The Flesh of the Orchid

Chapter Seven

There was a satisfied, almost cheerful expression on Max’s face as he walked down the broad steps that led from the hospital. It had suddenly dawned on him that he was now twice as rich as he had been before entering the hospital.

Neither of the Sullivans had kept his substantial savings in a bank. They knew it was easy for the police to tie up a banking account, and they kept their money where they could get at it quickly. Max’s father had charge of it; and now Frank was dead his share would automatically come to Max, for no one else knew about it: except, of course, Max’s father, but he didn’t count. It meant, then, that Max could retire, give up this murder racket and buy a bird store as he had always wished to do. The idea appealed to him.

He paused beside the black Packard Clipper, lit a cigarette, tossed the match into the gutter. For a moment or so his mind dwelt on Carol. Frank had said, ‘First me, then you.’ There could be no doubt that she had engineered Frank’s death. Max had talked with Linda, had heard about the mysterious Mary Prentiss and had put two and two together. Mary Prentiss had been Carol Blandish, and she was out for revenge. But Frank had always been a sucker for women. It would have been easy for any woman to have tripped him up. In Max’s case it was different. Women meant nothing to him. If Carol Blandish tried her tricks with him, she would be sorry. He would smash her ruthlessly as he had smashed others who had got in his way.

He was so confident of his ability to look after himself that he dismissed Carol from his mind as not worth further thought. No, the death of Frank was the end of the episode; the end, too, of the Sullivan brothers. Max Geza was about to give up his professional status as a killer and become a bird fancier. It would be interesting to see how it worked out.

He tossed the half-burned cigarette into the street, pulled his soft hat further over his eyes, opened the car door. Then he paused, his narrow eyebrows coining together in a puzzled frown.

Lying on the front seat immediately under the driving-wheel was a single, but magnificent, scarlet orchid.

Max stared at the flower, his face expressionless, his eyes a little startled. Then he picked it up, turned it between his fingers as he studied it. An expensive bloom for someone to have dropped through the car window for no reason at all; or was there a reason? Did it mean anything? he asked himself, his mind attuned always to danger. He glanced up and down the street, saw nothing to raise his suspicions, shrugged his shoulders. Then he dropped the orchid into the gutter, got into the car and trod on the starter. But lie did not engage the gear. He sat staring through the windshield, his eyes still thoughtful. He didn’t like mysteries: not that you could call this a mystery, but it was odd. At one time he and Frank used to hang two little black crows made of wool on the door-knockers of then intended victims. Once or twice it saved them trouble, as the recipient of the woollen crows had shot himself, but it was a cheap theatrical trick and Max soon put a stop to it. Warning symbols seemed to him to be undignified. Was the scarlet orchid a warning symbol? he asked himself. If it was, then whoever had dropped it into the car had better watch out. Max didn’t appreciate such tricks. He pulled at his thin, pinched nose, got out of the car and picked up the bloom. After a moment’s hesitation he stuck it in his buttonhole. Then he engaged gear and drove away.

On a hill overlooking Santo Rio’s magnificent harbour and bay stood a two-storey pinewood house surrounded by a wilderness of palm and flowering shrubs. It was a forlorn-looking place, weather-beaten, shabby and lonely. On the wooden gate hung a name-plate which read: Kozikot. Max had never bothered to remove the plate, although each time he came to the house he sneered at it.

This wooden structure was his home. He rarely visited it, but it was convenient to have some place where he could keep his few personal possessions and his money. It also afforded a home for his father, Ismi Geza, who was getting to be an old man. Ismi had been a circus clown for thirty of his sixty-five years. He still looked like a clown as he moved slowly along the garden path towards the house. He was bent and bald and sad-looking. His skin was pitted and as rough as sandpaper from the constant application of cheap grease-paint: the uniform of his profession. His left leg dragged a little: the heritage of a stroke which had ended his circus career. There was no likeness to his son in his round, fleshy, sad face, and Ismi wouldn’t have wished it.

He was frightened of Max: as he had been frightened of Max’s mother. Max had taken after his mother, in looks and in nature. It was not in Ismi to be cruel. He was a simple, peace-loving creature and only at ease when he was alone.

As he was about to enter the house he heard a car coming up the by-road, and he paused, looked over his shoulder, his eyes uneasy. No car had been up this lonely road for three months or more, and the sound startled him.

The black Packard Clipper pulled up outside the gate and Max climbed out. He stood with his hands in his overcoat pockets, his hat tilted over his nose and the scarlet orchid in his buttonhole. There was an air of purpose and menace about him, and Ismi watched him intently. He lived in dread of these visits, when Max appeared without warning; not knowing what was going to happen, how Max would treat him.

Max stared at the nameplate on the gate for a moment or so, then with a slight shrug pushed the gate open and walked up the garden path.

Ismi immediately noticed the orchid, and he stared at it, feeling that something was wrong, that something unpleasant was about to happen to upset the quiet and uneventful flow of his life. Max had never before worn a flower in his buttonhole. Surely, the old man thought, something had happened to make his son wear a flower.

Father and son eyed each other as Max arrived at the bottom of the steps leading to the house.

‘Frank’s dead,’ Max said briefly. ‘He was run over by a truck.’

Although Ismi had hated Frank, he was shocked. He was too close to death himself to hear it spoken of without a twinge of apprehension.

‘I hope he didn’t suffer,’ was all he could think of to say.

‘The truck smashed his chest and it took him two hours to croak,’ Max returned, sniffed at the orchid. ‘You can draw your own conclusions.’

It then dawned on the old man what Frank’s death could mean.

‘Will this be the end of it all?’ he asked eagerly. He knew Max and Frank were the Sullivan brothers. It had amused Max to tell him, to describe the various murders they had committed, to watch the old man’s politely controlled horror.

‘Yes,’ Max said. ‘I have his money now as well as my own. It was agreed that if one of us died, the one left should take over the other’s money. I’m rich.’

Ismi rubbed his bald head nervously.

‘Will it make any difference to me?’

‘I don’t know,’ Max returned indifferently. ‘I have had no time to think of you. I’ll come to your little problems later.’ He came up the steps, stood opposite the old man. They were the same height, even though Ismi was bent. ‘I’m going into business,’ he went on. ‘If I can find anything for you to do, you can have the job. If not, you can stay here. Do you want to stay here?’

‘I like it here,’ Ismi said, nodding, ‘bat, of course, if I can be useful to you...’

Max leaned against the wooden post of the verandah.

‘You’re getting senile,’ he said softly. ‘Your brain’s dull. Doesn’t it surprise you that Frank of all people should get himself run over by a truck?’

Ismi considered this, saw at once that he should have been surprised; was dismayed to realize that what Max had said was true. He was getting senile; his brain was dull.

‘I hadn’t thought,’ he said, looking at Max furtively. ‘Yes, something must have happened.’

Max told him about Roy Larson, how they had had to kill Steve to silence him; how Carol had blinded Frank, had tracked him to Santo Rio and had engineered his death.

Ismi stood silent and still in the hot sunshine, his eyes on the ground, his veined hands folded, and listened.

Max spoke briefly and softly.

‘Frank’s last words were to warn me that I should be next,’ he concluded. ‘She is here: in town. What do you think of it?’

‘I wish you hadn’t told me,’ Ismi said, and walked into the house.

Max pursed his thin lips, shrugged, returned to the car. He collected his two suitcases and entered the house, went up the dusty carpeted stairs to his room, kicked open the door and set down the bags.

It was a big room, sparsely furnished, and with a view of the distant harbour. There was an unlived-in, bleak atmosphere in the room that might have affected anyone but Max: such things meant nothing to him.

He stood for a moment listening at the door, then he shut and locked it. He crossed the room to a big old-fashioned wardrobe, opened it and slid back a panel in the floor. From this cunningly concealed locker he pulled out two leather brief-cases. For the next half-hour he was busily counting stacks of five-and ten-dollar bills: each stack tied and labelled, each containing a hundred notes. When he was through, he returned the money to its hiding-place and shut the wardrobe. He was rich, he told himself; he was free to do what he liked, and although his face remained expressionless, his eyes lit up with suppressed excitement.

As he was going downstairs he heard the telephone ring, and he paused, listening to his father’s voice as he answered.

Ismi came into the passage after a moment or so, looked up at Max as he stood on the stairs.

‘They’re calling about Frank’s funeral,’ he said, an odd look in his eyes. ‘Perhaps you’d better speak to them.’

‘They? Who?’ Max snapped impatiently.

‘The mortician. It’s something to do with flowers.’

‘I’m not interested,’ Max returned, and came down the stairs. ‘Tell them to shove him away as they think best. I don’t want to be bothered. I gave them money. What else do they want?’

‘They say a lot of flowers have been delivered, and do you want them put on the grave?’ Ismi said without looking at his son.

