The Flesh of the Orchid

Chapter Four

Magarth came out on to the sun-drenched verandah, sat down, stretched out his long legs, closed his eyes.

‘A pint of black coffee laced with brandy might set me up,’ he said, smothered a yawn, ‘but it’s bed I really want. And I’ve got to go see the Sheriff in a moment.’

‘You shall have your coffee, precious,’ Veda said. ‘But you’re not going to leave here until you’ve given me some sort of explanation. Surely it’s not asking too much, since you’ve turned my house into a hospital. I’m sure you have your reasons, but I do feel I should be told what goes on.’

Magarth opened one eye, grinned. He thought Veda looked very nice in her apricot-coloured linen frock and he reached out to pat her hand.

‘They holed her up in Doc Fleming’s cellar,’ he said briefly. ‘When Kamp went in after her, she turned off the main switch, and I caused what is known as a diversion, and she escaped. I went after her, caught her up, made friends. I arranged to get my car and go with her to where she had left Larson. I left her in the wood and got my car. When I returned she had vanished. So I collected Larson and brought him here. Doc Kober will let us know what he thinks of him when he comes down.’

‘But why didn’t you take the poor lamb to hospital? Why bring him here?’

‘Because he’s in danger,’ Magarth said patiently. ‘You don’t know what these two thugs are like.’

‘What two thugs?’ Veda asked, bewildered.

‘The Sullivans: the professional killers. If half what I’ve heard about them is true they’ve committed dozens of murders and have never left a clue or a witness. But this time they’ve slipped up. Larson saw them kill his brother. He managed to tell me that much before he passed out. His evidence would send them to the chair. They’ll try to finish him, and the first place they’d look for him is the hospital. We’ll have to keep him under cover until he’s well enough to make a statement.’

Veda nodded.

‘But are you really sure these two won’t find him here?’

‘Not a chance. There’s no connection between you and Larson — why should they?’

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ Veda said. ‘Now tell me about the Blandish girl. What happened to her?’

‘I don’t know,’ Magarth admitted, worried. ‘She either didn’t trust me or...’ He shook his head. ‘There was a big black Packard parked outside Doc Fleming’s house when I arrived. I was so anxious to get inside the house I didn’t give it a thought. But it had gone when I returned for my car, and I’m wondering. The Sullivans may have got her.’

‘Haven’t you got the Sullivans on the brain, my pet?’ Veda asked. ‘They can’t be here, there and everywhere.’

‘That’s just what they can be,’ Magarth said. ‘I’ll have to tell Kamp. We’ll need protection out here, just in case. God help the Blandish girl if the Sullivans have got her.’

‘But you haven’t told me what she’s like,’ Veda said with pardonable curiosity. ‘Have you actually talked with her?’

‘Sure. She looks as sane as you do,’ Magarth returned. ‘I can’t make it out. She’s a marvellous-looking girl, and obviously head over heels in love with Larson. She’s the kind of girl who loves but once and sticks to her man like glue.’

‘So am I,’ Veda said softly. ‘Only the rat I’ve fallen in love with doesn’t know it.’

‘Don’t let’s talk about rats,’ Magarth said hurriedly. ‘They’re timid creatures and don’t like to be talked about.’

‘I’ve noticed they’re not so timid at night,’ Veda said softly.

At this moment Dr. Kober joined them.

‘He’s bad,’ he said abruptly. ‘It’ll be touch and go. The next three days will decide whether or not he pulls through. He should really be in hospital.’

‘It wouldn’t be safe,’ Magarth said. ‘I’m seeing the Sheriff right away, Doc. These guys will have another go at him, and that’s why he must stay here. Miss Banning will foot all the bills, so spare no expense. Can you stay here with him?’

‘That’s impossible,’ Kober returned. ‘But I’ll be coming in twice a day. Nurse Davies knows what to do. There’s not much we can do for him now. It depends entirely on his stamina, which is good. But he’s lost a lot of blood. I shall have to report this, Magarth.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Magarth said, getting to his feet. ‘If you’ll give me two minutes to drink this coffee,’ he added as the maid came out with a tray, ‘I’ll be with you.’

‘I’ll wait for you in my car,’ Kober said, and took leave of Veda.

‘You’ll make yourself entirely at home, precious, won’t you?’ she said when Kober had gone. ‘If there are any of your other friends who’d like rooms—’

Magarth swallowed his coffee, slipped his arm round her waist.

‘Don’t be mad at me, sugar,’ he said. ‘You’ll get your picture in the newspaper when the danger is over, and everyone will think you are a heroine. Besides, if this pans out the way I think it’ll pan out, me and my friends will move in here for good. You’ll love that, won’t you?’

Sheriff Kamp sat in his dusty little office, his feet on his desk, a dead cigar clamped between his teeth.

Simon Hartman had just left, and it had been a difficult interview. Hartman had accused Magarth of engineering Carol’s escape; he had also charged Kamp with incompetency, and had thrown out hints of going to higher authority. Kamp was worried. He now had only six days in which to find the girl, and he had no idea where to look for her.

He gave a ferocious grunt when Magarth lounged into the office.

‘I want you,’ he said, bringing his feet to the floor with a crash. ‘You’re the guy who let that damned girl escape.’

Magarth drew up a chair, flopped into it.

‘Not intentionally,’ he said, lighting a cigarette, ‘although maybe I did lose my head for a moment. But your fellas weren’t so hot, either. You can’t pick on me.’

‘I can and I’m going to,’ Kamp said grimly. ‘Hartman’s been in here raising Cain, and he’s yelling for your blood.’

‘And have you asked yourself why?’ Magarth asked calmly. ‘He’s scared stiff the girl will come into her money. I bet he’s been dipping his paws into the Trust and funks an investigation.’

Kamp’s eyes popped.

‘That’s a pretty serious accusation.’

‘I know, and I wouldn’t make it to anyone but you. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think so. My editor is looking into Hartman’s background and we’ll keep you informed. Bat there’s something more important in the wind. Ever heard of the Sullivan brothers?’

