by Robert Bloch
Nonetheless, the first thing she did after kicking off her shoes when she reached the room was to try Eric Dunstable’s number. Again there was no response.
Where could he possibly have disappeared to, and why? The questions rose and once more she pushed them aside, or tried to. Hard to push when you’re so tired, when so much has happened and there’s so much to think about.
Only she wasn’t going to think about anything more tonight. Tomorrow would be time enough, after she got some rest. It was already close to midnight, and while she had to remove her makeup, the shower could be put off until morning.
Shower put off and nightgown put on, Amy was ready for sleep. But sleep was not ready for her.
At least she was grateful for one thing; closing her eyes no longer evoked a vision of Doris Huntley’s face. The problem now was not what she’d been but what she hadn’t seen.
Otto Remsbach, horizontal. The butcher knife in his chest, vertical. Thirteen stab wounds. Bloody bed. Bled like a stuffed pig. And Mother—was she bloody too?
Amy had never seen Mother and she didn’t want to, but the only way she could avoid it now was to keep her eyes open. Keep her eyes open and keep her mind off what had happened up there at Remsbach’s house tonight. Maybe Sheriff Engstrom was right after all; it was none of her business.
Business. Now there was something she could think about. Her business was to write the book and—to be brutally honest, totally honest—what had happened tonight meant that business was going to be very good.
There’d be no more talk about leaving town tomorrow, or the next day, not after what had just occurred. Of course it was horrifying but it would be hypocritical of her not to admit that it was also exciting. Much of the horror lay in what she imagined; her excitement was rooted in reality.
All of those daydreams about a career were going to come true, and there was no point having any guilt feelings about it. Once again Amy reminded herself she hadn’t been responsible for what happened, couldn’t have anticipated or prevented it, and certainly couldn’t change matters now.
Perhaps Dr. Steiner might help put things into the proper perspective tomorrow. Now it was more important than ever that she interview him; his was the voice of reason. By the same token it would be imperative to have a talk with Eric Dunstable. His was the voice of unreason, but reason alone couldn’t account for the bizarre turn of events tonight.
Could Dunstable himself have been involved? And what about Hank Gibbs? Did the Sheriff really suspect him, and for causes as yet unrevealed? Or was it just due to the fact that his whereabouts were unknown? Absence makes the heart grow fonder—or, in this instance, beat faster. Hank Gibbs, a somewhat cynical knight in somewhat battered armor, a serial killer? Eric Dunstable seemed creepy but harmless; were his creepy ideas harmless too? And when you got right down to it, the Bates property wasn’t the only place where Dick Reno could have gotten mud on his boots. In any case, wouldn’t the rain have washed it off? The rain could wash away bloodstains just as easily.
And there she was, coming full circle again to what was the Sheriff’s business, not hers. If Dick Reno had blood on his boots, it was his problem. That didn’t make her Lady Macbeth; there was no blood on her hands.
No blood on her hands, and a nice clean makeup job when she went on those talk shows. And she would go, the book would go, all the dreams would come true. The good dreams, anyway. Bad dreams were what she didn’t want; dreams about Doris Huntley and her necklace, Otto Remsbach and his heart surgery. Nothing to joke about, but sometimes a laugh smothers the scream.
No, this was business, serious business. And she would do a serious, straightforward job when she started the book. In light—or dark—of recent events, it might be well to have another meeting with the publishers upfront. This was going to be a much bigger project then either she or they had anticipated; big enough and time-consuming enough to justify renegotiation.
Blood money? Again Amy reminded herself that she wasn’t accountable for the events that had taken place here both before and after her arrival. Nor did she intend to capitalize on them. In which case why was she thinking about her book in the language of a bookkeeper? What were words like “accountable” and “capitalize” doing in the vocabulary of someone who considered herself a serious writer? These weren’t the right terms.
