“You shall have your coffee, precious,” Veda said. “But you’re not going to leave here until you’ve given me some sort of explanation. Surely it’s not asking too much, since you’ve turned my house into a hospital. I’m sure you have your reasons, but I do feel I should be told what goes on.”
Magarth opened one eye, grinned. He thought Veda looked very nice in her apricot-coloured linen frock and he reached out to pat her hand.
“They holed her up in Doc Fleming’s cellar,” he said briefly. “When Kamp went in after her, she turned off the main switch, and I caused what is known as a diversion, and she escaped. I went after her, caught her up, made friends. I arranged to get my car and go with her to where she had left Larson. I left her in the wood and got my car. When I returned she had vanished. So I collected Larson and brought him here. Doc Kober will let us know what he thinks of him when he comes down.”
“But why didn’t you take the poor lamb to hospital? Why bring him here?”
“Because he’s in danger,” Magarth said patiently. “You don’t know what these two thugs are like.”
“What two thugs?” Veda asked, bewildered.
“The Sullivans: the professional killers. If half what I’ve heard about them is true they’ve committed dozens of murders and have never left a clue or a witness. But this time they’ve slipped up. Larson saw them kill his brother. He managed to tell me that much before he passed out. His evidence would send them to the chair. They’ll try to finish him, and the first place they’d look for him is the hospital. We’ll have to keep him under cover until he’s well enough to make a statement.”
Veda nodded.
“But are you really sure these two won’t find him here?”
“Not a chance. There’s no connection between you and Larson—why should they?”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Veda said. “Now tell me about the Blandish girl. What happened to her?”
“I don’t know,” Magarth admitted, worried. “She either didn’t trust me or . . .” He shook his head. “There was a big black Packard parked outside Doc Fleming’s house when I arrived. I was so anxious to get inside the house I didn’t give it a thought. But it had gone when I returned for my car, and I’m wondering. The Sullivans may have got her.”
“Haven’t you got the Sullivans on the brain, my pet?” Veda asked. “They can’t be here, there and everywhere.”
“That’s just what they can be,” Magarth said. “I’ll have to tell Kamp. We’ll need protection out here, just in case. God help the Blandish girl if the Sullivans have got her.”
“But you haven’t told me what she’s like,” Veda said with pardonable curiosity. “Have you actually talked with her?”
“Sure. She looks as sane as you do,” Magarth returned. “I can’t make it out. She’s a marvellous-looking girl, and obviously head over heels in love with Larson. She’s the kind of girl who loves but once and sticks to her man like glue.”
“So am I,” Veda said softly. “Only the rat I’ve fallen in love with doesn’t know it.”
“Don’t let’s talk about rats,” Magarth said hurriedly. “They’re timid creatures and don’t like to be talked about.”
“I’ve noticed they’re not so timid at night,” Veda said softly.
At this moment Dr. Kober joined them.
“He’s bad,” he said abruptly. “It’ll be touch and go. The next three days will decide whether or not he pulls through. He should really be in hospital.”
“It wouldn’t be safe,” Magarth said. “I’m seeing the Sheriff right away, Doc. These guys will have another go at him, and that’s why he must stay here. Miss Banning will foot all the bills, so spare no expense. Can you stay here with him?”
“That’s impossible,” Kober returned. “But I’ll be coming in twice a day. Nurse Davies knows what to do. There’s not much we can do for him now. It depends entirely on his stamina, which is good. But he’s lost a lot of blood. I shall have to report this, Magarth.
“I’ll come with you,” Magarth said, getting to his feet. “If you’ll give me two minutes to drink this coffee,” he added as the maid came out with a tray, “I’ll be with you.”
“I’ll wait for you in my car,” Kober said, and took leave of Veda.
“You’ll make yourself entirely at home, precious, won’t you ?” she said when Kober had gone. “If there are any of your other friends who’d like rooms—”
Magarth swallowed his coffee, slipped his arm round her waist.
