The Flesh of The Orchid (7 page)

There was a blank fixed look in her eyes and she seemed to listen only vaguely to what he said.

His hands moved round her back and he lifted her. And then suddenly she gave a soft metallic little laugh that startled him.

“What’s so funny in this?” he asked, angry, and hungrily crushed his mouth down on hers.

For a brief moment she lay motionless in his arms, then her arms, like steel bands, slid round his neck and gripped the back of his neck and shoulders and her teeth sank into his lips.

In the other room Steve woke suddenly. One moment he was asleep, the next wide awake and sitting up, staring round the room, a startled, puzzled expression on his face.

“What woke me like that?” he wondered, looked across at Roy’s bed, which was in the darkest part of the room. He thought he could make out Roy’s outline, looked at the window. Was Carol out there again? Was that why he had awakened so suddenly?

He got out of bed, went to the window. There was no one on the verandah. He could see Spot down by the outhouses. The dog was looking towards the cabin, but it made no sound.

Steve shook his head, yawned, turned back to bed.

“Guess I was dreaming,” he thought, then something prompted him to go over to Roy’s bed: it was empty. Instantly he thought of Carol, ran to the door.

A wild, agonized scream rang through the cabin. There was a moment’s silence, then a sobbing, croaking voice yelled: “Steve! Quick! Help me!”

The hair on Steve’s neck bristled at the sound of Roy’s voice, and he flung open the door, stepped into the passage.

Roy was coming towards him, bent double, his hands hiding his face. Blood ran between his fingers, dripped on to the floor.

“What’s happened?” Steve gasped, standing frozen.

“It’s my eyes!” Roy sobbed. “She’s blinded me! Help me! For God’s sake, do something!”

Steve caught hold of him.

“What have you done to her?” he cried, pushed the groaning man aside and ran into Carol’s room. The room was empty. He ran to the window and came to an abrupt stop.

Carol was standing on the top verandah step looking towards him. She was naked to the waist, and her eyes glowed like cat’s eyes in the moonlight.

He stood transfixed. He had never seen a wilder, more beautiful creature as the one he looked at now. Her red hair, gleaming like beaten bronze in the white light of the moon; the satin-white lustre of her skin, cold-looking against the dark shadows of the cabin wall; the curve of her breasts; her tense, dangerous attitude like a jungle cat, and the way she held her hands before her like two claws, startled him, and yet strangely excited him.

Then she turned and ran down the steps and across the yard.

“Carol!” Steve cried, starting forward. “Carol, come back!”

But she had already vanished into the pine wood. She had moved with incredible swiftness.

Not knowing what to do, Steve stood hesitating, then the sound of his brother’s groans made him return to the passage.

“Pull yourself together,” he said impatiently. “You can’t be so badly hurt.”

“She’s blinded me, damn you!” Roy screamed frantically, and took his hands from his eyes.

Steve stepped back, sick and cold.

Roy’s eyes swam in blood. Cruel long nail-marks ran down his forehead, across his eyelids, down his cheeks. He was on the point of collapse and sagged against the wall, moaning, his body shivering.

“Save my eyes,” he begged. “Don’t let me go blind. Don’t leave me, Steve. She’ll come back. She’s mad . . .  a killer . . . look what she’s done to me.”

Steve took hold of him, half carried, half dragged him into the bedroom.

“Take it easy,” he said curtly as he laid the sobbing wreck on the bed. “I’ll fix you up. Just take it easy.” He ran from the room for his medical chest, snatched up a kettle from the stove.

“Don’t leave me!” Roy wailed. “I can’t see! She’ll come back!”

“All right, all right,” Steve shouted from the kitchen, unnerved himself. He returned to the bedroom. “I’m here now. Let me bathe your eyes. I think it’s only because they’re bleeding so badly you can’t see.”

“I’m blind! I know I’m blind,” Roy groaned. “Stick by me, Steve. They’re after me . . . they’ll kill me if they ever find me. I’m helpless now. I can’t save myself.”

“Who’re after you?” Steve asked sharply as he poured the warm water into a bowl.

“The Sullivans,” Roy said, his hand groping vainly for Steve’s. “They mean nothing to you. No one knows them. They work secretly . . . professional killers. Little Bernie’s hired them to get me.”