‘Sure, but that’s just a fairy tale. The Sullivans don’t exist. They’re an alibi for any unsolved murder.’

‘Don’t kid yourself,’ Magarth said, hitching up his chair. ‘They not only exist, but they’re here. They killed Steve Larson’s brother last night and they shot and badly wounded Steve.’

‘I didn’t know Larson had a brother,’ Kamp said, sitting bolt upright.

‘If you knew everything you’d probably be President,’ Magarth returned. ‘Larson has, or rather had, a brother: a smalltime gangster who got in bad with Little Bernie. The Sullivans were hired to kill him. Roy holed himself up at Blue Mountain Summit, but the Sullivans tracked him down. And here’s something else. A week before the Sullivans arrived Steve Larson found Carol Blandish in the wrecked truck and took her to his place. She’s been there ever since.’

‘What?’ Kamp roared, springing to his feet.

‘Watch your blood pressure,’ Magarth said, grinned at the sight of Kamp’s astonished expression. ‘Larson had no idea who the girl was. Roy wouldn’t let him move from the farm and he had no means of learning the girl had escaped. Apparently she received a crack on her head and has lost her memory. She doesn’t know who she is.’

‘How the heck do you know all this?’ Kamp demanded, sinking into his chair again.

‘I found Larson and talked to him. The Sullivans showed up last night, murdered Roy and were going to take the Blandish girl with them. But Larson managed to pull a fast one, and he and the girl escaped in the Sullivans’ car; only Larson got shot as they were going. The girl left him at the Summit Logging Camp and tried to get Doc Fleming to come out and attend to him. Mrs. Fleming recognized her, and you know the rest. I have Larson up at Miss Banning’s place. He’s bad: too bad to make a statement. But when he does we’ll have enough on the Sullivans to send them to the chair — if we catch them. And think what that’ll mean. These two have committed murder in practically every State in the country. To catch them would put you and me right on the front page and right in the public eye. You wouldn’t have to worry about Hartman’s threats then.’

‘My stars!’ Kamp said, lifted his sweat-stained Stetson and scratched his head. ‘And what’s become of the girl?’

‘I think the Sullivans have got her,’ Magarth said, and went on to tell Kamp of his meeting with Carol, and how, when he had returned with his car, she had vanished. ‘They run a big black Packard Clipper.’ He reached for a scrap of paper and scribbled down the registration number. ‘Can you start a hunt for them? You’ll be killing two birds with one stone. And one more thing. I want some protection up at Miss Banning’s place. I don’t see how they’ll get on to Larson there, but if they do they’ll come after him. We can’t afford to take any risks.’

Kamp jumped to his feet.

‘O.K., Magarth,’ he said. ‘Leave this to me. I’ll get things started. I’ll send Staum and a couple of deputies up there right away, and I’ll throw out a drag-net for the Sullivans.’

The Packard Clipper jolted over the rutty surface of the narrow by-road that led off the State Highway into a dense jungle of cane and brier and cypress.

The mid-day sun was hot, and the Sullivans had undone their overcoats and were sitting shoulder to shoulder in the car: Max was driving.

Behind them on the floor, under the suffocating heat of a rug, Carol lay, only half conscious. Her wrists and ankles were securely tied and a broad strip of adhesive plaster covered her mouth.

The Sullivans were now many miles from Point Breese. They had driven north and had headed for the open cotton country, avoiding the small towns; making the longer detour rather than risk detection. And now, after eight hours of furious driving, they were in sight of their destination.

Max had scarcely said a word on the journey. His mind was concentrated on Steve Larson. If Larson were allowed to talk in court, they were finished. So sure was he of his shooting ability, Max knew that Steve had been dangerously, if not fatally, injured. They wouldn’t get him to testify for some time: it was even doubtful if he could make a statement for a week or so. At all costs he must be prevented from picking them out in an identity parade. Statements and alibis could be fixed, but there was nothing so damning as an identity parade. As soon as they had got the girl safely under cover they’d have to go back and finish him. It was the only safe way.

The road — if you could call it a road — began to rise steeply, and a moment later, above the jagged mass of trees, a house lifted its gaunt bulk against the autumn sky.

In this dense wilderness, miles from the nearest town, set back a mile or so off the State Highway, you wouldn’t expect to find any building, let alone an old plantation house as big and as ruined as this one before which the Sullivans stopped the Packard.

There was a wide verandah running round the house. Practically every third paling in the verandah rail was missing, and the whole of the wooden building was bleached white by rain and sun over a period of many bleak winters and hot summers. To the right and rear of the building was a cultivated patch of ground, incongruous in the abandoned surroundings and overgrown foliage. A few apple and plum trees struggled for survival amongst the unpruned cypress groves. The red apples looked like the little balls you see on Christmas trees.

A dozen or so chickens scratched in the sandy soil near the front of the building, and they scattered with harsh squawks as the Packard came to a standstill.

As the Sullivans climbed out of the car a man appeared from the dark hall, came out into the sunshine and stood on the top step of the wooden stoop.

He was a man around sixty, tall, upright, pigeon-chested. He had a lean, weathered face, the jaws covered with a black stubble; his hair was grey and slicked back with strong-smelling pomade. He wore a pair of dirty overalls and his feet were bare. He was a strange-looking figure. From his neck down you would have taken him for a tramp: a man who had known no success, no riches, and who, perhaps through no fault of his own, had made a complete mess of his life. But to see his face, to look into his hard cruel eyes, you realized that at one time he had been something — had wielded power: as indeed he had.

Tex Sherill had been the Ring Master of the travelling circus to which the Sullivans had been attached in their circus days. Sherill had been a spectacular Ring Master: handsome, dashing, showy. He and the Sullivans had certain things in common: in particular a need for personal freedom: to be a law unto themselves. When the Sullivans left the circus, Sherill missed and envied them. He was sick of travelling round the country, forced to live a life of fettered routine, and he wanted to get out of the business; to live his own life. He had stayed with the circus a further six months, then had quit. He now ran an illicit still, manufacturing a particularly potent moonshine which he sold locally, and which provided him with sufficient funds to run the old plantation house and to allow him his much-needed freedom.

