The Flesh Of The Orchid Part 27

The door opened quietly and the Head Sister came in. Ismi liked her immediately. She had a grave, kind face. She was, he thought, a sensible-looking woman: a woman he could trust.

He was so frightened of what she was going to tell him that when she began to speak he went suddenly deaf, and only a few disjointed sentences got through to his bemused mind. She was saying something about haemorrhage from rupture of the cerebral artery . . . evidence of paralysis affecting the left side of the body,. . reflexes inactive.

"I see," Ismi said when she paused. "But is he bad? Will he die?"

She saw at once that he hadn't understood what she had said, and that he was frightened. She tried to make it as easy as she could for him.

No, he wouldn't die, she told him quietly, but he might be paralysed; unable to walk again. It was too early to say-just vet; later they would know for certain.

"He won't like it," Ismi said miserably. "He is not a patient boy." He fidgeted with his battered felt hat. "You'll do what you can for him? I don't mind the expense. I've saved-"

"You can see him for a few minutes," she said, feeling an unexpected sorrow for him. "Say nothing to worry him. He must be kept very quiet."

Ismi found Max lying in bed in a small, neat room, his head and shoulders slightly raised. The old man scarcely recognized his son. The left side of Max's face was pulled out of shape, giving him a grotesque, frightening appearance. The left corner of his lip was drawn down, and Ismi could see his white teeth set in a perpetual snarl.

Max's eyes burned like two small embers. They fastened on Ismi as he came slowly up to the bed: terrible eyes, full of hatred, fury and viciousness.

By the window was Nurse Hennekey, a tall, dark girl with a curiously flat, expressionless face. She looked up with surprised interest when she saw Ismi come into the room, but she didn't move nor speak.

"They'll do everything they can for you," Ismi said, touching the cold white bedrail a little helplessly. "You'll soon be better. I will come and see you every day."

Max just stared at him, unable to speak, but the brooding look in his eyes did not change, nor did the hatred die out of them.

"I won't stay now," Ismi said, uneasy and afraid. "It is getting late, but I'll come tomorrow."

Max's lips moved as he tried to say something, but no sound came from them.

"You mustn't talk," Ismi said. "They told me you must keep very quiet." He was surprised to feel a tear run down his fleshy cheek. He was remembering Max when he was a little boy. He had had great hopes of him then.

Max's lips moved again. They formed the words "Get out!" but Ismi didn't realize what he was trying to say.

Nurse Hennekey, who was watching, read the words as they were formed by Max's lips and she signalled Ismi to go.

"I'll be back," Ismi promised, touched the tear away with his finger. "Don't worry about anything." He hesitated, added: "Don't worry about money. I have enough. I've saved. . . ."

Nurse Hennekey touched his arm, led him to the door.

"Look after him please, nurse," he said. "He's my son."

She nodded briefly, looked away so he couldn't see her little frown of distaste. She felt there was something horrible about Max; hated him for no reason at all; had a creepy sensation when she touched him.

Ismi walked slowly along the corridor with its double line of doors on each side of him. On each door was a small nameplate, and Ismi paused to read one of them. Then he turned back to satisfy himself that Max was receiving similar treatment. He wanted his son to have the best of everything. Yes, there was his son's name printed on the plate. How quick and efficient these people were, he thought. The boy hadn't been in the hospital more than a few hours and they had his name already on the door.

He heard footsteps, and glancing round saw a tall young fellow and a pretty girl coming along the corridor. They paused at a door opposite, knocked softly and waited.

Ismi liked the look of them, and he continued to watch until they entered the room and closed the door behind them. Curious, he went over to read the nameplate, and when he saw the name he started back with a shudder as if he had trodden on a snake.

Veda and Magarth stood looking down at Carol as she lay, white and unconscious, in the hospital bed. The resident doctor, Dr. Cantor, had his fingers on her pulse.

"I hope I did right in sending for you," he was saying to Magarth. "I've read about Miss Blandish, of course, and when we found out who she was, I remembered you had been appointed her business executive and thought I'd better put a call through to you right away."

Magarth nodded.

"She's pretty bad, isn't she?"

"I would have said her case was hopeless," Cantor returned, "but by the luckiest chance Dr. Kraplien, the greatest brain specialist in the country, visiting us at the moment, and he has decided to operate. He thinks he can save her."

Veda gripped Magarth's hand.

