were made of paper and the truck gave a great bound in the air, swerved off the road and plunged over and over and over, and he woke with Connie’s screams in his ears, shaking, ice round his heart.

For a moment he thought the truck was still falling because the engine was roaring and the truck was lurching, then he realized that the truck was rushing madly downhill, its headlights like a flaming arrow flying through darkness. Stupefied with shock and sleep, he automatically grabbed for the handbrake, shoved his foot down on the brake pedal. His hand and foot found nothing, and then it dawned on him he wasn’t driving at all, but that the girl had charge of the truck.

Before his befuddled brain could grasp what was happening, he became aware of another sound: the wailing note of a police-siren behind them.

He was awake now, alarmed and angry.

‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’ he shouted at the girl. ‘Stop at once! My load’s loose and the cops are after us! Can’t you hear them? Stop, I tell you!’

She paid him no attention, but sat behind the wheel like a stone statue, her foot slowly forcing the gas pedal to the boards, building up the speed of the engine, forcing the truck faster and faster until it began to sway dangerously. The wooden cases behind clattered and banged under the tarpaulin.

‘Have you gone crazy?’ Dan bawled, frightened to touch her in case he caused her to swerve off the road. ‘You’ll have us over in a moment. Pull up, you little fool!’

But she was deaf to him, and the truck hurtled on through the rain and the wind into darkness.

Behind, the siren screamed at them, and Dan leaned out of the cab window, stared back the length of the swaying truck, rain beating on his face and head. A single headlight flickered behind them. Dan guessed they were being chased by a State cop on a high-speed motor-cycle. He turned back to the girl, shouted: ‘That’s a speed cop behind. He’s gonging us. You can’t get away from him. Pull up, will you?’

‘I’m going to get away from him,’ the girl said, her voice pitched high above the roar of the engine and the wind. And she laughed that odd metallic little laugh that had already set his teeth on edge.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Dan said, moving closer to her. ‘We’ll only hit something. You can’t beat a cop in this truck. Come on, pull up.’

Ahead the road suddenly widened.

This is it, Dan thought. The cop will shoot past and turn on us. Well, it’s her funeral now. She’ll have to stand the rap. They can’t touch me. The mad, stupid, irresponsible little fool!

It happened the way he thought. There was a sudden roaring of an engine, a dazzling searchlight of a headlamp and the speed-cop was past them; a broad squat figure in a black slicker, his head bent low over the handle-bars.

‘Now you’ve gotta stop,’ Dan shouted. ‘He’ll sit in the middle of the road and cut speed. You’ll have to stop or you’ll hit him.’

‘Then I’ll hit him,’ the girl said calmly.

Dan peered at her, had a sudden feeling that she meant what she said.

‘Are you nuts?’ he bawled, then his heart gave a lurch. Glenview! The tolling bell, someone’s been lucky to escape, the odd metallic laugh, I’m nobody from nowhere. Then I’ll hit him. She was crazy! A lunatic! The cop was after her to take her back to Glenview!

Dan drew away from her, his eyes starting from his head, scared sick. He’d have to do something. She’d kill the cop, kill him and herself. She wouldn’t care what she did. If he could get at the ignition switch! But dare he try? Suppose the move upset her, caused her to pull off the road? He looked through the cab window, his breath laboured, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs. They were climbing again. To their left was a white wood fence, guarding the long drop to the twisting road they had left miles behind. If she pulled to the left they were finished, but if she turned right they had a chance: a slim one, but they might get out before the gas tank went up.

He became aware that the cop was signalling them to stop. The sign on the back of his carrier was flickering: Police. Stop!

‘You’ve gotta stop, kid,’ Dan shouted desperately. ‘He doesn’t want you, he wants me. You’ve got nothing to be scared of...’

The girl laughed to herself, leaned forward to peer at the flickering sign. She seemed to be aiming the truck at it.

Dan saw the cop was reducing speed. The truck was creeping up on him. The great beam of the headlights was centred on his back.

‘The fool!’ Dan thought. ‘He must know she’s nuts. He must know she’ll run him down.’ And he leaned out of the cab and screamed at the crouching figure just ahead.

‘Get on! She’ll nail you, you goddamn fool! Get out of the way! She’s going to run you down!’

The wind snatched the sound from his mouth, flung it uselessly away. The cop couldn’t hear anything above the roar of his engine and the wind. He was still reducing speed, set solid in the middle of the road. The truck’s lights beat on him; the roaring hood of the truck no more than twenty feet from his rear wheel.

