Free The Flesh of The Orchid by James Hadley Chase

him.
    “What goes on in this town?” he asked, sipped his lemonade, stared at the barman with dead eyes. “Tell us the news. We’re strangers here.”
    “Right now there’s plenty of excitement in town,” the barman said, quite eager to talk about the topic of the hour. “We’ll be on the front page of every newspaper in the country tomorrow. I’ve just heard it from a newspaper reporter.”
    “How come?” Max asked, raising his eyebrows.
    “A mental patient escaped from Glenview Sanatorium,” the barman explained. “It’s only just leaked out she’s the heiress to six million bucks.”
    “And where’s Glenview Sanatorium?” Max asked.
    “Up the hill; five miles from here on the Oakville road,” the barman told him. “This dame got a ride in a truck as far as here. They found the wrecked truck a mile or so up the road. They reckon she killed the driver.”
    “But did they find her?” Frank asked, sipped his lemonade, then blotted his lips with the back of his glove.
    “I guess not. They’re still looking for her. We had the cops in here this morning. I’ve never seen so many cops.”
    Max’s eyes flickered.
    “How come a nut has all that dough?”
    “She got it from John Blandish, the meat king. Maybe you remember the Blandish kidnapping? She’s his grand-daughter.”
    “I remember,” Frank said. “Must be twenty years ago.”
    “That’s right,” the barman said. “The kidnapper was the father. He was crazy in the head—so’s the daughter. If they don’t find her in fourteen days they won’t be able to take her back. That’s the law of the State. Then she’ll come into the dough and no one can control it. That’s why there’s all this uproar.”
    The Sullivans finished their lemonade.
    “She’s a real nut—dangerous?” Max asked.
    The barman nodded his head vigorously.
    “You bet . . .  a killer.”
    “Just in case we run into her, how does she look?”
    “They say she’s a redhead and a peach to look at. She’s got a scar on her left wrist.”
    “We’ll know her,” Frank said. He put down a dollar bill on the counter. “Would there be a fox farm around here some place?” he went on casually.
    The barman gave him change.
    “Sure; Larson’s Silver Fox farm up on Blue Mountain Summit.”
    “Far?”
    “Best part of twenty miles.”
    Max looked at his watch. It was 9.30 p.m.
    “We’re interested in foxes,” he said carefully. “We thought we might look ‘em over. Is he in the market?”
    “I guess so,” the barman said, surprised. These two didn’t look like fur men.
     
    They nodded, turned to the door, turned back again.
    “Is this fella up there alone?” Max asked softly.
    “You mean does he run the farm alone? Sure, but there’s a guy staying with him now. I saw them go through a week ago.”
    The Sullivans’ faces were wooden.
    “So long,” Frank said, and together they walked out of the bar to the Packard Clipper.
    Phil Magarth, lounging against a tree, watched them drive away. He pulled his long nose thoughtfully, tilted his hat further to the back of his head and wandered into the bar they had just left.
    “Hi, Tom,” he said, dragging up a stool and folding himself down on it wearily. “Let’s start a famine in whisky.”
    “Hello, Mr. Magarth,” the barman said, grinning. “Any more news of the nut?”
    “Not a sound,” Magarth returned, helping himself from the black bottle the barman had set before him.
    “I was telling those two guys about your story. Did you see them? Two guys in black.”
    “Yeah.”
    The barman hesitated, scratched his head.
    “Nasty-looking couple; said they were ha furs.”
    “Did they?” Magarth looked interested. “Don’t look like fur men, do they? I’ve seen ‘em before. In fact I’ve seen them three times over a period of a couple of years, and each time a guy died suddenly and violently. Make anything of that?”
    The barman stared at him.
    “What do you mean, Mr. Magarth?”
    “I don’t