Max’s eyes grew thoughtful.

‘What kind of flowers?’ he asked, his voice soft.

‘Orchids... scarlet orchids. They say they didn’t think they were very suitable for a funeral.’

Max took his cigarette from his lips, regarded the glowing end for a moment. He knew his father had something else to say; and he could tell by his face that he was scared to say it.

‘Go on,’ he said sharply.

‘They said there was a card with the flowers,’ Ismi muttered, and again stopped dead.

‘And what was on the card?’ Max asked.

‘From Carol Blandish and Steve Larson,’ Ismi returned.

Max pitched his cigarette into the garden, moved to the front door. There was a far-away look in his eyes. At the door he turned.

‘Tell them I’m not interested,’ he said briefly, and walked out of the house, down the steps to the Packard.

Without appearing to do so, he looked searchingly around the garden, down into the Bay. There was a cat-like stillness and watchfulness in his attitude and his eyes glittered.

Nothing moved, and yet he had a feeling that he was being watched. He was not uneasy, but he was viciously angry, and he took the orchid from his buttonhole and slowly tore the bloom into small pieces, which he scattered on the sandy path. Then he climbed into the Packard and drove it round to the garage at the back of the house.

‘I shall be leaving tomorrow,’ Max said as Ismi cleared the supper things. ‘I think I’ll settle in Chicago. There’s a guy there who wants to sell out, and if his price is right I’ll buy. Last time I was there he had a hundred different kinds of birds, and there’s good living accommodation over the shop. You could come out there and run the house if you want to.’

Ismi stacked the plates and dishes on a tray.

‘I wouldn’t like to live in a town again,’ he said, after hesitation. ‘Would it be all right if I stayed here?’

Max yawned, stretched his legs to the log fire.

‘Please yourself,’ he said, thinking maybe it was as well to shake the old man off now. He was getting old: before long he’d be a nuisance.

‘Then I guess I’ll stay here,’ Ismi said, picked up the tray, and as he turned to the door a dog began to howl mournfully somewhere in the garden. The wind was rising and it caught the sound, carried it past the house towards the Bay.

Max glanced over his shoulder towards the door, listened too.

‘What’s he howling about?’ he demanded irritably.

Ismi shook his head, carried the tray into the kitchen. While he washed the dishes he listened to the continual howling. It got on his nerves. He had never heard the dog howl like this before, and after he had put away the dishes he went out into the garden.

The moon floated high above the pine trees, its yellow face partly obscured by light clouds. The wind rustled the shrubs, and the garden was alive with whispered sounds.

Ismi walked down the path to the kennel. At the sound of his approach the dog stopped howling and whined.

‘What is it?’ Ismi asked, bending to look into the dark kennel. He could just make out the dog as it crouched on the floor, and he struck a match. The tiny flame showed him the dog, its hair in ridges all along its back, its eyes blank with fright.

Ismi suddenly felt uneasy and he straightened, looked over his shoulder into the half-darkness. He fancied he saw a movement near the house, and he peered forward as the dog whined again. A mass of black shadows confronted him and he told himself uneasily that he had imagined the movement, but he waited, wondering if he would see it again. After a few minutes he gave up and returned to the house. He was relieved to shut and bolt the door.

Max was still lolling before the fire when the old man came into the living-room. He neither spoke nor looked up. There was a long silence in the room. The only sounds came from the wind as it moaned round the house and the faint whining from the dog. But Ismi sat tense and listened, and after a while he thought he heard soft footsteps overhead. He looked quickly at Max, but he showed no sign of hearing anything, and the old man hesitated to speak.

A board creaked somewhere in the house and this sound was followed by a scraping noise which, if Ismi hadn’t been listening for it, he would not have heard.

He glanced up quickly and met Max’s eyes. He too was listening.

‘Do you hear anything?’ Max asked, straightening in his chair.

‘I thought so,’ Ismi said doubtfully.

Max raised his hand, and the two men listened again.

Seconds ticked by and they heard nothing. The wind had died down, and the silence was so acute that Max could hear the faint wheezing sound of Ismi’s breathing.

He made an impatient movement.

‘What the hell’s the matter with me?’ he muttered angrily, and bent to pick up the poker to stir the fire, but a sign from Ismi stopped him.

Both men heard the faint footfall this time, and with set face Max slipped his hand inside his coat, drew his gun.

‘Stay here,’ he whispered to Ismi, and crept to the door. He moved like a shadow, and before opening the door he snapped off the electric light.

Out in the dark passage he paused to listen. He heard nothing and began to edge up the stairs. He still wasn’t convinced that anyone was in the house, but he wasn’t taking chances. The house was old, and the wind could play tricks; boards that were dry and rotten could creak without being trodden on, but he was going to make sure.

He reached the head of the stairs, paused to listen again, then he turned on the electric light and walked swiftly to his room, threw open the door and went in. The room was empty and nothing seemed disturbed. As he moved to the wardrobe he heard the dog howling again, and he ran to the window. For a moment or so he could see nothing, then the moon breaking through the clouds shed a faint light over the garden. He thought he saw a shadow moving below, and he stared fixedly, but at that moment the clouds drifted once more across the face of the moon.

He turned back to the wardrobe, suddenly frightened, and opened it. One glance was enough. The locker was open and all the money he possessed had gone.

He stood staring at the open locker, paralysed with shock. His breath seemed to roar at the back of his throat and blood rushed to his head, making him feel lightheaded and faint.

He moved forward slowly like an old man, groped inside the locker with fingers that had turned cold. He touched something soft, lifted it, and knew what it was as he carried it to the light. Then with a sudden, croaking cry, like that of a savage animal in pain, he flung the orchid to the floor, ground it under his heel, while he smashed his clenched fists against the sides of his head with uncontrolled fury.

Ismi found him rolling on the floor in a kind of fit, his face scratched and bleeding, white foam at his lips.

The only thing of distinction about Palm Bay Hotel was its enormous neon sign which could be seen from practically any point in Santo Rio. Because of this sign visitors to the town, arriving by night, were constantly mistaking Palm Bay for a luxury, or at least a high-class, hotel.

In daylight this rambling, four-storey brick building looked what it was — third rate, dirty and disreputable; but at night it hid its dinginess behind its brilliant neon sign and caught unwary customers. Of course, the customers didn’t stay for more than a night, but you can run a hotel on one-nighters if you get enough of them and if your charges are exorbitant.

Palm Bay had also a number of permanent residents. They represented the lower strata of Santo Rio’s society, but they did occasionally pay their bills, and with their support, and with the scientific fleecing of the one-nighters, the hotel got along well enough in spite of being in direct competition with some of the most exclusive and luxurious hotels in the country.

When Eddie Regan first came to Santo Rio, like so many of the other visitors, he had been deceived by Palm Bay’s neon sign and had taken a room. He very soon discovered that the hotel was third rate, but being, at that time, a little third rate himself, he stayed on. By the time he had made a success of his racket he had become so used to Palm Bay that he decided to make it his permanent headquarters, and took over one of the few of the hotel’s suites and furnished it on the proceeds of his first attempt at blackmail. The suite was transformed into an oasis of luxury compared with the other bleakly furnished rooms, and Eddie was immediately regarded as the star boarder by the management and was treated accordingly.

This night, half an hour or so after Max had discovered the loss of his savings, Eddie was sitting in the dusty, fusty bar, drinking Scotch and feeling lonely.

Everyone in the hotel knew he had been the direct cause of Frank’s death. They also knew that Frank had been keeping Linda in luxury and that Eddie had been sleeping with her on the sly. There wasn’t much that the staff and residents of Palm Bay didn’t know about one another, and Eddie knew they knew all about him.

They even knew that the police were trying to make up their minds whether or not Eddie had deliberately killed Frank. The D.A. felt that a jury wouldn’t believe that Eddie had managed to arrive in his car at the identical moment when Frank had run blindly into the street; although the D.A. himself was ready to believe anything was possible when dealing with a smart guy like Eddie. The motive was obvious, but the evidence too flimsy.

Neither Linda nor Eddie had told the D.A. about Mary Prentiss. They felt that if they mentioned that mysterious young woman the police might easily and unjustly suspect that they had worked in collaboration with her. When questioned by the D.A., Linda had explained that Frank had told her to go to the movies, and she had gone (‘Very unwillingly,’ she assured the D.A. with tears in her eyes) and had left him alone.

On her way down town she had met Eddie, and what could be more natural than for them to join company? No, she had no idea why Frank had come into town, nor could she explain how he had got there. She came through the searching examination very well, and when inconvenient questions were asked concerning her relations with Frank and Eddie, she staged such a noisy attack of hysterics that the D.A. was glad to get her out of his office.

Frank’s death presented a nice little problem, and the D.A. was still busy scratching his head over it.