"Dr. Kraplien doesn't think any serious damage has been done to the brain," Dr. Cantor went on. "The fracture is severe, of course, but we believe the brain itself is uninjured. There is pressure there, due probably to the injury she received in the truck accident. If the operation is successful, the patient's memory will be restored." Dr. Cantor gave Magarth a significant glance. "That will mean she will have no knowledge at all of what has happened to her since the truck accident occurred."

Magarth looked startled.

"You mean she won't even remember me?" he asked.

"She'll remember no one nor any event that happened after the truck accident," Dr. Cantor said. "Dr. Kraplien has taken a great interest in the case. He has spoken to Dr. Travers of the Glenview Mental Sanatorium, and has gone into Miss Blandish's case history with him. He thinks her condition may be entirely due to cerebral compression, and that he may be able to cure her of these fits of violence."

"I do hope he does. She's been through so much," Veda said, and bent and kissed Carol's still white face. "But is it possible?"

Cantor lifted his shoulders. It was rather obvious that he wasn't optimistic.

"The operation will be in less than half an hour now," he said. "Perhaps, when you have seen the police, you'll come back? I should have news for you."

Many odd visitors have come to Santo Rio at one time or another. Old Joe, who sells newspapers at the entrance to the railway station, has seen them all. Old Joe is an authority on the visitors to Santo Rio. He remembers the old lady with the three Persian cats walking sedately behind her, the pretty actress who arrived very drunk and hit a red-cap over the head with a bottle of gin. He remembers the rich and the sly, the innocent and the evil, but he will tell you that the most extraordinary visitor of them all was Miss Lolly Meadows.

Miss Lolly arrived at Santo Rio on the same train that brought Veda and Magarth to this pacific coast town. It had taken considerable courage for Miss Lolly to have made the journey, but make it she did.

Ever since Carol had visited her, and she had shown Carol the photograph of Linda Lee, Miss Lolly had been uneasy in her conscience. She felt it was disgraceful that she had allowed a young girl like Carol to go off on her own to tackle two such dangerous brutes as the Sullivans. Carol wanted to avenge herself on them, but so did Miss Lolly. Then why had Miss Lolly let her go off by herself ? Why hadn't she, at least, offered to go with her ?

After three or four days of this kind of thinking Miss Lolly had decided to go to Santo Rio and see if she could find Carol. The decision was made not without a great deal of misgivings and fear, for it was many years since Miss Lolly had travelled in a train, had mixed with strangers and had felt curious, morbid eyes staring at her.

Old Joe will tell you that he saw Miss Lolly as she came out of the railway station in her black shabby dress that she had worn last some twenty years ago and on her head a vast black hat trimmed with artificial cherries and grapes. The close-trimmed beard, of course, completed the picture and startled Old Joe half out of his senses.

Miss Lolly stood close to Old Joe and surveyed the teeming traffic, the pushing crowds, the languid and scantily dressed young women in their beach suits, and was horrified.

Old Joe had a kind nature, and although a little embarra.s.sed to be seen talking to such an odd freak, he asked her if he could help her in any way, and Miss Lolly, recognizing kindness in his face, told him she had come to find Carol Blandish.

For a moment or so Old Joe eyed her doubtfully. He decided she was crazy but harmless, and without a word he handed her the midday newspaper, pointed to the paragraph that told of the finding of the famous heiress unconscious in her car outside the Santo Rio Memorial Hospital, and that an operation was to be performed on her immediately.

Miss Lolly had scarcely time to absorb this item of news when, looking up, she saw, walking on the other side of the street, the limping figure of Ismi Geza.

Miss Lolly recognized Ismi immediately although she hadn't seen him for more than fifteen years. She realized at once that where Ismi was, Max was most likely to be, and thanking Old Joe for his kindness, she hurried after Ismi, overtook him easily enough, touched his arm.

Ismi stared at her for several seconds before clasping her hand. This meeting between the bearded lady and the circus clown practically disorganized the traffic and caused a vast crowd to collect; and realizing the sensation they were causing, Ismi hurriedly hailed a taxi, pushed Miss Lolly in and bundled himself in beside her.

The crowd raised a cheer as the taxi drove away.

Max lay in his bed, his cruel twisted mind a torment of pain and frustrated fury. That this could have happened to him, he thought. To be struck down; to be helpless; paralysed for life. And Carol Blandish was responsible! It was she who had killed Frank! She who had taken their money! She who had turned him into a helpless cripple! He snarled to himself as he realized that he could do nothing to her now. She was out of his reach.