The Sullivans heard that Sherill had quit the circus and had looked him up. They decided that such a place as the old plantation house was an ideal hide-out should things ever get too hot for them. They put it to Sherill as a business proposition, and he was agreeable enough provided they made it worth his while, which they did.

And so it was to the old plantation house they had driven, deciding it was an excellent place to keep Carol until the six days had elapsed when they could, through her, control the money she had inherited, it was also an excellent place to leave her while they hunted for Larson. Tex Sherill would see she didn’t escape; once he undertook a job he did it with ruthless thoroughness.

‘Hello, boys,’ Sherill said, leaned against the post of the verandah and watched the Sullivans with suspicious eyes. ‘What brings you here?’

Without answering Max opened the rear door of the Packard, caught hold of Carol and hauled her into the sunlight.

Sherill stiffened.

‘What’s this — a snatch?’ he asked, took a step away from the post, hooked his thumbs in the piece of cord that was bound tightly round his waist.

‘No,’ Max said, swung Carol off her feet and carried her up the steps. ‘Where’s Miss Lolly?’

‘Out in the garden somewhere,’ Sherill returned, barred the way into the house. ‘I’m not handling a snatch, Max. That carries the death sentence.’

‘This isn’t a snatch,’ Max said shortly. ‘Let me put her down and then we’ll talk.’

‘Not inside,’ Sherill said firmly. ‘Put her in that chair. This stinks of a snatch to me.’

Max laid Carol in the old rotten basket-chair that had stood for years on the porch, exposed to all weathers. It creaked dismally under her weight, and when she tried to sit up Max put his hand over her face and shoved her back so hard the chair tipped up and she sprawled on the dusty planks of the verandah, the chair falling on top of her.

‘Keep an eye on her,’ Max said to Frank as he came up the steps, then he took Sherill by the arm and walked with him to the end of the verandah.

Frank straightened the chair, lifted Carol, put her in it again.

‘Stay quiet, baby,’ he said. ‘I’m your own special friend. Max doesn’t like girls, but I do. I’ll see you don’t come to any harm.’ He took off his hat and ran a small comb through his oily hair, winked at her. Lowering his voice, he went on: ‘How would you like to be my girl? We needn’t tell Max.’

‘Who is she?’ Sherill was asking. ‘By God, Max, if you’re trying to mix me up in a snatch—’

‘Pipe down,’ Max said, his eyes baleful. ‘I’m paying you good dough for us to use this place, aren’t I? Well, I’m going to use it. It’s not a snatch. She’s escaped from a mental sanatorium.

We’re protecting her from herself. That isn’t a snatch, is it?’

Sherill shifted his eyes. His bare feet, hard as leather, scratched uneasily on the boards.

‘You mean — she’s the Blandish girl?’

Max smiled: a cold, ferocious, humourless smile.

‘So you’ve heard about that?’

‘Who hasn’t? I read the newspapers. What are you doing with her?’

‘What do you think? She comes into six million bucks in a week from today; that is if she’s not caught. She’s going to be grateful, isn’t she?’

Sherill glanced back along the verandah.

‘Tied like that? Damned grateful, I’d say.’

‘She’s nuts,’ Max said patiently. ‘She won’t remember anything. You treat nuts like animals. So long as you feed ’em, they’re grateful.’ He drew off his gloves, flexed his sweating fingers. ‘We can talk her into anything.’

‘I don’t think you know much about lunatics,’ Sherill said, leaned to spit over the rail. ‘Well, it’s your funeral. What’s it worth to me?’

‘You’ll get a quarter of whatever we get.’

‘That could be too much or nothing at all,’ Sherill said uneasily. ‘I wish you hadn’t brought her here, Max. It’ll be unsettling.’

‘Aw, shaddap,’ Max said, stuffed his gloves in his pocket and stared moodily across the overgrown vista.

Sherill eyed him, lifted his shoulders.

‘They say she’s dangerous,’ he went on. ‘Homicidal.’

Max laughed.

‘Don’t talk soft. You used to perform in a lions’ cage. You and Miss Lolly can handle her.’

Slierill’s face tightened.

‘I don’t know if Miss Lolly will want to,’ he said. ‘She’s been acting odd these past days. I guess she’s going nuts herself.’

‘She was all right when last we were here,’ Max said, not interested. ‘What’s biting her?’

‘Nerves, I guess,’ Sherill said, shrugging. ‘She ain’t too easy to live with.’

‘To hell with her, then,’ Max said impatiently. ‘Got a room where you can lock this girl up? Somewhere safe?’

‘There’s a top room. The window’s barred. You can have that.’

‘O.K., then let’s lock her up. I’ve got to get back to Point Breese.’

‘Ain’t you staying?’ Sherill asked, startled.

‘I’ve things to do: a job to finish,’ Max said, and for a moment he showed his pointed white teeth. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of days.’

He walked with Sherill along the verandah.

‘Take that tape off,’ he said to Frank.

Frank was sitting on the floor at Carol’s feet, his head resting on the arm of the chair. There was a smirking, far-away expression in his eyes, but he got up as soon as Max drew near, and picking hold of the corner of the tape he gave it a savage jerk, peeling it off Carol’s mouth, sending her head twisting to the right.

She gave a little gasp of pain, sat up, faced the Sullivans.

‘O.K., now talk,’ Max said. ‘Where’s Larson? Where did you leave him?’

‘I’m not going to tell you,’ Carol said, her voice husky. ‘I’ll never tell you... you can do what you like to me.’

Max smiled.

‘You’ll talk,’ he said gently. ‘You wait and see.’ He turned to Sherill. ‘Let’s get her upstairs where I can work on her.’

A soft step behind them made them turn quickly. A woman, or rather a figure dressed like a woman, came towards them: a strangely startling, but pathetic-looking, freak. She — for it was a woman in spite of the long beard — was dressed in a dusty black costume that was at least ten years out of fashion; about her naked ankles a worn pair of man’s boots, unlaced, flapped when she moved. The lower part of her gaunt white face was hidden behind the luxuriant beard, which grew in soft, silky waves to a point some six inches above her waist.