“Don’t be mad at me, sugar,” he said. “You’ll get your picture in the newspaper when the danger is over, and everyone will think you are a heroine. Besides, if this pans out the way I think it’ll pan out, me and my friends will move in here for good. You’ll love that, won’t you?”
* * *
Sheriff Kamp sat in his dusty little office, his feet on his desk, a dead cigar clamped between his teeth.
Simon Hartman had just left, and it had been a difficult interview. Hartman had accused Magarth of engineering Carol’s escape; he had also charged Kamp with incompetency, and had thrown out hints of going to higher authority. Kamp was worried. He now had only six days in which to find the girl, and he had no idea where to look for her.
He gave a ferocious grunt when Magarth lounged into the office.
“I want you,” he said, bringing his feet to the floor with a crash. “You’re the guy who let that damned girl escape.”
Magarth drew up a chair, flopped into it.
“Not intentionally,” he said, lighting a cigarette, “although maybe I did lose my head for a moment. But your fellas weren’t so hot, either. You can’t pick on me.”
“I can and I’m going to,” Kamp said grimly. “Hartman’s been in here raising Cain, and he’s yelling for your blood.”
“And have you asked yourself why?” Magarth asked calmly. “He’s scared stiff the girl will come into her money. I bet he’s been dipping his paws into the Trust and funks an investigation.”
Kamp’s eyes popped.
“That’s a pretty serious accusation.”
“I know, and I wouldn’t make it to anyone but you. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think so. My editor is looking into Hartman’s background and we’ll keep you informed. Bat there’s something more important in the wind. Ever heard of the Sullivan brothers?”
“Sure, but that’s just a fairy tale. The Sullivans don’t exist. They’re an alibi for any unsolved murder.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Magarth said, hitching up his chair. “They not only exist, but they’re here. They killed Steve Larson’s brother last night and they shot and badly wounded Steve.”
“I didn’t know Larson had a brother,” Kamp said, sitting bolt upright.
“If you knew everything you’d probably be President,” Magarth returned. “Larson has, or rather had, a brother: a smalltime gangster who got in bad with Little Bernie. The Sullivans were hired to kill him. Roy holed himself up at Blue Mountain Summit, but the Sullivans tracked him down. And here’s something else. A week before the Sullivans arrived Steve Larson found Carol Blandish in the wrecked truck and took her to his place. She’s been there ever since.”
“What?” Kamp roared, springing to his feet.
“Watch your blood pressure,” Magarth said, grinned at the sight of Kamp’s astonished expression. “Larson had no idea who the girl was. Roy wouldn’t let him move from the farm and he had no means of learning the girl had escaped. Apparently she received a crack on her head and has lost her memory. She doesn’t know who she is.”
“How the heck do you know all this?” Kamp demanded, sinking into his chair again.
“I found Larson and talked to him. The Sullivans showed up last night, murdered Roy and were going to take the Blandish girl with them. But Larson managed to pull a fast one, and he and the girl escaped in the Sullivans’ car; only Larson got shot as they were going. The girl left him at the Summit Logging Camp and tried to get Doc Fleming to come out and
attend to him. Mrs. Fleming recognized her, and you know the rest. I have Larson up at Miss Banning’s place. He’s bad: too bad to make a statement. But when he does we’ll have enough on the Sullivans to send them to the chair—if we catch them. And think what that’ll mean. These two have committed murder in practically every State in the country. To catch them would put you and me right on the front page and right in the public eye. You wouldn’t have to worry about Hartman’s threats then.”
“My stars!” Kamp said, lifted his sweat-stained Stetson and scratched his head. “And what’s become of the girl?”
“I think the Sullivans have got her,” Magarth said, and went on to tell Kamp of his meeting with Carol, and how, when he had returned with his car, she had vanished. “They run a big black Packard Clipper.” He reached for a scrap of paper and scribbled down the registration number. “Can you start a hunt for them? You’ll be killing two birds with one stone. And one more thing. I want some protection up at Miss Banning’s place. I don’t see how they’ll get on to Larson there, but if they do they’ll come after him. We can’t afford to take any risks.”