For the past eight hours he had remained motionless, his eyes closed, thinking of Carol. He had been aware of the nurse as she moved about the room, but he had refused to open his eyes or to show any sign of life. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts; to create in his mind a revenge that would satisfy him, but every horrible, outrageous act he conceived to inflict on Carol was not bad enough to please him.

He heard the door open, and looking between his eyelashes he saw another nurse come in; and he-guessed rightly she was the night nurse.

He heard Nurse Hennekey say: "Thank heaven you've come. This dreadful little man has been giving me the creeps."

"Is he asleep?" the other nurse asked, and giggled.

"Yes," Nurse Hennekey returned. "He's been asleep for hours. That's the only good thing about him. But even to look at him gives me the horrors."

Max felt rather than saw the other nurse draw near. His hard, twisted face remained expressionless, but he listened intently.

"He won't give me the horrors," the other nurse said firmly. "Although he isn't exactly an oil-painting."

"You wait until you see his eyes," Nurse Hennekey said. "You'll change your mind about him then. I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't murdered someone. I've never seen such hateful and vicious eyes. You should have seen how he looked at his poor old father."

"You'll make me burst into tears in a moment," the other nurse, Bradford by name, returned with a laugh. "But tell me about the other patient. Is it true? Is she really Carol Blandish?"

It was only by exerting a tremendous effort that Max did not betray that he was listening. Under the cover of the blanket his right hand closed into a fist.

"Yes. The heiress. She's lovely to look at. I've never seen such marvellous hair," Nurse Hennekey said. "Her case papers are in her room. You'd better have a look at them. Dr. Cantor will be around during the night. The operation was successful. They say Dr. Kraplien was magnificent. It means she'll be normal again. The operation took five hours. I wish I'd seen it, but I had to look after this thing," and she waved to the still, silent Max.

"I'll go and look at her now," Nurse Bradford said. "You get off, and don't be late in the morning."

The two nurses left the room, and Max opened his eyes. He listened intently, heard a murmur of voices outside, heard a door open and Nurse Bradford say, "Isn't she lovely!"

So Carol Blandish was opposite: within a few yards of him, Max thought, and a little red spark of murder lit up in his brain. If only he could move! If only he could get at her! His lips came off his teeth in a snarl. But the nurse . . . he would have to settle the nurse first.

What was he thinking of? He was already making plans as if he could carry them out. Perhaps he could carry them out. He tried to raise himself on his right arm, but the left side of his body, dead and cold, was too heavy. He tried again, exerting all his strength, succeeded in rolling over on his left side. From that position he could look down on to the floor. If he let himself fall, he might be able to drag himself to the door. He rolled back again as the door opened and Nurse Bradford came in.

She was young with corn-coloured hair, and big, rather stupid blue eyes.

"Oh, you're awake," she said brightly. "I'm the night nurse. I'm going to make you comfortable."

Max closed his eyes in case she should see intended murder in them.

"Let me straighten the bed," she went on cheerfully.

He was going to do it, Max told himself. With this nurse out of the way, he would get at Carol Blandish if it killed him. But first, the nurse. . . .

As she began to rearrange the blanket and sheet, Max lifted his right hand, beckoned to her.

"Do you want anything?" she asked, looking at him.

Again he beckoned, tried to speak, and she leaned down, her face close to his to catch the mumbled words.

With a snarl Max grabbed her throat in his right hand, dragged her down, kicked his right leg free from the blanket and hooked it across her struggling body, pinning her to the bed. She was stronger than he expected, and it wasn't easy to keep his grip, which she tore at with both hands.

He hung on, cursing silently, feeling his fingers sliding off her smooth throat as she scratched and pulled at his hand. "She's going to get away," he thought frantically. "She'll scream!" Her terrified eyes stared into his; her cap had fallen off in the struggle and her corn-coloured hair fell about her shoulders. He would have to do something quickly. She was nearly free. He released his grip, tore his hand free, and raising his clenched list smashed it down on her upturned face as if he were hammering a nail into wood.

Stunned now, she could only struggle feebly, and once again his fingers fastened on her throat. Then his shoulders seemed to grow lumpy and sweat ran down his twisted face. The nurse's face turned blue and her eyes protruded, blind. Still cursing, Max exerted all his strength. The nurse's slender body writhed. One hand began to beat on the bed mechanically, without force.

