The Flesh of the Orchid

Chapter Three

To the north of Point Breese, spotted among the low-lying hills at the foot of the mountain range, are the country estates of the wealthy.

Phil Magarth drove recklessly along one of these hill roads, swung his battered Cadillac with a scream of tortured tyres off the road and down a long twisty carriage-way that led to Veda Banning’s spacious Spanish-style house with its white stucco walls and red tiles.

Veda was known as the bad girl of Point Breese, but in spite of her reputation she was liked and she had a lot of fun. She was rich; ran a five-thousand-acre orange plantation with smart efficiency, and was crazy about Magarth. She wanted to marry him.

As Magarth stopped the Cadillac before the ornate front door he glanced at his watch. It showed 3.5 a.m. He opened the car door and slid out on to the white-tiled terrace. The house was in darkness, but he knew where Veda slept and walked quickly across the flower-ladened patio, climbed four broad steps to the verandah, stopped short before open french windows.

‘You awake?’ he called, peered into the dark room, where he could just make out the huge ornate bed in which Veda slept.

No movement came from the bed and he entered the room, sat on the bed and slid his hand under the bedclothes. There was a sudden flurry, a stifled shriek and Veda sat up, snapped on the light.

‘For heaven’s sake!’ she exclaimed, flopped back on her pillow. ‘This is too much... how dare you come in here at this hour?’

‘What’s too much?’ Magarth asked, grinning at her. ‘You always say you’ll be glad to see me... well, here I am; be glad.’

Veda struggled up in bed, stretched, yawned. Magarth admired her figure, which was exceptional.

‘You look swell; good enough to eat, but things are popping. Is that little thing you call your brain awake yet?’

‘There are times when I wonder what I see in you,’ Veda said, reached for a hand mirror on the table beside her, studied herself. She had green-blue eyes, thick lashes, gold-brown hair, hanging straight down past her shoulders and curling under at the ends: hair that looked like burnished copper. She was beautiful, and she knew it. There was a sultry, sulky look to her mouth and dark smudges under her eyes. She could have been younger than twenty-six, but not much.

‘At least I don’t look a fright,’ she said, yawned again, flopped back on her pillow. She had on a low-cut nightdress of blue crepe-de-Chine and black lace. ‘You are hell, Phil,’ she went on. ‘You might have awakened me in a more gentlemanly manner: I bruise so easily.’

‘You should worry: it won’t show,’ Magarth grinned, got up and walked over to the cupboard. He found a bottle of Canadian rye and a glass. ‘The stock’s running low, sugar. You’d better get in some more.’

‘I will,’ Veda said, watching him and thinking how handsome he was. ‘Give me a cigarette, you beast.’

Magarth came back with the bottle, gave her a cigarette, took a drink, lit a cigarette for himself.

‘I’m on to something big,’ he said, sitting on the bed close to her. ‘I could make a fortune out of it if I handle it right. And if I do I might marry you, so listen carefully.’

Veda eyed him from over the top of the blanket.

‘I’ve heard that so many times I could play a flute obbligato to it,’ she said scornfully.

‘But this is the McCoy,’ Magarth told her. ‘I’m after the Blandish girl.’

‘You’re... what?’ Veda demanded, sitting up, her eyes snapping.

‘Now don’t get your nightie in a knot,’ Magarth said hurriedly. ‘This is strictly business. Six days from tomorrow morning she comes into her money... if she isn’t caught before then. I thought at first it’d be smart to help capture her and get an eye-witness account for my syndicate. But now I’ve a smarter idea. I’m going to help her avoid capture, help her get her money. If I steer her right she’ll be grateful, won’t she? I’ll be in on the ground floor. The great American public will want to know what she’ll do with all that dough... six million dollars! And I’ll be there to tell them. I’m going to bring her here. Then when we’ve got the money, we’ll take her around, get her a car, buy her a house, buy her clothes, take a camera-man around with us... it’ll be terrific! Exclusive to my syndicate. I can ask my own terms.’

Veda closed her eyes.

‘I guessed it,’ she said wearily. ‘Of all the dumb ideas this is the dumbest. The girl’s a lunatic, my pet. Remember? She’s dangerous. She might kill us. Do you think I want to be killed?’

Magarth snorted.

‘You wouldn’t let a little thing like that stop me getting some money, would you?’ he asked reproachfully. ‘Besides, I can handle her. Remember the time I spent two hours in an orang-outang’s cage to get a sensational story?’

‘Well, the orang-outang wasn’t in the cage, so I don’t see that makes you very brave,’ Veda said.

‘Never mind,’ Magarth said impatiently. ‘It must prove something. Anyway, I’m not scared of a girl. Ever since I was knee-high to an ant—’

‘I know. I’ve heard it all before. But this is different—’

‘No, it isn’t. I’ve had a word with the girl’s nurse. What a cute little number she turned out to be! She has a figure like a Coney Island switchback.’

‘You once told me switchbacks made you feel sick,’ Veda said coldly.

Magarth leered at her.

‘That depends how fast you go over them,’ he said.

Veda kicked him through the blanket.

‘Well, what did the nurse say?’

‘She told me Carol’s got a split mind. She gets these attacks now and then — and more then than now. She’ll go for months being a sweet, normal girl, and all she needs is watching.’ He sighed. ‘Watching a sweet normal girl is right up my alley.’

Veda kicked him again.

‘You’re a rat,’ she said simply.

‘Don’t keep interrupting,’ Magarth said severely. ‘One of the trustees, an old crum with a face like a squeezed lemon who calls himself Simon Hartman, has shown up at the Sanatorium. And the nurse tells me he’s half crazy with rage that Carol’s escaped. He sees the trusteeship going up in smoke and six million dollars sliding through his fat little paws.’ He gave himself another drink. ‘And I’ll tell you something else. I don’t believe the girl is anything like as dangerous as they make out. I don’t believe she should have been certified. I think she’s been railroaded into that nut-house so old Hartman could collar the six million.’