“They won’t get you here,” Steve said shortly. “You’re safe here. Lie still. I’m going to bathe your eyes. It may hurt.”

“Don’t touch me!” Roy cried, cowering back. “I can’t stand any more pain.”

Steve waited.

“What did you do to her?” he asked when Roy had calmed down a little.

“Nothing!” Roy groaned. “She wanted me to come to her. She said so. She let me kiss her. Then I couldn’t get away from her. She’s strong. She had me round the neck. She bit my mouth. It was hell. . . her eyes were like lamps. I fought her off, and as I got away she slashed me. It was like a tiger striking. She’s mad . . .  a wild beast.”

“She was frightened,” Steve said, chilled. “I warned you to leave her alone.”

“If the Sullivans come now . . . what shall I do? Steve! You won’t let them kill me?” Roy sat up, groped wildly under his pillow. “Here, take the gun. You must shoot at sight . . . you can’t mistake them. . . .”

“Take it easy,” Steve said impatiently. “You’re safe here.

“You don’t know them. They’re professional killers. They never let up once they’re hired to kill. They go on and on. Little Bernie’s paid them well. They’ll find me. I know they’ll find me.”

“But why?” Steve demanded. “Why should they want to kill you?”

Roy caught hold of his coat.

“Bernie and I pulled a big bank robbery. I skipped with the dough. Bernie had been cheating me, and I wanted to get even. Twenty thousand dollars, and I’ve salted it away, but Bernie went to the Sullivans. He knew they’d fix me, and they will!”

“They won’t find you here,” Steve repeated.

“They’ll find me,” Roy groaned. “Keep the gun handy. Shoot at sight . . . they’re like two black crows . . . that’s what they look like . . . two black crows . . . .”

“Lie down. I’m going to bathe this blood away,” Steve said, forced his brother back on the pillow. “Lie still.”

Roy screamed when the wet cotton-wool touched his eyes.

*     *     *

Two black crows.

The description fitted the Sullivans. They were a sinister-looking couple in their black, tight-fitting overcoats, black slouch hats, black concertina-shaped trousers and black-pointed shoes. Knotted round each short thick throat was a black silk scarf.

A few years ago they had been the star act of a small travelling circus, and they had been billed as the famous Sullivan brothers. But they were not brothers: their real names were Max Geza and Frank Kurt. By profession they were knife-throwers and trick marksmen. The finale of their act was to throw phosphorus-painted knives at a girl who stood against a black velvet-covered board. The stage was in darkness and the audience could see only the flying knives, which gradually outlined the figure of the girl as the knives slammed into the board an inch from her shivering skin. It was a sensational act and might have gone on for years, only the Sullivans got bored with the circus and with the girl.

It was the girl really that made them want to break up the act. She was a nice little thing and willing enough, but she just didn’t understand the Sullivans’ technique after business hours; besides, she fell in love with a clown, and that added to her difficulties, too.

The Sullivans tried to get another girl, but for the money they paid they couldn’t find a girl willing to risk the flying knives and also be accommodating after business hours. So they got fed up with the circus and told the manager they wanted to quit, but the manager refused to release them from their contract. Their act, he reckoned, kept the show together—and it did.

So one night Max solved all their problems by throwing a knife with deliberate aim and it pinned the girl through her throat to the board, and that finished the act, got rid of the girl and broke the contract. Max couldn’t understand why he hadn’t thought of the solution, which was simple enough, before.

It was Max’s idea for them to become professional killers. Death interested him. Taking human life seemed to him to be God-like, and he liked to regard himself as a man set above and apart from other men. Besides, he wanted big money; he was tired of the peanut stuff they were making in the circus.

There were hundreds of men and women wishing to get rid of someone, he reasoned. A professional killer would be a benefit to Society. Since no motive could be proved, the killer had an excellent chance of avoiding detection, and if the killing was carefully planned and executed there was no reason why they should ever be caught. Frank welcomed the idea. Frank was never strong on ideas himself, but he was a natural enthusiast. Max knew he couldn’t wish for a better partner. So these two passed the word round that they would undertake any killing for the fee of three thousand dollars and a hundred dollars a week expenses. Even the Sullivans were surprised how quickly the idea caught on in certain circles, and how many commissions came their way.

