RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
Fanstastic Adventures, May 1943, with "The Garden of Hell"
The roses of this valley made slaves of all who breathed the
perfume; but the roses were not the only flowers in the valley!
THE booth was by far the most attractive along the line. A Mexican girl stood behind the high-banked roses, her deep brown eyes raised to him questioningly. Jeff Flynn wasn't aware of her at once, so absorbed was he in the lush, blood-red flowers. Then, raising his eyes, he saw for the first time the shapely oval face, full lips, and the long flowing brown hair that framed her features so beautifully.
"I beg your pardon." Flynn's hat came off in a quick gesture of admiration. "I didn't see you. Your roses are superb."
A flush of color spread over her face and the long lashes dropped shyly.
"They are not mine," her voice was low and husky. "This booth belongs to Trujall."
As though answering to the name, another head appeared over the top of the display. Involuntarily Jeff Flynn stepped back a pace. He had opened his lips to compliment the owner of the booth, but no words came. The eyes into which he stared were black as swamp pools. Trujall was an old man. His head was hatless and a thick, black stubble grew from it. The skin of his cheeks stretched tightly over high cheek bones. He was smiling, but the smile was a grimace that showed rotten, toothless gums.
"You like my pretty ones?" The words were sharp and high- pitched.
Flynn controlled himself quickly and a smile lighted his face.
"They're the finest I've ever seen," he confessed.
A claw-like hand swept up and plucked one of the largest blossoms.
"A gift to a rose lover," Trujall's smile was set and vacant. "It is not often an American stops here."
Flynn took the flower, noticing the long, dirt-blackened nails on the hand that offered it.
"Thanks," he said. "I'd like to see your gardens. Are they near here?"
Trujall's smile vanished. He stared straight at Flynn.
"No one visits Tipico," he growled. "It is a far journey."
Taken aback by the unfriendly tone in Trujall's voice, Flynn fumbled for words.
"I'll be around in a few hours to buy some of your roses," he said.
Was it his imagination, or did a fleeting look of fear suddenly darken the girl's face?
"We will be gone within an hour," Trujall answered. "My flowers fade quickly here."
Trujall's ox-cart was drawn up close to the adobe wall behind the booth. It was covered with a coarse cloth, but under the cloth, a half-dozen bulging objects were visible. Flynn's eyes caught a movement there, and as he stared, two long octopus-like tendrils dropped over the side of the rough boards and wrapped tightly around the wheel. They were perhaps two feet long and covered with brown scale.
Flynn stared. What sort of plant was that? The bulge under the cloth moved. Trujall wheeled around, noting the direction of Flynn's gaze. He was across the booth swiftly, grasped the tendrils with both his skinny hands and yanked them from the wheel. They withdrew suddenly and the movement stopped.
Trujall turned, his face hateful.
"You will go at once," his words were a command.
Flynn caught the wide-eyed expression of horror on the girl's face, hesitated, slightly angered by Trujall's attitude, then turned on his heel and crossed the street.
That Mexican girl had been badly frightened. Jeff Flynn, strangely disturbed at the knowledge, made an effort to thrust it from his mind. After all, it was none of his business. But what was it that was in the ox cart that Trujall was so anxious to conceal? Some forbidden plant he was smuggling?
HERBERT ROSS was no fool. Fat and passing the age where
romance held sway over logic, he could appreciate a woman of
Gwenn's ability.
The plane was hovering over Oaxaco when Gwenn turned to talk to him for the first time during the trip down. Gwenn Hamlin, only a few hours divorced from Ross, was pretty in a heady sort of way. Her green eyes, tall slim body and luxurious red hair made men half insane. Herb Ross knew. Gwenn had given him no peace during the two years they lived together. Brainless and brittle was his description of her; the willing plaything of any man who had money.
"Herby," Gwenn said. "Why don't you go home?"
Ross smiled.
"Chicago has a meat packing plant for me to go home to," he answered. "Why should I forsake you for a line of frozen beef?"
She sniffed, but a badly repressed smile flitted over her face. She was secretly flattered that he still pursued her.
"You'll get the cold shoulder down here," Gwenn said warningly. "Besides, Herby, it isn't right."
"What isn't?" he asked shortly.
"Why—when a girl's divorced, she doesn't just go about with her ex-husband. What will Jeff think?"
Ross snorted.
"Jeff Flynn is a good boy," he said. "But Jeff's young and spoiled by money he hasn't any use for. Gwenn, you only like Jeff's money. You'll be tired of each other in a week."
Gwenn's face sobered. She intended to marry Jeff Flynn, and Ross would never keep her from it.
"Look," she said. "I've been square with you..."
He interrupted her with a short laugh.
"You've never been square for a minute," he said quickly. "That's the part you don't understand, Gwenn. I'd have been willing to give you your head if you'd have held to the bridle just enough to impress my friends and business associates."
Gwenn was angry. She turned her head away and hunched her shoulders down into the seat. They were coming down for the landing. Ross fastened his safety strap.
"You want me to act as a front for you," Gwenn said. "I was playing second fiddle to your business."
"In a manner of speaking," he answered, "that's not what I want. I love you, Gwenn, but you won't return my affection. I took the best bargain I could get."
The plane came down smoothly and rolled across the field.
"You've lost me, Ross," Gwenn said. "Jeff will be at the airport. After that, we'll get married and you can pack your bag for the next plane home."
Ross was silent. Waves of blood swept up around his thick neck and colored his cheeks. The plane stopped before the small hangar, and he stood up.
"Flynn is a good kid, but he's got some crazy ideas," he said. "You're not going to marry him, Gwenn. Be sure of that."
She was standing before him, her eyes blazing into his. She stamped her foot impatiently.
"And what can you do to prevent it?"
Ross bent his heavy face close to her.
"I'll kill you if I have to," he said in a hoarse whisper. "But I won't have to. You're going back to Chicago with me."