Although Miss Lolly was now forty-five years of age, there was not one white hair in the beard that, not so long ago, had been morbidly stared at by thousands of people in many parts of the world as she sat in her little booth in the travelling circus that had been her home for most of her lonely life.

As she walked hesitatingly towards them her eyes, which must surely have been the saddest eyes in the world, fixed themselves on Carol.

There was a sudden tense silence, then the drowsy autumn afternoon reverberated with Carol’s scream.

Frank giggled.

‘She doesn’t appreciate your form of beauty,’ he said to Miss Lolly, who drew back, two faint spots of colour showing on her gaunt cheeks.

‘Come on,’ Max said impatiently, ‘let’s get her upstairs.’ He bent and cut the cord that tied Carol’s ankles, jerked her to her feet.

Miss Lolly watched them drag the struggling girl into the house; listened to the scuffling of feet as they climbed the stairs.

Carol began to scream as they forced her along a broad, dark passage.

Miss Lolly flinched. She hated violence, and she moved quickly into the big, barn-like kitchen. While she washed the vegetables she had gathered, her mind raced excitedly. That girl was beautiful, she thought. She had never seen such beauty. Her hair... her eyes... Miss Lolly inwardly flinched when she remembered the look of dazed horror that had come over Carol’s face at the sight of her. But she had no feelings of anger nor hatred for the girl: it was natural that one so beautiful should have been frightened, even revolted, at the sight of Miss Lolly.

‘A freak,’ she thought bitterly, and two tears swam out of her eyes, dripped into the muddy water amongst the potatoes. Why had the Sullivans brought her here? she wondered. She was scared of the Sullivans... hated them. They were cruel, vicious, dangerous. They laughed at her.

The kitchen door was pushed open and Sherill came in. He stood hesitating, looking at Miss Lolly, an uneasy gleam in his eyes.

‘Who is she?’ Miss Lolly asked, running more water into the bowl.

‘The Blandish girl,’ Sherill said. ‘The one you were reading about this morning.’

Miss Lolly dropped the bowl with a clatter into the sink, turned.

‘You mean that poor crazy thing? The one they’re searching for?’

‘Yes.’

‘What are those boys doing with her?’ Miss Lolly asked, clasping her hands, her eyes wide with horror. ‘They’re not fit to... a girl like that, needing care, shouldn’t be in their hands... she needs someone kind; someone who knows—’

A sudden wild agonized scream rang through the old house. Miss Lolly went very pale, took a step forward. Sherill scowled down at his bare feet, ran his hand lightly over his slicked-down hair.

Again came the scream: it cut through the wooden ceiling like a whiplash; a sound that froze Miss Lolly’s blood.

‘What are they doing to her?’ she said, started forward, but Sherill seized her matchstick of an arm, shoved her back.

‘Stay where you are,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know better than to interfere with the Sullivans?’

‘Oh, but I can’t let them hurt her,’ Miss Lolly said, her bony fingers fluttering in the soft silk of her beard. ‘I couldn’t let anyone suffer...’

‘Quiet!’ Sherill said.

‘No! Please... not again...!’ Carol screamed. Her voice, hitting the sides of the wooden walls of the upstairs room, started up vibrations so that each plank in the building seemed to whisper her words.

‘Go out into the garden,’ Sherill said suddenly. ‘Get out! Get out!’

He took hold of Miss Lolly and pushed her through the back doorway, into the hot sunshine.

‘Come on,’ he said, still holding her arm. ‘We’re not going to listen to anything. The less we know about this the safer it’ll be if those two bastards slip up.’

Miss Lolly went with him. She held a grubby handkerchief to her eyes and her head flopped limply as she moved.

‘So beautiful,’ she muttered to herself. ‘We poor girls... trouble... always trouble.’

They remained in the garden for some time, and then they saw the Sullivans come out of the house. They had changed their black suits and black overcoats. They now looked like morticians on a holiday. Each wore a light grey suit, a pearl-grey fedora and brown shoes.

As Sherill moved towards them Frank climbed into the Packard and drove it round to the barn at the back of the house.

Max sat on the last step of the stoop. Leaning to a cupped match, his profile was hard and cruel.

‘Going now?’ Sherill said.

‘Yeah,’ Max returned. He dabbed his sweating face with a crisp, clean handkerchief. ‘He’s at the Blue Summit Logging Camp. It’ll be a long trip.’

Sherill didn’t ask who was at the Blue Summit Logging Camp. He knew better than to ask questions. He shuffled his feet in the hot sand. The dry rustling of the sand was the only sound between the two men.

Then Sherill said, ‘So she talked?’ There was an embarrassed, furtive look in his eyes.

‘They always talk,’ Max said in a tired, flat voice. ‘They never learn sense.’

The soft sound of a powerful motor engine starting up came from the barn, and a moment later a big dark-blue Buick swept round the corner, pulled up beside Max.

Frank leaned out of the window.

‘All set,’ he said.

Sherill eyed the changed suits, the changed car, and his eyebrows lifted.

‘You boys expecting trouble?’

‘We’re going back to a place where we’ve been already,’ Max said, climbing into the car. ‘We don’t put on the same act twice.’

Even without their black suits there was something coldly menacing about these two.

‘Shall you be long?’ Sherill asked.

‘Two days; maybe three, not more,’ Max said. ‘Sooner if he’s still there, which he probably won’t be.’

‘That’s why she talked,’ Frank said crossly. ‘I bet that’s why she talked. She had that amount of sense.’

‘We’ll go there, anyway,’ Max returned, pulled his hat over his eyes. ‘And Sherill...’

Sherill stiffened.

‘Yes?’

‘Watch her. And when I say watch her... I mean watch her. If she ain’t here when we get back, you best not be here, either.’

‘She’ll be here,’ Sherill said shortly.

‘See she is,’ Max said. ‘Get on,’ he said to Frank.

Frank leaned across Max, stared at Sherill with intent eyes.