‘Don’t talk such drivel,’ Veda said sharply. ‘John Blandish had her put away... three or four years ago.’

‘Blandish knew nothing about her. He wasn’t interested in her. Hartman did it all. Hartman looked after Blandish’s affairs. The girl was put away because she went for a lug who was beating a dog. Wouldn’t you go for a lug who beat a dog?’

Veda stared at him.

‘But she’s dangerous. Look what she did to that poor truck-driver.’

Magarth waved that aside.

‘She was protecting her honour,’ he said airily. ‘You wouldn’t know what that means, but let me tell you some girls take that sort of thing very seriously.’

‘All right,’ Veda sighed. She didn’t feel like arguing. ‘Have it your own way. You haven’t found her yet.’

Magarth tapped the side of his nose.

‘But I’m coming on. I’ve found where she’s been hiding these past days. I’ve just been there.’

‘For heaven’s sake,’ Veda groaned; went on: ‘I think I’ll have a little whisky after all. My nerves are beginning to fray.’

‘Not a chance. I wouldn’t waste the stuff on you. Just relax and listen. I saw a couple of guys tonight in a big black Packard They were asking for Steve Larson, who has a fox farm up on Blue Mountain Summit.’

‘I’ve seen him,’ Veda said enthusiastically. ‘He’s big and fair and cute and made my heart go pit-a-pat.’

‘Never mind how cute he is,’ Magarth said sourly. ‘Your mother must have been frightened by a pair of trousers just before you were born. You have men on the brain. Let me get on, will you?’

‘Well, it won’t kill me to listen,’ Veda said, closed her eyes again.

‘These two were asking after Larson and I recognized them. I think they’re the Sullivan brothers — professional killers.’

‘What do you mean?’ Veda asked, opening her eyes and staring.

‘If you wanted to get rid of anyone you’d get into touch with the Sullivan brothers, give ’em some dough and they’d do the rest; and that’s no fairy tale,’ Magarth said. ‘Anyway, I thought I’d sniff around and I went up to Larson’s place. It was deserted. The lights were on, the doors open, the Buick van was in the garage and the dog, scared silly, in its kennel. I went through the cabin and found this’ — he dropped a handkerchief on the bed. ‘I bet that’s Carol Blandish’s property. See, it has her name in the corner. And another thing: I found the trench coat belonging to Doc Travers’s chauffeur; the one Carol took when she escaped from Glenview.’

Veda looked intrigued.

‘But where does all this get you?’

Magarth scratched his head.

‘I wish I knew,’ he said, ‘but it’s a start. Larson has been hiding her up. These two — the Sullivans, if they are the Sullivans — have smoked them out into the open. That’s the point. They’re out in the open. Maybe the Sullivans are after them. I don’t know. If I can get to her before anyone else I’ll bring her here. No one would think of looking for her here. If I don’t find her, then I’m out of luck and our marriage is as far off as ever.’

Veda pulled him down, slid her arms round his neck.

‘It needn’t be, Phil,’ she said softly, nibbled at his ear. ‘I’ll give you all my money and then we can live happily ever after.’

Magarth pushed her away, stood up.

‘I may be a rat, but even a rat has its pride,’ he said, began to loosen his collar and tie. ‘Do you think I’m going to stand for everyone saying I married for money? Not a chance. Now move over, I’ve got to get me some rest before daylight, and when I say rest, I mean rest.’

Carol gripped the steering-wheel of the Packard, stared through the windshield at the bright blob of light coming from the headlights that raced ahead of her, lighting up the twisty mountain road.

Her heart seemed frozen, her brain numbed with shock and fear. In the light of the dashboard she could see Steve’s white face as he lay crumpled up on the floorboards, his eyes closed. She wanted to stop, but the thought of the Sullivans forced her on. She would stop in a little while, when she was sure that the Sullivans couldn’t reach them, and she prayed it would not be too late; that she would be able to do something for Steve.

The narrow, twisting road made speeding impossible, but she drove as fast as she could, skidding at corners, jolting the big car recklessly over potholes and ruts, her only thought to put as much distance between the Sullivans and herself as she could in the shortest time.

A few more minutes’ driving brought her out on to the State Highway and she sent the Packard hurtling forward. A mile or so farther on she slowed down, looked for a place where she could stop. Ahead she saw a clearing, leading to an abandoned logging camp, and she drove the car off the road, bumped over the rough track which led to a number of half-ruined shacks that had, at some time or other, given shelter to the lumberjacks.

Hidden now from the road, the Packard slid to a standstill and Carol bent over Steve.

‘I must keep calm,’ she said to herself. ‘I must control myself.’ The thought that he was dead or even badly hurt filled her with such dread that every muscle in her body was trembling and her teeth chattered.

‘Steve, darling,’ she said, her hand touching his face. ‘What is it? Tell me. How badly hurt are you?’

Steve made no movement, and when she lifted his head it felt heavy and lifeless.

For a long moment she sat still, her fists clenched, controlling the scream that rose in her throat; then she opened the car door, got out, stood on the pine needles, holding on to the door for support. She thought she was going to faint; her heart was beating so hard she felt suffocated. She stumbled round the car, opened the off-side door, supported Steve as he rolled through the doorway. He was heavy, but she managed to get him from the car and on to the soft pine needles. She adjusted the spot-lamp, switched it on, caught her breath when she saw the blood on his coat. She ran to him, opened his coat, saw the blood-soaked shirt.