SPEECHLESS with rage, but frightened by this new Herb Ross,
Gwenn followed him from the plane. A half-dozen passengers had
gathered outside and a dilapidated station wagon stood by the
road. The words Oaxaco Hotel were printed across its
side.
She saw Jeff Flynn, tall and dust-covered, a pipe in his mouth. She went toward him quickly, relieved that he was here to meet her.
Gwenn was less sure of herself than she had been when they last met. Herb might be right after all. Jeff was young and looking for adventure.
Her ex-husband filled her with foreboding over what his next move would be. She had never seen him pursue anything in this manner. He was frightening with his huge body and bullying voice, following her thousands of miles, never letting go the bull-dog grip he had on her past.
She went across the field quickly and into Flynn's arms. His kiss was on her cheek, rather cool she thought. Her ex-husband came up quickly, his hand held toward Flynn.
"Hello, Jeff," Ross' voice was friendly enough. "No doubt you wonder why I winged all the way down here under the circumstances. Well, I couldn't leave Gwenn in a wild country without friends. Acted as her personal bodyguard."
Flynn took the pudgy hand with mixed emotions.
"It does make an odd situation," he looked at Gwenn questioningly. "With your approval?"
Gwenn's face clouded.
"I tried to leave him in Reno," she said. "But I can't choose my flying companions. He's tried to make trouble all the way down."
Flynn clamped the pipe tightly between his teeth and picked up Gwenn's bags. Ross followed them across the dusty, cactus-grown field to the station wagon. He sat with the driver.
They were silent on the way to the hotel, and Flynn's hand drew away as Gwenn's fingers closed over it. He pretended to adjust the pipe, but she noticed that he carefully avoided her contact.
Gwenn was a lonely, shallow woman. The adventure of this new project was gone. There were two men for her, and she felt suddenly as though both of them had seen through her shield of glamor and were tearing her real self apart under steady scrutiny. She wished fervently that she had never seen Jeff Flynn, nor Reno. She wished for Chicago and the big mansion that Ross had kept for her. Gwenn felt tired and old and the mascara started to run on her lashes. The town was hot and airless and she had a dull, painful ache in her head.
Flynn arranged with the sleepy Mexican at the desk for a room for Gwenn opposite his own. Grinning, complacent Herbert Ross took the next room. The three of them climbed the worn stairs together and at his own door, Ross hesitated.
"Good luck, Jeff," he said, "you'll need it."
Before Flynn could reply, he was inside and the door closed with a slam. Flynn tried to smile reassuringly at the girl but it was no good. Away from soft lights and low music, she was a tired woman.
"You'd better rest," he said. "I'll be waiting on the sun porch when you're ready to go out."
ALONE, Flynn took off his clothes and stood under the shower.
The cold water felt good against his dusty skin.
He thought about Gwenn. From the first it had never been right. Gwenn had seen him first at the Chez Paree. They had met on the dance floor and she was alluring and lovely in that setting. They had seen each other for a month, always at night and always in quiet, restful places where lovers talk.
She had waited to tell him of Ross. Waited purposefully, he realized now. A quick divorce had been arranged and they were to meet in Mexico City. Flynn knew now that he had lost any love he might have had for Gwenn.
Flynn left the shower, dried himself quickly and dressed in gray flannels. He went along the hall to the second floor porch and sat down in a cane chair to wait for Gwenn. The sun was warm and the heady sweetness of roses drifted from the flower booths down the street. His head relaxed against the back of the chair and he slept.
HOW long he had been there, his face baking in the sun, Flynn
did not know. When he awakened the sun was slanting low across
the red tile roofs and a slight breeze came from the west. He
rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes and stretched.
Odd that Gwenn hadn't called him. She had plenty of time to bathe, apply new makeup, and look for him. Considering that she was eager to impress him favorably, she would have never willingly remained away from him so long.
A feeling of alarm entered his mind. Herb Ross wasn't a man to give Gwenn up after following her from the States to prevent her from remarrying. Flynn entered the hall with some misgivings and walked toward Gwenn's door. He knocked. It was quiet. He pushed inward. The door opened.
Herbert Ross sat on the single chair, his head lowered on the palms of his hands. He looked up, and his eyes were dull and cold.
"She was dead when I came in," he said.
Flynn went to the bed.
Gwenn's body was stretched out across the sheet, her legs hanging over the side of the bed. Her neck was twisted and thrown back at an odd angle. Her lips were swollen and blue and the eyes stared up at him, glazed and sightless. The skin of her neck was bruised. Her dress was torn.
Plynn wheeled about.
"You fool," he spoke in a low, tense voice. "You damned fool. You didn't have to do this."
Ross arose slowly, steadying himself with one hand on the back of the chair.
His eyes were red and his shoulders slumped forward in despair.
"I didn't kill her, Jeff." His lips quivered. "Honest to God, Jeff, I loved her. I came to plead with her again. She was lying here—like—this..."
Flynn wanted to believe him. The fat man seemed sincere enough, but the evidence was damning. No wild stretch of imagination would put another person in Oaxaco who hated Gwenn.
"You choked her," Flynn said. "No one would ever believe that you didn't."
Ross sat down again, looking away from the body. He tried to gain control of himself.
"I knew you'd say that," he looked Flynn straight in the eye. "That's why I've been sitting here, waiting for Heaven knows what. I couldn't come and tell you."
"When did you find her?" Flynn asked.
Ross was eager to talk.
"It was right after we came up," he said. "I decided to have one last talk with Gwenn. I found the door open and came in. I can't expect you to believe me, Jeff, but it's the truth."
Flynn walked to the window and looked down the street toward the flower show. The carts were gone. The street was dark and deserted.
"Jeff," Ross was close to him, his eyes low. "I want you to see something before you call the police. I—I can't think straight yet."
Flynn turned and Ross walked to the opposite side of the bed. He shuddered, reached out and touched the neckline of the girl's dress.
"Above her heart," he whispered.