Max closed his eyes and strained. The nurse's hand suddenly stopped beating, opened and closed and opened again, hung limp. There was a m.u.f.fled crack, almost immediately followed by a sharper one, and he let the nurse slide from the bed to the floor.

Max lay still; his breath came in great shuddering gasps. The struggle had been almost too much for him, and he realized, in alarm and rage, how weak he had become. But the red spark of murder that burned in his brain urged him on. There was no time to lose. Someone might come in: you never knew who was coming in when you were a prisoner in a hospital. If he was to finish Carol, he must act at once. But he made no move in spite of the urgency. He felt as if he were suffocating, and blood pounded in his head, turning him sick and dizzy.

So he waited, his right fist clenched, his nails digging into his sweating palm until his breathing became easier. As new strength began to creep back into his twisted body he heard someone coming down the pa.s.sage and his heart began to b.u.mp like a disturbed pendulum against his side. But the footfalls pa.s.sed, died away.

It was an almost impossible task he had set himself, he thought. He would have to crawl across the pa.s.sage, and anyone pa.s.sing would immediately see him and raise the alarm. If only he had a gun! No one would stop him if he had a gun!

But he refused to give up. It was too late to give up, anyway. He would go through with it.

He threw off the blanket, slowly worked himself to the edge of the bed. Looking down, he stared into the dead face of the nurse, and he drew back his lips in a grimace. She looked hideous. The mottled blue of her complexion clashed horribly with her corn-coloured hair.

Slowly, he leaned out of bed until his right hand touched the floor, then he let his body slide off the bed, and he checked his progress with his hand. But as his heavy, dead leg began to move there was nothing he could do to control it, and suddenly he felt himself falling and thudded on to the floor, the breath driven out of his body and pain surging over him like a white-hot wave, drowning him in a sea of darkness.

He had no idea how long he remained on the floor, but gradually he recovered consciousness to find his head resting on the nurse's hair, his right arm across her body. He rolled away from her, shuddering, began to drag himself across the smooth polished floor towards the door.

To his surprise he found that he made quick progress in spite of having to drag his left arm and leg, which had no feeling in them. He reached the door, stretched up and turned the handle, pulled the door open a few inches, then paused to rest. He was feeling bad now. The blood pounding in his head threatened to burst a blood-vessel and his breathing made a loud snoring noise at the back of his throat. Again he waited, knowing that if he went out into the pa.s.sage someone would be certain to hear him.

And while he waited his brain slowly became inflamed with vicious fury at the thought of being so close to Carol, and, in a little while, of being able to lay his hands on her.

As he was about to move again he heard someone coming, and he quickly pushed the door to and waited, trying to hold his breath, snarling at the possibility of discovery.

He heard something going outside, and cautiously he pulled the door open an inch or so and glanced out.

A nurse was standing opposite him. She was taking a number of bed sheets from a cupboard. She was a tall, good-looking girl and she hummed softly under her breath. For no reason at all Max stared at the long ladder in her stocking. It was the only thing about her that held his attention. With a pile of sheets in her arms, she closed the cupboard door with her foot, walked quickly away down the corridor.

Max felt sweat running down Iris face. It was as if his face was a sponge full of water, and he could feel the sweat in his hair. He looked across the corridor at the opposite door, tried to read the nameplate, but the printing was too small. There were two other doors a little farther up the corridor, and he wondered with sudden panic in which room Carol lay.

He would have no time to crawl up and down the corridor, for he moved too slowly. He would have to go straight into the room opposite and chance to luck that she was in there. He placed his ear to the floor and listened. The vast building seemed for that moment to be stilled, then the soft whirring sound of the express elevators as they raced between the floors came to him; but no other sound.

Drawing a deep breath, he pushed open the door and crawled into the pa.s.sage.

"If you saw him now," Ismi said, "you wouldn't worry like this. I know he hasn't been a good boy, but now. . ." He broke off, shook his head sadly.

Miss Lolly continued to pace up and down, her hands clasped, her gaunt face set.

These two were in the shabby little hotel room which Ismi had taken to be near Max. They had been together now for more than six hours, and they had talked of Max practically without ceasing.

"I know him better than you do," Miss Lolly said. "He is your son. You have a father's feeling towards him. You try to excuse him." Her hand touched her shorn beard. "He is evil. . . bad. So was Frank."