She put her hand over his heart, felt the faint, uneven beat, and choked back a sob of relief. He wasn’t dead! But unless she got help he might easily die. He was still bleeding, and that would have to be stopped.

She turned back to the Packard. In the back of the car, on the floor, she found two suitcases. Feverishly she opened one of them, found shirts and handkerchiefs, began ripping the shirts up for bandages.

‘Carol!’ Steve called faintly.

She gave a little cry, ran to him. He was blinking in the strong light of the spot-lamp, but he didn’t move: his eyes looked dull and lifeless.

‘Oh, my dear,’ she said, falling on her knees beside him. ‘What am I going to do? Does it hurt? I’m trying to stop the bleeding.’

‘Good kid,’ Steve muttered, and his face twisted with pain. ‘It’s pretty bad, Carol. Somewhere in my chest.’

For a moment she lost control of herself and sobbed wildly, hiding her face in her hands.

‘What am I going to do?’ she thought hysterically. ‘He mustn’t die... I couldn’t bear him to die... and I’m the only one who can save him...’

‘Come on, kid,’ Steve gasped. ‘Don’t get scared. I know how you feel. But don’t lose your nerve. See if you can stop the bleeding.’

‘Yes...’ she brushed her tears away, bit down on her lip. ‘I’ll stop it, darling. It’s... it’s just... Oh, my dear, I feel so helpless...’

She ran back to the car for the makeshift bandages, returned and undid his shirt. The caked blood and the feel of the soaked material sickened her, but her fear that he might die stiffened her nerve, but when she opened his shirt and looked at the two small black holes oozing blood in the centre of his chest, darkness came down on her and she sat hunched up, her head in her hands, shivering.

‘Don’t let it scare you,’ Steve said, raised his head with difficulty and looked at the wounds. His mouth tightened — it was worse than he thought. There was a cold feeling creeping up his legs, and pain, like white-hot wires, stabbed his chest. ‘Carol! Come on, sweet. Stop this bleeding.’

‘I can’t do it!’ she cried. ‘I’ve got to get help. Where can I go, Steve? Where can I take you?’

Steve lay still, tried to think. He felt the whole of his chest had been laid open and that a salt wind was blowing down on the exposed nerves and flesh.

‘Doc Fleming,’ he managed to say. Carol could scarcely hear his murmur. ‘Straight down the road through Point Breese, the second turning on the left. A small house off the road, stands by itself.’ He struggled against the faintness, forced it away, went on: ‘It’s a good twenty miles. There’s no one else.’

‘But twenty miles...’ Carol beat her clenched fists together. ‘It’ll take too long...’

‘There’s no one else,’ Steve said, and his mind swam away in a liquid pool of pain.

‘I’ll go,’ she said, ‘but first I’ll do what I can.’ Then she thought, ‘I must take him with me. Of course; I can’t leave him here. I should never have got him from the car.’ She bent over him. ‘We’ll go together, darling,’ she said. ‘If you can help yourself just a little. I’ll get you into the car.’

‘Better not,’ Steve said. He felt blood in his mouth. ‘I’m bleeding a bit inside. Better not move me now.’ And blood ran down his chin, although he tried to turn away, not wanting to frighten her.

Carol caught her breath in a sob.

‘All right, my dear,’ she said. ‘I’ll be quick.’ She began to make pads with the handkerchiefs. ‘And, Steve, if anything... I mean... oh, darling, I love you so. I want you to know. There’s no one but you, and I’m so frightened and lonely... Do try... don’t leave me...’

He made an effort, smiled, patted her hand.

‘I won’t... that’s a promise... only be quick...’

But when she lifted him to take off his coat, his face suddenly turned yellow and he cried out, his fingers gripping her arm, then he slumped back into unconsciousness.

She worked feverishly, strapping the pads tightly against the wounds. Then she ran to the car, found a rug, rolled shirts and pyjamas into a pillow and made him as comfortable as she could.

She hated leaving him, but there was nothing else to do. She bent over him, touched his lips with hers, then with one last look back she climbed into the car.

She never remembered much of the drive to Point Breese. She drove the car recklessly, her one thought was to get Doc Fleming back to Steve. The road was broad and good, and she was only conscious of the noise of the wind as the car flew along. At that hour in the morning — it was a little after two o’clock — the road was deserted and her speed seldom dropped below eighty. Once rounding a bend she narrowly missed another car (it was Magarth coming up to Larson’s place), but it all happened so quickly that she was only half aware that another car had passed her. She arrived at Point Breese as an outside clock chimed the half hour past two. The journey had taken her just under the half-hour.

She found Doc Fleming’s house easily enough, and brought the Packard to a stop outside. She ran up the garden path and hammered on the front door, and kept up the persistent hammering until the door was opened.

A middle-aged woman with a mean lined face and untidy hair stood in the doorway. She had on a drab dressing-gown which she held across her flat chest with a hand like a claw.

‘Making a noise like that,’ she said furiously. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Please,’ Carol said, trying to control her voice, ‘I want the doctor. Someone is very ill... hurt... where is the doctor?’

The woman ran her skinny fingers through the tangle of unwashed, greying hair.

‘It’s no use coming here,’ she said, preparing to slam the door. ‘The doctor’s ill. Banging and banging like that. Who do you think you are?’

‘But someone is hurt,’ Carol said, wringing her hands. ‘He’s dying. Please let me see the doctor. I have a car... it won’t take long.’

‘I can’t help that,’ the woman said, her face red with anger. ‘The doctor’s an old man and he’s got a cold. He’s not going out at this hour. You must go elsewhere.’

‘But someone’s bleeding to death. Don’t you understand? Dr. Fleming would come if you only told him. He’s bleeding...’ Carol began to cry, ‘and I love him so.’

‘Get off,’ the woman said harshly. ‘We can’t help you here. Go elsewhere.’