Flynn watched as Ross drew the dress away. There was a circular hole in the white flesh over the girl's heart. It was the size of a silver dollar, clean and deep. No blood soiled the flesh around it.
Ross drew the dress up again quickly.
"What did it, Flynn?" he asked in a hushed voice.
Jeff Flynn shook his head. No bullet or instrument that he could imagine would have left the deep bloodless wound he had seen on Gwenn's body.
"I'm damned if I know," he answered slowly.
Flynn put a firm hand on the older man's shoulder.
"I'll do everything I can," he said. "I don't believe now that you killed her. If it helps any, I didn't intend to marry her when I saw how much you cared for her. I was a fool I guess. We'll tell the police that we found her together."
Ross turned and grasped his hand. The grip was warm and grateful.
"Flynn, you're tops. You'll never know how much..."
He stopped talking and bent down over something on the floor. He started to pick it up, a shiver passed through his body and he dropped it again.
Flynn picked up the small object and held it between his fingers. It was about three inches long, fleshy and covered with brown scales. He had seen a thing like that before.
The thing in his hand was the cleanly chopped end of a feeler, like the one he had seen creeping from the wagon of the rose gardener, Trujall.
"We're going to get out of here," he said sharply. "This is a clue I can follow. We'll call the police and leave before they get here."
"But they'll hunt us down and convict both of us," Ross protested. "I can't let you take the rap."
Flynn's eyes were icy.
"They'll lock us up and we'll never have a chance. If we escape now, perhaps we can find the murderer."
"But where—how?"
Flynn looked doubtful.
"I'm not sure," he confessed. "But we're going to visit the valley of Tipico."
"Never heard of it," Ross answered.
"You'll hear a lot from now on," Flynn said grimly. "It's a garden of roses, and I think—a garden of hell."
COUNT AVON BICARDA owned the valley of Tipico; owned the roses
that grew in rank profusion within its warm borders; owned the
souls of the people who straggled from the village each morning
to tend the thorny, green plants on which his roses grew.
Since the Spaniards had come and gone, the Bicarda family had lived within the protected valley of Tipico and their power had not been questioned.
True, in the village there was one small group who kept to themselves. They neither toiled in the gardens nor slaved on the roads. But they were few and they did not trouble the Count.
He stood beside his horse on the hill above Tipico, staring first across the vast sweep of blood-red roses beneath him and then anxiously toward the road that came from Oaxaca.
His dress was the dress of a Spanish nobleman. The flabby, weak face, the dreary eyes confessed weakness of character. A casual onlooker would have thought the Count on a movie set, attired as he was in the silken trousers, long silk stockings and tightly-buttoned white cloak of past centuries.
Closer study might betray the wrinkled stocking and the broken garter that hung at his knee, the torn cuff of his shirt that someone had forgotten to mend. Science would brand Avon Bicarda as mentally unbalanced.
His eyes brightened suddenly and the hand on the bridle tightened with excitement. An ox-cart rolled toward him from over the hill. On the board seat, a young girl and an old man sat side by side. Trujall, the gardener, was returning from Oaxaca.
The Count mounted his horse clumsily and galloped toward them. At the side of the wagon, he stopped and dismounted. Trujall tapped the oxen with his staff and they halted. The girl watched the Count with surprise and distrust.
Ignoring Trujall, Count Avon Bicarda rounded the cart and bowed low before the girl.
"It is a pleasure to welcome Leona, the daughter of Textan, home once more," the Count said. His lips were set in a leer. "Will you allow me to take you to the village?"
Leona Textan's face paled with disgust.
"My father knows not of my journey to Oaxaca," she protested. "I must hurry straight home to him."
A sneer made the Count's face more simple to read.
"You may as well know that you will not return to the town," he hesitated. "Now or ever."
The girl turned to Trujall, her eyes pleading.
"You begged me to brighten your booth," she accused. "It is your duty to see that I am taken home safely."
Trujall'S head came around slowly. His eyes were amused. Planting the heavy butt of his staff in her stomach, he pushed with all his strength. She toppled into Count Bicarda's arms, and a scream of terror escaped her lips. Trujall poked the oxen and the cart rolled away.
Holding her tightly with one arm, the Count called after Trujall and the wagon halted.
"Your task," the Count shouted. "It was again successful?"
For the first time real satisfaction showed in Trujall's eyes. He turned, lifted the cover from the wagon and the Count hurried toward him. Leona Textan dropped to her knees in the dust, tears spilling down her cheeks. The Count glanced hurriedly under the cover and smiled.
"Bigger and stronger," he licked his lips. "You do well, Trujall."
Trujall smiled.
"Thank, you, master," he answered humbly. He turned to the oxen again, to conceal a sneer that was etched on his face.
"Master?" he whispered sneeringly under his breath. "Fool!"
He moved forward along the road into the valley.
Leona was on her feet, running toward the timber that bordered the upper valley. Count Bicarda mounted his horse and galloped after her.
Once she fell, scratched her knee and the blood ran from the wound. Looking back quickly she saw that he was almost upon her. She arose and limped forward, too frightened to call out. She reached the trees and ran in among them.
The man jumped from his horse and pursued her. She could hear his heavy footsteps on the soft earth and knew he was close. His arm reached her shoulder and jerked her roughly to a halt.
"Please—my father..." she gasped.
"Your father can't do anything," he snarled and tried to press her lips to his. She kicked and clawed him, fighting like an animal.
"You are going to my palace," he said. "It is useless to fight."
Suddenly Count Bicarda felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He was whirled around, and a fist smashed solidly against his jaw. He went down in a heap, gouging one shoulder into the earth. It stained his white coat.
Jeff Flynn turned to the girl, who had slumped to the ground, wide-eyed. He helped her to her feet. "Are you all right?" he asked. She nodded.
"Where did you come from?" she asked in bewilderment. "Seeing you here is so... so unexpected. No one comes so far off the beaten path..."
