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 brass doorhandle, turned it and pulled. The door opened. For a moment she stood staring into the dingy passage, 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, reassuring 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 shiny 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.
‘Hello, Dad,’ Frank said, and kicked the door shut.
Old Humphrey crouched over the fire. His wizened, dirty old face twitched with fright; his thin, filthy hand gripped the handle of the frying-pan that hissed on the fire until his knuckles showed white under the grime.
Max leaned against the mantelpiece, lit a cigarette. The light of the match reflected in his eyes: they were like glittering pieces of glass: black and expressionless.
‘You talk to him,’ he said to Frank.
Frank sat down on an upturned box close to Old Humphrey, took off his hat to comb his hair. He smiled, and the smile struck a chill into Old Humphrey’s palpitating heart.
‘We’re looking for a guy,’ Frank said. ‘A guy who’s sick. What happened to him?’
‘I don’t know nothing about any sick guys,’ Old Humphrey whined. ‘I just want to be left alone.’
Max moved restlessly, but Frank still smiled.
‘Come on, Dad,’ he said softly. ‘You know all about it. We mean business. Don’t make it hard for yourself. What was he to you?’
Old Humphrey didn’t say anything. He lifted his shoulders as if he expected a blow, brooded down at the mess in the frying-pan, his eyes sightless with fear.
Frank kicked his ankle gently.
‘Come on, Dad,’ he said. There was a genial note in his voice. ‘What happened to the sick guy?’
‘I ain’t seen a sick guy,’ Old Humphrey said. ‘I mind my own business.’
Max suddenly snatched the frying-pan out of the old man’s hand and threw it across the room.
Frank giggled.
‘What happened to the sick guy?’ he asked again.
Old Humphrey stared at the frying-pan lying in the corner, at the food that dripped down the wooden wall on to the floor, and he clawed at his beard.
‘The newspaper man took him away,’ he said shrilly. ‘That’s all I know.’
‘What newspaper man?’ Max said.
‘Magarth,’ Old Humphrey mumbled. ‘He’s worried me before. Everyone worries me. Why can’t they leave me alone?’
Frank stood up.
‘No one will worry you any more,’ he said softly, stepped to the door.
Old Humphrey turned, sliding his broken boots over the dirty floor, clutching at his ragged overcoat.
‘Close your eyes,’ Max said. ‘We don’t want you to see us leave.’
‘I won’t look, mister,’ Old Humphrey said.
‘Close your eyes,’ Max repeated softly.
The grimy, wrinkled eyelids dropped: like two shutters of an untenanted house.
Max slipped his gun from the shoulder holster, touched Old Humphrey’s forehead lightly with the barrel, squeezed the trigger.
Half-way down the broad stairs, on the landing leading to the final flight of stairs, stood an old grandfather clock.
As Carol crept past it gave off a loud whirring sound and began to chime.
For an instant she stood very still and watched herself run out of her body, down the stairs, whirl and run back into her body again. Then she realized it was only the old clock chiming and she leaned against the creaking banister-rail, sick with shock. She went on down the stairs towards the dark hall and the front door that led into the open.
She reached the hall, stood for a moment to listen.
Miss Lolly poured boiling water into a tea-pot. She put a cup and saucer, a bowl of sugar, a jug of milk on the tray.
Carol heard all this, knew exactly what Miss Lolly was doing. In a minute or so Miss Lolly would be coming out into the hall with the tray.
The hall door was ajar and the warmth of the sun-baked garden seeped through the opening, wound like an invisible ribbon around Carol’s limbs.