Part 14 (1/2)

Frank leaned across Max, stared at Sherill with intent eyes.

”Watch her, Tex,” he said. ”I like that dame . . . I wouldn't like to lose the opportunity. I've got ideas about her.”

”Get on,” Max snarled. ”You have too many ideas about too many women.”

”That's not possible,” Frank said, giggled, drove recklessly down the sandy, rutted by-road.

Miss Lolly crept up the stairs, entered her small neat bedroom. She was trembling and had to sit on the bed until her legs felt strong enough to carry her to the dressing-table. She spent some minutes brus.h.i.+ng her hair and beard. Then she put on stockings and shoes. She found a clothes-brush and carefully brushed the dust from her aging black costume.

When she came out of her room, Sherill was standing at the head of the stairs.

”What do you think you're doing?” he asked harshly.

”I'm going to see her,” Miss Lolly said firmly. ”She wants a woman's care.”

”You don't call yourself a woman, do you, you old scarecrow?” Sherill snarled. ”You'll only frighten her.”

Miss Lolly flinched.

”I'm going to see her,” she repeated, and began to move towards the next flight of stairs.

”Well, see her, then,” Sherill returned, ”but no nonsense. You heard what Max said.”

”Oh, I wouldn't interfere,” Miss Lolly said hastily. ”I only want to say a kind word . . . if the poor thing's crazy in the head, like they say, a kind word will help her.”

Sherill took a key from his pocket, handed it to Miss Lolly.

”Lock her in when you're through,” he said shortly. ”I've got to get back to work,” and he went down the stairs, his feet making a flat, slapping noise on the bare boards.

A moment or so later, with quickly beating heart, Miss Lolly unlocked the door of Carol's room, entered.

It was a small bare room and hot from the sun that baked down on the sheet-iron roof. The window that looked out on to the so-called orchard had two rusty iron bars cemented into its frame. The floorboards were dusty and bare. The only furniture in the room was a truckle bed, an old rocking-chair, a wash-stand and a tin bowl full of water on which floated a fine film of dust.

Carol lay on the bed, her hands at her sides, her legs straight, like an effigy on an ancient tomb. Her eyes were like holes cut in a sheet and as expressionless.

Although she heard the lock turn and the handle creak she did not look in the direction of the door. She looked straight in front of her at a cobweb that festooned the opposite wall and that moved gently in the draught. But she cringed inside at the sound, and without being able to help herself, her mouth formed into a soundless scream.

”It's only me,” Miss Lolly said, standing shyly in the doorway. ”It's Miss Lolly . . .”

Carol s.h.i.+vered, turned her head very slowly, saw the poor freak standing there, embarra.s.sed, nervous, her sad eyes blinking back sympathetic tears, her bony fingers fluttering in her beard.

”Please go away,” Carol said, and began to cry helplessly, hiding her face in her hands.

Miss Lolly paused to look back down the stairway and to listen. The old house was silent. Somewhere in the garden she could hear Sherill sawing wood; more distant still came a sudden sharp bark of a dog.

”I didn't mean to frighten you, my dear,” Miss Lolly said, added wistfully: ”I'm human, really. I used to be in the circus with them . . . . Max and Frank.”

”I'm not frightened of you,” Carol said. ”It's only . . . I must be left alone . . . just for a little while. . . .”

”Perhaps you'd like some coffee . . . or tea?” Miss Lolly asked. ”I'm so sorry for you ,. we girls . . . it's the men, really, isn't it ? We are always sacrificing ourselves for the men. I've had my lovers . . . you mightn't think so . . . they shouldn't have brought you here . . . a nice girl like you . . . .”

Carol suddenly sat up.

”Who are you?” she cried. ”What do you want with me?”

Miss Lolly blinked, stepped back.

