The Flesh of The Orchid

by James Hadley Chase

  “Just how dangerous is she?” Kamp asked.

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

  “Has she ever killed anyone?” Kamp asked, pulling at his moustache.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Not that I know of. I’d say no.”

  “Got a photograph of her?”

  “I don’t believe there’s one in existence.”

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

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

  Kamp grunted, scribbled in his note-book. “Any distinguishing marks?”

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

  “And how was she dressed when she escaped?”

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

  Kamp stood up.

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

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

  * * *

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

  Andy, big, fat, boisterous, came over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Andy grunted.

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

  Dan’s fact lit up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He was puzzled and a little startled.

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

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

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

  “Yes, I want a ride,” the girl said. Her voice was flat, casual.

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

  “Pretty wet,” he said. “Pretty damn wet night.”

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

  “Yes, isn’t it?” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “It’ll do,” she said indifferently, fell silent.

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

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

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

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

  Dan wrinkled his snub nose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Christ!” Dan gasped. “The load’s going!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He couldn�
�t bring himself to speak, but climbed down into the rain to inspect the damage.

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

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

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

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

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

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