Kamp jumped to his feet.
“O.K., Magarth,” he said. “Leave this to me. I’ll get things started. I’ll send Staum and a couple of deputies up there right away, and I’ll throw out a drag-net for the Sullivans.”
* * *
The Packard Clipper jolted over the rutty surface of the narrow by-road that led off the State Highway into a dense jungle of cane and brier and cypress.
The mid-day sun was hot, and the Sullivans had undone their overcoats and were sitting shoulder to shoulder in the car: Max was driving.
Behind them on the floor, under the suffocating heat of a rug, Carol lay, only half conscious. Her wrists and ankles were securely tied and a broad strip of adhesive plaster covered her mouth.
The Sullivans were now many miles from Point Breese. They had driven north and had headed for the open cotton country, avoiding the small towns; making the longer detour rather than risk detection. And now, after eight hours of furious driving, they were in sight of their destination.
Max had scarcely said a word on the journey. His mind was concentrated on Steve Larson. If Larson were allowed to talk in court, they were finished. So sure was he of his shooting ability, Max knew that Steve had been dangerously, if not fatally, injured. They wouldn’t get him to testify for some time: it was even doubtful if he could make a statement for a week or so. At all costs he must be prevented from picking them out in an identity parade. Statements and alibis could be fixed, but there was nothing so damning as an identity parade. As soon as they had got the girl safely under cover they’d have to go back and finish him. It was the only safe way.
The road—if you could call it a road—began to rise steeply, and a moment later, above the jagged mass of trees, a house lifted its gaunt bulk against the autumn sky.
In this dense wilderness, miles from the nearest town, set back a mile or so off the State Highway, you wouldn’t expect to find any building, let alone an old plantation house as big and as ruined as this one before which the Sullivans stopped the Packard.
There was a wide verandah running round the house. Practically every third paling in the verandah rail was missing, and the whole of the wooden building was bleached white by rain and sun over a period of many bleak winters and hot summers. To the right and rear of the building was a cultivated patch of ground, incongruous in the abandoned surroundings and overgrown foliage. A few apple and plum trees struggled for survival amongst the unpruned cypress groves. The red apples looked like the little balls you see on Christmas trees.
A dozen or so chickens scratched in the sandy soil near the front of the building, and they scattered with harsh squawks as the Packard came to a standstill.
As the Sullivans climbed out of the car a man appeared from the dark hall, came out into the sunshine and stood on the top step of the wooden stoop.
He was a man around sixty, tall, upright, pigeon-chested. He had a lean, weathered face, the jaws covered with a black stubble; his hair was grey and slicked back with strong-smelling pomade. He wore a pair of dirty overalls and his feet were bare. He was a strange-looking figure. From his neck down you would have taken him for a tramp: a man who had known no success, no riches, and who, perhaps through no fault of his own, had made a complete mess of his life. But to see his face, to look into his hard cruel eyes, you realized that at one time he had been something—had wielded power: as indeed he had.
Tex Sherill had been the Ring Master of the travelling circus to which the Sullivans had been attached in their circus days. Sherill had been a spectacular Ring Master: handsome, dashing, showy. He and the Sullivans had certain things in common: in particular a need for personal freedom: to be a law unto themselves. When the Sullivans left the circus, Sherill missed and envied them. He was sick of travelling round the country, forced to live a life of fettered routine, and he wanted to get out of the business; to live his own life. He had stayed with the circus a further six months, then had quit. He now ran an illicit still, manufacturing a particularly potent moonshine which he sold locally, and which provided him with sufficient funds to run the old plantation house and to allow him his much-needed freedom.
The Sullivans heard that Sherill had quit the circus and had looked him up. They decided that such a place as the old plantation house was an ideal hide-out should things ever get too hot for them. They put it to Sherill as a business proposition, and he was agreeable enough provided they made it worth his while, which they did.