‘Watch her, Tex,’ he said. ‘I like that dame... I wouldn’t like to lose the opportunity. I’ve got ideas about her.’

‘Get on,’ Max snarled. ‘You have too many ideas about too many women.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Frank said, giggled, drove recklessly down the sandy, rutted by-road.

Miss Lolly crept up the stairs, entered her small neat bedroom. She was trembling and had to sit on the bed until her legs felt strong enough to carry her to the dressing-table. She spent some minutes brushing her hair and beard. Then she put on stockings and shoes. She found a clothes-brush and carefully brushed the dust from her aging black costume.

When she came out of her room, Sherill was standing at the head of the stairs.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he asked harshly.

‘I’m going to see her,’ Miss Lolly said firmly. ‘She wants a woman’s care.’

‘You don’t call yourself a woman, do you, you old scarecrow?’ Sherill snarled. ‘You’ll only frighten her.’

Miss Lolly flinched.

‘I’m going to see her,’ she repeated, and began to move towards the next flight of stairs.

‘Well, see her, then,’ Sherill returned, ‘but no nonsense. You heard what Max said.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t interfere,’ Miss Lolly said hastily. ‘I only want to say a kind word... if the poor thing’s crazy in the head, like they say, a kind word will help her.’

Sherill took a key from his pocket, handed it to Miss Lolly.

‘Lock her in when you’re through,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ and he went down the stairs, his feet making a flat, slapping noise on the bare boards.

A moment or so later, with quickly beating heart, Miss Lolly unlocked the door of Carol’s room, entered.

It was a small bare room and hot from the sun that baked down on the sheet-iron roof. The window that looked out on to the so-called orchard had two rusty iron bars cemented into its frame. The floorboards were dusty and bare. The only furniture in the room was a truckle bed, an old rocking-chair, a wash-stand and a tin bowl full of water on which floated a fine film of dust.

Carol lay on the bed, her hands at her sides, her legs straight, like an effigy on an ancient tomb. Her eyes were like holes cut in a sheet and as expressionless.

Although she heard the lock turn and the handle creak she did not look in the direction of the door. She looked straight in front of her at a cobweb that festooned the opposite wall and that moved gently in the draught. But she cringed inside at the sound, and without being able to help herself, her mouth formed into a soundless scream.

‘It’s only me,’ Miss Lolly said, standing shyly in the doorway. ‘It’s Miss Lolly...’

Carol shivered, turned her head very slowly, saw the poor freak standing there, embarrassed, nervous, her sad eyes blinking back sympathetic tears, her bony fingers fluttering in her beard.

‘Please go away,’ Carol said, and began to cry helplessly, hiding her face in her hands.

Miss Lolly paused to look back down the stairway and to listen. The old house was silent. Somewhere in the garden she could hear Sherill sawing wood; more distant still came a sudden sharp bark of a dog.

‘I didn’t mean to frighten you, my dear,’ Miss Lolly said, added wistfully: ‘I’m human, really. I used to be in the circus with them... Max and Frank.’

‘I’m not frightened of you,’ Carol said. ‘It’s only... I must be left alone... just for a little while....’

‘Perhaps you’d like some coffee... or tea?’ Miss Lolly asked. ‘I’m so sorry for you... we girls... it’s the men, really, isn’t it? We are always sacrificing ourselves for the men. I’ve had my lovers... you mightn’t think so... they shouldn’t have brought you here... a nice girl like you...’

Carol suddenly sat up.

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

Miss Lolly blinked, stepped back.

‘I’m Miss Lolly... you’re too young to have heard of me. I’m Lolly Meadows... the famous bearded lady. I’m an artist, really... you have to be an artist to bear the cross I have to bear. I don’t want anything of you... I only want to be kind. I know what kindness is; not that I’ve had much of it myself. When I heard you scream... saw how lovely you were... I thought I’d see if I could help you. There’s not much I can do, but we girls... if we can’t help each other in our troubles...’

Carol dropped back flat on the bed.

‘I told them where he was,’ she moaned. ‘I thought nothing could make me tell, but I hadn’t the courage... I told them and they’ve gone after him... and I love him so.’

Miss Lolly came nearer.

‘You mustn’t excite yourself,’ she said. ‘I heard them... they said they didn’t expect to find him. I’ll get you a cup of tea.’

‘Help me get away from here,’ Carol cried, sitting up. ‘Please help me to get away. Don’t let them keep me here. I must get back to Steve. They shot him. I left him in a wood, and they’re going there to finish him.’

Miss Lolly’s eyes showed her shocked fear.

‘Oh, I never interfere,’ she said quickly. ‘I want to make your stay comfortable. I want to do what I can for you, but I don’t meddle. I couldn’t help you to leave here... that would be meddling.’

‘I’m sure you understand,’ Carol said. ‘You said just now you had lovers. You must know what it means when you love someone and he needs you. I told them where to find him. I tried not to.’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh, you don’t know what they did to me.’

Miss Lolly dabbed her eyes.

‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she said. ‘I’d like to help you. I didn’t know... do you love him so much?’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘But I mustn’t stay here talking... I’ll get you some tea. You’ll feel better after a cup of tea... it’s a long walk to the main road,’ she went on for no apparent reason. ‘There’ll be money on the hall-stand...’ and she went out, closed the door and ran down the stairs.

Carol remained motionless, staring at the door. Then her heart gave a sudden lurch. She hadn’t heard Miss Lolly turn the key. Very slowly she got off the bed. Her legs felt weak, and the distance between the bed and the door seemed to lengthen as she struggled across the bare boards. She touched the brass doorhandle, turned it and pulled. The door opened. For a moment she stood staring into the dingy passage, scarcely believing that the way was open for her escape.

She crept out on to the landing, looked down the staircase well into the dark hall three flights below. She could hear someone sawing wood in the garden and the rattle of crockery in the kitchen. They were homely, reassuring sounds in a nightmare of terror.

She moved to the head of the staircase, and holding her breath, her heart thudding against her side, she began a silent descent.