Eddie decided it would be wiser for Linda and himself to separate until the police no longer took any interest in them. It was obvious to both of them that they could not continue to live in Santo Rio, and Linda was busy packing her clothes and selecting the best of the furniture so that when the police did give them a clean bill they could leave town immediately.

Eddie was shocked and dismayed when he learned that Frank had left no money for Linda. Up to the time of Frank’s death Eddie had been in the pleasant position of enjoying Linda’s charms without having to pay for them. Now, he had not only to support himself, but Linda as well, and Linda’s extravagant tastes were already startling him.

While he idled over a double whisky-and-soda he considered various ideas of how to increase his earning powers, but eventually came to the conclusion that unless he managed to hit on a scheme whereby he came into a large sum of money, things were going to be difficult. In spite of considerable concentration, no such scheme materialized. With a sudden grunt of disgust he pushed his empty glass towards the bartender and lit a cigarette.

As the bartender was refilling the glass he said under his breath, ‘Take a gander at that blossom who’s just drifted in.’

Eddie swung round on his stool and looked into the main entrance lobby. He caught sight of a girl as she crossed to the reception desk and he whistled softly.

She was tall and slender and lovely to look at, with the most amazing red hair that Eddie had ever seen. Dressed from head to foot in black, with a long black cloak hanging from her shoulders and which was fastened at her throat by a gold chain, she made an arresting and somewhat startling picture. She wore no hat, and the only splash of colour came from a scarlet orchid which she wore pinned high up on the cloak.

‘Hold everything, Bud,’ Eddie said to the bartender. ‘This wants looking into,’ and he slid off the stool, walked quietly to the bar entrance where he could see across the lobby to the reception desk.

Gus, the reception clerk, a lean, hard-featured man with quick, restless eyes, winked at Eddie as the girl bent to sign the register. Eddie winked back.

The bellhop, who had appeared by magic, took the girl’s suitcase and conducted her with obvious enthusiasm to the ancient elevator. Eddie noticed the girl carried two leather briefcases, and he wondered idly what they contained.

He had a good look at the girl as she walked to the elevator. She was pale and moved listlessly, and Eddie had a sudden feeling that he had seen her somewhere before. This puzzled him, for he was sure that he would never have forgotten that head of hair if he had seen her before; but, for all that, the feeling persisted.

When she had disappeared into the elevator Eddie went over to the reception desk.

‘Who’s the gorgeous redhead, Gus?’ he asked.

Gus shot his grimy shirtcuffs, ran his hand over his thinning hair.

‘She signs herself “Carol Blandish”,’ he returned, eying the register. ‘Hot dish, ain’t she? It wouldn’t give me a clot on the brain to give her a tumble.’ He shook his head, sighed. ‘That neon sign’s the brightest idea we’ve ever had. I bet we wouldn’t have caught her if it hadn’t been for the old sign; and I bet she stays only for one night.’

‘Carol Blandish,’ Eddie repeated, frowning. ‘Now, where have I heard that name before?’

‘Search me. Have you heard it before?’

Eddie stared at Gus, his blue eyes suddenly very bright and big.

‘For God’s sake!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s the dame who’s been in the newspapers — the heiress. Why, she’s worth millions! You’ve read about her, haven’t you?’

‘Not me,’ Gus said, shaking his head. ‘I only read the sports column. What do you mean — heiress?’

‘That’s right. She’s worth millions; and she’s supposed to be crazy.’

‘That don’t mean anything,’ Gus said scornfully. ‘The way folks act around here I guess half the town’s crazy, and they ain’t got millions, either.’ He brooded for a moment, added, ‘She’s got a swell shape hung over her bones, hasn’t she?’

‘What the hell is she doing here?’ Eddie asked, running his fingers through his hair. ‘What a bird to pluck! That’s what I call business and pleasure.’ He suddenly snapped his fingers. ‘What’s the number of her room, Gus? I’m going to work on her. It’s a chance in a lifetime.’

‘No. 247,’ Gus said, added helpfully, ‘I got the pass-key if you want it.’

Eddie shook his head.

‘None of that stuff,’ he said. ‘This has got to be handled right. It’s got to be as smooth as silk. For the first time in my life I’ve a real beauty to work on, and am I going to enjoy myself!’

‘It should come a lot sweeter after working on those old mares of yours,’ Gus said, and sighed. ‘I envy you, pal.’

‘Yeah,’ Eddie said, straightening his tie. ‘I’m damned it I don’t envy myself.’

The bellhop dumped the suitcase by the bed, pulled the yellow blinds down, shutting out the rain-splashed and dirty windows, threw open the bathroom door with an apologetic smirk, punched the bed as if to prove it still had spring’s, and stood away, his right hand expectant, his eyes bright with hope.

Carol was scarcely aware of him. Her head ached and her body cried out for rest. She moved listlessly to the solitary, shabby armchair and sank into it, dropping the brief-cases at her feet.

The bellhop, a worldly young man of seventeen summers eyed her doubtfully. He thought she looked good enough to eat, but he was reserving his final judgment until he had seen the size of his tip.

‘Was there anything else you wanted?’ he asked a little sharply, as she seemed to have forgotten him. ‘You can have dinner up here if you like, and a fire. They’ll charge you plenty for the fire, but if you fancy it I’ll get it fixed.’

She started and peered up at him as if she were short-sighted. To her he seemed far away, a blurred image in black and white, and yet his voice grated loudly in her ears.

‘Yes, a fire,’ she said, drawing her cloak round her. ‘And dinner, please.’

Still he waited, a pained expression on his face.

‘I’ll send the waiter,’ he said, ‘or will the set dinner do? It ain’t bad. I eat it myself.’

‘Yes — anything. Please leave me alone now,’ she said, pressed her temples between her fingers.

‘Don’t you feel well?’ the bellhop asked, curious. There was something odd about her, and he felt suddenly uneasy to be alone with her. ‘Is there something I can get you?’

Quickly and impatiently she opened her handbag and threw a dollar note at him.

‘No!’ she said. ‘Leave me alone!’

He picked up the note, eyed her, a startled expression on his face, and went away. He was glad to shut the door on her.

‘If you ask me,’ he said to no one in particular, ‘that frail’s got a bat in her attic.’

For some time Carol sat motionless. She was cold and the sharp stabbing pains inside her head frightened her. She had planned to leave Santo Rio after taking Max’s money, but during the drive down from the house on the hill she had developed this agonizing pain in her head, and unable to drive further she had decided to break the journey at Palm Bay. She had no idea what kind of a hotel it was, but the brilliant neon sign had attracted her.

A negro porter came in at this moment to light the fire, and his entrance disturbed her train of thought. She got up and went into the bathroom while he was building the fire. In the overheated dingy room, with its leaky shower and stained bath, she suddenly felt faint, and had to clutch on to the towel rail to prevent herself from falling.

She realized then that she was starving. She had had no food from the moment she had seen Max leave the hospital and had followed him to his home, and she sat on the edge of the bath, holding her head, until she heard the porter leave, closing the door sharply behind him.

Eddie was lounging in the corridor when the waiter came along pushing the trolley containing the set dinner to Carol’s room.

Eddie was on good terms with all the hotel staff, and this waiter, Bregstein by name, was a particular crony of his.

‘That little lot for No. 247?’ he asked, taking out a five-dollar bill and folding it between his lingers.

Bregstein eyed the five-spot, beamed and said it was.

‘O.K., Bud,’ Eddie said, slipping the note into Bregstein’s pocket, ‘go buy yourself a drink. I’ll take it in. Redheads are right up my alley.’

‘That alley of yours must be getting a little overcrowded, Mr. Regan,’ Bregstein said with a leer.

‘Yeah, but there’s always room for one more,’ Eddie returned, straightened his immaculate tuxedo. ‘Think she’ll take me for a waiter?’

‘The kind you see on the movies,’ Bregstein sighed. ‘Those guys who don’t have to pay for their own laundry.’ He eyed Eddie uneasily, went on: ‘The management won’t like this, Mr. Regan. You won’t start anything I couldn’t finish, will you?’

‘The management won’t know unless you tell them,’ Eddie said carelessly, pushed the trolley to the door of 247, knocked, opened the door and went in.

He was a little startled to see Carol crouching over the fire, her head in her hands.

He wheeled the trolley to the table.

Clearing his throat, he said: ‘Your dinner, madam. Would you like it served by the fire?’

‘Leave it there, please,’ Carol said without turning.

‘May I draw the chair up for you?’ Eddie asked, a little uncertain and not anything like as confident as he had been before entering the room.

‘No... leave me alone and go,’ Carol said, a grating note in her voice.

Then Eddie saw the two brief-cases lying on the floor and he stood transfixed as he read the gold letters stamped the side of each case. On one was: Frank Kurt; on the other: Max Geza. He gaped at Carol with startled eyes, and as he did so she happened to move her arm and he caught sight of the white puckered scar on her wrist. He gave a convulsive start as he realized that she was Mary Prentiss.