Carol controlled her rising panic.

‘But where?’ she asked, clenching her fists. ‘There’s no time... he’s bleeding.’

‘There’s a hospital at Waltonville and there’s Dr. Kober at Eastlake. He’ll turn out, He’s a Jew. They always turn out.’

‘I see,’ Carol said. ‘I’ll go to him. Where’s Eastlake? How do I get there?’

The woman was staring at the puckered scar on Carol’s left wrist, then she quickly averted her eyes.

‘It’s five miles,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you on a street map... perhaps you’d better come in.’

‘Oh, but please be quick,’ Carol said. ‘I shouldn’t have left him...’

‘Come in, come in,’ the woman said. ‘I can’t show you if you stand in the dark. Let me put on a light.’

She turned away and a moment later the dark little passage was dazzling with a hard naked light hanging from the ceiling.

Carol stood just inside the front door and faced the woman as she turned.

‘What lovely hair you have!’ the woman said, her small eyes gleaming with excitement. ‘Perhaps I could persuade the doctor to go with you. Come in, come in. He might if he... he’s not been very well. I’ll tell him if you’ll wait in here.’

The sudden shifty change of expression, the sudden false friendliness, frightened Carol, but there was nothing she could do. She had to save Steve. So she followed the woman into a small waiting-room, consisting of three chairs, a round table on which were tattered copies of old periodicals. There was an atmosphere of decay and neglect in the room.

‘I’ll tell him, dear,’ the woman said. ‘You sit down. He won’t be long.’

‘Please hurry,’ Carol begged. ‘He’s bleeding so badly.’

‘I’ll hurry,’ the woman said, went to the door, looked back at Carol and then left the room. There had been a look in her eyes that sent a shiver up Carol’s spine. She listened to the woman hurrying up the stairs and felt instinctively that she was trapped... that this woman meant her harm.

Quietly she opened the door.

‘It’s the lunatic from Glenview,’ she heard the woman say. She was speaking loudly and clearly. ‘She’s downstairs.’

‘What? Speak up,’ a man said angrily. ‘Why do you always whisper? Who from Glenview?’

‘The lunatic... Carol Blandish... the one they’re looking for... go down and talk to her... I’ll call the Sheriff,’ the woman said. ‘And hurry.’

‘But she’s dangerous,’ the man said, a whine in his voice. ‘You talk to her. I’m too old. I don’t want anything to do with her.’

‘Go down!’ the woman said angrily. ‘You know you can’t use the telephone. There’s five thousand dollars reward for her capture. Don’t you want that, you old fool?’

There was a long pause, then the man said: ‘Yes, I’d forgotten that. Perhaps I’d better go down.’

Carol closed her eyes. She must be dreaming this, she thought. It must be another of those terrifying dreams that came so mysteriously: only this time more vivid than ever before. Perhaps Steve hadn’t been hurt; perhaps the two men in black were also part of the dream and she would suddenly wake up in her bed in the cabin, her heart pounding, frightened but safe.

The lunatic... Carol Blandish... the one they’re looking for...

She shivered, willed herself to wake up and slowly opened her eyes, praying that she would find herself in bed, safe, but the shabby little room was still there and looked too real to be a dream figment, and she backed across the room, staring with horror at the door, listening to the slow shuffling steps on the stairs.

Somewhere at the back of the house she heard a sharp ting! of a bell: a telephone-bell.

Go down and talk to her... I’ll call the Sheriff... There’s five thousand dollars reward for her capture...

Whether or not this was a nightmare she must get away from this house. These people meant her harm. They wouldn’t help Steve. They would try to keep her here, away from Steve, and he would die.

But she was now so frightened that she could not move, and crouched in a corner, her heart hammering against her side, a nerve jumping and twitching at the side of her mouth.

The door was slowly pushed open, and a vast old man came into the room: a bald-headed, tired, sagging figure with a great hooked nose and a drooping tobacco-stained moustache. But it was his eyes that filled her with unspeakable terror: at least his right eye, which was like a dirty yellow clay marble: like a phlegm-clot, blind, but she felt somehow it probed right into her mind.

The old man was wearing a blanket dressing-gown; food stains encrusted the lapels and above the opening she could see heavy underwear: layers of old, overwashed wool.

‘Go away!’ she screamed to herself. ‘Let me wake up! Don’t come near me!’

The old man closed the door, set his great bulk against it. He took a handkerchief from his dressing-gown pocket and mopped his left eye, which watered. The yellow clot over his right eye continued to stare at her, hypnotizing her.

‘You’re in trouble I hear,’ he said in a shaky, whining voice. ‘What do you want me to do?’

Carol squeezed herself further into the corner.

‘Are you the doctor?’

‘Yes,’ the old man said. ‘I’m Dr. Fleming.’ He touched his temples with the handkerchief. Little beads of moisture ran down his face.

He was horrible, Carol thought. She couldn’t take him to Steve. She couldn’t trust him.

‘I’ve made a mistake,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t want you. I shouldn’t have come here.’

Fleming cringed. She realized that he was very frightened, and his fear increased her own terror.

‘Now don’t be hasty,’ he implored. ‘I’m old, but I’m a good doctor. Does my eye worry you? It’s nothing: a clot. I’m always promising myself to have it removed, but I never have the time.’ His wrinkled hands fluttered up and down the lapels of the dressing-gown; they looked like big bleached spiders. The harsh electric light picked out the black hairs on his fingers. ‘But it doesn’t interfere with my work. My other eye— But won’t you sit down? You must tell me what’s wrong...’

Carol shook her head.

‘No!’ she said. ‘I’m going. I shouldn’t have disturbed you. Thank you for seeing me...’ Her voice broke, rose a note. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’

Very slowly she pushed herself from the wall, took a hesitant step towards him.