They travelled all over the country in a big black Packard Clipper: two black crows who brought death silently and secretly and were never detected. The police didn’t know about them, for their victims feared the police and couldn’t go to them for protection. There were times when word would reach the intended victim that the Sullivans were after him and he’d go into hiding. It was a matter of complete indifference to the Sullivans whether they had to hunt out their victim or whether they had merely to drive up to his house and shoot him as he opened the door. All they required was a photograph of the victim, his name and last address: finding him was part of their service. They were men of few needs. The hundred dollars they charged for their weekly expenses amply sufficed. The three-thousand-dollar fee was never touched, but salted away against the time when they should retire. Both Max and Frank were passionately fond of birds, and they planned to buy themselves a bird business when they had saved sufficient capital to set up in a big way.

Little Bernie got in touch with them a day after Roy had gypped him out of the proceeds of the bank robbery. The Sullivans undertook to murder Roy for five thousand dollars. They felt that as Little Bernie was a big shot and had plenty of hired help to do his own killing he wouldn’t come to them unless he anticipated the job would be long and difficult. To be on the safe side they jacked up the fee.

The difficulty, of course, was to find Roy. He had been warned that the Sullivans were after him and had immediately vanished from his usual haunts. Enquiries showed that he had left New York and had covered his tracks so well that his trail ended at the Pennsylvania station: the task of picking up the trail again appeared to be a hopeless one.

But not to the Sullivans. They were expert man-hunters. To find your victim quickly, they reasoned, you must know his habits, where his relations are, whether he has a girl friend, and if so, where she is. Once you have that data all you have to do is to exercise a little patience: sooner or later you’ll find your man.

It was an easy matter for them to discover that Roy had a brother, who, a year ago, was an insurance salesman in Kansas City. They wasted time going to Kansas City, for there they learned that Steve Larson had quit the insurance business and was believed to be fox-farming somewhere, but where no one seemed to know.

A week passed while the Sullivans sat in their hotel bedroom and took it in turns to call every fox farm equipment store in the district and beyond, asking for the address of Steve Larson. They gave the name of a reputable firm of solicitors when making their call and stated that as Larson had come into a large sum of money they were anxious to get in touch with him. After making many calls their patience was finally rewarded. A firm in Bonner Springs had supplied Steve Larson with equipment and was delighted to give his address.

Three days later a big black Packard Clipper slid into Point Breese, a little valley town twenty miles or so from Blue Mountain Summit.

The Sullivans parked outside a saloon, left the Packard and entered the deserted bar. They had become so accustomed to their routine entrance into the circus ring that they unconsciously walked as one man, each taking the same short quick step, each swinging his arms the same length; one looking like the other’s shadow. In their black clothes, moving as they did, they immediately attracted attention, and people stared after them, conscious of a feeling of uneasiness, of being spooked, as if they had seen an apparition.

Because in their circus days they had been supposed to be brothers, they had endeavoured to look alike, and the habit stuck. They both wore pencilled-line black moustaches and their hair cut very close. But here the similiarity ended. Max was a couple of inches shorter than Frank. His face was small and white and he had tight lips. Frank was fat and soft. His nose was hooked, his mouth was loose, and he had a habit of moistening his tips with his tongue before he said anything. His eyes were as animated as glass marbles.

The Sullivans pulled up two high stools close to the bar and sat down, resting their gloved hands on the counter.

The barman eyed them over, thought they looked a dangerous, ugly pair, but he smiled because he was anxious to have no trouble.

“Yes, gentlemen?” he said, wiped the counter before them.

“Two lemonades,” Max said. His voice was high-pitched, soft.

The barman served them, his face expressionless; then as he moved away Max crooked a finger at him.

“What goes on in this town?” he asked, sipped his lemonade, stared at the barman with dead eyes. “Tell us the news. We’re strangers here.”

“Right now there’s plenty of excitement in town,” the barman said, quite eager to talk about the topic of the hour. “We’ll be on the front page of every newspaper in the country tomorrow. I’ve just heard it from a newspaper reporter.”