Night-World

by Robert Bloch

  He was different. His life-style was death.

  Thou shalt not kill.

  God’s commandment. But no one really heeded it, or heeded Him. Not with the mess the world was in. If God were running for reelection on his record, he’d lose.

  Killing was easy. Everyone knows that. The hand swats the fly, the foot squashes the bug.

  With some people, it stops there. But others go on. The farm wife, wringing the neck of the chicken. The stockyard workers in the slaughterhouse, clubbing the steer, butchering the squealing pigs.

  The next step, of course, was war. But he didn’t want to think about that. The massacre of the innocents.

  Better to think about the righteous extermination of the guilty. It was a play, after all—a morality play, a passion play.

  Passion. The worm stirred, gnawing his groin.

  Suddenly, for no reason, he remembered the high school biology class and the dissection of a frog. He could see the bleached white underside of the creature, legs outstretched, as it wriggled on the table under the impalement of a knife.

  And then the table became a bed, and the frog turned into a Prince—no, a Princess. A girl with bleached white skin, legs outstretched, wriggling under another impalement.

  He knew who the girl was, of course.

  And he’d be seeing her, today.

  CHAPTER 17

  When Karen finished dressing and came out into the living room, she was surprised to find Tom Doyle sitting there.

  “I thought I wouldn’t be seeing you again until this afternoon,” she said.

  “Somebody fouled up on the assignments downtown.” Doyle shook his head. “The relief man never showed. They called and asked me to switch shifts, so I came along and took over from Lubeck.”

  “He left?”

  “About an hour ago. You were still asleep. No sense disturbing you. I figured you needed the rest.”

  Karen nodded. She started towards the kitchen. “How about something to eat?”

  “I could use a cup of coffee.”

  “Coming up.”

  Karen set the pot on, then fried herself an egg, put two slices of bread in the toaster, and took the orange juice from the refrigerator. The routine was automatic and somehow reassuring. Setting the table she could almost convince herself that this was just another day.

  Doyle watched her from the kitchen doorway. “You look better this morning.”

  “I feel better.” And she did. After that first nightmare Karen remembered nothing. She’d really slept.

  The coffee was perking. Karen filled two cups, brought out the milk, turned the egg, deposited it on a plate just as the toast popped up. The choreography of habit, everything timed out perfectly. She carried her food to the table as Doyle took his place across from her.

  The taste of toast and juice was reassuring, and so was the sight of the morning sun filtering through the blinds. Then she remembered something and started to rise from her chair.

  Doyle glanced up. “Forget something?”

  “The paper. They leave it outside the door.”

  “I brought it in.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Please, Mrs. Raymond—sit down.” Doyle shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Before you look, maybe we’d better have a talk about last night.”

  Karen sank back into her seat. “What happened?”

  She reached for the coffee cup, but she didn’t drink. Because Doyle told her. Told her gently, as if somehow the tone of his voice could lessen the weight of the words. Jack Lorch, Edna Drexel, Tony Rodell. Three of them; three more gone, while she slept.

  “Oh, my God,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

  “Everything possible. The Sheriff’s Department and the state police are working with us.” Doyle hesitated. “If there was only some way to reach your husband—”

  “I tell you I don’t know where he is!” Karen could scarcely hear the sound of her own voice because of the pounding in her temples. “Don’t you think I want to find him, don’t you think I’m sick with worrying over this?” She stood up. “I’m not the police—what do you expect from me?”

  “Only your cooperation.” For a moment Tom Doyle’s voice held a hint of hostility. Then he shook his head unhappily. “Were trying our best, but there’s so little to go on—”

  “I know.” Karen subsided. And something inside her said, maybe you’d better tell him.

  Doyle was watching her. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.” On the other hand, what good would it do if he knew? Anything she said would only harm Bruce, and she couldn’t do that. No matter what happened, she couldn’t.