This discovery so startled him that he hastily left the room before she might look up and recognize him. When he was once more in the corridor he stood for a moment thinking, his eyes bright and his breathing heavy. What a sweet set-up, he thought: Carol Blandish, the millionairess, masquerading as Mary Prentiss and responsible for the death of Frank, and in possession of Frank’s and Max’s property. If he couldn’t turn that to good account then he might as well give up his racket and take up knitting.

When Carol had finished the dinner, which she ate ravenously, she felt better and the pain in her head slowly receded. Taking off her cloak, she pulled the chair up to the fire and sat down to review the past days with cold triumph. She had already settled Frank’s account, and had made good strides in the settling of Max’s. From the time Max had left the hospital she had been on his heels and he had had no suspicion. She had even followed him up the stairs of the old wooden house and had watched him through a chink in the door panel as he counted the money he had taken from the wardrobe. She had seen in his hard eyes the intense pleasure the money had given him, and she knew that by taking it she would inflict on him a hurt as great as the one he had inflicted on Miss Lolly when he had cut off her beard.

She had decided to give him a few days longer in which to grieve over his loss and then she would finish him. Her eyes burned feverishly when she thought of that moment and her long white fingers turned into claws.

Then she remembered the brief-cases lying at her feet, and she picked up one of them, opened it, looked at the neatly stacked money with an expression of horror in her eyes. Each note seemed to her to reek of the Sullivans, and she seemed to hear the faint echo of their metallic voices seeping out of the leather case. With a shiver of disgust she threw the case from her and its contents came tumbling out on to the dingy carpet.

At this moment the door opened and Eddie, now prepared to deal with the situation, came in. His opening sentence died in his throat when he saw the stacks of dollar bills on the floor. He spotted the brief-case and he realized at once that this money belonged to Frank and Max. He also jumped to the conclusion that Frank’s money, anyway, was now Linda’s property, and what was Linda’s was, of course, his as well.

Carol turned quickly in her chair when she heard the door close, saw Eddie and recognized him. She remained still, her big green eyes watchful.

Eddie stirred the money with his foot, looked at her.

‘Know me?’ he asked, and smiled.

‘Get out,’ Carol said quietly.

Now sure of himself, Eddie lounged to the fireplace and propped himself up against the mantelpiece.

‘The police are looking for a dame who calls herself Mary Prentiss,’ he said, reached for a cigarette, lit it. ‘The charge is murder, and they have a good enough case, if they find her, to make it stick.’

‘Get out,’ Carol repeated, and her hands closed into fists.

‘They wouldn’t hang you. They’d put you away, sweetheart, for twenty years.’ He regarded the glowing end of his cigarette, glanced at her, went on: ‘You wouldn’t like prison life, you know. You’ve had a dose of asylum life, but they treat you tough in prison.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked, suddenly relaxing back in her chair.

‘Look, baby, we don’t have to wrap this up in cotton wool. Don’t try and bluff. I know you are Mary Prentiss because of that scar. You were the girl who agreed to be Prank’s companion, who took my money to keep him amused, and who engineered his death. I don’t know why you did it, but I can soon find out. You are also Carol Blandish, the millionairess, late of Glenview Mental Sanatorium. You and me are going to do a deal. I’m taking this money for a start, and then you’ll give me a certified cheque for half a million, otherwise I’m going to hand you over to the police. What do you say to all that?’

‘I don’t like you,’ Carol said, and her mouth twitched. ‘You’d better go.’

‘Don’t rush it, baby,’ Eddie said, and showed his big white teeth in a sneering smile. ‘I’m not going until you’ve paid up. Come on, get wise, I’ve got you where I want you, and there’s no wriggling out.’

She looked up at him, her eyes like holes burned in white paper.

‘Get out!’ she said violently, ‘and leave me alone.’

‘I’ll give you a couple of hours to think it over,’ Eddie said, a little startled. ‘But I’ll take this dough while I’m at it. It doesn’t belong to you.’

As he bent to pick up the money Carol snatched up the poker and struck at his head with all her strength.

Eddie had just time to drop flat. The poker missed his head but caught his shoulder, and the pain stunned him for a second or so.

But as Carol jumped to her feet he rolled clear and, cursing, swung his legs round, catching her a bang below her knees, bringing her down on top of him. He grabbed her arms, rolled her over on her back and pinned her to the floor.

‘Now, you hell-cat,’ he said viciously, ‘I’ll teach you to start something like this,’ and releasing one of her arms he slapped her heavily across her face.

It was a mistake to release her arm, for she struck back like lightning. Instinct rather than sight warned Eddie and he jerked back his head in time to save his eyes. Her finger-nails ploughed four deep scratches down his jaw, drawing blood. Before he could recover from the first shock of pain she was up and had darted to the door. He snatched at the skirt of her black silk dress, brought her up with a jerk, then the dress ripped and he lost his hold.

She reached the door, set her back against it, her hands behind her. As he got slowly to his feet he heard the key turn in the lock.

‘That won’t get you anywhere,’ he said, breathing heavily. Blood from the scratches dripped on to his white shirt-front. ‘Unlock that door or I’ll give you the hiding of your life.’

Carol removed the key, bent and slipped it under the door.

‘Now neither of us can get away,’ she said softly.

‘I’ll make you pay for this,’ Eddie said, not liking the cold, vicious expression on her face nor the burning light in her eyes. ‘I’m three times as strong as you and I’ll skin you if you start anything funny.’

She gave a soft metallic laugh which set his nerves tingling.

‘You’re afraid of me,’ she said, sidled across the room towards him.

‘Stay where you are,’ Eddie said sharply, and he remembered with a little chill what the newspapers had said about her. Homicidal... wildcat... dangerous.

But she came on, her hands hanging loosely at her sides, her eyes burning.

‘So you’re going to have me locked up,’ she jeered at him. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t like being locked up.’

Eddie backed away until he came up against the wall. She struck before he was properly set and her finger-nails, missing his eyes by a hair’s-breadth, slashed his cheek. Furious with pain, Eddie grabbed her, and for a minute or so they fought like animals. It was all Eddie could do to keep the flying finger-nails out of his eyes. Each time he grabbed at her wrists she evaded him, and although she did not reach his eyes, she scratched and tore at his face until it was a mask of blood.

Eddie hit her in the body, but she clung on to him. He got hold of her arms, twisted them behind her, turned her and threw her down on the bed. Her dress was ripped into shreds and he couldn’t hold her, his hands sliding off her smooth, slippery young body. She managed to turn and bite at his wrists, and as he lost his hold her knees came up and she kicked him away.

He jumped her before she could get off the bed, and by sheer weight flattened her.

‘I’ll teach you, you wildcat!’ he panted, and raised his fist to club her, but her hands flew up to his throat and he only just caught her wrists in time. They lay like that, their faces close, each struggling to exert sufficient strength to overpower the other.

She was stronger than he thought possible, and he could feel her cold fingers creeping up his neck towards his eyes again.

Panic now seized him and, releasing her, he sprang away, rushed to the door, turned as he heard her savage little cry. She came at him, her eyes blazing and her white face working. He grabbed up a chair and smashed it down across her shoulders so that the chair splintered in his hands.

She pitched forward, and as she was falling he hit her with all his strength on the back of her head. The chair-back snapped, I and he stood staring down at her limp body, a piece of the chair firmly clenched in his hand, blood running down his face, horror I in his eyes.

‘I’ve killed her!’ he thought and turned cold.

For almost a minute he stood staring down at her as she lay before him; practically naked above the waist; her face waxen, her black dress in shreds, one stocking down to her ankle. Her arms and neck were smeared with his blood. The sight of her turned him sick.

‘If the cops find her here,’ he thought wildly, ‘they’ll crucify me! They won’t believe I hit her in self-defence.’

Then he thought of Gus. Gus would have to get him out of this mess. If there was anyone who could do it — Gus was the guy.

He blundered to the telephone, and when Gus answered he gasped, ‘Come up here, quick!’ Then he flopped on to the bed and kept his eyes averted from the still figure on the floor.

After a while the rattle of a key in the lock aroused him, and he got unsteadily to his feet as Gus came in.

Gus stopped short, caught his breath sharply.

‘For God’s sake!’ he exclaimed, his eyes hardening. Then he came into the room, closed the door. ‘Is she dead?’

‘I don’t know,’ Eddie quavered. He looked ghastly with blood still trickling down his face and soaking into his collar and coat. ‘Look what she did to me. She’s crazy! She came at me like a wild animal. If I hadn’t hit her...’

But Gus wasn’t listening. The dollar bills scattered all over the room held his attention. He shot a quick, hard glance at Eddie, then knelt beside Carol, felt her pulse, lifted her head, grimaced as he got blood on his fingers. He lowered her head very gently to the floor, wiped his fingers on her torn dress and stood up with a little grunt.