There lived in one of the ruined shacks of the abandoned logging camp on Blue Mountain Summit an old man who was known as Old Humphrey: a half-witted old fellow, very poor and dirty, and who had a remarkable power over birds. He was as timid as a field mouse, and had selected the logging camp for his home since no one ever came to the place. He had been considerably startled when Carol had driven the big shiny Packard into the clearing and had left Larson there while she drove frantically away in search of Doc Fleming.

Old Humphrey had approached Larson with the utmost caution and then had returned to his shack to await developments. He fell asleep while waiting, and awoke with a start when Phil Magarth drove up in his battered Cadillac.

Old Humphrey knew Magarth. Some months ago Magarth had tried to persuade Old Humphrey to give a demonstration of his power over birds, but the old fellow wasn’t having any. So when he saw Magarth drive up he thought he had come to worry him again, and it was with relief when he saw Magarth carry the unconscious Larson to the car and drive off again.

Old Humphrey hoped that he had seen the last of these unwelcome visitors, but the following evening, as he sat before his log fire cooking his supper, the door of his shack was pushed open and the Sullivans came in.

The Sullivans hadn’t expected to find Steve Larson in the camp clearing: that was too much to hope for. But following their usual method of tracking down their intended victim, they were content to start at the place where their victim had last been.

They had seen smoke coming from Old Humphrey’s chimney, had exchanged glances and had walked silently to the ruined little shack.

‘Hello, Dad,’ Frank said, and kicked the door shut.

Old Humphrey crouched over the fire. His wizened, dirty old face twitched with fright; his thin, filthy hand gripped the handle of the frying-pan that hissed on the fire until his knuckles showed white under the grime.

Max leaned against the mantelpiece, lit a cigarette. The light of the match reflected in his eyes: they were like glittering pieces of glass: black and expressionless.

‘You talk to him,’ he said to Frank.

Frank sat down on an upturned box close to Old Humphrey, took off his hat to comb his hair. He smiled, and the smile struck a chill into Old Humphrey’s palpitating heart.

‘We’re looking for a guy,’ Frank said. ‘A guy who’s sick. What happened to him?’

‘I don’t know nothing about any sick guys,’ Old Humphrey whined. ‘I just want to be left alone.’

Max moved restlessly, but Frank still smiled.

‘Come on, Dad,’ he said softly. ‘You know all about it. We mean business. Don’t make it hard for yourself. What was he to you?’

Old Humphrey didn’t say anything. He lifted his shoulders as if he expected a blow, brooded down at the mess in the frying-pan, his eyes sightless with fear.

Frank kicked his ankle gently.

‘Come on, Dad,’ he said. There was a genial note in his voice. ‘What happened to the sick guy?’

‘I ain’t seen a sick guy,’ Old Humphrey said. ‘I mind my own business.’

Max suddenly snatched the frying-pan out of the old man’s hand and threw it across the room.

Frank giggled.

‘What happened to the sick guy?’ he asked again.

Old Humphrey stared at the frying-pan lying in the corner, at the food that dripped down the wooden wall on to the floor, and he clawed at his beard.

‘The newspaper man took him away,’ he said shrilly. ‘That’s all I know.’

‘What newspaper man?’ Max said.

‘Magarth,’ Old Humphrey mumbled. ‘He’s worried me before. Everyone worries me. Why can’t they leave me alone?’

Frank stood up.

‘No one will worry you any more,’ he said softly, stepped to the door.

Old Humphrey turned, sliding his broken boots over the dirty floor, clutching at his ragged overcoat.

‘Close your eyes,’ Max said. ‘We don’t want you to see us leave.’

‘I won’t look, mister,’ Old Humphrey said.

‘Close your eyes,’ Max repeated softly.

The grimy, wrinkled eyelids dropped: like two shutters of an untenanted house.

Max slipped his gun from the shoulder holster, touched Old Humphrey’s forehead lightly with the barrel, squeezed the trigger.

Half-way down the broad stairs, on the landing leading to the final flight of stairs, stood an old grandfather clock.

As Carol crept past it gave off a loud whirring sound and began to chime.

For an instant she stood very still and watched herself run out of her body, down the stairs, whirl and run back into her body again. Then she realized it was only the old clock chiming and she leaned against the creaking banister-rail, sick with shock. She went on down the stairs towards the dark hall and the front door that led into the open.

She reached the hall, stood for a moment to listen.

Miss Lolly poured boiling water into a tea-pot. She put a cup and saucer, a bowl of sugar, a jug of milk on the tray.

Carol heard all this, knew exactly what Miss Lolly was doing. In a minute or so Miss Lolly would be coming out into the hall with the tray.

The hall door was ajar and the warmth of the sun-baked garden seeped through the opening, wound like an invisible ribbon around Carol’s limbs.

She moved quickly and silently past the big oak hall-stand on which lay a dirty ten-dollar bill. There’ll be money on the hall-stand, Miss Lolly had said. Carol picked up the note: it felt dry and brittle in her nervous fingers. She held it tightly, not quite believing it was real, and went on to the front door.

She opened the door, which creaked sharply, making the nerves in her body stiffen like pieces of wire. She looked back over her shoulder.

Miss Lolly was watching her from the kitchen door. She was crying. Tears ran down her gaunt face and sparkled like chips of ice in her beard. She held the tea-tray before her: the crockery rattled faintly because her hands were trembling.

They stared at each other, sympathy and terror bridging the gulf between them, then Carol ran out on to the verandah, closed the front door behind her, shutting off the sight of Miss Lolly’s triumphant but agonized expression.

Close by the rasp of a saw biting into hard wood jarred the peaceful stillness. Carol paused to reconnoitre the ground. There was an overgrown path that led from the house down to a white-wood gate. Beyond the gate was the by-road, sandy and rutty, that led into the jungle of cypress and brier. It’s a long walk to the main road, Miss Lolly had said.

The sound of the saw abruptly ceased: a silence full of hot sunshine fell over the old plantation house. Carol walked swiftly, and carefully across the verandah to the head of the four rotten wooden steps that led to the path. There she paused again to listen.