Dan turned frantically, made a grab at the ignition switch, but the girl slashed at him with hooked fingers. Her nails ploughed furrows down his cheek and he cannoned against the steel side of the cab as the truck swerved, ran up the grass verge, straightened, slammed back on to the road again. He held his face in his hands, blood running between his fingers, his skin crawling with horror and pain.

Then, as he looked up, it happened. The cop glanced over his shoulder, seemed to sense his danger. Nick saw the mud-splashed, goggled face for a brief second, saw the mouth open iii a soundless shout. The girl rammed down the gas pedal. The two machines seemed suspended in space: the motor-cycle struggling to get away, the truck to reach and destroy it. Then with a tremendous surge of power, the truck hit the motor-cycle and contemptuously tossed it high into the air.

Above the roar of the wind Dan heard the cop’s yell of terror, heard the crash as the motor-cycle hit the mountain-side, saw the flash of fire as it burst into flames. Then he saw a dark form come down heavily in the road, right in the path of the truck’s headlights.

‘Look out!’ he screamed, threw up his hands before his face.

The cop struggled to his knees as the truck smashed into him. The off-side wheel bumped up, thudded down. The off-side rear wheel skidded and slithered in something soft. Then they had an empty road ahead of them once more.

‘You’ve killed him!’ Dan yelled. ‘You mad, wicked bitch!’

Without thinking, he flung himself forward, snatched at the ignition key, ducked under a flying claw. He managed to turn the switch and then seize the wheel. He tried to wrench it to the right to crash the truck into the mountain-side, but the girl was too strong. The truck swayed madly on the road while they fought for the possession of the wheel.

His face was close to hers. He could see her eyes like lamps behind green glass. Swearing at her, he hit out, but the truck swayed and his fist scraped the side of her face.

She drew in a quick hissing breath, released the wheel and went for him. Her nails ripped across his eyeballs, splitting his eyelids, blinding him. He felt hot blood drowning his eyes and he fell back, crying with pain, hitting madly at nothing, seeing nothing: a nightmare of pain and movement.

The girl slipped from under the wheel and threw herself at him, her hands fastening on his throat; her long fingers sinking into his flesh.

The truck swung off the road, crashed through the white wood fence. The headlights swung aimlessly out into a black empty pit. Stones rattled inside the mudguards as the tyres bit uselessly on the gravel verge. There was a crunching, ripping noise and the truck hung for a second in mid-air, then went down through the darkness into the valley below.

The big Buick utility van, its long hood glistening in the morning sunshine, swept effortlessly up the road that rose steeply towards the mountains.

Steve Larson sat at the wheel; his brother, Roy, lounged at his side. There was nothing to tell that these-two men were brothers. Steve was big, muscular and fair, with good-humoured eyes. His skin was burned a deep mahogany colour from the wind and the sun and he looked younger than his thirty-two years. He had on corduroy trousers and a cowboy check shirt and his rolled-up sleeves revealed thick brown arms.

Roy was older, dark, almost a head shorter than his brother. His thin lips were nervous, his agate eyes narrow. His movements were sharp, jerky; his reflexes exaggerated, those of a high-strung man whose nerves are beginning to snap under some constant strain. His smart city clothes looked out of place in the mountain country.

Steve had driven down from his fox farm up on Blue Mountain Summit to meet his brother, who had travelled by train cross country from New York. The brothers hadn’t seen each other for years, and Steve was still puzzled to know why Roy had suddenly decided to visit him. It was not as if they’d ever got on well together, and Roy’s surly greeting when Steve met him at the station came as no surprise. The two men scarcely spoke a dozen words for the first two miles of the journey. Roy seemed nervous and kept looking back through the rear window as if to make sure they were not being followed. This unexpected furtiveness began to, get on Steve’s nerves, but knowing how touchy his brother was, he hesitated to ask what it was all about.

‘You look pretty well,’ he said, attempting to get a conversation started. ‘Doing all right in New York?’

‘So-so,’ Roy grunted, twisted round once more to peer through the rear window of the van.

‘Well, it’s nice to see you again after all these years,’ Steve went on, not sure whether he was being sincere or not. ‘What made you suddenly decide to come out and see me?’ If there was anything on Roy’s mind — and Steve was pretty sure that there was — this was an obvious opening for his confidence.

But Roy hedged.