‘You’d better stay,’ Fleming said. ‘We want you to stay,’ and he spread his bulk across the door, his face grimacing at her in his fear. ‘Have some coffee. My wife... coffee will do you good.’ He waved the bleached spiders at her imploring her to be quiet, not to frighten him any more.

Carol ceased to breathe, then suddenly she screamed, feeling her lungs emptying long after all the air was expelled and her diaphragm labouring long after her chest was empty. The scream was very thin and soft: like the scream of a trapped rabbit.

‘No, please,’ Fleming said. ‘It’s all right. Nothing is going to happen. We’re good people... we only want you to be safe from harm...’

A soft scratching sound came on the door, and the old man suddenly relaxed, his face white as chalk. He stood away from the door and his wife came in.

‘What is it?’ she asked, looked at Carol. ‘Why aren’t you sitting down? Has my husband...’ Her eyes went to the old man. ‘Won’t you go with her? Someone is ill.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Fleming said, sat abruptly on one of the hard chairs. ‘She’s changed her mind.’ He put fingers to his throat. ‘This has upset me, Martha,’ he went on. ‘I shouldn’t have come down. A little brandy, I think—’

‘Be quiet,’ the woman said sharply. ‘Don’t think so much of yourself.’

‘I must go,’ Carol said. She was by the table now, her mouth fixed in a cringing grimace. ‘I shouldn’t have disturbed you.’

‘But the doctor’s going up to dress now,’ the woman said quickly. ‘He won’t be a minute. Your friend’s ill, isn’t he? Someone you love?’

Carol’s heart lurched.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I’m thinking of.’ She touched her temple with her fingers. ‘Yes... he’s bleeding. But why does the doctor sit there? Why doesn’t he do something?’

‘Go on,’ the woman said to Fleming. ‘Get dressed. I’ll make the young lady a cup of coffee.’

Fleming still sat slumped in the chair. His breathing was heavy.

‘Let her go,’ he said suddenly. ‘I don’t want the money. I want peace. I’m old. Let her go before something happens. Look what she did to the truck-driver...’

‘Get upstairs, you old fool,’ the woman said angrily. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘Don’t disturb him,’ Carol said. ‘I’m going... I really must go,’ and she walked across the room very slowly, but determinedly.

Fleming hid his big floppy face in his hands. The woman hesitated, gave ground, backed against the wall, her hard eyes alight with rage and fear.

‘You’d better stay,’ she said. ‘We know who you are. You’d better not make a fuss. You can’t get away.’

Carol opened the door.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, turning so that she could face them. ‘I thought you would help me.’ She turned quickly, ran to the front door, but it was locked. She whirled round to find the woman standing in the doorway of the waiting-room, watching her.

‘Open this door,’ Carol said, her face like a small lead-coloured mask.

‘It’s all right,’ the woman said. ‘Why don’t you come in and sit down? I’ll make you a cup of coffee...’

Carol ran down the passage, past the woman, wrenched at the handle of another door that she thought might open on to the back garden. That too was locked.

Fleming had joined his wife and was standing just behind her. The yellow clot in his eye seemed to beseech her to be quiet and calm.

Trapped in the narrow passage, between the two doors, Carol paused, her brain refusing to function.

‘You see?’ the woman said gently. ‘You can’t get away. Your friends are coming. There’s nothing you can do.’

Then Carol saw another door; a small door half-hidden by a curtain, a yard or so from where she was standing.

Without taking her eyes from the two in the doorway, she edged towards the door, then snatched at the handle. The door opened. At the same moment the woman darted forward.

Carol cried out, stepped back through the open doorway, threw up her hands to ward the woman off. The woman pushed her, and the ground seemed to give way under her feet and she felt herself falling.

Sheriff Kamp lay flat on his back in his small truckle bed. His low, rasping snores vibrated round the room. He didn’t hear the shrill ring of the telephone-bell in the main office of the county jail, nor did he hear his deputy, George Staum, cursing as he levered himself out of his desk chair.

But a minute or so later the door crashed open and Staum was shaking the Sheriff awake.

‘Hey, hey, hey,’ Kamp growled, flinging off Staum’s hand. ‘Can’t you let a man sleep?’

‘They’ve found her!’ Staum said excitedly. His round fat face hung over Kamp like a Dutch cheese. ‘They’ve got her!’ He was so excited that he couldn’t get out his words.

‘Got her? Got who?’ Kamp demanded, still confused with sleep, then he started up, grabbed hold of Staum. ‘You mean — her? Who’s got her?’

‘Doc Fleming... Mrs. Fleming’s just ’phoned...’

‘Hell!’ Kamp struggled into his trousers. ‘Fleming! That old punk! Five thousand bucks! It would be him. Never did a day’s work in his life and he has to find her.’

‘Mrs. Fleming says to be quick,’ Staum spluttered, his eyes popping. ‘She’s scared something will happen.’

‘Can’t be quicker,’ Kamp growled, slipping his heavy revolver belt round his waist. ‘Get Hartman on the ’phone. Get the Press. I’m going to get something out of this! Fleming! My stars! I bet it fell into his lap.’

Staum ran into the office.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ he bawled over his shoulder.

‘Follow on. Get Hartman and the Press first, then come on as fast as you can. I want a cameraman there. If I don’t get that five thousand I’m going to have my picture in all the papers,’ Kamp said, grabbed up his hat, ran from the room.

Simon Hartman couldn’t sleep. He sat in a big easy chair in his luxury hotel suite, a glass of whisky on the table beside him, a cigar clamped between his small sharp teeth.