Terms. She really owed it to herself to renegotiate the terms of her contract. But what she really owed to herself most of all was honesty. If that meant admitting she was as mercenary as anyone else, so be it. Nobody ever said that Shakespeare gave his work away for free.
Which brought her right back to Lady Macbeth again, and to hell with it. Good night and God bless you, one and all.
It wasn’t quite that simple, but in the end Amy did manage to drift off into sleep that was mercifully deep and dreamless.
Bright sunlight heralded the morning, and so did the phone at her bedside. Sudden light blurred her vision; sudden sound had a similar effect on what she heard after raising the receiver. Somebody from A.P. was calling from downstairs and would like to do an interview, how soon would it be convenient for him to come up or would she prefer to meet in the lobby? Amy’s instinct was to tell him to drop dead, her watch told her it was eight o’clock, and she told her caller he could expect her down at eight-thirty.
As she stepped into the shower the phone rang again. Towel-wrapped, she responded. This time it was someone from a St. Louis paper but the conversation was the same.
Before she could do more than open a bureau drawer there was another call. The Montrose radio newscaster wanted to do a tape.
It wasn’t until then that she realized her mistake. Interviews might be good publicity, but in the long run it meant she’d be giving away material that should be saved for her own use in the book.
After she hung up she phoned the desk and told the clerk to hold all calls. He promised to take messages instead.
All of which got Amy into a bra and panties and she was just completing the makeup on her freshly scrubbed face when the desk clerk broke his promise.
“No, he didn’t,” Hank Gibbs told her. “I had to blackmail him to get this call through. But I just wanted to warn you the enemy has landed in full force, so prepare for a hit.”
“Where were you last night?” Amy said.
“Tell you when I see you.”
“But those people in the lobby—”
“Will come racing up to your room if you don’t show up when you promised.” Gibbs paused. “Or do you want to get out of this?”
“You’re a mind-reader! But how—?”
“Help is on the way.”
“Wait—”
He hung up. And by the time Amy finished wriggling and started zipping he was rapping at the door.
Shoeless, she admitted him. “My hair’s a mess,” she murmured. “I can’t go down there looking like this.”
“You aren’t going down there at all.” Gibbs nodded. “Far as I’m concerned your hair looks great the way it is, but if you want to fiddle around with it, bring a comb and a mirror. My car’s over on Second Street.”
“Think we could get there alive?”
“Positive. Unless somebody’s captured the service elevator.”
But that hadn’t happened, and they landed safely in the hall just off the kitchen, then left by way of the delivery door at the rear of the hotel. The alley that bordered it was empty and so was the side street beyond. Turning right at the corner, Hank Gibbs led her to his car.
Her compact mirror confirmed he’d told her the truth; a good thing she remembered to bring a shower cap, because her hair hadn’t gotten wet and all it needed was a quick come-through. By the time she finished, the car was picking up speed.
“Where are we going?”
Gibbs grinned. “You ever hear a definition of the word ‘impossible’?”
“Tell me.”
“ ‘Impossible’ means finding a Chinese restaurant that’s open for breakfast.”
“If you’re saying what I think you are, we had dinner there last night.”
Gibbs glanced at her quickly. “We?”
“Dick Reno and I.”
“Then you’re in for a surprise. They serve the best country-style ham and eggs breakfast this side of Springfield.”
Now they were leaving the town behind them. Gibbs glanced at her as she settled back in the seat.
“Feeling better?”
“Much. Thanks for rescuing me. I wasn’t really awake when I agreed to all those interviews. I could have spent half the day giving free handouts.”
“Don’t feel guilty. The same thing happens to me, and that’s why I wanted to get away. Minute a big story breaks in a small town, every stringer in the state shows up, then it’s radio and the television crews. They’ve got to deal with the local lawmen but that means waiting for a handout or a personally delivered ‘no comment.’ So the first thing they do is track down the editor of the local paper and try to get a story out of him.”