‘Is she...?’ Eddie began, gulped, waited.

‘You’ve smashed her skull,’ Gus said brutally. ‘Why did you have to hit her so hard, you crazy bastard?’

‘Is she dead?’ Eddie jerked out, his knees buckling. He had to sit on the bed.

‘She won’t last long,’ Gus said grimly. ‘The back of her head’s caved in.’

Eddie shuddered.

‘She’d’ve killed me, Gus,’ he moaned. ‘I had to do it. I swear she’d have killed me... look what she did to me.’

‘Tell it to the cops,’ Gus said. ‘If you can’t cook up a better yarn than that they’ll fling you into the gas chamber so fast you’ll be dizzy in the head till the pellets drop.’

‘Don’t...’ Eddie cried, starting to his feet. ‘I tell you—’

‘Save it,’ Gus returned. ‘You don’t have to tell me a thing. I’m thinking of the hotel, not you. The cops would slam us shut if they heard about this. Can’t you stop that bleeding?’ he went on irritably. ‘You’re ruining the carpet.’

Eddie went into the bathroom, came back holding a towel to his face.

‘We’ve got to get her out of here before she croaks,’ he said desperately. ‘No one knows she’s in town. For the love of Mike, Gus, get her out of here and dump her somewhere.’

‘Me?’ Gus exclaimed. ‘And get an accessary rap tied to my tail? That’s a laugh. I ain’t as dumb as that.’

Eddie clutched his arm.

‘You can fix it, Gus. I’ll make it worth your while. Look, take that dough. There’s more than twenty grand there.’

Gus gave an exaggerated start and appeared to see for the first time the money that was scattered over the floor.

‘You two been robbing a bank?’ he asked.

‘It’s mine,’ Eddie said hysterically. ‘Get her out of here and you can have the lot. Come on, Gus, you know you can fix it.’

Gus ran his hand over his thinning hair.

‘Yeah, I guess I could,’ he said slowly. ‘You’ll give me this dough if I get rid of her?’

‘Yes... only get her out quick.’

‘I’ll chance it,’ Gus said, making up his mind, and he bent to pick up the money, pushing Carol aside with his foot to get at some of the notes.

‘Get her out first,’ Eddie said, wringing his hands.

‘Take it easy,’ Gus said. ‘I’ll take her down in the service elevator. She’s got a car in the garage; may as well use that. I’ll dump her outside the hospital if the coast’s clear. You’d better get out of town, Eddie,’ he went on, stuffing the last of the notes into the brief-case. ‘If the cops see your mug they’ll haul you in as a suspect.’

‘I’m going,’ Eddie gasped. ‘Thanks, Gus, you’re a pal.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ Gus returned, closed the brief-case. ‘I was always a sucker for a smart guy like you.’

Eddie went unsteadily across the room to where the other brief-case lay hidden behind the overturned armchair. As he picked it up Gus joined him with three quick, silent strides.

‘Wait a minute, pal,’ he said. ‘I’ll have that too.’

Eddie snarled at him.

‘It’s mine,’ he said, clutching on to the case. ‘She stole it.’

‘Too bad,’ Gus sneered. ‘Remind me to cry when I have a moment. Hand it over.’

‘It’s mine,’ Eddie repeated weakly. ‘You wouldn’t skin me, Gus? It’s all the dough I have in the world. I’ve gotta have dough if I’m to get away.’

‘You’re breaking my heart,’ Gus said. ‘Hand it over unless you want me to call the cops.’

Eddie flung the case on the floor.

‘You dirty rat!’ he cried. ‘Take it then, and I hope it poisons your fife.’

‘It won’t,’ Gus said, and winked. ‘So long, Eddie. Get out of town quick. I don’t want to see that scratched-up puss of yours for a long time. It makes me feel sad,’ and he laughed.

Not trusting himself to speak, Eddie half ran, half staggered from the room.

Ismi Geza sat in the waiting-room of the Montgomery Ward of the Santo Rio Memorial Hospital. It was a pleasant room; light, airy and comfortably furnished. The armchair in which he sat rested him, and he thought, rather to his surprise, how nice it would be to have an armchair as comfortable as this at home.

He thought about the armchair because he was afraid to think about Max. They had taken him away in an ambulance, and hadn’t allowed Ismi to travel with him. Ismi had been forced to follow behind in Max’s Packard. He hadn’t driven a car for years, and the journey had shaken his nerves.

Ismi guessed that Max had had a stroke. Apoplexy seemed to run in the family. Ismi had had a stroke when he had seen an old friend of his mauled by a lion. Max had had his stroke when he had found he had lost his money. The causes had been so different, Ismi thought sadly, but the results could be the same. He hoped not. He hoped that Max would recover. Ismi’s dragging leg bothered him: it would be an even greater trial to an energetic, impatient man like Max.

The door opened quietly and the Head Sister came in. Ismi liked her immediately. She had a grave, kind face. She was, he thought, a sensible-looking woman: a woman he could trust.

He was so frightened of what she was going to tell him that when she began to speak he went suddenly deaf, and only a few disjointed sentences got through to his bemused mind. She was saying something about haemorrhage from rupture of the cerebral artery... evidence of paralysis affecting the left side of the body... reflexes inactive.

‘I see,’ Ismi said when she paused. ‘But is he bad? Will he die?’

She saw at once that he hadn’t understood what she had said, and that he was frightened. She tried to make it as easy as she could for him.

No, he wouldn’t die, she told him quietly, but he might be paralysed; unable to walk again. It was too early to say-just vet; later they would know for certain.

‘He won’t like it,’ Ismi said miserably. ‘He is not a patient boy.’ He fidgeted with his battered felt hat. ‘You’ll do what you can for him? I don’t mind the expense. I’ve saved—’

‘You can see him for a few minutes,’ she said, feeling an unexpected sorrow for him. ‘Say nothing to worry him. He must be kept very quiet.’

Ismi found Max lying in bed in a small, neat room, his head and shoulders slightly raised. The old man scarcely recognized his son. The left side of Max’s face was pulled out of shape, giving him a grotesque, frightening appearance. The left corner of his lip was drawn down, and Ismi could see his white teeth set in a perpetual snarl.

Max’s eyes burned like two small embers. They fastened on Ismi as he came slowly up to the bed: terrible eyes, full of hatred, fury and viciousness.

By the window was Nurse Hennekey, a tall, dark girl with a curiously flat, expressionless face. She looked up with surprised interest when she saw Ismi come into the room, but she didn’t move nor speak.

‘They’ll do everything they can for you,’ Ismi said, touching the cold white bed-rail a little helplessly. ‘You’ll soon be better. I will come and see you every day.’

Max just stared at him, unable to speak, but the brooding look in his eyes did not change, nor did the hatred die out of them.

‘I won’t stay now,’ Ismi said, uneasy and afraid. ‘It is getting late, but I’ll come tomorrow.’

Max’s lips moved as he tried to say something, but no sound came from them.

‘You mustn’t talk,’ Ismi said. ‘They told me you must keep very quiet.’ He was surprised to feel a tear run down his fleshy cheek. He was remembering Max when he was a little boy. He had had great hopes of him then.

Max’s lips moved again. They formed the words ‘Get out!’ but Ismi didn’t realize what he was trying to say.

Nurse Hennekey, who was watching, read the words as they were formed by Max’s lips and she signalled Ismi to go.

‘I’ll be back,’ Ismi promised, touched the tear away with his finger. ‘Don’t worry about anything.’ He hesitated, added: ‘Don’t worry about money. I have enough. I’ve saved...’

Nurse Hennekey touched his arm, led him to the door.

‘Look after him please, nurse,’ he said. ‘He’s my son.’

She nodded briefly, looked away so he couldn’t see her little frown of distaste. She felt there was something horrible about Max; hated him for no reason at all; had a creepy sensation when she touched him.

Ismi walked slowly along the corridor with its double line of doors on each side of him. On each door was a small name-plate, and Ismi paused to read one of them. Then he turned back to satisfy himself that Max was receiving similar treatment. He wanted his son to have the best of everything. Yes, there was his son’s name printed on the plate. How quick and efficient these people were, he thought. The boy hadn’t been in the hospital more than a few hours and they had his name already on the door.

He heard footsteps, and glancing round saw a tall young fellow and a pretty girl coming along the corridor. They paused at a door opposite, knocked softly and waited.

Ismi liked the look of them, and he continued to watch until they entered the room and closed the door behind them. Curious, he went over to read the name-plate, and when he saw the name he started back with a shudder as if he had trodden on a snake.

Veda and Magarth stood looking down at Carol as she lay, white and unconscious, in the hospital bed. The resident doctor, Dr. Cantor, had his fingers on her pulse.