She did not hear Sherill come round the side of the house. His naked feet made no sound in the soft, hot sand. She first became aware of him when he arrived at the bottom of the stoop and was staring at her with angry, frightened eyes as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

Beyond his tall, upright figure lay the by-road and freedom.

‘Get back to your room,’ he said harshly.

Carol looked quickly to right and left. The rail of the verandah, rotten as it was, fenced her in. It was impossible to retreat: only the dark hall yawned behind her, but it offered no escape. Escape lay ahead, beyond this angry, frightened man who barred her path.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’m going... you can’t stop me...’

‘You’re not,’ Sherill send. ‘Go back to your room. I don’t want to hurt you... but I shall if you don’t go back.’

The thought of further pain made Carol cringe, but she didn’t move, and when Sherill began a cautious approach she still did not move.

‘Get back,’ he said, reached out and caught her arm.

She struck at him then. Her fist caught him high up on his cheekbone, startled rather than hurt him; then she flew at him, kicking and hitting him.

He held her close. His arms, big and hard, encircled her, crushing her to him, smothering her efforts to hit him, driving the breath out of her body. He gave her a hard chopping blow with his clenched fist that landed in the hollow of her neck, turning her sick and faint. She ceased to struggle and he half carried her, half dragged her, into the hall. Then he paused, stared at Miss Lolly, who faced him, a double-barrelled shot-gun in her hand.

‘Put her down,’ she said firmly. ‘Please, Tex, put her down.’

‘Get out of the way,’ Sherill snarled. ‘Have you gone crazy, too?’

Carol suddenly bunched herself against him like a spring coiling, then sprang back against his encircling arms, breaking his hold. She thudded against the wall, staggered, half fell. Miss Lolly pushed the gun against Sherill’s chest.

‘Don’t make me shoot you,’ she pleaded, her eyes wild. ‘She must be allowed to go. We mustn’t stop her. We have no right to keep her here.’

Sherill cursed her, but he made no move as Carol slipped past him, ran blindly into the open towards the white wooden gate.

‘You know what you’ve done?’ he said. ‘You damned old sentimental fool. I shouldn’t have trusted you.’ He went to the door, looked after Carol. She was running very quickly: he was astonished that anyone could move so lightly and yet so quickly over the uneven ground. He knew he had no hope of catching her.

Then he thought of the dog, and without looking at Miss Lolly he ran down the wooden steps, round the building, to the kennels.

Carol kept to the by-road. Each side of her the dense jungle of trees and bushes and high grass shut her in like the walls of a maze. As she ran she listened and heard no sound of pursuit, but she did not slacken her pace until she had gone some distance from the old plantation house; then, panting, a pain in her side, she slowed to a walk.

She had no idea how far she was from Point Breese. She realized that the distance must be great, for she had spent a long time in the rapidly moving Packard. But she had money now: admittedly not much, but enough if she could only reach a bus stop or a railway station.

She realized with something like triumph that the Sullivans had only a few minutes’ start over her. They had the car, of course, but they wouldn’t find Steve quickly. She was certain that Magarth wouldn’t have left Steve in that wood. With any luck she would arrive at Point Breese before the Sullivans found him: that was all she asked for.

Then suddenly she stiffened, her heart fluttering, looked back over her shoulder. Not far away came the bay of a hound, and instantly she began to run again.

If that man had set a dog after her... again she looked back along the twisting, narrow, hedged-in road. Was there any use hiding? She came to an abrupt standstill, looked wildly around for a stick — some weapon with which to defend herself.

A moment later she saw the dog. It came bounding down the narrow road: a great black brute with a spade-shaped head, close hair and a long tail. Its eyes were like little sparks of fire.

Carol caught her breath when she saw this black monster rushing towards her. There was nothing she could do. It was like being in a nightmare, and she stood still, the hot sun beating on her back, her shadow, long and thin, pointing at the dog like a weapon.

When the dog saw her it slowed to a menacing walk, its muzzle only a few inches from the ground, its tail stiff, in line with its back and head.

Carol scarcely breathed. She fixed the dog with her eyes and was as still as if she had been carved out of stone.

The dog slowed its pace, snarled at her: the great fangs as white as orange pith under the black lip. Then its hair stiffened all along its thin, hard back, and it stopped, crouched, uncertain whether to spring or not.

Knowing it was her only chance of escape, Carol willed the dog to remain where it was. She tried to see into the dog’s brain, and now that she had stopped it in its tracks she moved forward very slowly and the dog began to back: like a cartoon film in reverse.

For a full minute they continued to stare at each other, then the dog’s tail gradually lost its stiffness, like a ship striking its flag, then its nerve broke and with a low howl it turned and bolted back down the narrow road, and with a sob of relief Carol turned and fled in the opposite direction.

Sherill was blundering down the hot road when the dog passed him and he stood staring after the dog, the blood draining out of his face. He knew then that Carol had escaped and there was nothing he could do to recapture her.

He stood for some moments, unable to think. If she ain’t here when we get back, you best not be here either, Max had said. The Sullivans didn’t make idle threats. Slowly he turned and walked back to the old plantation house, pushed open the wooden gate, walked stiffly up the garden path.

Miss Lolly sat in the basket chair, a wooden, frightened expression on her face. She looked at him out of the comer of her eyes, but he said nothing, walked past her into the house. He was inside some time, but Miss Lolly continued to sit in the sun, waiting. She had no regrets. She felt that in releasing Carol she had, in some way, justified her own tragic life.

Sherill came out on to the verandah. He was wearing a grey and black check suit, Mexican boots and a big white Stetson. Miss Lolly remembered that hat when, years ago, Sherill had joined the circus and it had attracted her attention: remembering how young and dashing he had looked, wearing it. But now, his face white and puffy, there wasn’t any resemblance left of the young man who had fluttered her heart.

Sherill dumped down the two bags, walked down the wooden steps, then paused.

‘You best pack up,’ he said without looking at her. ‘We’ve gotta get out,’ and he went on down the path, round the house to the barn. He moved slowly as if his boots were too tight.