Flynn smiled at her.
"I came to get some of those roses. Remember, I said I'd be back to buy some?"
He turned to the fallen Count, who was sitting up, rubbing his injured jaw and rather foolishly trying to brush the dirt from his coat.
"Who is he?"
A look of terror crossed the girl's face.
"You shouldn't have hit him. He's Count Bicarda. He rules all of Tipico. He will make plenty of trouble for you."
Flynn shrugged.
"Not much more than we're in now, eh, Ross?"
Herbert Ross came forward, nodded glumly.
"This the fellow we're looking for?"
"No. We want a fellow named Trujall."
Flynn turned to the girl.
"Where is Trujall?... And by the way, what is your name?"
"Leona Textan," she answered. "But what do you want with Trujall?"
"We'd like to ask him a few questions," said Flynn grimly. "Where is he?"
There was terror in the girl's voice.
"You must go away! You must not go to him. It will not be wise..."
"It will not be wise not to!" exclaimed Flynn. "Will you take us to him?"
Leona stared at his intent eyes a moment, then nodded.
"Yes," she whispered. "I will take you to him."
THE valley of Tipico had a strange effect on Jeff Flynn. He
had been vaguely worried since he first saw the fat Count
pursuing the girl in the forest. Everything in Tipico went wrong.
They were hardly out of the forest, Ross riding his horse beside
that of the glowering Count and Leona Textan sitting before Flynn
on his horse, when the odor of the roses started to penetrate
Flynn's brain.
Tipico was one vast rose garden, stretching red as blood along the ten-mile floor of the valley. He felt the first rich fumes of the blossoms drift up to them as they went down the dusty road. The perfume filled his head and made him drowsy.
"I'd hate like the devil to live in this place," Ross said suddenly. "Those flowers are like opium. The smell is so sweet it deadens my brain."
Flynn could see a change in the girl also. She relaxed against him in the saddle, her eyes widened and her lips parted, almost like rose petals themselves. Her breathing was soft and she looked at him through half-closed lids.
"It is always like this," she said. "The valley is so pleasant that we who live here could not stay long in any other place. It is like a spell that casts itself upon us, making us happy where we are."
The horses jogged on slowly. The sun was bright above and they entered the boundaries of the town. Tipico was small—barely a dozen houses, a store and a few warehouses.
Count Bicarda began to bristle, and he grew truculent. Obviously, now that he was in his own bailiwick, he was losing his fear of the Americans. He glared at Flynn hatefully.
Leona saw the glare and she turned pale. She turned to Flynn and whispered in his ear.
"Please," she begged. "Run away now! While there is time. Take me with you!"
Flynn blinked.
"Take you with me... Good Lord, girl, aren't you being just a little..." Flynn had intended to say "dramatic" but his lips closed on the word. The fear in her eyes, the tenseness of her body beneath his encircling arm, spelled the sincerity of her convictions.
"No," he said grimly. "No two-bit local emperor is going to scare me out. I've come for a purpose. I want to see Trujall!"
"You will see him!" snarled Bicarda. "And you will see something else... Halto!"
They came to a halt before a building that Flynn took to be a general store. In the doorway stood a little man, not over five- foot-three in height, with a fierce black mustache that gave him an oddly friendly appearance. Dark, serious eyes hinted at their own ability to twinkle with humor. Right now they were sober and puzzled, and a frown wrinkled the skin at their corners.
"General Harzo!" snapped Bicarda. "Arrest these people!"
Harzo stared at Bicarda. He seemed somehow contemptuous, but at the same time there was an unwilling respect in his eyes. Something that was not fear, but yet was compulsory. Obviously, Flynn thought, Bicarda did have power in this valley— enough even to make this pseudo-general respect his commands.
"What is the charge, Count?" Harzo asked respectfully. But he made no move to comply with the arrest request.
The Count began to bluster.
"That gringo—he struck me. He attempted to interfere..."
Flynn interrupted.
"Absolutely, General Harzo," he said. "I did interfere. In fact, I pasted the Count in the jaw—where he had it coming. He was molesting this young lady here, against her will, and I did what any gentleman would do—what you would do in the same circumstances. And if I had time, I'd stay to prefer charges and ask you to lock him up."
Harzo turned to the Count.
"What about that?" he asked.
The Count's eyes narrowed.
"I repeat," he said, "this man attacked me. I was merely kissing the girl I have selected as my wife. We are to be married. In fact, we were on our way here to have you perform the ceremony."
Flynn swung down off the horse, lifted the girl down. He looked at her, startled.
"Is that true?" he asked incredulously.
Stark terror was in her eyes. She looked into his a moment, then looked away, tore from his grasp, and ran to stand beside the Count. She uttered no word.
"I'll be damned!" came Herbert Ross' exclamation.
Flynn paled with anger. He wheeled to face General Harzo. He reached forward and clutched the little General's shoulders.
"Listen," he growled in a low voice. "I did the girl a favor, understand? As far as the Count and his two-bit power are concerned, he can go jump in the lake."
General Harzo blinked, but his lips curled into an amused smile. His eyes held a peculiar look of approval.
"Good words, amigo," he said. "Now if you will let me go, I will give you some advice."
Flynn let go of him.
"The Count grows roses here," Harzo said. "The people do as he says simply because they have done so for a thousand years. Perhaps that is why this girl wishes to wed the Count. We shall ask her and see."
The General turned to the girl.
"Do you wish to marry this man?"
She stared helplessly a moment at Flynn and Ross, then looked at Bicarda. His eyes were fixed on her with a glare.
"Yes," she said to Harzo. "Yes, yes!"
"You are not being forced to do this thing?"
"No," she said, face pale. "I am not being forced."
Harzo turned to Flynn and bowed.
"You see, amigo, it is all right."
"All right hell," growled Flynn, staring at the girl, who dropped her eyes before his accusing gaze. "But I guess there's nothing I can do about it."