‘Thought a little change of air might do me good,’ he said, shifting in his seat. ‘New York’s too hot in the summer, anyway.’ He stared morosely at the huge rocky peaks that cut up the distant skyline. Whichever way he looked mountain rose above mountain, some jagged and sharp, some softly rounded, their crevices and fissures filled with snow, which gave off a dazzling brightness under the sun. ‘Lonely as hell here, isn’t it?’ he went on, impressed in spite of himself.

‘It’s grand,’ Steve returned, ‘but you’ll find it quiet after New York. I’m twenty miles from the nearest cabin and I’m lucky if I have a visitor in weeks.’

‘That’ll suit me,’ Roy said. ‘I aim to relax.’ He twisted round in his seat to stare through the rear window again. The long empty road unwinding like a ribbon behind them seemed to give him satisfaction. ‘Yeah, this is going to suit me fine.’ He brooded for a moment, went on: ‘But I wouldn’t like it for always. How do you get on, being all alone? Don’t it make you restless?’

‘It suits me,’ Steve returned. ‘Of course it does get lonely at times, but I’m pretty busy. I have over a hundred foxes to look after, and I’m self-supporting.’

Roy shot him a hard, curious look.

‘How do you get along for a woman up here?’ he asked.

Steve’s face tightened.

‘I don’t,’ he said, staring ahead. He knew what Roy was like with women.

‘You always were a cold-blooded punk,’ Roy said, tilting his hat to the back of his head. ‘You mean you stick here year after year without seeing a woman?’

‘I’ve been here a year, anyway, and I don’t bother with women,’ Steve returned shortly.

Roy grunted.

‘I wish I’d imported a floosie,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d got a supply laid on.’

Ahead the road forked to right and left.

‘We go right,’ Steve said, changing the subject. ‘Left takes you to Oakville, over the mountain and down into the valley. You’d see plenty of traffic on that route. All trucks heading from California use the Oakville road. This way we go up into the mountains.’

‘Looks like a wrecked truck up there,’ Roy said suddenly, and pointed.

Steve’s eyes followed the pointing finger and he stamped on his brake pedal, stopping the Buick. He leaned out of the window to look up the sloping hill that rose to meet the Oakville road a couple of thousand feet above him.

It was a wrecked truck all right. It lay on its side, pinned between two pine trees.

‘What the hell are you stopping for?’ Roy asked irritably. ‘Haven’t you seen a wrecked truck before?’

‘Sure,’ Steve said, opening the door and sliding out on to the road. ‘I’ve seen too many of them. That’s why I’m going up there to look it over. Some poor devil may be hurt. After the storm last night it’s possible no one’s spotted him.’

‘Little comrade of the mountains, huh?’ Roy sneered. ‘O.K. I may as well come along: haven’t stretched my legs in years.’

They reached the truck after a stiff climb through thick grass and broken slabs of rock.

Steve climbed up on the side of the overturned cab, peered through the broken window, while Roy leaned against the truck and tried to control his laboured breathing. The climb had exhausted him.

‘Give us a hand, Roy,’ Steve called. ‘A driver and a girl. It looks like they’re dead, but I want to be sure.’ He reached down, grabbed hold of the man’s hand. It was cold and stiff, and Steve released it with a grimace. ‘He’s dead all right.’

‘I told you how it’d be,’ Roy said. ‘Now let’s get the hell out of here.’ From where he stood he had an uninterrupted view of the road that stretched for miles. Nothing moved on it. It was empty: a dusty ribbon that wound into the mountains. For the first time in weeks he felt safe.

Steve reached down and touched the girl who lay across the driver. Her hand was warm.

‘Hey, Roy! She’s alive. Don’t go away. Help me get her out.’

Muttering under his breath Roy climbed on to the cab, peered over Steve’s shoulder.

‘Well, come on,’ he said, with an uneasy glance along the mountain road. ‘We don’t want to stick around here all day.’

Steve gently lifted the girl, passed her through the cab doorway to Roy. As Roy laid her on the side of the cab he caught sight of the dead driver.

‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed, startled. ‘Take a look at that guy’s face.’

‘Looks like he’s been scratched up by a cat, the poor devil,’ Steve said, hurriedly climbing out of the cab.

Roy lifted one of the girl’s hands.

‘And here’s your cat,’ he said. ‘There’s blood and skin under her nails. Know what I think? The driver made a pass at her and she slashed him. She got his eyes and he drove off the road.’ He studied the girl. ‘Nice bit of homework, isn’t she?’ he went on. ‘I bet that poor punk thought he’d picked up a pushover. Say, she’s a real looker, isn’t she? I don’t blame the punk trying to make her, do you?’