  “Look,” said Doyle. “You don’t have to go to work today. After what happened last night, you might be better off going downtown. You’d have a police matron assigned to you, but they wouldn’t put you in a cell. It’s just a matter of security—”

  Karen shook her head. “I told my boss at the agency I was coming in. That’s what I intend to do.”

  And she did, sitting silently beside Doyle in his car as he crawled through the congestion of the freeway, sun-visor shielding him from the glare.

  While Doyle phoned in to report before leaving, Karen had managed to glance at the newspaper—just the headline and part of the lead story, but that was enough. Worse than the Tate-La Bianca murders, worse than anything. No wonder there was panic. And yet—

  And yet these people on the freeway were streaming into the city. She glanced at the occupants of the cars around her. An elderly man in a shiny new Olds, his radio turned low to an early market report. A young mother in a compact crowded with kids, obviously aiming toward the delights of Disneyland. A fat matron in a white station wagon, probably on her way to a beauty salon, but twenty years too late. A handsome black youth driving an open Triumph, its dashboard speaker blasting the morning mouthings of Funny Freddy and the Top Forty.

  Business as usual. Pleasure as usual. Even bumper-to-bumper, life went on. A man’s skull shattered in a spatter of blood and whiskey, but Dow-Jones still computed the averages. A woman shrieked soundlessly under water and kiddies headed for the Submarine Ride and the delicious, make-believe perils of the Haunted House. A young man was ripped to pieces by snarling dogs, his body torn, his hands shredded, and an old woman wondered how much she’d tip her manicurist. And the screams and the groans and the snarls were all drowned out by the happy voice of Funny Freddy. Maybe these people carried fear inside them, fear that whimpered and warned, but they twisted the dial and listened to the Top Forty instead.

  What else could they do? And what else could she do with the fear she felt? Go to work, that’s all. Pretend, like all the others, that this was just another day and that the night would never come.

  They turned onto the Harbor Freeway and took one of the ramps leading off into the mercantile maze of the downtown area.

  “This your building?” Doyle asked, and she nodded. He eased the car over to the curb. A policeman’s lot is not a happy one, but at least he doesn’t have to worry about finding a parking place.

  Riding up in the elevator with Doyle, she had a bad moment. There was a contraction of the stomach muscles which had nothing to do with the soaring motion of ascent. Gut feeling. Another one of those stupid catch-phrases she detested, because its indiscriminate use deadened all meaning, but she understood the original concept now. There was a ball in her stomach, a cold hard ball coiling around her intestines, a ball of fear. Not the fear of turning her back on an unseen killer, but the fear of facing the people she knew. The people who knew her, and who must know, now, about Bruce.

  Doyle was watching her. “Nervous?” he murmured.

  Karen ran her tongue over dry lips, shaking her head quickly. She wished he’d stop watching her, stop asking if she was all right. On the other hand, she acknowledged, it was his job.

  And this was hers.

  Stepping out of the elevator, she led Doyle to the door of the reception room. He op
ened it, allowing her to move past him.

  Peggy’s head bobbed up from behind the glass fronting the reception desk.

  “Oh—good morning.” There was something not quite right about her voice, and something definitely wrong with her hasty smile as she stared past Karen at Tom Doyle.

  Karen nodded towards him as she spoke. “This is Mr. Doyle. He’s with—”

  “Yes, I know.” Peggy broke in hastily. “They called and told Mr. Haskane there’d be somebody with you. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Karen began, but Peggy turned away and plugged in the switchboard.

  Why, she’s more embarrassed than I am! The realization came to Karen, and when the corridor door opened and Ed Haskane emerged, it was obvious that he was embarrassed, too.

  “Good to see you,” he said, acknowledging her presence and Doyle’s introduction with a gesture as inept and uncharacteristic as his phrase. “Of course, you didn’t have to come in today, I fold you on the phone—”

  “I wanted to come in,” Karen said. She was all right now, no more gut feeling. “No sense letting the work pile up.”