Hartman was short and thick-set. The lines in his thin, sallow-complexioned face made him look older than his fifty-five years. There was a cold, brooding expression in his eyes, and his thin lips were turned down. Although the hour was a minute or so before 3 a.m., he had no inclination to sleep. For years now he had slept but little, and then only in uneasy cat-naps.

Hartman was the senior partner of Simon Hartman & Richards, solicitors, whose reputation at one time had stood as high as any of the big New York firms. But since Richards had retired the business had gone to pieces, and Hartman, an inveterate gambler, had been tempted to use his clients’ money to play the markets, and recently he had been juggling with securities that were not his own, with disastrous results.

He had almost reached breaking-point when John Blandish died and the Blandish Trust was formed. Here, then, was a chance in a lifetime, and Hartman was quick to seize the opportunity. Richards and he were appointed trustees and as Richards took no interest in business the trust was entirely in Hartman’s hands.

It came as a tremendous shock to Hartman when he learned of Carol’s escape. He knew that if she avoided capture for fourteen days she could claim the Trust money... what there was left of it. For even in that short space of time Hartman had already dug deeply into Blandish’s fortune.

The girl had to be found! If she wasn’t found, he’d be ruined, and Hartman had no intention of being ruined. He had already taken charge of the search. The Sheriff was a fool. Dr. Travers was irresponsible. The police were worse than useless. But he had galvanized them into action; had offered five thousand dollars reward for the girl’s capture. Now everyone in Point Breese was searching for the girl.

His eyes strayed to the calendar hanging on the wall. Only another six days! Well, a lot could happen in six days — a lot must happen!

As he reached for his whisky the telephone rang shrilly. He paused, his eyes suddenly hooded. Then without fuss or undue haste he picked up the receiver.

‘What is it?’

‘We’ve got her,’ Staum shouted excitedly over the line. ‘Sheriff said I was to tell you.’

‘Don’t shout: I’m not deaf,’ Hartman said coldly, but his face lightened: he looked younger. ‘Where is she?’

‘Doc Fleming’s got her. The Sheriff’s going over there right away. He says for you to go over.’

‘Certainly,’ Hartman said. ‘Where exactly does Dr. Fleming live?’

Staum gave directions.

‘All right. I’m leaving immediately,’ Hartman said, hung up.

For a moment he stared at himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece, and he smiled thinly.

‘The darkest hour comes before the dawn,’ he thought. ‘Trite but true,’ and he pulled back the curtains, looked down at the deserted main street.

Above the rooftops was a band of light stretching like a ribbon behind the distant mountains. The sky was a faint grey; the stars were losing their lustre. In a little while it would be daylight.

He picked up his hat, slipped on an overcoat — it would be chilly out at this hour — walked quickly to the door.

While he waited for the elevator to take him to the street level he hummed tunelessly under his breath.

A big empty truck rattled to a standstill outside an all-night café situated near the Point Breese railway yards.

‘As far as I go,’ the driver said. ‘This do you?’

The Sullivans climbed down from the cab.

‘Sure,’ Frank said. ‘And thanks.’

‘You’re welcome,’ the driver returned, drove on through the big wooden gates guarding the yard.

‘We were lucky to get that lift,’ Frank said, and yawned.

‘Shaddap!’ Max snarled, walked across the road to the café, went in.

Frank grimaced, followed him.

The loss of the Packard had affected Max, whereas Frank was more philosophical. Possessions and comfort meant little to him. His weakness was women: his grimy pathological mind seldom thought of anything but women, and he left all the planning, the arrangements, the everyday routine, to Max.

They sat on stools at the counter, called for coffee. The girl who served them was ugly, but she had a good figure. Frank wanted to discuss her figure with Max, but he knew Max wasn’t in the mood. Max didn’t bother about women: he regarded them the way he regarded food: a necessity, but uninteresting and unimportant.

The girl was a little scared of the Sullivans, and when she had served them she went into the kitchen and left them alone. There was no one else in the café.

‘I wish I knew if I’d killed him,’ Max said thoughtfully. ‘I know I hit him twice in the chest, but he’s big and tough. I should have aimed at his head.’

‘Let’s not worry about him,’ Frank said. ‘It’s the girl I’m worrying about. She was terrific! That red hair...’

Max turned on him.

‘If he’s alive he saw what happened,’ he said. ‘He’s the only witness we’ve ever let get away. He could blow our racket sky-high.’

Frank hadn’t thought of that.

‘We’d better find him,’ he said. ‘But where...?’

‘I want some sleep,’ Max grumbled. ‘Hell! We can’t go on and on... we’re not made of iron. Where can we get a bed?’

‘Ask her... she’ll know,’ Frank said, jerked his thumb towards the kitchen door.

‘Yeah,’ Max said, finished his coffee, slid off the stool, walked into the kitchen.

The girl was sitting on a table, talking to a negro cook. They both stared at Max, and the negro’s eyes rolled.

‘Where can we get a bed?’ Max asked, eying the girl.

‘There’s a hotel round the corner, next to the jail,’ the girl said.

‘O.K.,’ Max flipped a couple of nickels on to the table. ‘Where’s the hospital?’

‘There isn’t one. Nearest one’s at Waltonville, five miles from here.’

Max grunted, walked out, jerked his head at Frank.

‘Let’s get the hell out of here. I want to sleep.’

They walked down the deserted road. The big-faced clock over the station showed three o’clock.

‘There’s a hotel next to the jail,’ Max said.

‘Handy,’ Frank said, and giggled.

‘That’s it,’ Max said as they turned the corner, then he stopped abruptly, put his hand on Frank’s arm. ‘What goes on?’

They drew back as Sheriff Kamp came rushing down the steps of the jail. They watched him pull open the wooden doors of the garage next to the jail. His movements were those of a man in a frantic hurry. A moment later a battered Ford roared out of the garage, headed down the road.

