by Robert Bloch
Amy tried the fried rice, tried not to talk about anything connected with the case, tried to elevate Dick Reno’s spirits with small-talk. By the time the meal ended she had seen no recurrence of his frown, and when they parted back at the entrance to the hotel Amy was reassured his mood had shifted. One thing was certain; she’d hate to get on his bad side. Maybe that was the reason for the divorce—
“Thanks for coming with me,” he said.
“Thanks for asking.”
“Hope I didn’t spoil your evening,” he told her. “Maybe you’ll give me another chance before you leave.”
She nodded. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Good. Time for me to punch in. Got to get moving now.”
As he drove off she turned away. Behind her the town seemed to have settled down for the night, streets and houses sleeping under a dark blanket.
But not Amy.
— 11 —
Fat Otto Remsbach grabbed the tab and tossed it on the floor. Ignoring Doris Huntley’s stare of disapproval he had himself a nice long swig.
What the hell was wrong with Doris tonight? Maybe her mother had told her it wasn’t nice for a gentleman to drink beer out of a can when he’s in bed with a lady. But where did Doris get off, thinking she was a lady? And if her mother was so uptight about drinking out of a can why didn’t the old bitch come along with Doris and pour his beer into a glass?
Remsbach erupted a belch, indicating both appreciation of his drink and of his wit. Doris was scowling, but to hell with that too. This wasn’t Remsbach’s first drink tonight and it wasn’t going to be his last, either; if his little chicky-baby didn’t like it she could go stuff herself. He’d had it with Doris—too many times, and you can say that again. Somebody ought to tell her that smoking in bed isn’t ladylike either and maybe injurious to your health, particularly when the guy you’re balling kicks you out on your big fat butt.
Right now he was getting a good look at it because she’d stubbed her cigarette in the bedstand ashtray and settled down on the pillow with her back turned. That’s another way ladies hint their dissatisfaction with their bed-partners. Well, when it came right down to it he wasn’t all that satisfied himself. Another thing; just thirty seconds after she turned she started making those noises. Real ladies don’t snore.
Remsbach dropped his empty beer can on the floor beside the bed and opened a fresh one. He was starting on the second six-pack already, but he might as well drink up before the rest of the cans got warm. What he needed was some kind of portable refrigerator in here, some place to put the beer and keep it cold. Maybe he could build shelves in Doris; she was frigid enough.
Remsbach substituted his chuckle for a belch. Hotdamn, he was really on a role tonight—a regular Johnny Carson—and all off the top of his head too.
Now he took another gulp of beer because the top of his head didn’t feel so good; too much strain on the brain today. A lot of the stuff he’d ordered came in this morning, parcel post and Federal Express. Postcards with a picture of the Bates house, Bates Motel stationery, and those damn fool souvenir buttons reading Norman Loves Mommy. The buttons were Pitkin’s idea; a lot of this deal was his idea, including all those ads that had to be proofed for the papers in Montrose, Rock Center, and the six other weekly rags in the surrounding counties. Too early to risk what it cost running them statewide or pay big-city advertising rates, but if these one-shots in the nearby weeklies pulled in enough suckers for the Grand Opening day after tomorrow, Pitkin wanted to give the dailies a shot. Next step would be radio, then TV.
Right now he had his hands full just keeping track of orders and deliveries. Tomorrow somebody would come along to haul this crap out to the property and stash it in the motel office ready for displays and sales. At least Remsbach hoped someday would be coming around; that was Charles Q. Pitkin’s department. He was in charge of all hiring, from one-time truck deliverymen to the full-time staff out at the motel. “Full time” was maybe stretching it a little; they’d be starting out with one girl handling sales at the motel and two guys who would spell each other for the guided tours, motel and house both included. Open ten to six, closed Sundays. If they lucked out the next thing would be staying open nights—Charles already had some kinky notions about spooking things up for the evening trade. And they’d pave over and fence in a parking area with gates and a tollbooth.
