The Flesh of The Orchid

by James Hadley Chase

  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 ha
ir 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, aint 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 eves 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 I”

  “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,” Caro
l 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.