The Flesh of The Orchid by James Hadley Chase

reversed up the road; its long hood pointing to the valley.
    “If I could reach that,” he thought, “I might ditch these two, but there’s nothing I can do for Roy.”
    There was nothing he could do for Roy. Max was already looking through the open french windows at Roy, who lay on the bed, his hand grasping the gun.
    Max came up the verandah steps like a shadow, his rubber-soled shoes soundless on the wooden boards.
    Roy had been listening all the time, his nerves tight, fear gripping his throat. He listened with an intentness that made his head ache, expecting any moment for Carol to come in out of the night and finish him. He didn’t think of the Sullivans. He was now sure he was safe from them, believed because they always worked so quickly that, as they hadn’t found him before, they would never find him.
    He wondered how long Steve would be: whether he would return. The pain in his eyes had turned to a dull ache. He was sick with self-pity and fear.
    Max moved silently into the room, saw the gun in Roy’s hand and grinned sourly. He crept across the room until he was by the bed. It would have been easy to have finished Roy now: too easy. Max was bored with easy death.
    Roy groaned to himself, let go of the gun to hold his aching head between his hands. Max picked up the gun, shoved it into his hip-pocket. He waited, watching the blind man, wondering how he would react when he had found the gun gone.
    After a moment or so Roy put his hand down on the exact spot where the gun had been. His fingers moved to the right and then to the left. Then he muttered under his breath, moved his hand further along the bed. His movements were at first controlled. He thought the gun had slipped along the blanket. But as he touched nothing but the bed-clothes he began to scrabble feverishly, then sat up, using both hands, sweat starting out on his face.
    Max lifted a chair very gently, set it down soundlessly by the bed, lowered himself into it. It amused him to see Roy’s growing panic, to be so close to his victim knowing he was unaware of his presence.
    “Must have fallen on the floor,” Roy muttered to himself, leaned over the side of the bed and groped blindly on the strip of carpet.
    Max still sat, his gloved hands folded in his lap, his chin sunk into his black scarf, and he didn’t move, but waited, an interested, bland expression in his eyes.
    Roy’s groping fingers touched Max’s pointed toe-cap, passed on, then paused. Back came the fingers, slowly now, hesitant. Again they touched the toe-cap, moved up, touched the frayed trouser-end. Then Roy shivered. His breath came through his clenched teeth like an escape of compressed steam.
    Someone was sitting by his bed!
    He snatched his hand away, wedged himself back against the wall.
    “Who’s there?” he croaked. His voice sounded less human than a parrot’s.
    “The Sullivans,” Max said softly.
    For a long moment of time Roy crouched against the wall, scarcely breathing, his face livid, sweat soaking the bandage across his eyes.
    Then:
    “Steve!” he screamed wildly. “Quick, Steve! Save me!”
    “He can’t help you,” Max said, crossing his legs. “Frank’s watching him. Nothing nor nobody can help you now. We’ve come to take care of you.”
    “You wouldn’t kill a blind man,” Roy implored. “I’m blind! Look at me. I’m through . . . can’t you see I’m through? I’m no use to anyone.”
    Max was staring at the bandage across Roy’s eyes.
    “Take that rag off,” he said. “I don’t believe you’re blind.”
    “I am,” Roy said, beating his clenched fists together. “I can’t take it off . . . my eyes will bleed.”
    Max grinned, reached out, hooked his fingers under the bandage and jerked.
    “Then let ‘em bleed,” he said.
    Roy screamed.
    “Enjoy yourself,” Frank called from the verandah.
    Max was gaping at the ruin of Roy’s eyes.
    “Hey, Frank,” he said. “Look at this punk’s mug. He’s had his eyes scratched