Part 24 (2/2)

Then be dropped the orchid into the gutter, got into the car and trod on the starter. But lie did not engage the gear. He sat staring through the winds.h.i.+eld, his eyes still thoughtful. He didn't like mysteries: not that you could call this a mystery, but it was odd. At one time he and Frank used to hang two little black crows made of wool on the door-knockers of then intended victims. Once or twice it saved them trouble, as the recipient of the woollen crows had shot himself, but it was a cheap theatrical trick and Max soon put a stop to it. Warning symbols seemed to him to be undignified. Was the scarlet orchid a warning symbol ? he asked himself. If it was, then whoever had dropped it into the car had better watch out. Max didn't appreciate such tricks. He pulled at his thin, pinched nose, got out of the car and picked up the bloom. After a moment's hesitation he stuck it in his b.u.t.tonhole. Then he engaged gear and drove away.

On a hill overlooking Santo Rio's magnificent harbour and bay stood a two-storey pinewood house surrounded by a wilderness of palm and flowering shrubs. It was a forlorn-looking place, weather-beaten, shabby and lonely. On the wooden gate hung a nameplate which read: Kozikot. Max had never bothered to remove the plate, although each time he came to the house he sneered at it.

This wooden structure was his home. He rarely visited it, but it was convenient to have some place where he could keep his few personal possessions and his money. It also afforded a home for his father, Ismi Geza, who was getting to be an old man. Ismi had been a circus clown for thirty of his sixty-five years. He still looked like a clown as he moved slowly along the garden path towards the house. He was bent and bald and sad-looking. His skin was pitted and as rough as sandpaper from the constant application of cheap grease-paint: the uniform of his profession. His left leg dragged a little: the heritage of a stroke which had ended his circus career. There was no likeness to his son in his round, fleshy, sad face, and Ismi wouldn't have wished it.

He was frightened of Max: as he had been frightened of Max's mother. Max had taken after his mother, in looks and in nature. It was not in Ismi to be cruel. He was a simple, peace-loving creature and only at ease when he was alone.

As he was about to enter the house he heard a car coming up the by-road, and he paused, looked over his shoulder, his eyes uneasy. No car had been up this lonely road for three months or more, and the sound startled him.

The black Packard Clipper pulled up outside the gate and Max climbed out. He stood with his hands in his overcoat pockets, his hat tilted over his nose and the scarlet orchid in his b.u.t.tonhole. There was an air of purpose and menace about him, and Ismi watched him intently. He lived in dread of these visits, when Max appeared without warning; not knowing what was going to happen, how Max would treat him.

Max stared at the nameplate on the gate for a moment or so, then with a slight shrug pushed the gate open and walked up the garden path.

Ismi immediately noticed the orchid, and he stared at it, feeling that something was wrong, that something unpleasant was about to happen to upset the quiet and uneventful flow of his life. Max had never before worn a flower in his b.u.t.tonhole. Surely, the old man thought, something had happened to make his son wear a flower.

Father and son eyed each other as Max arrived at the bottom of the steps leading to the house.

”Frank's dead,” Max said briefly. ”He was run over by a truck.”

Although Ismi had hated Frank, he was shocked. He was too close to death himself to hear it spoken of without a twinge of apprehension.

”I hope he didn't suffer,” was all he could think of to say.

”The truck smashed his chest and it took him two hours to croak,” Max returned, sniffed at the orchid. ”You can draw your own conclusions.”

It then dawned on the old man what Frank's death could mean.

”Will this be the end of it all?” he asked eagerly. He knew Max and Frank were the Sullivan brothers. It had amused Max to tell him, to describe the various murders they had committed, to watch the old man's politely controlled horror.

”Yes,” Max said. ”I have his money now as well as my own. It was agreed that if one of us died, the one left should take over the other's money. I'm rich.”

Ismi rubbed his bald head nervously.

”Will it make any difference to me?”

”I don't know,” Max returned indifferently. ”I have had no time to think of you. I'll come to your little problems later.” He came up the steps, stood opposite the old man. They were the same height, even though Ismi was bent. ”I'm going into business,” he went on. ”If I can find anything for you to do, you can have the job. If not, you can stay here. Do you want to stay here?”

”I like it here,” Ismi said, nodding, ”bat, of course, if I can be useful to you . . .”

Max leaned against the wooden post of the verandah.

”You're getting senile,” he said softly. ”Your brain's dull. Doesn't it surprise you that Frank of all people should get himself run over by a truck?”

Ismi considered this, saw at once that he should have been surprised; was dismayed to realize that what Max had said was true. He was getting senile; his brain was dull.

”I hadn't thought,” he said, looking at Max furtively. ”Yes, something must have happened.”

Max told him about Roy Larson, how they had had to kill Steve to silence him; how Carol had blinded Frank, had tracked him to Santo Rio and had engineered his death.

Ismi stood silent and still in the hot suns.h.i.+ne, his eyes on the ground, his veined hands folded, and listened.

Max spoke briefly and softly.

”Frank's last words were to warn me that I should be next,” he concluded. ”She is here: in town. What do you think of it?”

”I wish you hadn't told me,” Ismi said, and walked into the house.

Max pursed his thin lips, shrugged, returned to the car. He collected his two suitcases and entered the house, went up the dusty carpeted stairs to his room, kicked open the door and set down the bags.

It was a big room, spa.r.s.ely furnished, and with a view of the distant harbour. There was an unlived-in, bleak atmosphere in the room that might have affected anyone but Max: such things meant nothing to him.

He stood for a moment listening at the door, then he shut and locked it. He crossed the room to a big old-fas.h.i.+oned wardrobe, opened it and slid back a panel in the floor. From this cunningly concealed locker he pulled out two leather briefcases. For the next half-hour he was busily counting stacks of five-and ten-dollar bills: each stack tied and labelled, each containing a hundred notes. When he was through, he returned the money to its hiding-place and shut the wardrobe. He was rich, he told himself; he was free to do what he liked, and although his face remained expressionless, his eyes lit up with suppressed excitement.

As he was going downstairs he heard the telephone ring, and he paused, listening to his father's voice as he answered.

Ismi came into the pa.s.sage after a moment or so, looked up at Max as he stood on the stairs.

”They're calling about Frank's funeral,” he said, an odd look in his eyes. ”Perhaps you'd better speak to them.”

”They? Who?” Max snapped impatiently.

”The mortician. It's something to do with flowers.”

”I'm not interested,” Max returned, and came down the stairs. ”Tell them to shove him away as they think best. I don't want to be bothered. I gave them money. What else do they want?”

”They say a lot of flowers have been delivered, and do you want them put on the grave?” Ismi said without looking at his son.

Max's eyes grew thoughtful.

”What kind of flowers?” he asked, his voice soft.

”Orchids . . . scarlet orchids. They say they didn't think they were very suitable for a funeral.”

Max took his cigarette from his lips, regarded the glowing end for a moment. He knew his father had something else to say; and he could tell by his face that he was scared to say it.

”Go on,” he said sharply.

”They said there was a card with the flowers,” Ismi muttered, and again stopped dead.

”And what was on the card?” Max asked.

” 'From Carol Blandish and Steve Larson',” Ismi returned.

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