The Flesh of The Orchid (2 page)

Joe ran his fingers through his hair.

“I’ve got the jitters tonight,” he said. “It’s that dame yelling her head off and the storm.” He still listened, still stared at the door.

“Quit getting your vitamins in an uproar,” Garland said sharply. “They’ll be putting you in a padded cell next.”

“Listen!” Joe said. “Do you hear that? It’s the dog. Listen to him.”

Somewhere in the garden a dog began to howl mournfully. The sound was caught up and swept away by the wind.

“Why can’t the dog howl if it wants to?” Garland demanded uneasily.

“Not like that,” Joe said, his face set. “A dog only makes a noise like that when he’s scared bad. Something out there’s frightening him.”

They listened to the mournful howling of the dog, then Garland gave a sudden shiver.

“You’re getting me going now,” he said angrily, got up, peered out of the window into the wet darkness. “There’s nothing to see. Shall we go down and give him something to howl about?”

“Not me,” Joe said, sat down again. “Not out there in the dark; not for any money.”

A new sound—the shrill ringing of a bell—brought him to his feet again.

“That’s the alarm!” Garland shouted, snatching up his coat. “Come on, Joe, we gotta get up there quick.”

“Alarm?” Joe said stupidly. He felt a chill run up his spine into the roots of his hair. “What alarm?”

“One of the nuts is loose,” Garland bawled, pushing past Joe to the door. “Whether you like it or not, you’re going out there into the dark now.”

“That’s what we heard—why the dog’s howling,” Joe said, hanging back.

But Garland was already running down the passage, and Joe, scared to be on his own, blundered after him.

Above the flurry of the wind and the rain the dog howled again.

*     *     *

Sheriff Kamp wooshed water from his black slouched hat, followed the nurse into Dr. Travers’s office.

“Hear you have trouble up here. Doc,” he said, shaking hands with a tall, angular man who crossed the room to meet him. “One of your patients got loose, huh?”

Travers nodded. His deep-set eyes were anxious.

“My men are out looking for her now,” he said, “but we’ll need all the help we can get. It’ll be nervy work; she’s dangerous.”

Sheriff Kamp pulled at his straw-coloured, tobacco-stained moustache. His pale eyes looked startled.

“Is that right?” he said slowly.

“I’m in a very awkward position,” Travers went on. “If this gets into the newspapers it could ruin me. She was the one patient I had no business to lose.”

“I’ll help if I can, Doc,” Kamp said, sitting down. “You can rely on me.”

“I know,” Travers said, pacing up and down, and went on abruptly: “The patient is John Blandish’s heiress. Does that mean anything to you?”

Kamp frowned.

“John Blandish? The name’s familiar. You don’t mean the millionaire fella whose daughter was kidnapped some twenty years ago?”

“That’s right. We’ve got to get her back before anyone knows she’s escaped. Look at the publicity that followed Blandish’s death last year. If this leaks out it’ll start all over again and I might just as well close down.”

“Take it easy, Doc,” Kamp said quietly. “We’ll get her back.” He pulled at his moustache, went on: “You say she’s Blandish’s heiress? What was he doing leaving his money to a lunatic? Doesn’t make sense.”

“She was his illegitimate grand-daughter,” Travers said, lowering his voice. “And that’s for your information only.”

“Can I have that again?” Kamp asked, sitting bolt upright.

“Blandish’s daughter was kidnapped by a homicidal mental degenerate,” Travers said, after a moment’s hesitation. “She was in his hands for months before she was found, and you’ll remember she committed suicide—threw herself out of a window before her father could reach her. She died of her injuries.”

“Yeah, I know all that,” Kamp said impatiently.

“This is what you don’t know: before she died she gave birth to a daughter. The father of the child was the kidnapper, Grisson.”

Kamp blew out his cheeks.

“And this child is your patient—grown up? Is that it?”

Travers nodded.

“The child, Carol, was exactly like her mother in appearance, and Blandish couldn’t bear to have her near him. Carol was brought up by foster-parents. Blandish never went near her, but she lacked for nothing. The fact that her father was a mental degenerate made Carol suspect, but for the first eight years of her life she showed no sign that she had inherited anything from her father. But she was watched and when she was ten she ceased to mix with other children, became morose, developed violent tempers. Blandish was informed and engaged a mental nurse to watch her. Her tempers became more violent and it soon became obvious that she wasn’t to be trusted with anyone weaker than herself. By the time she was nineteen it was necessary to have her certified. For the last three years she has been my patient.”

“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 Sanatorium 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?”