  “Right.” Haskane glanced at Doyle as Karen started into the corridor. “I, uh, suppose you’ll be coming in, too?”

  Doyle nodded and followed Karen. The trio advanced down the hall, past the oak-doored offices, past Media, Art and Copy. Karen had a feeling that these doors were opening and closing in a faster tempo than was usual, but she couldn’t be sure. If others eyed their progress, it was with silent discretion, and it didn’t bother her. After all, what was there for anyone to see? She didn’t have two heads. Perhaps they were looking at her merely to assure themselves that she still retained one.

  To take her mind off the matter, she started talking before they turned into the second corridor.

  “What happened with Girnbach? Did they okay the copy?”

  “Oh, that—” Haskane smiled quickly. “They thought your stuff was great. But they didn’t go for the artwork. I’ve put Frisby on it, he’s noodled out something new. Of course that means we’ll have to do a little rewrite, more in line with the drawing—”

  The same old story. Business as usual. Karen recalled how often she’d bitched to herself about this kind of nonsense, but right now she welcomed it. Give her something to occupy her mind.

  “You want to send it down?” she asked.

  “Sure, if you feel up to taking another swing.”

  “I’m ready.” Karen moved through the open doorway of her cubicle. Doyle entered behind her as Ed Haskane hesitated in the hall.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll shoot it over. But if you don’t—I mean, if there’s anything I can do—”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Haskane,” Karen said. “I’m all right, thank you.”

  Haskane disappeared.

  She knew what he meant; what he really wanted to do was talk to her about what had happened. About how it feels to have a husband in the sanatorium and go walking in there to find—

  But he wouldn’t ask outright. He wouldn’t, because she wasn’t giving him a chance.

  Karen turned and shed her jacket. The detective stood behind her, an awkward intrusion in these cramped confines.

  “Why don’t you sit down over there?” Karen indicated a chair. “Take your coat off if you like.”

  “This is fine.” Doyle sat down.

  “You’ll find some magazines in the top drawer of the file. Mostly fashion stuff, I’m afraid, but at least it’s something to read.”

  “Thanks.”

  But Doyle didn’t read any magazines. And when the runner brought in the rough for the artwork with her old copy clipped to the top, he watched Karen work.

  He was quiet, and out of her range of vision, but the mere knowledge of his presence threw Karen off a bit. Or was it knowing the reason for his presence that bothered her?

  In either case, she had a bad morning. The new rough was done in a totally different style, and the motorcycle had been eliminated. This meant the heading had to be changed. And once that went, the copy inevitably went with it.

  She made three or four futile attempts and filled her wastebasket with wadded paper until the contents resembled a pile of popcorn balls. Finally, around noon, she got what she wanted.

  She called Haskane.

  “Good,” he said. “Look, I’ve got a twelve-thirty lunch. Suppose we go over it when I get back.”

  “What did you say?”

  His voice was faint. “How about two-thirty in my office?”

  “Two-thirty?”

  “That’s right. See you.”

  Karen hung up and turned to Doyle. “The phone,” she said. “It’s bugged, isn’t it?”

  Doyle shrugged. “Matter of precaution.”

  Karen made no comment. Instead she reached for her jacket.

  “Where to now?” Doyle asked.

  “It’s lunch time.” Karen opened her purse, inspected herself in the compact mirror. “I suppose we eat together.”

  “Sorry.” Doyle smiled apologetically.

  “I know.” Karen put her compact away. “Matter of precaution.”

  In the outer corridor before the elevator, a ruddy-faced man with a ginger mustache leaned against the wall, folding the classified section of a newspaper. He paid no attention to them until Doyle nodded.

  “We’re going to lunch,” he said.

  The man looked up. “How long?”

  Doyle’s eyes questioned Karen.

  “Forty-five minutes. There’s a grill downstairs.”

  The man glanced at his watch. “I’ll be here,” he told Doyle.