‘The Sheriff’s in a hurry,’ Frank said, tilted his hat over his nose.

‘Something’s up,’ Max said. ‘Come on, we’re going to see.’

‘Thought you wanted a bed,’ Frank grumbled.

‘We’re going to see,’ Max repeated.

They set off down the road, their arms swinging, a sudden new life and spring in their stride.

The bedside telephone suddenly rang.

‘Let it ring,’ Veda said sleepily. ‘It’s only one of my affairs with an uneasy conscience.’

Magarth groaned, half sat up.

‘I moved in here for a little peace and quiet,’ he complained. ‘Must you carry your love life into my life as well?’

‘Don’t be a grouch, darling,’ Veda said. ‘He’ll tire of it in a moment and go back to bed.’

Magarth rubbed his eyes, sat bolt upright.

‘Stop chattering,’ he said tersely. ‘Maybe it’s for me,’ and he grabbed the telephone.

‘But no one knows you’re here... at least, I hope they don’t,’ Veda said in alarm.

‘My editor knows everything,’ Magarth returned, said ‘Hello?’ into the ’phone.

‘That you, Magarth?’

Magarth recognized his editor’s voice.

‘I think so,’ he returned, yawned. ‘Anyway, it’s someone very like me.’

‘I suppose you’re in bed with that woman?’

‘Who else would I be in bed with — a horse?’

‘Then get out of it, you licentious rat. They’ve found the Blandish girl!’

‘They’ve... what?’ Magarth exclaimed.

‘The Sheriff’s office ’phoned through just now. They’ve got her holed up in Doc Fleming’s cellar. Get going and take a camera. Kamp won’t do a thing until you arrive. The old bastard wants his picture taken making the capture. Hartman’s there; in fact every punk in town’s there except you. So get moving.’

‘I’m on my way,’ Magarth said, slammed down the ’phone and jumped out of bed. ‘Sweet suffering cats!’ he exploded. ‘They’ve found her! Found her while I’m taking a roll in the hay. That’s retribution!’ He struggled into his shirt. ‘Now what the hell am I going to do? Oh, my stars! What a break!’

‘Keep calm, darling,’ Veda said, snuggling down under the bedclothes. ‘It may turn out all for the best.’

‘All for the best!’ Magarth snorted, struggling into his coat. ‘If they get her back into that nut-house my story’ll go up in smoke. I’ve got to save her — somehow,’ and he rushed for the door.

‘But, darling,’ Veda called after him, ‘do try to be sensible, You’ve forgotten to put your trousers on.’

The narrow passage between Doc Fleming’s back and front doors was crowded. Doc Fleming with his wife stood half-way up the stairs. Simon Hartman stood in the waiting-room doorway. Magarth, a camera equipped with a flash-gun in his hand, leaned against the back door. Two State cops guarded the front entrance. Sheriff Kamp and George Staum faced the cellar door.

‘All right, boys,’ Kamp said. ‘You stick around. Mind, she’s dangerous.’ He glanced slyly at Magarth. ‘Get that picture as I bring her out.’

‘You haven’t got her out yet,’ Magarth reminded him. ‘Maybe she’ll bring you out. What you need is a trident and a net.’

Kamp ignored this, rapped on the cellar door.

‘We know you’re in there,’ he called. ‘Come on out in the name of the law.’

Carol crouched further back into the darkness of the cellar.

When she had recovered from the fall down the cellar stairs she quickly realized that she was trapped. By groping round the cellar walls she discovered there was no way out except through the door, which was now securely locked. If it hadn’t been for the thought of Steve lying helpless in the wood she would have given up, but she drew courage from her love and she told herself that she was going to get out and back to Steve and no one would stop her.

She found an electric light switch after a few minutes of groping and turned it on. The cellar was small and damp and full of rubbish, but it also contained the fuse-box and main switch for the light. She discovered a rusty steel poker among the rubbish, and this she picked up, balanced in her hand. When Kamp threw open the door, she crouched down by the steps leading into the cellar, her hand on the light switch, and waited. She had already turned off the light in the cellar, and although she could see Kamp peering into the darkness, he couldn’t see her.

‘Come on out,’ Kamp called, his face red with excitement; added for no reason at all, ‘We’ve got the place surrounded.’

No sound nor movement came from the dark cellar.

‘Be a man and fetch her out,’ Magarth said. ‘We’ll give you a decent burial.’ While he was speaking he was racking his brains for a plan to rescue Carol, but for the moment he was foxed.

‘Now come along,’ Kamp wheedled. He wasn’t feeling too happy about tackling a dangerous lunatic. He looked over his shoulder at Hartman. ‘Think I should go in there after her?’

‘Of course,’ Hartman said sharply. ‘But don’t handle her roughly. I won’t have her ill-treated.’

Magarth gave a macabre laugh.

‘That’s very, very funny,’ he said. ‘Never mind how she treats you, Sheriff.’

George Staum edged away when Kamp beckoned to him.

‘Not me,’ he said firmly. ‘Lunatics scare me. I ain’t going down there in the dark. Look what she did to that truck-driver.’

‘By rights the asylum people ought to handle it,’ Kamp said, hanging back. ‘Did anyone think to call them?’

‘No one,’ Magarth said cheerfully. ‘I’ll come in with you, Sheriff. I’m not scared. You go first and I’ll be right on our heels.’

Kamp drew in a deep breath.

‘Well, let’s go,’ he said, took a hesitant step towards the cellar, peered into the inky darkness. ‘Maybe someone’s got a torch?’ he went on hopefully.

No one had a torch, and Hartman irritably told Kamp to get on with his duty.

As he stooped to pass through the low doorway Carol snapped down the main switch, grabbed hold of his arms and jerked him forward.

