Part 13 (1/2)
”What's this-a s.n.a.t.c.h?” he asked, took a step away from the post, hooked his thumbs in the piece of cord that was bound tightly round his waist.
”No,” Max said, swung Carol off her feet and carried her up the steps. ”Where's Miss Lolly?”
”Out in the garden somewhere,” Sherill returned, barred the way into the house. ”I'm not handling a s.n.a.t.c.h, Max. That carries the death sentence.”
”This isn't a s.n.a.t.c.h,” Max said shortly. ”Let me put her down and then we'll talk.”
”Not inside,” Sherill said firmly. ”Put her in that chair. This stinks of a s.n.a.t.c.h to me.”
Max laid Carol in the old rotten basket-chair that had stood for years on the porch, exposed to all weathers. It creaked dismally under her weight, and when she tried to sit up Max put his hand over her face and shoved her back so hard the chair tipped up and she sprawled on the dusty planks of the verandah, the chair falling on top of her.
”Keep an eye on her,” Max said to Frank as he came up the steps, then he took Sherill by the arm and walked with him to the end of the verandah.
Frank straightened the chair, lifted Carol, put her in it again.
”Stay quiet, baby,” he said. ”I'm your own special friend. Max doesn't like girls, but I do. I'll see you don't come to any harm.” He took off his hat and ran a small comb through his oily hair, winked at her. Lowering his voice, he went on: ”How would you like to be my girl? We needn't tell Max.”
”Who is she?” Sherill was asking. ”By G.o.d, Max, if you're trying to mix me up in a s.n.a.t.c.h-”
”Pipe down,” Max said, his eyes baleful. ”I'm paying you good dough for us to use this place, aren't I? Well, I'm going to use it. It's not a s.n.a.t.c.h. She's escaped from a mental sanatorium.
We're protecting her from herself. That isn't a s.n.a.t.c.h, is it?”
Sherill s.h.i.+fted his eyes. His bare feet, hard as leather, scratched uneasily on the boards.
”You mean-she's the Blandish girl?”
Max smiled: a cold, ferocious, humourless smile.
”So you've heard about that?”
”Who hasn't? I read the newspapers. What are you doing with her?”
”What do you think? She comes into six million bucks in a week from today; that is if she's not caught. She's going to be grateful, isn't she?”
Sherill glanced back along the verandah.
”Tied like that? d.a.m.ned grateful, I'd say.”
”She's nuts,” Max said patiently. ”She won't remember anything. You treat nuts like animals. So long as you feed 'em, they're grateful.” He drew off his gloves, flexed his sweating fingers. ”We can talk her into anything.”
”I don't think you know much about lunatics,” Sherill said, leaned to spit over the rail. ”Well, it's your funeral. What's it worth to me?”
”You'll get a quarter of whatever we get.”
”That could be too much or nothing at all,” Sherill said uneasily. ”I wish you hadn't brought her here, Max. It'll be unsettling.”
”Aw, shaddap,” Max said, stuffed his gloves in his pocket and stared moodily across the overgrown vista.
Sherill eyed him, lifted his shoulders.
”They say she's dangerous,” he went on. ”Homicidal.”
Max laughed.
”Don't talk soft. You used to perform in a lions' cage. You and Miss Lolly can handle her.”
Sherill's face tightened.
”I don't know if Miss Lolly will want to,” he said. ”She's been acting odd these past days. I guess she's going nuts herself.”
”She was all right when last we were here,” Max said, not interested. ”What's biting her?”
”Nerves, I guess,” Sherill said, shrugging. ”She ain't too easy to live with.”
”To h.e.l.l with her, then,” Max said impatiently. ”Got a room where you can lock this girl up? Somewhere safe?”
”There's a top room. The window's barred. You can have that.”
”O.K, then let's lock her up. I've got to get back to Point Breese.
”Ain't you staying?” Sherill asked, startled.
”I've things to do: a job to finish,” Max said, and for a moment he showed his pointed white teeth. ”I'll be back in a couple of days.”
He walked with Sherill along the verandah.
”Take that tape off,” he said to Frank.
Frank was sitting on the floor at Carol's feet, his head resting on the arm of the chair. There was a smirking, far-away expression in his eyes, but he got up as soon as Max drew near, and picking hold of the corner of the tape he gave it a savage jerk, peeling it off Carol's mouth, sending her head twisting to the right.
She gave a little gasp of pain, sat up, faced the Sullivans.
”O.K., now talk,” Max said. ”Where's Larson? Where did you leave him?”
”I'm not going to tell you,” Carol said, her voice husky. ”I'll never tell you. . . you can do what you like to me.”
Max smiled.
”You'll talk,” he said gently. ”You wait and see.” He turned to Sherill. ”Let's get her upstairs where I can work on her.”
A soft step behind them made them turn quickly. A woman, or rather a figure dressed like a woman, came towards them: a strangely startling, but pathetic-looking, freak. She-for it was a woman in spite of the long beard-was dressed in a dusty black costume that was at least ten years out of fas.h.i.+on; about her naked ankles a worn pair of man's boots, unlaced, flapped when she moved. The lower part of her gaunt white face was hidden behind the luxuriant beard, which grew in soft, silky waves to a point some six inches above her waist.
Although Miss Lolly was now forty-five years of age, there was not one white hair in the beard that, not so long ago, had been morbidly stared at by thousands of people in many parts of the world as she sat in her little booth in the travelling circus that had been her home for most of her lonely life.
As she walked hesitatingly towards them her eyes, which must surely have been the saddest eyes in the world, fixed themselves on Carol.
There was a sudden tense silence, then the drowsy autumn afternoon reverberated with Carol's scream.
Frank giggled.