The Flesh of The Orchid (27 page)

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, 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.”