"Do your duty, General Harzo," Count Bicarda spat out. "Or it will go badly with you."
Harzo's eyes flamed, but he said nothing to Bicarda. Instead he turned to Flynn.
"Therefore," he went on, as though ignoring Bicarda's outburst, "it is obvious that you have attacked Count Bicarda in a criminal manner, and I shall have to arrest you."
Flynn leaped forward, fists doubled. "Why, you...!"
Harzo clapped his hands and a soldier leaped out from behind a corner of the building.
"Arrest them!" snapped Harzo. "Take them over to my office. I will take care of their cases immediately after the wedding—"
He turned to Bicarda.
"—You wanted to have the ceremony immediately?" He waited for a confirmation.
"Yes," said Bicarda. "At once."
Leona Textan nodded dumbly.
Flynn walked across to Leona and grasped her arm.
"I know you're not doing this because you want to," he said. "I know you're afraid of something. Maybe it's the same thing I came here to uncover. Maybe it's Trujall..."
Count Bicarda shoved forward, tried to disengage Flynn's hand from Leona's arm. Flynn shoved him roughly back, so that he tripped over a bush and sat down. He ignored the Count's sputtering.
"It is Trujall, isn't it?" he pursued. "Tell me the truth."
The girl looked at him tragically.
"Go away," she whispered. "Go away, far from here. You will only come to harm in this valley. I am doing what I want to do. You have no right to interfere."
Flynn released her arm in bafflement, noting as he did so that Harzo had made no move, or order his soldier to make one, in assistance to the Count.
"Okay," he said. "But I'll find Trujall, and wring the truth out of him. Also, the truth about what happened back at Oaxaca!"
The soldier stepped forward now and motioned with his rifle. Flynn and Ross walked ahead of him up the stairs and into the general store. At the rear of it, Flynn saw that they were in some sort of office. There was a desk, several chairs, and another door. Flynn noticed with amazement that this inner office was cool; air-conditioned.
They were marched into a room with a barred window. The guard sat down outside the open door and held his rifle across his knees. He didn't close the door.
Ross looked at Flynn soberly.
"Well, we're in the clink. But at that, it's no worse than where we'd be back in Oaxaco."
"No," said Flynn darkly. "But there's something damned fishy in this valley; more than what happened back there. I intend to find it out."
"I hope you do," said Ross despondently. "Because it looks like a murder charge for me, if you don't!"
FLYNN walked swiftly back and forth across the floor, white
hot anger burning inside him. Ross sat quietly by the barred
window, looking down the sun-swept street. Ross understood
Flynn's feelings better than Flynn thought, remembering how
he had felt when another man took Gwenn away. He didn't
speak of it to Flynn. There was nothing they could do.
Ross watched Count Avon Bicarda's carriage come up the street. He saw Leona Textan sitting at the Count's side, her face drawn and pale. The Count was leaning back in the carriage, his eyes closed, face smug. The Count, Ross thought bitterly, was taking the whole thing quite calmly.
The carriage swept by the house and went down the road toward the far end of the valley. General Harzo walked toward their prison, his boots kicking up dust as he walked. Several minutes later another carriage went by. In the seats, several soldiers sat with rifles carelessly held. Their carriage disappeared down the road also. A guard for the Count and his new bride?
The General came in. He carried a stiff, folded document in his hand. Crossing the room he knelt at a large wall safe and put the document inside. Once he had twisted the knob and locked the safe he rose and faced Flynn.
"You can come out now," he said with a smile. "And if you gentlemen will honor me with your presence, we will go out and dine. Perhaps then you can confide to me the trouble and the mission that brings you here."
"What's that?" asked Flynn, astounded.
"You can come out. You are free. You are not, and have never been, under arrest. I am sorry that I had to inconvenience you, but you will understand that it was the simplest way to avoid trouble all around. Count Avon Bicarda is a power in the valley—although not as great as his mad mind conceives himself to be. So humoring him was the best policy. He will never think of you again."
"But that girl," said Flynn angrily. "She did not want to marry him. She was terrorized."
Harzo shrugged.
"She signified her desires very directly," he said. "Come, we will dine. No doubt you are hungry."
He led the way toward a restaurant and they ordered.
It was one o'clock then. At three, the carriage of soldiers returned from their ride down the valley. They brought with them the news that the carriage of Count Avon Bicarda had been attacked by strange bandits half-way to the palace.
The Count had been shot through the heart and had died at once. The girl was unharmed and being escorted to her new home. The carriage of soldiers had arrived in time to fight the bandits, but too late to save the Count.
GENERAL HARZO, his lips stern and face expressionless, ordered
the news to be posted at once. Count Avon Bicarda was dead and
the valley belonged to his new wife, Leona Textan.
"Señor Flynn," Harzo said suddenly, placing his half-empty wine glass on the table before him, "I have a question to ask you."
Flynn looked up with moody eyes.
"I'm afraid, General," Flynn said, "you and I have little to discuss. You can perhaps see now the heritage you gave that girl. She's widowed before she reached her home."
"I'm sorry, American, that you think harshly of me. I think it is best that you know the truth. Perhaps you can give me the help I so badly need."
Flynn was watching the mustached man carefully. Ross' head never came up from his food.
"You were angry that I insisted the girl marry," the General went on. "You wonder why...?"
"Insane," Flynn broke in. "I'd like to drag you before the authorities anywhere outside the valley and watch you sober up."
General Harzo rose to his feet.
"It was necessary that, to fulfill my plan, Leona Textan marry Count Bicarda. I had no intentions of letting them reach their home."
Flynn's glass dropped to the table with a crash. Ross stopped eating, mouth open, fork poised.
"You see," Harzo added, "my full name is General Harzo Textan. Leona is my daughter."
FOR some time the three men faced each other, but none of them
spoke. Flynn arose, rounded the table and offered his hand to the
General.