  In the descending elevator the lanky detective cleared his throat. “No sense playing games. The way I figure, you’re better off knowing we meant what we said about security. Your receptionist’s tipped off—if anyone she doesn’t recognize shows up and wants to get into the office, she’ll check with the man on duty outside before admitting him.”

  “I suppose you’ve got somebody in the grill, too?”

  “That wouldn’t be necessary, not in a public place.”

  “Good.” Karen smiled. “Then it doesn’t matter if we go somewhere else.”

  “What’s wrong with the grill?”

  “Too many people from the office eating there. I think I’d feel more comfortable down the block. It’s only a cafeteria, but there won’t be anyone staring at me.”

  “Whatever you like.”

  Karen picked up a salad, iced tea and a scoop of lemon sherbet. But when she and Doyle found a table, she barely touched her food.

  “I thought you were hungry,” Doyle said.

  “I was. Until I saw that.” Karen indicated the table directly to her right where a pudgy man in a seersucker jacket sat reading an early edition of the afternoon paper. The bold headline was plainly visible: DRUGGED DOGS KILL THIRD ASYLUM ESCAPEE.

  “Is it true?” Karen murmured.

  “Yes. They got the lab reports.”

  “How awful.” Karen’s hand curled around the side of the iced-tea glass. “Tony Rodell. I think I’ve heard some of his records. I never knew he was in that sanatorium, too.”

  “Your husband didn’t mention him?”

  “I told you, I didn’t see Bruce while he was there.”

  “That’s right, I forgot.” Doyle took a bite of his ham sandwich.

  Karen relinquished her grasp on the glass, but the chill remained. “I keep thinking about that boy. What kind of a person would do such a thing to him?”

  Doyle munched, swallowed. “Depends.”

  “I know it’s a silly question.” Karen nodded. “All sorts of people commit murder—I suppose you’ve seen a lot of them.”

  “A few.” Doyle used his napkin, put it down on the table. “No, I take that back, I’ve probably seen plenty. And so have you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “According to statistics, less than half the homicides in this country result in an ar
rest. And only a small percentage of those arrested are actually convicted and sentenced.”

  “But we read all these articles about scientific crime investigation—”

  “Sure you do. And we’ve got lab men, technicians, all kinds of fancy equipment. Sometimes it works. And when it does, everybody takes a bow.” Doyle’s smile was grim. “But I’ll give it to you straight. Over ninety percent of all homicides that are solved, the culprit is handed to the department on a silver platter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Either he walks in and gives himself up, or somebody fingers him.”

  “An informer?”

  Doyle nodded. “That’s when the real police work usually begins—gathering evidence for a conviction. But first you’ve got to make an arrest. And nine times out of ten that comes about because somebody tips us off.” Doyle was watching her. “I’m not talking about a professional informer or even an eyewitness. Most of the time it’s somebody close—a friend, a member of the family who knows, or suspects. At first they’re usually inclined to button up, but after a while, when they have a chance to think it over, they realize they’ve got to speak out. It’s their duty to prevent such a thing from happening again, if you follow me.”

  “I follow you.” Karen stared at him. “Right up to the line. But I’m not stepping over. If you expect me to say yes, Bruce is guilty, just forget it. Not because he’s my husband, but because I don’t know. Do you understand that? I don’t know!”

  “Mrs. Raymond—”

  Karen stood up. “It’s time to get back to the office,” she said.

  And that was the last thing she said to him until they were back in her little cubicle on the tenth floor. There she picked up the rough and her copy and started for the hall.

  “It’s time for me to see my boss,” she told him. “His office is around the corner in the other corridor.”

  “I’ll walk you over.”

  “Suit yourself.” She picked up the phone and notified Haskane that she was on her way.

  Doyle followed her in silence to the door of Haskane’s office. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll wait outside here.” He opened the door for her. “Look, I’m sorry I sounded off like that. I didn’t mean—”