‘I hope I did right in sending for you,’ he was saying to Magarth. ‘I’ve read about Miss Blandish, of course, and when we found out who she was, I remembered you had been appointed her business executive and thought I’d better put a call through to you right away.’

Magarth nodded.

‘She’s pretty bad, isn’t she?’

‘I would have said her case was hopeless,’ Cantor returned, ‘but by the luckiest chance Dr. Kraplien, the greatest brain specialist in the country, visiting us at the moment, and he has decided to operate. He thinks he can save her.’

Veda gripped Magarth’s hand.

‘Dr. Kraplien doesn’t think any serious damage has been done to the brain,’ Dr. Cantor went on. ‘The fracture is severe, of course, but we believe the brain itself is uninjured. There is pressure there, due probably to the injury she received in the truck accident. If the operation is successful, the patient’s memory will be restored.’ Dr. Cantor gave Magarth a significant glance. ‘That will mean she will have no knowledge at all of what has happened to her since the truck accident occurred.’

Magarth looked startled.

‘You mean she won’t even remember me?’ he asked.

‘She’ll remember no one nor any event that happened after the truck accident,’ Dr. Cantor said. ‘Dr. Kraplien has taken a great interest in the case. He has spoken to Dr. Travers of the Glenview Mental Sanatorium, and has gone into Miss Blandish’s case history with him. He thinks her condition may be entirely due to cerebral compression, and that he may be able to cure her of these fits of violence.’

‘I do hope he does. She’s been through so much,’ Veda said, and bent and kissed Carol’s still white face. ‘But is it possible?’

Cantor lifted his shoulders. It was rather obvious that he wasn’t optimistic.

‘The operation will be in less than half an hour now,’ he said. ‘Perhaps, when you have seen the police, you’ll come back? I should have news for you.’

Many odd visitors have come to Santo Rio at one time or another. Old Joe, who sells newspapers at the entrance to the railway station, has seen them all. Old Joe is an authority on the visitors to Santo Rio. He remembers the old lady with the three Persian cats walking sedately behind her, the pretty actress who arrived very drunk and hit a red-cap over the head with a bottle of gin. He remembers the rich and the sly, the innocent and the evil, but he will tell you that the most extraordinary visitor of them all was Miss Lolly Meadows.

Miss Lolly arrived at Santo Rio on the same train that brought Veda and Magarth to this pacific coast town. It had taken considerable courage for Miss Lolly to have made the journey, but make it she did.

Ever since Carol had visited her, and she had shown Carol the photograph of Linda Lee, Miss Lolly had been uneasy in her conscience. She felt it was disgraceful that she had allowed a young girl like Carol to go off on her own to tackle two such dangerous brutes as the Sullivans. Carol wanted to avenge herself on them, but so did Miss Lolly. Then why had Miss Lolly let her go off by herself? Why hadn’t she, at least, offered to go with her?

After three or four days of this kind of thinking Miss Lolly had decided to go to Santo Rio and see if she could find Carol. The decision was made not without a great deal of misgivings and fear, for it was many years since Miss Lolly had travelled in a train, had mixed with strangers and had felt curious, morbid eyes staring at her.

Old Joe will tell you that he saw Miss Lolly as she came out of the railway station in her black shabby dress that she had worn last some twenty years ago and on her head a vast black hat trimmed with artificial cherries and grapes. The close-trimmed beard, of course, completed the picture and startled Old Joe half out of his senses.

Miss Lolly stood close to Old Joe and surveyed the teeming traffic, the pushing crowds, the languid and scantily dressed young women in their beach suits, and was horrified.

Old Joe had a kind nature, and although a little embarrassed to be seen talking to such an odd freak, he asked her if he could help her in any way, and Miss Lolly, recognizing kindness in his face, told him she had come to find Carol Blandish.

For a moment or so Old Joe eyed her doubtfully. He decided she was crazy but harmless, and without a word he handed her the midday newspaper, pointed to the paragraph that told of the finding of the famous heiress unconscious in her car outside the Santo Rio Memorial Hospital, and that an operation was to be performed on her immediately.

Miss Lolly had scarcely time to absorb this item of news when, looking up, she saw, walking on the other side of the street, the limping figure of Ismi Geza.

Miss Lolly recognized Ismi immediately although she hadn’t seen him for more than fifteen years. She realized at once that where Ismi was, Max was most likely to be, and thanking Old Joe for his kindness, she hurried after Ismi, overtook him easily enough, touched his arm.

Ismi stared at her for several seconds before clasping her hand. This meeting between the bearded lady and the circus clown practically disorganized the traffic and caused a vast crowd to collect; and realizing the sensation they were causing, Ismi hurriedly hailed a taxi, pushed Miss Lolly in and bundled himself in beside her.

The crowd raised a cheer as the taxi drove away.

Max lay in his bed, his cruel twisted mind a torment of pain and frustrated fury. That this could have happened to him, he thought. To be struck down; to be helpless; paralysed for life. And Carol Blandish was responsible! It was she who had killed Frank! She who had taken their money! She who had turned him into a helpless cripple! He snarled to himself as he realized that he could do nothing to her now. She was out of his reach.

For the past eight hours he had remained motionless, his eyes closed, thinking of Carol. He had been aware of the nurse as she moved about the room, but he had refused to open his eyes or to show any sign of life. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts; to create in his mind a revenge that would satisfy him, but every horrible, outrageous act he conceived to inflict on Carol was not bad enough to please him.

He heard the door open, and looking between his eyelashes he saw another nurse come in; and he-guessed rightly she was the night nurse.

He heard Nurse Hennekey say: ‘Thank heaven you’ve come. This dreadful little man has been giving me the creeps.’

‘Is he asleep?’ the other nurse asked, and giggled.

‘Yes,’ Nurse Hennekey returned. ‘He’s been asleep for hours. That’s the only good thing about him. But even to look at him gives me the horrors.’

Max felt rather than saw the other nurse draw near. His hard, twisted face remained expressionless, but he listened intently.

‘He won’t give me the horrors,’ the other nurse said firmly. ‘Although he isn’t exactly an oil-painting.’

‘You wait until you see his eyes,’ Nurse Hennekey said. ‘You’ll change your mind about him then. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t murdered someone. I’ve never seen such hateful and vicious eyes. You should have seen how he looked at his poor old father.’

‘You’ll make me burst into tears in a moment,’ the other nurse, Bradford by name, returned with a laugh. ‘But tell me about the other patient. Is it true? Is she really Carol Blandish?’

It was only by exerting a tremendous effort that Max did not betray that he was listening. Under the cover of the blanket his right hand closed into a fist.

‘Yes. The heiress. She’s lovely to look at. I’ve never seen such marvellous hair,’ Nurse Hennekey said. ‘Her case papers are in her room. You’d better have a look at them. Dr. Cantor will be around during the night. The operation was successful. They say Dr. Kraplien was magnificent. It means she’ll be normal again. The operation took five hours. I wish I’d seen it, but I had to look after this thing,’ and she waved to the still, silent Max.

‘I’ll go and look at her now,’ Nurse Bradford said. ‘You get off, and don’t be late in the morning.’

The two nurses left the room, and Max opened his eyes. He listened intently, heard a murmur of voices outside, heard a door open and Nurse Bradford say, ‘Isn’t she lovely!’

So Carol Blandish was opposite: within a few yards of him, Max thought, and a little red spark of murder lit up in his brain. If only he could move! If only he could get at her! His lips came off his teeth in a snarl. But the nurse... he would have to settle the nurse first.

What was he thinking of? He was already making plans as if he could carry them out. Perhaps he could carry them out. He tried to raise himself on his right arm, but the left side of his body, dead and cold, was too heavy. He tried again, exerting all his strength, succeeded in rolling over on his left side. From that position he could look down on to the floor. If he let himself fall, he might be able to drag himself to the door. He rolled back again as the door opened and Nurse Bradford came in.

She was young with corn-coloured hair, and big, rather stupid blue eyes.

‘Oh, you’re awake,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m the night nurse. I’m going to make you comfortable.’

Max closed his eyes in case she should see intended murder in them.

‘Let me straighten the bed,’ she went on cheerfully.

He was going to do it, Max told himself. With this nurse out of the way, he would get at Carol Blandish if it killed him. But first, the nurse...

As she began to rearrange the blanket and sheet, Max lifted his right hand, beckoned to her.

‘Do you want anything?’ she asked, looking at him.

Again he beckoned, tried to speak, and she leaned down, her face close to his to catch the mumbled words.

With a snarl Max grabbed her throat in his right hand, dragged her down, kicked his right leg free from the blanket and hooked it across her struggling body, pinning her to the bed. She was stronger than he expected, and it wasn’t easy to keep his grip, which she tore at with both hands.