"Accept my apology," he begged. "I don't know what you've got in mind, but I'm sure you won't allow them to harm your own daughter. If we had known, we'd have kept our mouths shut."
Harzo Textan smiled and took Flynn's hand.
"I know," he said quietly, "I guess I can trust you. Perhaps it will be best if I tell the story of Tipico."
He pushed his chair from the table, crossed to the fireplace and stood before it. A frown passed over his face.
"I have not always lived in Tipico," he started. "Many years ago, before Leona was born, I lived in Mexico City. I was a politico at the time, and held some high offices. My wife died at Leona's birth and I asked for retirement. They wanted to do something for me, in return for my services to the government."
He paused, smiled wearily and went on.
"Some one knew of Tipico, and thinking it a quiet, sunny place, suggested that I come here. Oddly enough I was given the governing power of the valley and the Mexican government will back up my word here."
"Have you ever had to call upon them?" Ross asked curiously.
Harzo nodded and smiled.
"But once," he answered. "Since the soldiers came to the valley and the people realized I was the governor, they have done as I say. There was one exception."
"Count Avon Bicarda?"
"Yes!" Anger blazed in the General's eyes. "Bicarda has lived here since birth. Before him was his father and so back into the years. The family is degenerate and low. They know but one industry. Every year, the petals of the roses are taken to Oaxaca and made into perfume."
"I've noticed an odd thing," Ross said. "The air-conditioning in your office, in this restaurant, wherever you go."
Harzo nodded and smiled slightly.
"Yes, you are right," he admitted. "That is how I remain free of the spell of the flowers. The people here live in a semi- awakened state. The power of the flowers is so great that they have no will to fight. They stay here and work until they die or are murdered."
Flynn's jaw stiffened. He was thinking of Gwenn. Gwenn with that strange round hole in her flesh.
"Murder?"
The General's fists were clenched.
"There are many things one does not mention," he said. "But now I can tell you the whole story. The Count needed men and women here to work in his gardens. He also needed them for another purpose. For the second —he demanded one qualification."
"And that?"
"Death," the General answered in a low voice. "They were found dead in the fields. I am sure it was murder."
"But great God, man," Flynn protested. "Surely you could have stopped it?"
"That is where you are wrong. Every flower-drugged man in the valley would have risen against me; if they had cared. I could not act."
"I'd like to ask you a question, General," Ross said. "You married Leona and the Count for a purpose?"
"I had planned that for years," he admitted. "It was the one way of getting control of Count Bicarda. With Leona married to him, I could go to his palace and find out for myself what was happening there."
"But surely there were other ways," Flynn said. "With your soldiers you could have forced your way in and searched the place."
General Harzo Textan shook his head.
"There was but one way to break the power of the Bicarda over this valley."
Ross looked hostile.
"So you did it by marrying your daughter into the family and then killing her husband. The valley of Tipico belongs now to Leona Textan—and to you!"
The General's eyes flashed. "You are a smart man, Ross," he said. "But I am not responsible for the bandits who killed the Count."
"But it was you who sent soldiers after him as the Count left town," Ross said. "Not more than a quarter of a mile separated the two carriages. There would hardly be time for an outside attack."
Harzo nodded.
"That is all very logical," he admitted, "but not the truth."
"I'm not so sure of that," Flynn interrupted. "There are some things I don't like. General, what do you know about Trujall?"
"I don't know..." began Harzo worriedly.
He was cut short by a loud commotion in the hall. The door to the room swung open and a soldier staggered in. His uniform was torn and covered with mud. He tried to salute the General and fell forward on his face.
Flynn dropped to one knee and turned the man over. The fellow's eyeballs were turned up queerly and he was gasping for breath.
"General... your daughter..." Flynn's ear was close to the quivering lips, "Trujall..."
The voice faded to a whisper. The dying man clutched his heart and a shiver passed over him. He tried to speak further, but his lips gurgled wordlessly and closed.
Flynn stood up quickly.
"You have horses?" he asked of the General.
Harzo nodded.
"I'll get them." He rushed out.
When the General had left the room, Flynn drew the stiff white hand of the soldier gently away from the bloodied shirt. A whistle escaped his lips.
"Look at that, Ross!"
There was a deep, circular hole in the flesh over the heart. "The same thing that killed Gwenn! We're on the right track!"
The General came in and two men were with him. He spoke quickly in Spanish and the soldiers picked up the dead man and carried him away.
"Let's go," Harzo said grimly, "and may the Saints protect my daughter until we reach her."
FLYNN and Ross rode close to each other on the big horses
Harzo Textan had supplied.
Harzo rode ahead of them, his eyes focused on the building three miles away, that was the Bicarda palace.
Flynn felt a strange sleepiness coming over him. The valley air seemed warm and muggy.
"It's a fight to keep awake here," he said.
The General spoke to them sharply.
"Breathe as lightly as possible. It is the power of the roses," he cautioned. "In my own town I have clean, cool air and I am not affected. Here, men and women go unprotected. The roses numb the brain like a drug."
Flynn watched the palace ahead of them grow and take shape beyond terraced slopes. It was as lovely as the valley. Roses spread up across terraces and about the lawns. Trellises against the walls were alive with red flowers.
"When we get close enough," Flynn said, "I'll drop off behind. You and the General ride straight in and go to the front door. I'll take a look around before anyone suspects I'm here."
They reached the bend in the road where it turned toward the palace. Flynn reined his horse out of sight behind the bushes. He watched as the two men rode up to the palace, tied their mounts and went to the door. As the door opened the General walked in, followed by Ross. The door closed.
For some time Flynn waited. A gathering storm was hastening the dusk.
He studied the house. In his mind was the image of those plant tendrils under the cover of Trujall's ox cart. Flynn wanted to see that ox cart and its contents again. Perhaps a search of the out buildings...
He crossed the lawn quickly and went behind the palace. There was a small vegetable garden.