Kamp gave a wild yell, plunged into space.

Magarth was quick to realize what had happened, decided to cause as much confusion as he could. He gave a ghoulish shriek, charged George Staum and hurled him against the two State Police as they crowded forward in the dark.

‘Look out!’ Magarth bawled. ‘She’s right in amongst us.’

Staum lost his head, hit out blindly, knocked one of the police officers cold, tried to rush up the stairs out of the way. The other police officer struck out right and left with his nightstick, but failed to hit anything. Magarth kept up his yelling and for a long moment of time confusion and panic reigned.

It was enough for Carol. She had reached the passage, heard the shouting and the sounds of a struggle going on by the front door, opened the back door, slipped into the garden.

Magarth saw her, followed her.

Carol ran blindly down the garden path, swerved to her right when she heard Magarth’s thudding steps behind her. She increased her speed and seemed to fly over the ground. Try as he would, Magarth couldn’t overtake her.

But he kept on, wondering how long it would be before the Sheriff came after them.

Carol was heading for a dense thicket that lay a few hundred yards ahead. Beyond the thicket was the main road into Point Breese but she didn’t know this. She thought once she could get into the wood, she might be able to hide, and she redoubled her speed, confidence making her careless. Suddenly she caught her foot in a thick tree-root and went sprawling, rolled over, the breath knocked out of her.

For a moment or so she lay stunned, then she struggled to sit up as Magarth bent over her.

They stared at each other.

‘It’s all right,’ Magarth said. ‘Don’t be frightened. I want to help you. It was me who helped you escape. Don’t look so scared.’

Although Carol shied away from him, there was something about him that reassured her.

‘Who are you? What do you want with me?’ she panted.

‘I’m Phil Magarth — a newspaper man. You’re Carol Blandish, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Carol said, holding her head. ‘I don’t know who I am. I had an accident... I lost my memory.’ She sat up, clutched his arm. ‘Will you really help me? It’s Steve... he’s badly hurt... will you come with me?’

Magarth frowned.

‘Steve Larson? Is that who you mean?’

‘Oh, yes. Do you know him?’

‘Sure. We’re good friends. What happened? Those two guys in black...?’

Carol shuddered.

‘Yes. He’s shot. I went to Dr. Fleming. He must be mad. They locked me in the cellar...’

Magarth stared at her.

Could she be Carol Blandish? She seemed so normal: not a trace of madness. He caught hold of her left wrist. Yes, there was the scar. Then had she really lost her memory?

‘You mean you really don’t know who you are?’ he asked.

‘No... but, please, if you’re going to help me, don’t waste time. He’s so badly hurt. Will you come with me? Will you help me?’

‘You bet I will,’ Magarth said, helped her to her feet. ‘Where is he?’

‘Up on the mountain road. There’s a logging camp up there. That’s where I left him.’

‘I know the place,’ Magarth said, looked to right and left. ‘It’ll be light soon. You mustn’t be seen. I’ll get my car. You’d better wait here. Go over to that wood. Just beyond it is the main road. You’ll see me from the wood. Keep out of sight until I come. I shan’t be more than ten minutes. Will you do that?’

‘Yes,’ Carol said. She felt she could trust him. ‘But please be quick. I’m so frightened... he was bleeding so badly.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Magarth said briskly. ‘We’ll fix him up all right. You get under cover and wait for me.’ He patted her arm and then ran quickly back to Doc Fleming’s house.

Now she was alone, Carol suddenly felt uneasy. The half light of the dawn, the cold mist that rose from the ground, the still, silent wood silhouetted blackly against the sky, produced a threatening atmosphere.

As she began to move towards the wood she had a presentiment of danger and her heart began to thud against her side.

She wished now that she had gone back with Magarth. Anything seemed better than being alone in this dim, silent wood. She screwed up her courage and kept on, and some way ahead through the trees she could see the main road.

That was where she was to meet Magarth, she told herself, and fighting down this strange feeling of panic, she walked through the wood towards the distant clearing.

Then suddenly she stopped. Something moved ahead of her. She caught her breath sharply, stared. From behind a big tree-trunk the brim of a man’s hat appeared. She stood petrified, unable to move, even to blink her eyelids.

A man in a black overcoat and a black slouch hat slid round the tree-trunk, stood directly in her path: it was Max.

‘I want you,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t make a fuss.’

For one brief moment she stared at him, her heart freezing, then with a thin wail of terror she turned to run blindly in the opposite direction. But Frank was there behind her, and as she came to an abrupt stop he smiled, raised his hat.

Carol stood rigid. Both the Sullivans could hear her wild breathing.

‘Don’t make a fuss,’ Max said, and walked slowly towards her.

‘Oh, no!’ Carol cried, cringing back. ‘You mustn’t touch me...’ She felt her muscles shrinking. Her face was as wan as a small ghost. ‘Please go away... I’m waiting for someone... he’ll be back any moment now... you mustn’t stay...’

‘No fuss,’ Max said, reaching her. ‘Come on. We want you.’

She backed, then suddenly whirled and ran towards Frank, who watched her with his fixed smile. He threw out his arms, barring her path.

Again she whirled, stood rigid.

‘Where’s Larson?’ Max asked. ‘We want him too.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anything.’

‘You will,’ Max said gently. ‘We know how to make girls talk. Where is he?’

‘Oh, leave me alone...’ Carol said, looked round wildly, then began to scream.

Frank jumped forward, twined his short fat fingers in her hair, dragged her head back.

‘Hit her,’ he said to Max.

Max stepped up to her. She saw him raise his fist and she threw up her hands to protect herself, screamed wildly again. Max brushed her hands aside; then four bony knuckles smashed against the side of her jaw.