Amy nodded. “Was it as bad as this when Norman Bates escaped and the Loomises were killed?”
“Bad enough. Thing is, after it blew over, nobody expected something like that would ever happen again. But now—”
He broke off in midsentence as they approached their destination and there was no further conversation during parking or entering the restaurant.
At the moment there were only a few other customers. On the way to their table Amy noted Gibbs hadn’t exaggerated; the ham and eggs looked good and she enjoyed an enticing preview of hot rolls, freshly squeezed orange juice, real marmalade in glass jars rather than synthetic glop in tiny plastic containers.
By the time they were seated and placed their orders from a menu entirely devoid of oriental cuisine, Amy was well pleased with Gibbs’ surprise.
“Was dinner good here last night?” he said.
“Very.”
“I’m not just talking about the food. Did you get anything worthwhile out of Reno, anything you could use?”
“I didn’t accept his invitation in order to use him?”
“So the lady says.” Gibbs grinned. “But the lady also happens to be a writer, and writers use everyone and everything. It takes one to know one.”
Amy found herself smiling. “All right, you win.”
“Did you?”
She shook her head. “Not really. That is, I didn’t learn anything new. But he made it very clear how people around here feel about being saddled with guilt by association. The don’t like what Norman Bates did, they don’t like the idea of living in his shadow.”
“Can you blame him?” Gibbs paused as their juice and coffee arrived. Amy discovered the cream was genuine too; this was a day for surprises.
She put some real sugar into her real coffee and glanced up. “I stopped by your office last night,” she said. “Where were you?”
“Didn’t Engstrom say?”
“No. He was looking for you too.”
“I forgot. When I got back and heard the news I went over there, but by the time you’d already left.” Gibbs smiled. “Guess I owe the Sheriff an apology. He couldn’t have told you before I told him.” The smile disappeared. “Matter of fact, I’m not so sure I ought to tell you now. Don’t want to spoil your breakfast.”
“Whatever it is, I’m going to find out anyway sooner or later,” Amy said.
“True. But it’s not the kind of surprise I had in mind when I brought you here.”
“Are you going to tell me or aren’t you?”
“All right. Last night I was over at Baldwin Memorial Hospital.”
“I remember the name.” Amy nodded. “That’s where Dr. Claiborne is.”
“Was.” Gibbs’ voice was flat. “He died last night.”
“What happened?”
“Another heart attack—a big one.”
“Does Steiner know?”
“I assume so, by now. The first call came to me at the office; that’s why I went out there. They wouldn’t give me much by way of details, but I know there’ll be an autopsy within a day or two. Not that anyone is going to pay any attention, considering what’s been going on over here.”
Amy took a sip of coffee but she couldn’t taste it. Her senses were playing her false, senses and emotions. In this instance surprise should register as shock, but it didn’t. And compassion was oddly interlaced with irritation; why couldn’t she have had a chance to interview Claiborne before he died?
She stared at Gibbs across the table. “So that’s where you were.”
“If you don’t believe me, ask your friend Engstrom.”
Amy shook her head. “He’s not my friend.”
“Nor mine.” Gibbs was frowning. “Told me to get off his back and not mess up his investigation. When he got hold of me at his office he couldn’t wait to call Baldwin Memorial and check out my alibi.”
“He suspected you?”
“Why not? He suspected you too. That’s the name of the game.”
“Who do you suspect?”
Gibbs frowned. “Have to think about that. Might help if you told me what happened to you after you left Dick Reno last night.”
Amy obliged, but not until after the rest of their breakfast order arrived and they started to eat. Her taste buds were beginning to function again and for this she was grateful.
As for Gibbs, he seemed grateful with her information. When she concluded, he began. “What do you think really happened?”
“I’d know more if I could come up with some possible motives.”
“Try insanity.”
“That’s one of the things I intend to go into with Dr. Steiner,” Amy said. “I’d like to get a professional opinion about the personality profile of someone capable of breaking into the Bates property, stealing that dummy, and killing a harmless little girl.”