”I'm Miss Lolly . . . you're too young to have heard of me. I'm Lolly Meadows . . . the famous bearded lady. I'm an artist, really . . . you have to be an artist to bear the cross I have to bear. I don't want anything of you . . . I only want to be kind. I know what kindness is; not that I've had much of it myself. When I heard you scream . . . saw how lovely you were . . . I thought I'd see if I could help you. There's not much I can do, but we girls . . . if we can't help each other in our troubles . . .”

Carol dropped back flat on the bed.

”I told them where he was,” she moaned. ”I thought nothing could make me tell, but I hadn't the courage . . . I told them and they've gone after him . . . and I love him so.”

Miss Lolly came nearer.

”You mustn't excite yourself,” she said. ”I heard them . . . they said they didn't expect to find him. I'll get you a cup of tea.”

”Help me get away from here,” Carol cried, sitting up. ”Please help me to get away. Don't let them keep me here. I must get back to Steve. They shot him. I left him in a wood, and they're going there to finish him.”

Miss Lolly's eyes showed her shocked fear.

”Oh, I never interfere,” she said quickly. ”I want to make your stay comfortable. I want to do what I can for you, but I don't meddle. I couldn't help you to leave here . . . that would be meddling.”

”I'm sure you understand,” Carol said. ”You said just now you had lovers. You must know what it means when you love someone and he needs you. I told them where to find him. I tried not to.” She buried her face in her hands. ”Oh, you don't know what they did to me.”

Miss Lolly dabbed her eyes.

”Oh, you poor thing,” she said. ”I'd like to help you. I didn't know . . . do you love him so much?” She glanced over her shoulder. ”But I mustn't stay here talking . . . I'll get you some tea. You'll feel better after a cup of tea . . . it's a long walk to the main road,” she went on for no apparent reason. ”There'll be money on the hall-stand . . .” and she went out, closed the door and ran down the stairs.

Carol remained motionless, staring at the door. Then her heart gave a sudden lurch. She hadn't heard Miss Lolly turn the key. Very slowly she got off the bed. Her legs felt weak, and the distance between the bed and the door seemed to lengthen as she struggled across the bare boards. She touched the bra.s.s doorhandle, turned it and pulled. The door opened. For a moment she stood staring into the dingy pa.s.sage, scarcely believing that the way was open for her escape.

She crept out on to the landing, looked down the staircase well into the dark hall three flights below. She could hear someone sawing wood in the garden and the rattle of crockery in the kitchen. They were homely, rea.s.suring sounds in a nightmare of terror.

She moved to the head of the staircase, and holding her breath, her heart thudding against her side, she began a silent descent.

There lived in one of the ruined shacks of the abandoned logging camp on Blue Mountain Summit an old man who was known as Old Humphrey: a half-witted old fellow, very poor and dirty, and who had a remarkable power over birds. He was as timid as a field mouse, and had selected the logging camp for his home since no one ever came to the place. He had been considerably startled when Carol had driven the big s.h.i.+ny Packard into the clearing and had left Larson there while she drove frantically away in search of Doc Fleming.

Old Humphrey had approached Larson with the utmost caution and then had returned to his shack to await developments. He fell asleep while waiting, and awoke with a start when Phil Magarth drove up in his battered Cadillac.

Old Humphrey knew Magarth. Some months ago Magarth had tried to persuade Old Humphrey to give a demonstration of his power over birds, but the old fellow wasn't having any. So when he saw Magarth drive up he thought he had come to worry him again, and it was with relief when he saw Magarth carry the unconscious Larson to the car and drive off again.

Old Humphrey hoped that he had seen the last of these unwelcome visitors, but the following evening, as he sat before his log fire cooking his supper, the door of his shack was pushed open and the Sullivans came in.

The Sullivans hadn't expected to find Steve Larson in the camp clearing: that was too much to hope for. But following their usual method of tracking down their intended victim, they were content to start at the place where their victim had last been.

They had seen smoke coming from Old Humphrey's chimney, had exchanged glances and had walked silently to the ruined little shack.

”h.e.l.lo, Dad,” Frank said, and kicked the door shut.