by Robert Bloch
Entering, Lila climbed the stairs and moved down the hall. As she did so, she had this feeling—what was it called, déjà view, or vue, something like that, when you think a thing has happened before?
Then she corrected herself. It was memory, not feeling. This had happened before, years ago, when she and Sam were looking for the murderer of her sister. They’d come here on a Sunday morning to see Sheriff Chambers, and the clerk—what was his name?—Peterson, old man Peterson, told them he was at church. Peterson and Chambers were both gone now and she was here alone, but the similarity of her present errand to the former one was unnerving. Lila’s pace quickened as she crossed the threshold of the office at the far end of the corridor.
Little old Irene Grovesmith sat at her desk, reading a magazine. She put it aside to peer up owlishly over her reading glasses, then recognized her visitor and nodded.
“Lila—”
“Hello, Irene. Is Sheriff Engstrom busy?”
“You can say that again.” Behind the thick lenses, Irene’s eyes narrowed in sour disapproval. “Left here more than three hours ago. Going over to Montrose on account of that bus crash, you heard about it? He promised me he’d be back by seven at the latest, and here it is, past eight-thirty. The squawk’s out, and the phones don’t work either. They’re supposed to be fixing the lines now.”
“Then there’s no way I can get in touch with the sheriff?”
“I just told you—” Irene caught herself, took off the glasses, and cleared her throat self-consciously. “Sorry. What’s the trouble?”
It’s about time you asked, you old bat. Lila hid the thought behind a token smile and a shake of her head. “I’m a little worried about Sam. He’s been down at the store all afternoon and didn’t get home for dinner. I was just over there now and the car’s still outside, but the door’s locked and all the lights are out.”
“Don’t you have a key?”
“Yes. It’s just that I didn’t like the idea of going in alone.” Lila hesitated, wondering how much she ought to reveal. One word to Irene, and it would be all over town by tomorrow morning. But that didn’t matter; what mattered now was Sam. If something had happened to him—
“There was a report on the news,” she said. “They were talking about a patient escaping from the State Hospital this afternoon.”
“Norman Bates?”
Lila caught her breath. “You heard about him?”
Irene nodded. “Chuck Merwin stopped by here looking for the sheriff half an hour ago. He’s with the fire department, you know, Dave Merwin’s boy? Tall, dark-complected fella with bad teeth—”
“Yes, I know him. What happened?”
“Well, the truck just come from there, and they wanted to let the sheriff know before heading over to Montrose again. Couldn’t raise him on the squawk.”
“Came from where?”
“I made a note.” Irene fished a pad out from under the magazine. “Here it is.” She slid the glasses on and glanced down. “Chuck says they found the van that lunatic escaped in. Over on County Trunk A, right outside of town. Looked like there’d been a gasoline explosion—two bodies inside. One was a woman, some nun visiting the hospital, at least that’s what they think. The other was this Norman Bates.”
“He’s dead?”
“Burned to a frazzle. Chuck said he never saw anything so awful, not in five years with the department.”
“Thank God.”
Irene glanced up quickly. “What’s all this got to do with Sam?”
“Nothing.” Lila shook her head. “Look, I’ll be going over to the store now. But when the sheriff gets back, would you ask him to please stop by? If the station wagon’s not there, it means we’ve gone home and everything’s all right. Just ask him to take a look.”
“Of course. I’ll make a note.”
Irene was scribbling on the pad as Lila left. This time she had no need to move slowly; the street outside was still deserted, but the night held no terror.
The only thing to worry about now was Sam himself. That damned electrocardiogram—
Don’t panic. He could have fallen asleep.
In spite of the thought, Lila found herself hurrying as she turned back into the alley. She half hoped the station wagon would be gone, but when she saw it still parked before the rear entrance of the store, her pace quickened.
The key was already in her hand as she reached the darkened doorway. Steadying her grip, she fitted it to the elusive lock. Metal met metal and the knob turned.
Lila entered, then halted just inside, trying to recall the location of the light switch. Which wall was it on—the left or the right? Funny, she couldn’t remember a simple thing like that.
Her hand groped against the plaster on the right, found and flipped the toggle, but nothing happened. Had the bulb burned out? Burned. Norman’s burned, she reminded herself. Don’t panic.
Perhaps the power outage explained the lack of light here and up front. Lila forced herself to wait while her vision adjusted to the dark. As she did so, her eyes inventoried the contents of the room. File cabinets flanked the far wall, shelving stood on both sides, a desk and chair occupied the center of the floor ahead. The desktop held a litter of ledgers and file cards, but the chair was empty. Sam wouldn’t leave things in a mess, so he must have gone up front.
Now she moved past the desk to the doorway leading into the store area. The darkness was deeper there, and she paused on the threshold, scanning the shadows beyond.
“Sam?”
The shadows were silent.
“Sam!”
Oh my God—something’s happened—his heart—
She started forward, rounding the corner of the rear counter, and found him there.
He was lying face upwards on the floor, staring at her.
Lila stared back. She’d been right, it was his heart.
That was where the knife had struck, leaving the gaping, bubbling hole in his chest.
For a moment she thought he wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be, because she could hear the sound of breathing.