‘Let’s get her down,’ Steve said shortly, and together the two men carried the girl from the cab down on to the thick grass. Steve knelt beside her while Roy stood back and watched.

‘She’s got a nasty wound at the back of her head,’ Steve said. ‘We’ll have to get that attended to right away.’

‘Forget it,’ Roy said, a sudden snarl in his voice. ‘Leave her here. She’ll be all right. A floosie who bums rides can take care of herself. We don’t want to be cluttered up with a twist, anyway. Some guy’ll find her and will be glad of it.’

Steve stared at him.

‘We’re certainly not leaving her here,’ he said sharply. ‘The girl’s badly hurt.’

‘Then bring her down to the road and leave her there. Someone’ll be along in a while,’ Roy said, his white face twitching. ‘I don’t want to be mixed up in this.’

‘She needs medical attention,’ Steve said quietly. ‘There’s no place between here and my farm where I can leave her. That means I’m taking her home and I’m going to get Doc Fleming over to fix her. Anything to say against that?’

Roy’s face was ugly with controlled rage.

‘You can’t kid me,’ he sneered. ‘You’re like all the other hicks who live too long in the mountains. One look at a dame who’s got something on the ball and you shoot your top.’

Steve jumped to his feet. For a moment he looked as if he was going to hit his brother, but he choked down his anger, gave a twisted grin instead.

‘You haven’t changed much, have you?’ he said. ‘And you’re not going to get my rag out. Why don’t you grow up? You’ve still got a mind like a schoolboy.’ He turned away and bent over the girl. As he moved her limbs, making sure she had no broken bones, she stirred.

‘Why don’t you undress her,’ Roy sneered, ‘instead of just pawing her over?’

Steve ignored him, although the back of his neck turned red. He felt the girl’s pulse. It was strong under his fingers and her skin felt feverish.

‘You’d better leave her, Steve,’ Roy went on. ‘You’ll be sorry if you don’t.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ Steve snapped, lifted the girl.

‘O.K., but don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Roy returned, shrugging indifferently. ‘I’ve got a hunch she’s going to cause a hell of a lot of trouble. But why should I care? It’ll be your headache.’

Steve passed him and began his slow, careful walk to the van.

Silver Fox Farm was set in an enclosed valley of mountain peaks on Blue Mountain Summit, eight thousand feet above sea level. It was reached by a dirt road that branched off the highway and wound for four or five miles through big boulders and pine trees until it terminated at Steve’s log cabin by the side of a lake, a pale blue sheet of water packed with mountain trout.

A year back Steve had decided to throw up his job as an insurance salesman and breed foxes. He had saved money, discovered Blue Mountain Summit, bought the deed and moved in. The farm was still in its infancy, but Steve hoped it wouldn’t be long before he could afford to hire help. The worst part of the life was the utter loneliness of the place; to have no one but his dog to talk to from one day to the next.

Roy’s coming should have solved the problem, but Steve was quick to realize that Roy was likely to be more of a nuisance than a companion. He was already beginning to regret the visit.

Roy had looked the cabin over with sour eyes and then had slouched down to the lakeside without a word, leaving Steve to carry the unconscious girl into the cabin.

But as soon as Steve was out of sight, Roy retraced his steps, ran to the Buick. He looked furtively towards the cabin, then raised the hood and unscrewed the head of the accelerator switch, snapped the leads, pocketed the switch. Closing the hoed, he lounged up to the wide verandah.

He could hear his brother moving about somewhere in the cabin and he sidled into the big living-room, took in its rough comfort at a glance, crossed over to the gun-rack, which was equipped with an iron bar on a hinge and a padlock that, when locked, secured the guns in their rack. Roy fastened the padlock, pocketed the key.

Steve came into the room a moment later.

‘Put your floosie to bed?’ Roy asked jeeringly.

‘Cut it out,’ Steve snapped. ‘I don’t like it, Roy, so park it in, will you?’

Roy eyed him over, grinned.

‘That’s too bad,’ he said; took out a cigarette, lit it.

‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you,’ Steve ‘You’ve acted odd ever since we met.’

‘That’s too bad, too,’ Roy said.

Steve shrugged.

‘I’m going over to Doc Fleming,’ he went on. ‘It’ll take me the best part of two hours. Keep an eye on her, will you? She’s got concussion, I think, but she’ll be all right until I return.’

‘That certainly makes my day,’ Roy sneered. ‘What do I do? Hold her hand and fan her with my hat?’