He saw the carriage house looming, perhaps fifty yards beyond the garden. The small plot in which he stood was planted with bulb like plants that protruded eight or ten inches above ground. He started to walk among them quickly, caught his boot on the roots and fell.
A tiny, whip-like object snapped out and struck his face. Another wrapped quickly about his boot.
Flynn struggled to his feet only to find that he was trapped. The tentacles had suddenly come alive. More of them were stretching toward him. The tendrils were much smaller and yet he recognized the form. They were small plants of the same type he had seen in Trujall's wagon!
Flynn's feet were solidly held in place now, perhaps a dozen of the tendrils wrapped tightly about his boots. He whipped out his knife, slashed them away. It was a foolish move. Two plants were close to his hands. They flashed toward him and secured his wrists tightly. He jerked with all his strength. Thin, watery stuff oozed from the cut vines. His hands were bloody. The knife fell from his grasp.
One bulb-plant under his body moved. He felt a soft, petal- like substance brush across his shirt and the plant or creature, whichever it was, pushed a round snout against him.
Horror stricken, Flynn strained away from the sharp snout and tried to break away. It was useless.
This was the way Gwenn Ross had died!
THE scaly, eager snout was sucking at his flesh now. His shirt
was torn and he felt the thing cutting into him bringing blood to
the surface.
Flynn shouted hoarsely.
"Ross, help. I'm behind the house in the garden."
Almost at once he heard a door open and saw three faces over the porch rail above him. The light from the room flashed out across the garden and he could see other plants waving and leaning toward him. The pain over his heart was terrible.
"This is it, Ross!" he shouted. "Trujall's plants are killers. Help me!"
Flynn saw Ross wheel about and send a crashing blow into Trujall's face. A gun exploded; a shot sang through the air. Ross cleared the rail with a leap and hit the ground on his feet. He carried a huge knife; a machete snatched from where it hung on the wall, obviously for just the purpose for which he was now going to use it.
Trujall's curse came from the porch. There was the sound of a scuffle. Flynn could no longer see the porch. His eyes were filled with pain and his body contorted, fighting the awful tendrils.
Ross swore loudly and came wading in. The huge knife swung wildly on all sides. Sometimes he staggered and seemed about to fall. Then, howling oaths at the top of his voice, he tore away a blade covered with wriggling tendrils and came on.
At Flynn's side he reached down and sent the knife shooting into the plant under Flynn's body. The suction stopped and the thing dropped away. He cut the bonds from Flynn's body and dragged him to the edge of the garden. Flynn fell forward on his face and lay still. He was breathing hard.
"Entertaining," it was Trujall's triumphant, but angered voice. "But you have ruined my new crop of plants. For that you will all pay."
Ross helped Flynn to his feet. The General had been overcome in his scuffle on the porch with Trujall. He was covered now by the same pistol that menaced Flynn and Ross.
"Thanks, Ross," Flynn recovered his breath. "I didn't know what I was walking into."
They mounted the porch and faced Trujall. His face held a smile of complete triumph.
"Where is the girl," Flynn faced the dwarf, his fists clenched. "You've done something to her."
Ross took his arm.
"Never mind, Flynn," he urged. "Leona is safe. We've seen her already. We'd better take it easy."
Trujall held his gun ready.
"That is wise," he said. "We have already had enough excitement. To wander around here longer might result in a disaster that could not be avoided so easily. Enter and be entertained."
THEY entered a high, well-lighted room. It was pleasantly
furnished and warm. Trujall motioned to a couch at the far end of
the place. Leona Textan was there, lying with partly closed
eyes. The room was rich with the scent of roses and they were
piled about the girl.
A strange mixture of relief and anger spread over Flynn as he stood there, looking at her. She was clad in the same rough dress, but the flowers spread a perfume about her that made the whole room shimmer under her spell.
"You will be seated?" Trujall asked, pocketing his gun. "There will be coffee."
Flynn wanted to go toward the girl, but something robbed him of energy. It didn't seem important.
"She is all right?" he asked the General.
Harzo Textan nodded listlessly.
"The roses," he explained. "They make her tired and restful. Otherwise she is safe."
Flynn felt tired. He wanted sleep very badly. A serving woman brought a tray of coffee and he sipped his while the others drank. Leona closed her eyes and slept. Her father went to her once, and felt of her forehead. He seemed satisfied.
"She has had a hard day," he announced vacantly. "It will be better for us to stay here tonight and go to the village with the morning."
Trujall went to the door.
"There are only myself and the serving maid here," he said. "I am sorry about the incident in the garden. They are but a hobby of mine and I was angry when I saw the plants destroyed. If you stay out of my gardens you will be safe."
He went out and they heard him leave the porch.
The maid came and led them to their rooms. Flynn was worn out. He sank to the bed and was sound asleep before he had time to remove his clothes.
FLYNN awakened suddenly, his body covered with perspiration.
It was dark. His head ached dully. Why was he here in this
bedroom? He could not remember leaving the lounge where Trujall
had faced them with the pistol. Leona Textan had been stretched
out before them, asleep on the divan.
He had succumbed to the sweet odor of the roses, and Trujall's insistence that no harm would come to them. Flynn remembered accepting a cup of coffee from the house maid and watching Ross and General Textan do the same.
That was it. The coffee had been drugged. That, and the roses!
Flynn sat up quickly, saw that he was fully clothed. He rushed to the door.
He stepped into the hall and listened. No sound came from the rooms below. It seemed sinister. Trujall was the power behind this garden of hell. He used the people of the valley like pawns, never soiling his own hands with murder. He left that to...
Flynn thought of Leona. The girl had been in the main lounge below the staircase. The thought of her shocked his brain more fully awake.
Half-way down stairs, Flynn stopped short. A high-pitched scream of terror came from the rose garden behind the house. He rushed across the room and out on the high porch. Leona Textan was visible several hundred yards away. She was running between long rows of rose bushes.