Then, as the shadow moved out from the counter behind her, Lila turned and the knife came down.
And down.
And down . . .
— 11 —
When Claiborne pulled up before the hardware store, the sheriff’s car was already parked in front.
The sight of it caused him to slam on the brakes. He climbed out and headed for the lighted, open entrance.
“Just a moment, please.”
Claiborne halted as the tiny man stepped out to intercept him at the doorway.
Almost automatically he made an instant professional appraisal of the stranger: the thin, sallow face, the sparse brown hair matching the color of the eyes, the neatly trimmed mustache. He was dressed in a dark business suit, a white shirt, and a dull gray tie. It was the typical Sunday garb of the typical small-town merchant, and as Claiborne noted it, he smiled in sudden relief.
“Sam Loomis?” he said.
The little man shook his head. “Milt Engstrom,” he said. “County sheriff.”
Claiborne’s relief faded and his gaze dropped. It was then that he caught sight of what he’d overlooked before: the shiny, pointed black boots protruding from beneath the conservatively cuffed trousers.
So much for keen psychological insight. And so much for renewed hope.
Claiborne looked up to meet the sheriff’s level stare, knowing what he had to ask and dreading the answer.
“Where’s Mr. Loomis? Did something happen to him?”
The expressionless eyes didn’t waver. “If you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions. For openers, suppose you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”
Claiborne felt a muscle spasm shoot through his legs as he shifted his stance to accommodate the weight of weariness. How long had it been since he’d been given a chance to rest? Driving into town after leaving the highway, he’d found himself dozing off behind the wheel; too much tension
had taken its toll. All he wanted right now was to sit down and relax.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “Couldn’t we just go inside and—”
The sheriff frowned. “Start talking,” he said. “I haven’t got all night.”
By the time Claiborne identified himself and told Engstrom what had happened at the hospital and on the road, he was ready to drop. Unlike Banning, the sheriff wrote nothing down, but there was no doubt that he carefully absorbed everything he was told. Finally he nodded, signifying that his mental notebook was closed.
“Maybe you better step inside now,” Engstrom said. “There’s been an accident.”
Turning abruptly, the sheriff walked into the store without giving Claiborne time to reply. But now, as he followed Engstrom down the aisle, he had a chance to speak.
“Is Loomis dead?”
The sheriff stopped before the rear counter and gestured down toward the floor at his left.
“You’re a doctor,” he said. “Suppose you tell me.”
Claiborne moved forward, following the arc of gesturing fingers with his gaze.
For a long moment he stood silent, conscious of Engstrom’s scrutiny, the cold eyes boring into his back. The little sadist—he’s enjoying this! What does he expect me to do, throw up like that salesman at the van? I’m a doctor, I’ve seen violent death before.
And he’d seen Sam Loomis before, too. It was that which really disturbed him—the familiarity of the corpse’s contorted features. Then realization came to him; there were clippings in the file, newspaper clippings with photos of the people involved in Norman’s case.
Norman’s case. Claiborne forced himself to look up and meet Engstrom’s stare. He couldn’t match its impersonal coldness with his own eyes, but he did his best to convey it in his voice.
“The incision is quite large,” he said. “Obviously made by a knife with an extremely broad blade. From the amount of hemorrhage, I’d assume that the aorta was punctured, probably severed. Do you want me to make an examination?”
The sheriff shook his head. “My man’s on his way over from County General—or will be, when he gets back from the mess over in Montrose. I’m running shorthanded tonight, can’t even rouse an extra deputy.” Engstrom turned to step behind the rear counter. “While we’re waiting, there’s something else you might want to take a look at.”
Claiborne moved around the corner from the other end, then glanced down.
The sheriff was wrong. He didn’t want to look at it—not that hacked and horrid handiwork sprawling supinely beneath the counter’s edge, bathed in blood from a dozen wounds gaping like red mouths against the white flesh.
There was no sense of recognition stemming from what he saw here, but even before Engstrom spoke, he knew.
“Lila Loomis,” the sheriff said. “Sam’s wife.”
Claiborne turned away, sickened in spite of himself, like a pre-med student confronting his first dissection. When speech came, all he could muster was a murmur.
“Then he killed them both.”
“He?”
“Norman Bates. The patient I told you about.”
“Maybe so.”
“But there’s no doubt now. I knew I was right—he came straight here after burning the van. Remember what I said about the hitchhiker he must have picked up on the road?”
“Must have? Seems to me you’re jumping at a pretty big conclusion.”
“I’ve got his sign out in my car.” Claiborne turned. “Come along, let me show you—”
“Later.” The sheriff walked to the end of the counter. “I want you to see this first.”
As Claiborne joined him, the sheriff pointed down at the open drawer of the cash register on the counter top. “Empty,” he said. “Nine hundred and eighty-three dollars there this afternoon and it’s all gone.”
“How do you know the amount?”
“Found this on the floor.” Engstrom pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “Deposit slip all made out and ready for the bank tomorrow morning.”
“Then Norman took the money.”
“Somebody did, that’s for sure.” The sheriff turned. “Come along, there’s more.”