He hung on, cursing silently, feeling his fingers sliding off her smooth throat as she scratched and pulled at his hand. ‘She’s going to get away,’ he thought frantically. ‘She’ll scream!’ Her terrified eyes stared into his; her cap had fallen off in the struggle and her corn-coloured hair fell about her shoulders. He would have to do something quickly. She was nearly free. He released his grip, tore his hand free, and raising his clenched list smashed it down on her upturned face as if he were hammering a nail into wood.

Stunned now, she could only struggle feebly, and once again his fingers fastened on her throat. Then his shoulders seemed to grow lumpy and sweat ran down his twisted face. The nurse’s face turned blue and her eyes protruded, blind. Still cursing, Max exerted all his strength. The nurse’s slender body writhed. One hand began to beat on the bed mechanically, without force.

Max closed his eyes and strained. The nurse’s hand suddenly stopped beating, opened and closed and opened again, hung limp. There was a muffled crack, almost immediately followed by a sharper one, and he let the nurse slide from the bed to the floor.

Then Max lay still, his breath came in great shuddering gasps. The struggle had been almost too much for him, and he realized, in alarm and rage, how weak he had become. But the red spark of murder that burned in his brain urged him on. There was no time to lose. Someone might come in: you never knew who was coming in when you were a prisoner in a hospital. If he was to finish Carol, he must act at once. But he made no move in spite of the urgency. He felt as if he were suffocating, and blood pounded in his head, turning him sick and dizzy.

So he waited, his right fist clenched, his nails digging into his sweating palm until his breathing became easier. As new strength began to creep back into his twisted body he heard someone coming down the passage and his heart began to bump like a disturbed pendulum against his side. But the footfalls passed, died away.

It was an almost impossible task he had set himself, he thought. He would have to crawl across the passage, and anyone passing would immediately see him and raise the alarm. If only he had a gun! No one would stop him if he had a gun!

But he refused to give up. It was too late to give up, anyway. He would go through with it.

He threw off the blanket, slowly worked himself to the edge of the bed. Looking down, he stared into the dead face of the nurse, and he drew back his lips in a grimace. She looked hideous. The mottled blue of her complexion clashed horribly with her corn-coloured hair.

Slowly, he leaned out of bed until his right hand touched the floor, then he let his body slide off the bed, and he checked his progress with his hand. But as his heavy, dead leg began to move there was nothing he could do to control it, and suddenly he felt himself falling and thudded on to the floor, the breath driven out of his body and pain surging over him like a white-hot wave, drowning him in a sea of darkness.

He had no idea how long he remained on the floor, but gradually he recovered consciousness to find his head resting on the nurse’s hair, his right arm across her body. He rolled away from her, shuddering, began to drag himself across the smooth polished floor towards the door.

To his surprise he found that he made quick progress in spite of having to drag his left arm and leg, which had no feeling in them. He reached the door, stretched up and turned the handle, pulled the door open a few inches, then paused to rest. He was feeling bad now. The blood pounding in his head threatened to burst a blood-vessel and his breathing made a loud snoring noise at the back of his throat. Again he waited, knowing that if he went out into the passage someone would be certain to hear him.

And while he waited his brain slowly became inflamed with vicious fury at the thought of being so close to Carol, and, in a little while, of being able to lay his hands on her.

As he was about to move again he heard someone coming, and he quickly pushed the door to and waited, trying to hold his breath, snarling at the possibility of discovery.

He heard something going outside, and cautiously he pulled the door open an inch or so and glanced out.

A nurse was standing opposite him. She was taking a number of bed sheets from a cupboard. She was a tall, good-looking girl and she hummed softly under her breath. For no reason at all Max stared at the long ladder in her stocking. It was the only thing about her that held his attention. With a pile of sheets in her arms, she closed the cupboard door with her foot, walked quickly away down the corridor.

Max felt sweat running down Iris face. It was as if his face was a sponge full of water, and he could feel the sweat in his hair. He looked across the corridor at the opposite door, tried to read the name-plate, but the printing was too small. There were two other doors a little farther up the corridor, and he wondered with sudden panic in which room Carol lay.

He would have no time to crawl up and down the corridor, for he moved too slowly. He would have to go straight into the room opposite and chance to luck that she was in there. He placed his ear to the floor and listened. The vast building seemed for that moment to be stilled, then the soft whirring sound of the express elevators as they raced between the floors came to him; but no other sound.

Drawing a deep breath, he pushed open the door and crawled into the passage.

‘If you saw him now,’ Ismi said, ‘you wouldn’t worry like this. I know he hasn’t been a good boy, but now...’ He broke off, shook his head sadly.

Miss Lolly continued to pace up and down, her hands clasped, her gaunt face set.

These two were in the shabby little hotel room which Ismi had taken to be near Max. They had been together now for more than six hours, and they had talked of Max practically without ceasing.

‘I know him better than you do,’ Miss Lolly said. ‘He is your son. You have a father’s feeling towards him. You try to excuse him.’ Her hand touched her shorn beard. ‘He is evil... bad. So was Frank.’

‘Frank’s dead,’ Ismi said, and crossed himself.

‘Would that the other were dead too,’ Miss Lolly muttered. ‘So long as he can breathe she’s in danger. I feel it in my bones. I can’t help it, Ismi. I feel it.’

‘He is paralysed,’ the old man insisted. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying. You haven’t seen him. He can’t even speak.’

‘He is Max,’ Miss Lolly said. ‘I’m frightened. To think she is opposite his room. It’s too close, Ismi. If he finds out...’

Ismi groaned.

‘You go on and on,’ he said. ‘I tell you he can’t move. He’ll never be able to walk again. I know. Look what happened to me, and Max is twenty times as bad as I was.’

Miss Lolly went to her suitcase, opened it, took out a heavy throwing-knife.

‘There’s nothing he can’t do with a knife,’ she said, showing it to Ismi. ‘I kept this. It is his — one of many. He could throw a knife even if he couldn’t walk. There’s nothing he can’t do with it.’

Ismi wrung his hands.

‘You’re wearing me out,’ he groaned. ‘You go on and on. He hasn’t a knife. He hasn’t any weapon. Nothing... please stop. Nothing can happen to her.’

Miss Lolly eyed him.

‘I’m going to the hospital,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t rest. I should have gone before now if it hadn’t been for you.’

Ismi started to his feet.

‘What are you going to do? You’re not going to tell them who he is — what he’s done? You wouldn’t do that?’

‘I must warn them,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t trust him.’

Ismi caught her hands in his.

‘Don’t tell them,’ he pleaded. ‘They wouldn’t treat him so well if they knew. They have his name on the door and a special nurse. He is very ill. Have a little mercy, Lolly. He is my son.’

‘He had no mercy for me,’ Miss Lolly said quietly.

‘But he is helpless now,’ Ismi said. ‘Go and see for yourself. He can’t do anything evil. This may be the making of him. When he is well enough I’ll take him away. I’ll begin a new life for him. Don’t tell them.’

‘Why did you have such a son?’ Miss Lolly burst out. ‘I warned you. Why did you marry such a woman? I told you she was no good, and you found that out soon enough. Why didn’t you listen to me?’

Ismi sat down again.

‘You were right,’ he said. ‘I wish I had listened to yon. What am I going to do, Lolly? There’s no future for me now. I have little money.’ He put his hands over his eyes. ‘It won’t last long. Every nickel will have to go to Max. He needs it now.’ He rocked himself backwards and forwards. ‘I feel so old and useless, Lolly.’

While he was speaking Miss Lolly moved silently to the door. She opened it, stood looking back at the old clown as he moaned to himself.

‘What’s to become of us?’ he went on. ‘I know you’re right. He is evil. He’ll go on doing evil no matter how helpless he is, because he thinks evilly...’

But Miss Lolly didn’t hear. She was already running down the stairs, and it wasn’t until she reached the main lobby of this shoddy little hotel that she realized that she was still grasping the heavy throwing-knife, and hastily she hid it from sight under her coat.

A couple of drummers, fat, oily-faced men, nudged each other as Miss Lolly crossed the lobby.

‘That’s the kind of hotel this is,’ one of them said to the other. ‘Even the dames have beards.’

But Miss Lolly paid no attention, although she heard what was said. She went into the dark street, and after a minute or so hailed a passing taxi.

She arrived at the Santo Rio Memorial Hospital as the tower clock chimed eleven.

The porter at the gate eyed her with a mixture of disgust and contempt on his round fat face.

‘You can’t see anyone now,’ he said firmly. ‘Come tomorrow. The Head Sister’s off duty and the resident doctor’s on his rounds. It’s no use wagging your head at me. You can’t come in,’ and he turned back to his office, closing the door firmly in Miss Lolly’s face.

She looked up at the immense building with its thousands of lighted windows. Somewhere in this building was Max: opposite his room was Carol.