If they lucked out. Otto Remsbach tackled beer number—who-the-hell cares. They’d better luck out, after the bundle it was costing him just to get started. But like Charles said, he had to do something, because agrobiz was sure as hell ruining farm implement sales; the little guys were going belly-up and the big guys bought their supplies and equipment at quantity discounts from outside sources.
So it was time to fish or cut bait. Nothing to worry about; Charlie only gambled on sure things and his dice were always loaded. What was it he’d said? “You’ll know business is good at the motel when you’ve gotta make a reservation to use a pay toilet.”
Charlie was a smart-ass but he sure’s hell could come up with ideas that landed him on the profit side of the ledger. And this was just the beginning. The next step would be to build a real motel out there. Then they’d need statewide advertising, and after that they’d go national. Visit the Bates Motel and the Houses of Horror!
That was another one of Pitkin’s brainstorms. Not just a wax museum but a whole string of separate exhibits. If they could have a motel office for Norman and a house for the old lady, then why not build something for characters like the Boston Strangler, the Manson family, and all those famous weirdos? Hell, with enough loot they could put up a whole street like London in the old days and do Jack the Ripper.
“Theme parks,” that’s what they call such places now. With the right kind of luck it could end up with something like Disneyland or Universal Tours. And the big money wasn’t just from admissions. The real name of the game was concessions. Jesus, think how much you could take in just from the beer franchise alone!
The thought of beer triggered another belch, and its echo awakened his companion. Doris Huntley rolled over on her back and blinked up at him, bleary-eyed.
“Wha’ you say?” she mumbled.
“Nothing, I was just thinking about beer.”
“That’s pretty much all you ever think about. So what else is new?”
“Not this beer, dummy.” Remsbach gestured with the hand holding the can. “I’m talking beer sales out at the Bates place.” His hand uncurled and dropped the empty container to the floor.
“Don’t you have to have a license?”
“Sure, and one for fast-food stands too. That’s where your boss comes in.”
“Don’t be too sure. I know Charlie’s gotten liquor licenses for a couple of clients before, but it wasn’t easy. Took a lot of doing and a lot of time.”
“I can wait.” Remsbach rewarded his promise of patience with another beer from the six-pack. “We’re gonna need permits for the motel and the concessions first before we get into the big stuff.”
“Know something, Otto? You ought to kick the beer habit.” Doris favored him with a frown of virtue as she lit a cigarette. “Get loaded like this and you don’t make any sense.”
“Hell I don’t!”
To prove it he explained what he had in mind. How much came from him and how much came from Charlie didn’t matter—once this thing got off the ground it’d be bigger than both of them. Plastic souvenir knives, with Yours truly, Jack the Ripper stamped on the handles. A roomful of waxworks in nurse’s uniforms, like those eight girls who got themselves snuffed in Chicago years ago. Maybe a bunch of murderer masks, at least the dead ones who couldn’t sue for invasion of privacy.
“How about that?” Remsbach laughed. “Bastards like that always squawking about somebody invading their privacy, right after they invaded somebody else’s privates with a butcher knife.”
“You’re disgusting!”
“Am I? Well, there’s one hell of a lotta
people out there who don’t think so. They’re gonna come see, and your boss and I are gonna make megabucks.”
Doris abandoned her cigarette and reached for her undergarments. “What makes you so sure all this will work out the way you think?”
“Because it damn well better work out, that’s why.” Remsbach scowled. “Every goddamn thing I own is riding on this, plus what Charlie got from mortgaging stuff I really don’t own yet. Not that I’m telling you anything you don’t know; hell, you’re the one who drew up most of the papers on those deals. This idea just eats money, chews it up and spits it out.” Remsbach’s scowl became a full-fledged frown. “Christ, I wish I knew who stole that goddamn Mother waxwork. Why the hell would anybody do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know,” Doris said. Nor was it apparent that she cared as she sat on the side of the bed and pulled her dress over her head.
“Goddamn piece cost a fortune. Charlie got hold of the outfit that made it out on the coast and he ordered us another, only it won’t be done in time for the opening.”