‘Come on, Roy,’ Steve said, keeping his temper with difficulty. ‘I’ll get the Doc to bring his car and we’ll get her out of here. But while she is here you might try to be a little helpful.’

‘Sure,’ Roy said. ‘You get off. I’ll keep her amused. Dames like me.’

Steve gave him a hard look, went out.

Roy watched his brother get into the van, try to start the engine and he grinned to himself.

He was still lounging against the verandah doorway when Steve, hot and furious, came bounding up the steps.

‘You’ve been fooling with the van,’ Steve snapped, planting himself in front of his brother.

‘Sure,’ Roy grinned. ‘What of it?’

Steve steadied himself.

‘You’ve taken the accelerator head. Better hand it over, Roy.’

‘I’m keeping it. I told you to leave the twist, didn’t I? Well, you’ve got her on your hands now. No one’s coming here while I’m around, and no one’s leaving here until I say so.’

Steve clenched his fists.

‘Look, Roy, I don’t know what’s on your mind, but you’re not getting away with this. Hand over the switch or I’ll take it. I don’t want to get tough, but I’m not standing any more nonsense from you.’

‘Yeah?’ Roy said, stepping back. ‘Then what do you think of this?’ A gun suddenly jumped into his hand: an ugly-looking, blunt-nosed .38 automatic. ‘Still got the same ideas?’ he asked, pointing the gun at his brother’s chest.

Steve stepped back, his mouth tightening.

‘Have you gone crazy?’ he demanded. ‘Put that gun away.’

‘It’s time you got wise,’ Roy said, speaking in a harsh low voice. ‘Get this straight: I’d think no more of plugging you than I’d think of treading on a beetle. Nuts to this brother stuff. To me you’re just another dumb hick. One move out of turn and you’ll get it.’ He backed away, hoisted himself up on the verandah rail, holding the gun loosely in his hand. ‘You may as well know it now. I’m in a jam: that’s why I’m here. This dump’s tailor-made as a hide-out. No one would think of looking for me here. And no Doc Fleming is coming out here to tell all his goddamn patients he’s seen me. That’s the way it is, and you’re going to like it. You and the twist will stay here until I’m ready to pull out. And don’t try any tricks. I’m fast with this rod. Bigger guys than you have found that out.’

Steve had recovered from his first startled surprise, but he could still not believe his brother was serious.

‘Why, this is crazy, Roy,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get the Doc to the girl. Now come on, give me the switch and let me get off.’

‘Still dumb?’ Roy sneered. ‘Listen: I’ve worked for Little Bernie’s mob. Mean anything to you?’

Steve had read of Little Bernie: he was the modern edition of Johnny Dillinger.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Little Bernie’s a killer-wanted by the police.’

Roy laughed.

‘For the last year I’ve been sticking up banks,’ he said. ‘Made a lotta dough. I carried a gun for Bernie. It paid well.’

‘So that’s it,’ Steve said, shocked and disgusted. ‘I might have guessed you’d hook up with a gang. You always were a weak fool, Roy.’

Roy slid the gun back into his shoulder holster.

‘I’ve done all right,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’m in trouble now, but it won’t last long and then I’ll spend the dough I’ve put by. I’m not like you, you hick, buried out in the wilds, surrounded by a lot of foxes. I know how to live.’

Steve moved slowly towards him.

‘You’d better give me that gun,’ he said quietly.

Roy grinned; his hand suddenly flashed to the holster and there was a spurt of flame. The sharp crack of the gun set up echoes across the lake. Something buzzed past Steve’s ear.

‘I could pop one through your thick skull just as easy,’ Roy said, ‘and I’ll do it if you try anything funny. So now you know,’ and he turned and lounged into the living-room, dropped into an easy chair.

Steve stood hesitating in the sunshine. He realized now that Roy meant what he said, but his thoughts were not for himself, but for the girl lying unconscious on his bed. He’d have to do something for her at once now Doc Fleming wasn’t to come, and he was thankful he had a first-aid outfit and knew how to use it.

As he passed through the sitting-room, Roy drawled: ‘And I’ve locked up your pop-guns. I’ll do all the shooting around here from now on.’

Steve ignored him, went into his bedroom where the girl was lying. He examined the cut at the back of her head, then fetched his medical chest, a bowl of water and towels.

He was just fixing the last safety-pin when the girl gave a little sigh, opened her eyes.

‘Hello,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Feeling better?’

She stared at him, her hand going to her head.

‘My head hurts,’ she said. ‘What happened? Where am I?’