She had a presentiment of danger. She knew Max. If he learned that Carol was so close to him he would move heaven and earth to get at her. Setting her ridiculous hat more firmly on her head, she walked quietly past the porter’s lodge and moved quickly, like a lost shadow, towards the main hospital building.

Max reached the opposite door, paused for a moment to lift himself up on his arm to read the name-plate. A hot wave of vicious exaltation ran through him when he saw the name: Carol Blandish. So she was there; behind that door, now within his reach. He fumbled at the handle, pushed the door open, dragged himself along the floor into the room, closed the door.

The room was in semi-darkness, lit only by a small blue pilot light immediately over the bed. For a moment or so Max could see nothing, blinded by the contrast between this dim light and the harsh light of the corridor. Then things in the room began to take shape. He became aware of the bed, set in the middle of the room, the white enamelled table by the bed and the armchair. But his whole vicious attention was concentrated on the bed.

He crawled towards it, paused when he reached it. It was a high bed, and reaching up he could only just get his fingers on the top of the edge of the mattress. When he raised himself on his right arm he could see Carol lying in the bed, but as his left arm was useless he could not reach her.

She lay on her back, the sheet drawn up to her chin, her face the colour of snow in the bluish light. She looked as if she were dead — very lovely and calm — but he could see the slight rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. Her head was swathed in bandages, and only a wisp of her beautiful red hair showed beneath the bandages.

Max saw nothing of this: all he saw was someone to kill, just out of his reach, and, trembling with fury, he caught hold of the bed-rail and tried to lever himself up, but the dead side of his body proved too heavy.

He thought for a moment that he was going to have another stroke. To be so close to her; to have had to suffer so much to get to her and for her still to be safe and beyond his reach was more than he could endure. He relaxed on the floor, shut his eyes, tried to control the pounding of blood in his head. He must think. There must be some way in which he could reach her.

Perhaps if he pushed the armchair against the bed he could hoist himself on to it and be within reach. He began to drag himself across the floor to the armchair when his ears, never ceasing to listen for an alarming sound, warned him that someone was coming.

He paused, listened intently.

Miss Lolly came scurrying down the passage, breathless and alarmed. No one had seen her enter the hospital, although she had had several narrow escapes. She had found the Montgomery Ward with difficulty, remembered Ismi had said that Max was on the third floor, and she had toiled up the emergency staircase, knowing that it was unlikely that she would meet anyone.

But once on the third floor there were nurses busy in the rooms leading on to the landing, and Miss Lolly had to wait her opportunity to make a dash down the corridor. She succeeded, and was now half walking, half running along the broad corridor, her eyes searching each name-plate to show her Max’s room.

She had decided to see him first. If he was as ill and as helpless as Ismi had said, she wouldn’t betray him. But she knew Max: had long distrusted him. Ismi was simple, believed well of anyone. It seemed unlikely to her that Max could ever be harmless.

She suddenly paused as Max’s name caught her eye. There it was, printed neatly on a white card. ‘To think they should make such a fuss of such a brute,’ she thought indignantly. She listened outside the door, heard nothing and found she was suddenly trembling. She remembered the last time she had seen him; remembered the cold viciousness in his eyes and the vindictive way he had looked at her. How he had deliberately struck her, so quickly that she had had no chance of protecting herself.

Her hand instinctively gripped the handle of the knife she kept hidden under her coat, and turning the door-handle she looked into the room.

For a moment or so the shock of seeing the dead nurse huddled on the floor brought Miss Lolly’s heart almost to a bumping standstill. She saw the empty bed, realized instantly what it meant. Had she arrived in time? She knew there wasn’t a second to lose, and pulling herself together she whirled on her heel and sprang across the corridor to the opposite door.

She had now no thought for herself; her one aim was to save Carol and throwing open the door she blundered into the semi-dark room.

Max, crouching in the darkness, recognized her immediately, and suppressed a cry of fury as she came blundering into the room. He knew she wouldn’t be able to see him for a moment or so until her eyes became accustomed to the dim light. In that time he must settle her, if he was going through with his vengeance. He dragged himself towards her, holding his breath, but as he reached her Miss Lolly saw him.

She didn’t know what it was that was moving towards her. She could just make out a dark menacing mass that was reaching out for her, and she guessed immediately it was Max.

Catching her breath in horror, she stepped back, felt his hand grip the hem of her dress, hang on. Blind terror seized her, and bending over him she struck at him with the knife: struck with all her strength.

The blade of the knife cut into Max’s side, seared through his flesh and buried itself into the hard wood of the floor. For a second or so these two looked at each other, then swinging his fist Max hit Miss Lolly on the side of the head, knocking her flat.

But he was alarmed, feeling the blood running down his side, and he wondered if she had cut an artery. It had been a wild, stupid stroke. To Max, who was an expert, such a stroke was inexcusable. She had had him at her mercy: she should have finished him.

He gripped the knife-handle, his lips coming off his teeth. He scarcely felt the cold edge of the knife as it bit into him. He had now what he wanted. The old fool had brought him the one weapon with which he was expert.

But she had driven it so firmly into the floor that he could not move it. He became aware that his strength was very gradually slipping away from him as his blood flowed from his side. In a sudden frenzy he tugged and jerked at the knife, saw Miss Lolly struggling slowly to her feet. Everything was going wrong, he thought furiously, and shouted at her, although no sound came from his twitching, twisted lips.

She was on her feet now, her grotesque hat on the side of her head, her eyes wild with fear. Supporting herself by the bed-rail, she placed herself between him and the silent, unconscious Carol.

He took a new grip on the knife-handle, began to work it backwards and forwards, feeling it slowly loosening, and his face lit up with ghastly triumph.

‘No!’ Miss Lolly said breathlessly. ‘Leave it alone. Take your hand off it.’

He snarled at her, wrenched and jerked at the knife-handle, feeling it slowly, and as if reluctantly, coming free.

Miss Lolly saw his look of triumph, knew what would happen if he once got possession of the knife, and looked around wildly for a weapon. Standing in a corner was an iron cylinder of oxygen. She ran to it, snatched it up and turned.

Even as she did so the knife came loose, and rolling over, M ax sent it flying through the air.

Miss Lolly gave a hoarse scream, swung up the cylinder as the knife struck her in the middle of her narrow, bony chest. She stood for a moment, the cylinder above her head, the knife growing out of her outmoded black dress, her eyes sightless; then her knees buckled, the cylinder crashed to the floor, narrowly missing Max, and she dropped.

Slowly now, he crawled over to her, and leaning over her he spat in her face. He knew she had finished him. He could tell that he was bleeding to death, and a cold drowsiness was already creeping over him. He could feel his blood running down his side, flowing out of him, carrying away his evil spirit.

But there was still a chance, he thought, if he were quick. If he could get the knife out of Miss Lolly’s body he might still have enough strength to throw it. From where he lay Carol made a perfect target.

He again gripped the knife-handle, again pulled at the knife. The handle was slippery with blood, but he kept at it until it was free. But then he found lie had become so weak that he could scarcely lift the knife. He turned on his side, looked across the dim room.

Suddenly his mind was projected back to the days when he and Frank worked in the circus. The girl in the bed, lit by the blue light, reminded him of a girl who once stood against a board and let him throw phosphorus-painted knives at her. He remembered the time he had so carefully aimed the knife at her throat. It had been a clever throw, for it had been done in the dark. He could still do it: even now, when he was dying.

His father had said over and over again: ‘There is no knife-thrower like you in the world. I have never known you to miss any target once you have made up your mind to hit it.’

That was true, Max thought, and gathered together his last remaining strength.

It was not a difficult target. He could see Carol’s throat just above the white sheet, but it was a pity that the knife was now so heavy. He raised it with an effort, balanced it, then paused.

There suddenly seemed to be a cold breath of air in the room, and he saw a shadow move; then a figure came out of a corner into the dim light.

He gripped the knife tightly, feeling the hair rise on the back of his neck, and a chill run up his spine.

Frank came out of the darkness. Frank, smiling his fat tight smile. Frank in his black overcoat and black hat and black concertina-shaped trousers.

‘You’ve left it too late, Max,’ Frank said. ‘You’ll never do it now,’ and he laughed.

Max snarled at him, again balanced the knife, and his brain commanded his muscles to throw. Nothing happened. The knife began to slip out of his cold fingers.

‘You’ve left it too late, Max,’ Frank whispered to him from out of the shadows.

The knife clattered to the floor and Max’s arm dropped.

‘Come on, Max,’ Frank urged. ‘I’m waiting for you.’

Before Max died, he thought with satisfaction that he had not spoilt his reputation: he had not missed his target, for he hadn’t made the throw.

A little later Carol sighed and opened her eyes. From where she lay she could not see the horror that surrounded her on the floor, and she lay still, her mind washed clear of the past, and waited for someone to come to her.