The Flesh of The Orchid by James Hadley Chase Page A

out.”
    “That’s fine,” Frank said languidly. “Saves us doing it.”
    “You should see him,” Max urged. “It’s a sight for sore eyes,” and he laughed.
    “Can’t be bothered,” Frank returned. “Me and my pal are comfortable out here.”
    “Well, he’s sure in a mess,” Max said, tapped Roy’s shoulder. “How did it happen, ol’ man?”
    Roy caught at the gloved hand, but Max shoved him off.
    “She did it. She’s crazy and . . . a lunatic.”
    “Who is?” Max asked, his dead eyes coming to life.
    “The girl. . . Carol . . . we found her up on the hill. There’d been a truck smash . . . Steve nursed her . . . and she turned on me.”
    Max leaned forward.
    “What’s she like to look at?”
    “A redhead,” Roy gasped. His face was a shiny mask of blood: blood ran into his mouth, stained his teeth. He looked inhuman. When he spoke he sprayed blood into Max’s face.
    Max gave a little sigh, wiped his face with the back of his glove, went out on to the verandah.
    “You’re taking your time, ain’t you?” Frank asked, surprised.
    “That nut with the six million bucks,” Max said tersely. “The one the barman told us about: she’s here.”
    Frank gave a sharp giggle.
    “Don’t we get all the luck,” he said, poked Steve with his gun. “Pal, if only you knew what lucky guys we are. Where is she? Where have you hidden her?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve said, bewildered.
    “Yes, you do. The redhead . . . Carol, isn’t that her name? Where is she?”
    “She’s run off. I was looking for her when you arrived.”
    “Did she scratch him up like that?” Max asked.
    Steve nodded.
    “But she’s not mad. She was scared. . . .”
    “O.K., so she’s not mad,” Max said, winked at Frank. “But we’d better find her.” He looked across the lake at the distant mountains. “Six million dollars is a lot of do-ra-me to be roaming around those peaks.”
    “Yeah,” Frank said, “but first things first. What about the punk?”
    “Sure; I haven’t forgotten him. We’ll fix him now. How shall we do it?”
    “Little Bernie wanted it nice and slow,” Frank said. “Nothing fast and easy. We could drown him in the lake.”
    Max shook his head.
    “You’ve got drowning on the brain,” he said. “You always get wet when you drown anyone. When will you learn? Remember that twist we surprised in her bath? That was your idea: flooded the god-damn bathroom, spoilt a nice-looking ceiling and I got a cold. It hung around for weeks. No drowning forme.”
    “I forgot,” Frank said apologetically. “Suppose we open his veins?”
    “Too easy for him; besides, it’s messy. I thought if we got rid of these two we might stay here for a few days. I like it up here. We don’t want to mess up the cabin.”
    “Keep the redhead until the fourteen days are up, is that what you mean?” Frank asked.
    “That’s the idea. Then we could look after her—and her dough.”
    Frank brooded for an inspiration.
    “We could shove his face in a bucket of molasses. He’d suffocate slow that way,” he said at last, looked enquiringly at Steve. “Got any molasses, pal?”
    Steve shook his. head. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen Roy creeping along the verandah.
    “Why don’t you give him a break?” he demanded loudly. “What’s he done to you?”
    Roy had stopped and was crouched against the cabin wall, his head turned in their direction. The Sullivans had their backs to him, but he didn’t know that.
    “We could make a bonfire of him,” Max suggested, ignoring Steve.
    “Now that’s a swell idea,” Frank said. “Saves us burying him, too.”
    At that moment Roy made his bid for freedom. He crept across the verandah, swung his leg over the rail, dropped to the ground. Then he began to run blindly.
    The Sullivans glanced round, saw him.
    “Keep to your left, Roy,” Steve bawled, seeing his brother was running towards the lake.
    Roy swerved, bounded towards the