‘I found you on the mountain road. You were in a truck accident. There’s nothing to worry about. You have a cut head, but it’s not bad.’

‘Truck?’ she murmured, her eyes blank. ‘What truck? I can’t remember...’ Suddenly she struggled to sit up, but Steve gently pressed her back. ‘I can’t remember anything. I can’t think. Something’s happened to my head!’

‘It’s all right,’ Steve said soothingly. ‘It’ll come back. Just try and sleep. You’ll be all right after a little sleep.’

‘But I don’t know what’s happened to me,’ the girl cried, catching his hand in hers. ‘I’m frightened. I don’t know who I am.’

‘But it’ll be all right,’ Steve said. ‘You must relax and not worry. When you wake up again you’ll remember and you’ll be all right.’

She closed her eyes.

‘You’re kind,’ she said softly. ‘Stay with me. Please don’t leave me.’

‘I’ll be right here,’ Steve said. ‘Just take it easy.’

She lay still for a few moments, then went limp, drifting once more into unconsciousness.

In the other room Roy sat in the armchair, a thoughtful expression on his face. If it hadn’t been for the twist he could have stayed here and kept his brother in the dark, but now he’d have to watch out. Steve was a tough egg, and if he caught him off guard he wouldn’t stand a chance. A sudden movement in the doorway made him jump round, his hand flying to his gun. A big mongrel dog came in, wagging his tail.

‘You punk,’ Roy said, grinning sheepishly. ‘You scared me silly.’

He shoved the dog away impatiently with his foot, watched it amble down the passage in search of its master.

Steve was grappling with a new problem as the dog peered round the door. He had just decided that he couldn’t leave the girl lying on the bed like that, but he hesitated to undress her. But there seemed nothing else for it. The nearest woman was thirty miles down the other side of the mountain and he couldn’t fetch her, anyway.

The dog entering the room relaxed his embarrassed tension.

‘Hello, Spot,’ he said. ‘You’ve arrived at the tricky moment.’

But the dog whined, backed to the door, its hair bristling.

‘What’s biting you, you old fool?’ Steve asked, bewildered.

The dog had only eyes for the girl on the bed. It slowly backed out of the room, then with a low whining howl it bolted down the passage into the open.

‘I guess we’re all going screwy,’ Steve thought, crossed the room to his chest of drawers and hunted for his best pyjamas, a suit of white silk. He cut the sleeves down, tacked around the edges, performed on the trouser legs. He measured the finished effort against the girl, decided they’d do.

‘Well, here goes,’ he thought, and hoped she wouldn’t recover consciousness. He began to unhook the fastening on the girl’s dress. In one of the sleeves he found a handkerchief; embroidered in a corner was the name Carol. He turned the handkerchief over in his fingers. Carol. Carol who? Who was she? Where did she come from? Was it possible that she had lost her memory, that she didn’t know what had happened to her? Didn’t know who she was? He looked down at her. She was lovely, he thought. Not the kind of girl who’d thumb a truck ride. There was some mystery behind all this.

He removed her shoes, then, raising her gently, slid her dress up her body, worked it carefully over her head. Under the dress she had on a simple, tailored one-piece garment, and he could see the lovely lines of her body as if she were naked.

For a brief moment he stared down at her. There was a tightness in his throat. Her beauty and helplessness filled him with pity and wonder. Seeing her like that, he lost his sense of embarrassment; it was like looking at a work of art and not at a living woman.

He did not hear Roy come in, nor was he aware that Roy, too, was staring with intent, hard eyes at the half-naked girl as she lay on the bed.

Steve lifted the girl to slip on the pyjama coat.

‘Not so fast,’ Roy said. ‘I want to look some more. What a stack-up! Why, damn it, she’s even better than I thought.’

Steve laid the girl down quickly, turned.

‘Get out!’ he said furiously.

‘Hey, take it easy,’ Roy said, grinning, his eyes still on the girl. ‘Why should you have all the fun? I’ll give you a hand. This is right up my alley.’

Steve advanced on his brother, his eyes furious.

‘Get out,’ he said, ‘and keep out.’

Roy hesitated, then shrugged.

‘O.K.,’ he said, and laughed. ‘You can have her until she’s well, then I’ll take over. I’ve got a way with women. She won’t claw my eyes out. I know how to tame a wild-cat like her. You watch and see, and don’t think you’ll stop me, you big hick. I’m going to have a lot of fun with this beauty,’ and still smiling he slouched down the passage and out on to the verandah.