1948 - The Flesh of the Orchid by James Hadley Chase

Author:James Hadley Chase [Chase, James Hadley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

Sherill was blundering down the hot road when the dog passed him and he stood staring after the dog, the blood draining out of his face. He knew then that Carol had escaped and there was nothing he could do to recapture her.

He stood for some moments, unable to think. If she ain’t here when we get back, you best not be here either, Max had said. The Sullivans didn’t make idle threats. Slowly he turned and walked back to the old plantation house, pushed open the wooden gate, walked stiffly up the garden path.

Miss Lolly sat in the basket chair, a wooden, frightened expression on her face. She looked at him out of the comer of her eyes, but he said nothing, walked past her into the house. He was inside some time, but Miss Lolly continued to sit in the sun, waiting. She had no regrets. She felt that in releasing Carol she had, in some way, justified her own tragic life.

Sherill came out on to the verandah. He was wearing a grey and black check suit, Mexican boots and a big white Stetson. Miss Lolly remembered that hat when, years ago, Sherill had joined the circus and it had attracted her attention: remembering how young and dashing he had looked, wearing it. But now, his face white and puffy, there wasn’t any resemblance left of the young man who had fluttered her heart.

Sherill dumped down the two bags, walked down the wooden steps, then paused.

“You best pack up,” he said without looking at her. “We’ve gotta get out,” and he went on down the path, round the house to the barn. He moved slowly as if his boots were too tight.

Miss Lolly continued to sit in the basket chair. Her fingers fumbled at her beard, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

On the upper landing of the house the grandfather clock chimed the half-hour. The clock had been in Miss Lolly’s spacious caravan throughout her circus career. All the other furniture in the house—what there was of it—belonged to her, and each piece was a memory in her life.

A large red and black butterfly fishtailed in and landed on the verandah rail, close to Miss Lolly. She looked at it, watched it move its wings slowly up and down and then take off, flying through the motionless hot scented air.

The butterfly reminded her of Carol. “Beauty should not be imprisoned,” she thought. “I did right: I know I did right.”

Sherill drove round to the front of the house in a big Ford truck. He cut the engine, got out, came up the steps.

“You’ll have to help,” he said, still not looking at Miss Lolly. “We can take most everything in the truck.”

“I’m going to stay,” Miss Lolly said quietly. “This is my home.”

“I know,” Sherill said roughly. “Well, you’ve smashed it up for us now. Come on, don’t talk a lot of drivel. We’ve got to get out . . . you know those boys. .

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