He reached under the glass-topped counter and brought out a display tray. Its slotted surface held a dozen bone-handled carving knives of varying sizes, their steel blades glittering under the light.
No, not a dozen—Claiborne counted them off quickly and corrected himself. There were eleven knives and one empty slot at the far end.
Watching, Engstrom nodded. “One missing,” he said. “The murder weapon.” He pivoted and walked into the back room, gesturing up at the overhead light as Claiborne followed.
“When I came here looking for Mrs. Loomis, the back door was unlocked and the light didn’t switch on. At first I figured it had burned out, but then I spotted the bulb lying here on the table. I screwed it back in and you can see there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Of course.” Claiborne noted the desk and chair. “Norman slipped into the store and killed Loomis while he was working at his desk. He dragged the body up front where it would be out of sight—look, you can see blood here on the floor. Then he came back here, unscrewed the bulb, and waited for Mrs. Loomis in the store—”
“How did he know she’d be coming?”
“He must have expected her to show up looking for her husband. Don’t you understand? That’s what he was here for—he wanted to kill them both.”
Engstrom shrugged. “Suppose we try it my way,” he said. “Let’s take a thief, an ordinary thief. Could be someone who lives around here, or even this hitchhiker you claim got burned up in that van. But whoever he is, he’s looking to rip off a store. Maybe he checks out a couple of others first and can’t break in. Then he sees a light here. He tries the back door and it isn’t locked. I’ll buy what you said about sneaking in unnoticed. But that’s all.”
“What about the rest? What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong is that you’re not much of a detective.” Engstrom glanced down at the floor. “Sure, there’s blood here, but only a few drops. I’d say it came off the knife when the thief carried it away with him. Sam wasn’t stabbed sitting at his desk; the wound’s in his chest, not his back. In fact, the thief didn’t even have a knife when he came in; he got it from under the counter in the store.”
Claiborne frowned. “I still think—”
“Never mind, let me finish.” Engstrom gestured toward the doorway. “The way I figure Sam was up front turning off the store lights when the thief got in. He came for money, not murder, and all he wanted to do was keep out of sight until Sam left. There was no place to conceal himself in back, so he went on into the store to hide behind the counter in the dark. But then something goes wrong; Sam either sees him or hears him. That’s when the thief reached up, grabs a knife, and lets him have it.
“The thief takes the money from the register. He’s ready to run out the back way when Lila shows up in the back alley. He locks the door, thinking she’ll try it and go away.
“But he’s got a surprise coming; she has a key. There’s just time to unscrew the overhead bulb so she can’t switch on the light. And when she gets inside, he’s waiting up front in the dark with the knife.”
Claiborne frowned. “You saw her body,” he said. “Perhaps someone who’s committed murder in a moment of panic would strike again to avoid discovery. But not like that. She wasn’t just killed, she was slashed over and over again, the way Norman slashed her sister in the shower—”
He broke off, conscious that his words weren’t registering. No one would believe him, not without proof—solid, incontrovertible proof.
“Don’t worry,” Engstrom said. “If Bates really is alive, he can’t get far.”
“But he has money now.”
“And we have an ID, photos, his entire record on file. He can’t hide out for long; where would he go?”
Claiborne didn’t answer. There was no an
swer.
Then, glancing down at the clutter of ledgers and file folders on the desk, he saw the newspaper lying on the edge. It was partially folded, as though it had been tossed aside ready to discard, but the headline of the two-column story on the uppermost side was plainly visible.
Hollywood Producer Plans Film on Bates Case
And now he knew where Norman would be going.
— 12 —
Jan Harper inspected her makeup in the bathroom mirror and decided it was perfect. Then she stuck out her tongue at the image in the glass.
Okay, kid. Let’s get the show on the road.
Picking up her purse from the counter, she turned and tiptoed out. The precaution wasn’t really necessary; in the second bedroom on the far side of the bath, Connie was still snoring away. Jan’s roommate would probably be dead to the world until noon and wish she were dead when she finally awoke, hungover and overhung with remorse for last night’s fun and games.
But as she made her way down the hall to the front door, Jan felt a nagging prickle of envy. Connie didn’t have to slave away in front of a mirror; a cold shower and a quick comb-through would do the trick when she arose. No point in her worrying about a perfect makeup job, not with that big nose and those tiny tits. What you needed to cut it in this business was a small nose and big tits, and that let Connie out.
Abruptly, Jan felt a sudden surge of shame. Connie wasn’t to blame for the way she looked; at least she was honest and didn’t try to fake it with a nose job above and styrofoam below. She did the best she could with what she had, and that deserved praise, not a putdown.
Jan shrugged as she let herself out and locked the door behind her. Connie would manage; right now it was time to consider her own goals. That’s why she’d spent an hour on makeup, that’s why the neat little Toyota stood waiting for her in the carport. Every time she thought of the monthly payments, she shuddered, but when she opened the door and got a whiff of that wonderful new-car smell, her good vibes returned.
The Toyota wasn’t a luxury; it was part of her outfit, her image. And the new-leather smell was as necessary as the Chanel she sprayed on after a shower, even though gas was beginning to cost more than perfume. If you want to get to the top, don’t take the bus.