“Too bad.” Doris stood up, wriggled her skirt down over her thighs and stepped into her shoes. “Maybe they’ll send it to you for Mother’s Day.”
“That’s okay, we can get along without it now.” Remsbach’s scowl was reshaped into the philosophic smile of someone who believes in looking at the bright side. “Whoever killed Terry Dowson really did us a favor—all that extra publicity is gonna boost attendance.”
Doris Huntley’s hair was a mess, but if she had harbored any intention of combing it out, Remsbach’s remark about the Dowson kid changed her mind. Grabbing her purse from the nightstand she turned and stormed out of the bedroom, but not before giving Otto Remsbach instructions which, owing to the limitations of human anatomy, would be impossible for him to fulfill.
Otto Remsbach hurled his half-empty beer can after her; it struck the upper panel of the door, then splattered its way to the floor.
Hell with it. Hell with her too. Have ’nother beer. Good stuff. ’N good riddance. Because even before he could get the can open, the phone rang. And whaddya know?
It was Amy.
Friggin’ betcha, Amy Haines herself, coming to you live, not on tape, none other than the same little snotty bitch who walked out on him last night.
Otto Remsbach did his best to eliminate the slur from both his voice and his thoughts as he spoke. Did a pretty good job of it too, but why not? Doing deals over the phone came easy to him; like Charlie used to say, he was born on the horn.
Beauty part was he didn’t have to make any deal at all. The way it went down the only thing he had to do was say yes. “I know it’s late and short notice, but I’d really like to see you for a few minutes if you can spare the time,” she told him.
It sure as hell was no problem saying yes to that; the trick was to keep the surprise out of his voice.
“Half an hour?”
“Sounds good to me.”
He hung up, or tried to; it took several attempts before he managed to cradle the phone, and it wasn’t just the effects of drink that hampered him. Remsbach felt a surge of mingled anticipation and excitement, but overriding both was triumph.
Her walking out on him that way had been bothering the back of his mind all day. So he had a couple drinks with her out at the Club, no big deal. He remembered inviting her to come back to the house with him, but that was no big deal either. Thing was, she turned him down. Thing is, tonight she’d changed her mind.
Or had she? Maybe there was something she was after, something he could tell her, some favor he could do for her. Well, whatever the hell it was she wanted, the lady was going to get herself a lot more than she bargained for.
Half ’n hour. Jus’ time for a drink before he got dressed. Or maybe not. Maybe better give himself a couple minutes to relax, put himself together.
He probed his right cheek with a fatty forefinger. Yeah, he could get by without shaving again. Save him ’nother couple of minutes.
Turn off the lamp. Close your eyes. Relax. But don’t go to sleep. Ten minutes, that’s all you got now. Relax. Take deep breaths. Gotta remember to make this bed when you get up, get rid of those beer cans an’ all that other crap. And don’t forget those goddamn cigarette butts with Doris’ lipstick smeared all over them. Now that was good thinking. And good resting.
Here. In. The. Dark.
Remsbach came awake with a start. Must have passed out cold. How the hell long had he been lying here? Did Amy come and go while he was sleeping? He couldn’t remember.
She must have come, but on what happened next he drew a blank. All he knew was that she hadn’t gone. He could feel the curve of her bare hip against his own.
Almost reluctantly he broke contact to turn away and switch on the nightstand lamp. Then he turned back for a better glimpse of his bed-partner.
It wasn’t Amy.
It wasn’t Doris Huntley either.
The face that leered up from the pillow beside him was Mother’s.
— 12 —
Amy entered the hotel lobby, grateful for its comparative coolness after the swelter of the street. The desk clerk looked up from his comic but she ignored his stare and crossed to the waiting elevator.
Usually elevators triggered off a touch of claustrophobia, but tonight Amy was grateful when the door slid shut and she ascended in solitary confinement. There had been too many people today, too many stares. The whole town had gotten a chance to look her over, talk her over.
So what? Amy shrugged as she left the elevator, fishing in her purse for the room key. Let them whisper behind her back, just so long as nobody stuck a knife in it.