“Have you come up with any candidates on your own?”
Amy hesitated. “Norman would do it. Or someone who thinks like Norman.”
“Claiborne fits that description. But he’s dead now, and at the time Terry Dowson was murdered he was confined.” Gibbs speared a slice of ham with his fork and didn’t continue speaking until he’d stopped chewing. “Wild guess,” he said.
“Who?”
“Eric Dunstable. I get the distinct impression that his elevator doesn’t stop at every floor.”
Amy shook her head. “Not unless he has an identical twin. You’re forgetting he was with me in Chicago on the night Terry was killed.”
“If you told the truth.” He grinned quickly to counter her frown. “Only kidding. I know Engstrom checked up on your alibi, same as he did mine.” Gibbs nodded. “Okay, Dunstable’s off the hook as far as Terry Dowson is concerned. But where was he last night?”
“I don’t know,” Amy said. “I couldn’t reach him in his room then or this morning. It’s possible he might have runoff without checking out.”
“That’s really Engstrom’s problem. You can bet he’ll be looking for him or some other fanatic.”
“Fanatic?”
“I suggest you try to feel out Steiner on the subject when you see him. There’ve been some rumors floating around that a local resident is getting outpatient treatment from him.”
“At State Hospital?”
Gibbs shrugged. “Not that many shrinks available in this neck of the woods. Though God knows we could use a few.”
“Any idea who this local resident might be?”
“I talked to Steiner a while back and he refused to give names. But he didn’t deny he’d been seeing someone. If I was the Sheriff I’d start looking for a weirdo.”
“Or someone who wants people to think it was a weirdo.”
“Why?”
“To cover-up their real motive, of course.” Amy took a final sip of her coffee. “That might go along with your hunch about a fanatic being responsible. Someone with far-out ideas but rational enough to make those murders look like the work of a psychotic.” Amy
put her cup down. “But that doesn’t mean fanaticism is the only possible motive. We can’t rule out things like envy, revenge, jealousy—” She hesitated, frowning. “Did Doris Huntley have a boyfriend?”
Now it was Gibbs who frowned. “Not for publication.”
“But you know who it is?”
Gibbs rose. “Let’s go. Maybe we could get a chance to talk to him before Engstrom does.”
— 17 —
The office door was locked, but Gibbs reached down and rattled the doorknob.
“I know he’s in there. His car’s parked out back.”
Amy hesitated. “Under the circumstances, maybe we shouldn’t disturb him—”
But they already had. The door opened abruptly and a disturbed Charlie Pitkin peered up at them, standing in shadow and blinking at the light from the hallway. As recognition came he relaxed.
“Hank?”
Gibbs nodded toward Amy. “You remember Miss Haines, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Pitkin stepped back. “Come in.” Once they entered he closed the door behind them and the shadows deepened. “My apologies,” he said. “I’m keeping the blinds drawn. Officially we’re closed for the day; I told my girl not to come in and I’m not taking any calls.”
As if to prove his assertion the phone on the desk in the outer office began to flash and ring. Ignoring it, he led them through the reception area and into the even darker depths of his private quarters beyond. Here a lamp cast a fan-shaped wedge of light over the desk. Atop it another phone flashed, then ceased to signal.
Pitkin took his place behind the desk and gestured them forward. “Please sit down.” He glanced at Amy. “Sorry about lights. I’d rather not let the media people know where I am right now.” The phone flickered again but he ignored it.
Amy and Gibbs settled into chairs facing the attorney. He stared at them expectantly for a moment and it was Gibbs who broke the silence.
“Seen Engstrom yet?”
“He just left.”
“Have there been any new developments?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Pitkin shook his head in sharp-nosed profile, then turned toward Amy as the phone’s light signal faded. “Please excuse me, Miss Haines. I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that this has all been quite a shock—”