The moon made her shoulders glisten. Once she looked back—screamed again and rushed onward. Flynn's boot struck something. He reached down and retrieved the heavy knife that Ross had used earlier in the evening.
Flynn cleared the rail with one leap. He ran swiftly across the lawn and into the rose garden after Leona.
"Stop, or I'll shoot."
Flynn saw the stubby figure of Trujall on the porch with pistol aimed.
"Go to hell!" he shouted and kept on running. Leona had disappeared now. A shot rang out and the bullet whistled over his shoulder.
The second shot hit the bricks of the carriage house close to his head and sang away into the bushes.
"Leona," he shouted. "Leona. Where are you?"
The silence was maddening. Forgetting Trujall, he ran over the soft dirt and down the lanes of rose bushes.
He ran onward, glancing back once to see a light visible on the second floor. Perhaps Ross or the General had finally awakened. He shouted something hoarse and wordless over his shoulder, hoping one of them would hear the sound.
There was a small opening ahead. It was perhaps ten feet square and bordered by the rank, luxurious growths of roses. At the far side he saw Leona, cowering down. Her body was twisted as though she were trying to run—to go farther, but couldn't move. Her lips were opened in a round O of horror and one arm was thrown before her face as she sought protection from her pursuer.
Flynn saw the thing that had caused her panic and stopped short. The other octopus-like plants had been bad enough. Now he knew he was looking straight at the thing that had killed Gwenn and the soldier.
It had the same general characteristics as the others, but it was almost as tall as a man. The thing, plant or animal, walked on nine short feeler-like legs. It moved swiftly, its thick, scaly body vibrating smoothly as it moved. A half-dozen long, root-like feelers protruded from the body. They reached out and wavered in the air, the tips reaching three feet from the body. Its head was a net of muscular fiber with a sharp, cup-like opening at its top.
The cup was the identical size of the wound he had seen on Gwenn's body.
From the edge of this cup a blossom grew. It was a type of orchid, huge and spotted, but unclean. Out of its center came two feelers that evidently gave it a sense of touch and smell that allowed it to pursue its victims.
The thing was crossing the clearing slowly, warily, seeking the girl. It knew she was there. The footsteps had halted and the prey was close.
Flynn went forward slowly, the knife raised over his head. Close to the creature, he brought the knife down in a wide arc. It struck from behind, just below the cup-like neck. The spotted blossom flopped to the ground and the neck fell with it.
The creature whirled around and feelers swept out and around Flynn's waist. Red blood started to pour from the cleanly severed neck. Flynn dropped his knife and tried to release the tentacles that held him. The girl came toward them. Flynn felt the tentacles go around his throat and remembered how easily Gwenn had been strangled.
Leona waited until the feelers were tightly wrapped about Flynn. He was on the ground now.
She clutched the knife firmly and pushed it deep into the creature's body. The movement stopped.
The feelers grew limp one by one and fell away from him. Shaking from the strain, Flynn stood up slowly and kicked the thing away from him.
SHE ran to him quickly, throwing her arms about his neck. For
a moment Flynn forgot Trujall and the men at the house. He was
conscious only of the frail, lovely girl in his arms.
"You understand now why I married Avon Bicarda?" she whispered.
Flynn nodded.
"Your father told me everything," he said.
She snuggled closer.
Men were coming from the house. He took his arms from her and turned to see Ross, Trujall walking before him, as they came through the roses. Trujall saw the bloody monster that lay at Flynn's feet, and sobbing, knelt on the ground before it. Ross looked down with cold hatred in his eyes. He carried a pistol. Flynn recognized it as Trujall's.
"I heard you shouting," Ross said quietly. "Found Trujall in the garden trying to release more of these things. He's got a whole cage of them behind the carriage house."
"They didn't escape?" Flynn asked.
Ross shook his head.
"Still behind bars," he said. "We'll starve them to death. Trujall had to fool with the door and I took the liberty of kicking him in the stomach and taking his gun away from him."
The ugly face of the dwarf turned up to Flynn. Blood stained the man's hands where he had fondled the dead creature and tears were in his eyes.
"You killed him," he accused. "You killed my pet."
Ross' eyes were flinty.
"And I'll kill you!" he snarled.
Flynn shook his head.
"No, Ross. When the General awakens," he said. "I think he'll take a certain pleasure in sentencing Trujall and putting him before the firing squad."
"Trujall, why in hell did you pick on my wife?" asked Ross.
Trujall had arisen slowly, his long arms hanging at his side. He shrugged his shoulders.
"I had to have a white woman," he said slowly. "She was the only one in Oaxaco. Many Mexican women and men have given their blood to my king-plants. I could give life to the tuber bodies of the plants by shooting certain injections into them. They did not react to natural emotions without the blood of humans in their body."
Flynn was filled with a deep disgust.
"But you," he asked coldly. "What were you gaining by this?"
Trujall shrugged his shoulders.
"I have had everything I wished from the house of Bicarda," he admitted. "The king-plants were my hobby. They drank blood and became things alive and powerful. I raised them to make up in a way, for my own lack of power. You see my body is very ugly. Not at all tough and strong like my pets."
Ross' face was a mask of loathing.
"You murdered these people and gave their blood to these—these creatures of hell, for no reason other than to satisfy your own lust for power?"
Trujall did not answer. Instead he was on his knees again, carefully gathering up the remains of the thing on the ground.
Ross turned to Flynn and his eyes were pin points.
"You'd better take the girl away from here, Jeff," he said.
Jeff took Leona by the arm and led her up toward the house. They were hidden from the two men in the roses.
"What is he going..."
Her lips remained parted, but her voice was broken by the sharp crack of the pistol. Two more shots sounded behind them. Jeff stopped, standing very quietly. He thought he heard a groan of pain, then quick footsteps in the dirt.
Ross caught up with them, and walked toward the house without a word. They reached the garden and Flynn looked away across the peaceful rose gardens and then back at the strong, handsome house. He took Leona close to him in the darkness.