And so it was to the old plantation house they had driven, deciding it was an excellent place to keep Carol until the six days had elapsed when they could, through her, control the money she had inherited, it was also an excellent place to leave her while they hunted for Larson. Tex Sherill would see she didn’t escape; once he undertook a job he did it with ruthless thoroughness.
“Hello, boys,” Sherill said, leaned against the post of the verandah and watched the Sullivans with suspicious eyes. “What brings you here?”
Without answering Max opened the rear door of the Packard, caught hold of Carol and hauled her into the sunlight.
Sherill stiffened.
“What’s this—a snatch?” he asked, took a step away from the post, hooked his thumbs in the piece of cord that was bound tightly round his waist.
“No,” Max said, swung Carol off her feet and carried her up the steps. “Where’s Miss Lolly?”
“Out in the garden somewhere,” Sherill returned, barred the way into the house. “I’m not handling a snatch, Max. That carries the death sentence.”
“This isn’t a snatch,” Max said shortly. “Let me put her down and then we’ll talk.”
“Not inside,” Sherill said firmly. “Put her in that chair. This stinks of a snatch to me.”
Max laid Carol in the old rotten basket-chair that had stood for years on the porch, exposed to all weathers. It creaked dismally under her weight, and when she tried to sit up Max put his hand over her face and shoved her back so hard the chair tipped up and she sprawled on the dusty planks of the verandah, the chair falling on top of her.
“Keep an eye on her,” Max said to Frank as he came up the steps, then he took Sherill by the arm and walked with him to the end of the verandah.
Frank straightened the chair, lifted Carol, put her in it again.
“Stay quiet, baby,” he said. “I’m your own special friend. Max doesn’t like girls, but I do. I’ll see you don’t come to any harm.” He took off his hat and ran a small comb through his oily hair, winked at her. Lowering his voice, he went on: “How would you like to be my girl? We needn’t tell Max.”
“Who is she?” Sherill was asking. “By God, Max, if you’re trying to mix me up in a snatch—”
“Pipe down,” Max said, his eyes baleful. “I’m paying you good dough for us to use this place, aren’t I? Well, I’m going to use it. It’s not a snatch. She’s escaped from a mental sanatorium.<
br />
We’re protecting her from herself. That isn’t a snatch, is it?”
Sherill shifted his eyes. His bare feet, hard as leather, scratched uneasily on the boards.
“You mean—she’s the Blandish girl?”
Max smiled: a cold, ferocious, humourless smile.
“So you’ve heard about that?”
“Who hasn’t? I read the newspapers. What are you doing with her?”
“What do you think? She comes into six million bucks in a week from today; that is if she’s not caught. She’s going to be grateful, isn’t she?”
Sherill glanced back along the verandah.
“Tied like that? Damned grateful, I’d say.”
“She’s nuts,” Max said patiently. “She won’t remember anything. You treat nuts like animals. So long as you feed ‘em, they’re grateful.” He drew off his gloves, flexed his sweating fingers. “We can talk her into anything.”
“I don’t think you know much about lunatics,” Sherill said, leaned to spit over the rail. “Well, it’s your funeral. What’s it worth to me?”
“You’ll get a quarter of whatever we get.”
“That could be too much or nothing at all,” Sherill said uneasily. “I wish you hadn’t brought her here, Max. It’ll be unsettling.”
“Aw, shaddap,” Max said, stuffed his gloves in his pocket and stared moodily across the overgrown vista.
Sherill eyed him, lifted his shoulders.
“They say she’s dangerous,” he went on. “Homicidal.”
Max laughed.
“Don’t talk soft. You used to perform in a lions’ cage. You and Miss Lolly can handle her.”
Slierill’s face tightened.
“I don’t know if Miss Lolly will want to,” he said. “She’s been acting odd these past days. I guess she’s going nuts herself.”
“She was all right when last we were here,” Max said, not interested. “What’s biting her?”
“Nerves, I guess,” Sherill said, shrugging. “She ain’t too easy to live with.”
The Flesh of The Orchid Page 11