Miss Lolly continued to sit in the basket chair. Her fingers fumbled at her beard, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

On the upper landing of the house the grandfather clock chimed the half-hour. The clock had been in Miss Lolly’s spacious caravan throughout her circus career. All the other furniture in the house — what there was of it — belonged to her, and each piece was a memory in her life.

A large red and black butterfly fishtailed in and landed on the verandah rail, close to Miss Lolly. She looked at it, watched it move its wings slowly up and down and then take off, flying through the motionless hot scented air.

The butterfly reminded her of Carol. ‘Beauty should not be imprisoned,’ she thought. ‘I did right: I know I did right.’

Sherill drove round to the front of the house in a big Ford truck. He cut the engine, got out, came up the steps.

‘You’ll have to help,’ he said, still not looking at Miss Lolly. ‘We can take most everything in the truck.’

‘I’m going to stay,’ Miss Lolly said quietly. ‘This is my home.’

‘I know,’ Sherill said roughly. ‘Well, you’ve smashed it up for us now. Come on, don’t talk a lot of drivel. We’ve got to get out... you know those boys...’

‘You go,’ Miss Lolly said, thinking of the butterfly. ‘I’d rather stay, even if it’s only for a day or so. I’ve been happy here.’

Sherill eyed her, lifted his shoulders wearily.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘If that’s the way you feel. I’ll get off then.’

Miss Lolly looked up.

‘I did right, Tex,’ she said quietly. ‘It was an evil thing...’

‘Yes, you did right,’ Sherill said, defeated. ‘So long, Lolly.’

‘Good-bye,’ she said, ‘and good luck, Tex.’

She watched him dump his bags in the truck, climb into the cab.

‘They said they’d be back in two or three days,’ Sherill said as he stabbed the starter.

‘It’ll be long enough,’ Miss Lolly returned.

Carol had got to within twenty-five miles of Point Breese when her luck seemed to run out. Up to this moment she had been travelling by various routes and vehicles towards Steve, but now night had come down the cars and trucks which before had stopped willingly enough seemed shy of her.

The drivers were not chancing trouble by stopping for the rather wild-looking girl who waved frantically at them as they rushed through the darkness. A man might have got a lift, but not a girl. The drivers who passed Carol were heading for home; they didn’t want trouble or excitement. One or two of them did hesitate, slow down, wondering if she was a looker, whether they might have a little fun with her, but that patch of road there were no lights, and they decided she’d probably be a hag, so they kept on, increasing their speed, feeling suddenly virtuous.

Carol was tired. Prom the start it seemed to be going so well. A truck picked her up on the State Highway and the driver was decent to her, sharing with her his ample lunch, talking cheerfully about things that happened to him in his narrow walk of life. He set her down at a cross-roads, showing her the direction she’d have to take, wishing her luck.

A travelling salesman gave her a lift only a few minutes after the truck had disappeared in a cloud of dust. No, he wasn’t going to Point Breese, but he could drop her off at Campville, which was on the route.

He was more curious than the truck-driver and had asked questions. What was she doing, thumbing rides? Was she running away from home? Did she know she was pretty nice to look at? Hadn’t she better let him take her home? But she evaded these questions, made him talk about himself.

At Campville he gave her five dollars.

‘You’ll need it, kid,’ he said, opening the car door for her. ‘Aw, forget it. I’m making good money in this racket. If I want you to have it, why shouldn’t I give it to you? Get a meal. So long and luck.’

In a little restaurant in the main street she learned that the Sullivans had been in there. They had dropped in for a cup of coffee: four hours since. The news cheered her, and she finished her meal, went out into the street and caught the bus to Kinston, another milestone along her journey.

At Kinston she had to wait an hour or so before she found transport. Kinston, they told her, was forty-five miles from Point Breese. There was no direct bus service to Point Breese. She’d have to change at Bear Lake. There’d be an hour and a half wait at Bear Lake for the connecting bus.

A young fellow in a blue suit and stained grey hat, hearing the conversation, said he was going to Point Breese. He would be glad to take her. So she went with him, and they drove out of Kinston into the thickening dusk.

The young fellow drove very fast and said nothing and smoked cigarettes all the time. He drove with only one hand and whipped the car in and out of traffic, bearing down upon other cars until they slewed aside with brakes squealing, shooting recklessly across intersections.

He frightened Carol more by his silence than his recklessness.

When they got into the open country he slammed on his brakes, ran off the road on to the grass verge. Then he threw away his cigarettes and grabbed her.

He was very strong and handled her with practised ease. He kept kissing her while she tried to fight him off. While they struggled, he never said a word, and Carol hadn’t enough breath to scream.

He seemed to know exactly what he wanted to do to her: and he did it, and then he shoved her away from him and lit a cigarette. His hat had fallen off in the struggle and his hair had broken about his face, hair long as a girl’s. He flung it back with a toss of his head.

When she opened the car door and staggered out on to the grass verge he didn’t even look at her, and he drove away fast, the red glow of his cigarette like a little sneering eye where his mouth should have been.

That was when her luck ran out. It was some little while before she gathered enough courage to wave again to the passing cars: but none of them stopped.

There was a long tear in her dress and one of her stockings had come down and she was crying. She looked wild all right, and the drivers were scared of her.

After a while she gave up waving and began to walk. She walked stiffly. It was dark and lonely and the night air was turning cold. But she kept on, thinking of Steve, imagining the Sullivans already in Point Breese.

Then she heard the sound of brakes and a moment later a big kind of wagon she couldn’t see much of it in the darkness — drew up and the driver switched on his spot-lamp and focussed it on her.

She was too tired and sick to wonder at his startled exclamation.

‘Hello there,’ the driver said out of the darkness. ‘I guess you could use a ride.’

She said yes; not caring what happened to her so long as she could reach Point Breese.

The driver climbed down from the cab and stood beside her. She saw he was wearing a white coat.

‘This must be my lucky day,’ he said with an excited laugh, and caught hold of her very expertly so that she was helpless without being hurt.

He ran her to the back of the wagon.

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

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

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

Carol half sat up, then froze into motionless terror.

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

She looked at Carol with bright, mad little eyes.