Not exactly the kind of thing she wanted to think about while opening the door on darkness and fumbling for the switch beyond the threshold. The overhead light fanned across a room occupied only by herself; still, she gave a start when the phone began to ring.
Closing and bolting the door behind her she hurried to pick up the receiver, giving herself three guesses as she did so. Who would be calling her tonight—Hank Gibbs, Sheriff Engstrom, Eric Dunstable?
“Good evening, Miss Haines. I hope I’m not disturbing you at this hour.”
“No, I just came back from dinner.” Amy paused. “Who is this?”
“Nicholas Steiner.”
“Dr. Steiner!” Amy paused again. “I’m sorry—I didn’t recognize your voice.”
“Neither do I.” Steiner’s chuckle was weak and he spoke slowly. “I’m still trying to untangle my vocal cords but I wanted to give you a call as soon as possible and tell you I’m sorry about breaking our appointment.”
“You’re apologizing to me because somebody tried to kill you?” Amy said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come up with a better excuse than that.”
Steiner’s chuckle of response seemed stronger. “Would you be willing to settle for another meeting?”
“Of course. Are you at the hospital?”
“They released me this afternoon, on condition I don’t go back on my regular schedule until next week. I’m resting, taking it easy, and bored stiff.”
“So I’m your last resort.”
“I prefer to think of you as my first concern.”
“That’s very kind. Most of the people I’ve run into around here don’t seem to feel that way,” Amy said. “I get the idea the only thing they’re concerned about is how soon I’ll get out of town.”
“When will that be?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Amy hesitated. “Do you think it would be possible to see me tomorrow?”
“Possible and pleasurable. What time would be convenient?”
“Offhand I think afternoon would be best. If I could have an hour with you, say around three o’clock—”
“You’ve got it, Miss Haines. Make it three-thirty. Gives me a chance to nap first after lunch.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.” Amy prepared to hang up, then voiced a final question. “How is Dr. Claiborne doing?”
<
br /> “Not too well. They’ve got him over at Bancroft Memorial Hospital and I can’t get a straight answer out of anyone on staff there. Maybe I’ll know more by the time we meet tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Doctor. I’m looking forward to seeing you, but please take it easy until then.”
“Don’t worry, I intend to do just that.” Once more, the dry chuckle. “I may not even shave.”
After hanging up Amy reached for the smaller of her notebooks, though not to record the time of tomorrow’s appointment; she was in no danger of forgetting that. But now it was time to review future plans again, checkout for possibilities or impossibilities.
On the basis of what Steiner had just reported, Dr. Claiborne sounded like an impossibility. She’d have to count on getting a fix on him from what Steiner could tell her. Meantime, a scrub for Adam Claiborne, M.D. A scrub for Bob Peterson too, and another for Dr. Rawson; as for people like Reverend Archer, there was no sense in even listing their names.
Hank Gibbs? Might be worthwhile talking to him again, and Sheriff Engstrom too, if she could only find a chink in his armor. So far the little man seemed to be an Achilles without a heel.
Who else was left? Instinctively Amy recoiled from the notion of a personal interview with Terry Dowson’s parents. There was no reason to exploit their grief, no point in sensationalizing the sorrow of the victim’s friends and classmates. It wasn’t going to be that kind of a book.
But just what kind of a book would it be? Amy tried to deal with that question as she scanned her notes. Face it, so far she hadn’t really come up with all that much new material; maybe because it was nonexistent. Perhaps this attorney, Charlie Pitkin, knew where the bodies were buried, but she had a strong hunch he wouldn’t be doing any grave-digging for her. You don’t get to be a hotshot state senator by giving away secrets, and from what Otto Remsbach had told her, good old Charlie wasn’t in the habit of giving away anything.
Amy quickly considered and disgarded Irene Grovesmith, Doris Huntley, Dr. Rawson’s receptionist—Marge or Margie, whatever she went by. Scrub Captain Banning too; she hadn’t seen him around, and even if available the chances were he’d be another Engstrom type.