by Robert Bloch
“It’s going to be a lot hotter when Engstrom hauls that prisoner in.”
“Then why did you tell his secretary we had to leave? Don’t you want to see who they caught?”
“Sure do. That’s why we’re out here. At least we’ll be able to get a look at him when he arrives. I somehow doubt that Engstrom would invite us into the holding cell for coffee and Twinkies.”
“It isn’t funny,” Amy said.
Hank Gibbs nodded. “I know that. Probably better than you do. Don’t forget, this is my town and these are my people. But if I let myself think too much about what all this is doing to them—” The way his voice trailed off added eloquence to his words.
“Have you got any idea whom they might be bringing in?”
“We’ll see in a couple of minutes.”
But they didn’t. Normal traffic streamed along the street bordering the square but there was no sign of a car bearing the official insignia entering the reserved parking space at their left.
Gibbs consulted his watch. “What’s holding them up?”
“The secretary didn’t say where they’d be coming from,” Amy said.
“That’s right. But I should’ve guessed where they’d be going.” Gibbs turned and opened the annex door. “Follow me.”
Amy tagged along as he reentered, doing her best to keep pace as he strode down the corridor. “Engstrom’s sharp. I just remembered he could take the back entrance to the main courthouse and sneak through to this side by way of the basement.”
Once again Irene Grovesmith peered up at them as they came through the office doorway. “I thought you’d left,” she said.
“Don’t you wish.” Gibbs’ eyes semicircled the room and came to rest on the door to Engstrom’s private office. “Where is he?”
“I’ve already told you it’s none of your business. And there’s no sense wasting your time hanging around here, Hank Gibbs. The Sheriff won’t be talking to you until he’s good and ready.”
Gibbs winked at Amy out of the corner of his eye. “So much for southern hospitality,” he murmured.
Irene Grovesmith glanced up quickly. “What’s that you said?”
Before Gibbs could answer, the door to Engstrom’s inner office opened abruptly and a uniformed deputy emerged, closing it behind him as he nodded at Gibbs.
“Afternoon, Hank.” He came forward, smiling. “Now I know what they mean when they say news travels fast.”
“Happens we were here when the call came in. Just stepped out front in case you needed a welcoming committee.” Gibbs glanced at Amy. “Miss Haines, I’d like you to meet Dick Reno.”
As introductions were concluded the Sheriff’s deputy was standing almost side by side with Hank Gibbs and Amy found herself inevitably—or was it automatically?—comparing the two men. Dick Reno was almost a head taller than the newspaper editor and at least a half dozen years younger, maybe more. He had dark, curly hair and would have been strikingly handsome were it not for the bridge of his nose, which was curiously flattened. Probably broke it playing football, Amy told herself, unless someone had broken it for him under other circumstances. Not an easy thing to do, if he’d been as trim and fit as he looked now. In any case, the slight irregularity of his features didn’t mar his engaging smile, and just why the hell was she wasting her time over that one way or the other? Business before pleasure.
“Is there anything you might be able to tell us about what’s happened?” The question was strictly business, but there was no harm in allowing a hint of possible pleasure to creep into her glance and voice.
As a matter of fact, it seemed to help, and even more than she could have hoped. “It’s up to the Sheriff,” Dick Reno said. “But seeing as how you two already know we brought somebody in, I guess that part of it isn’t exactly a secret. Fact is, we don’t really know all that much more about him ourselves; not yet, anyway.”
“I’ll settle for a name,” Gibbs said.
“Don’t have one.” Reno’s smile was almost apologetic. “He refuses to identify himself and he’s not carrying any IDs.”
“Where did you find the suspect?” Hank Gibbs asked.
“He’s not a suspect,” Reno said. “That is, he hasn’t been charged with anything yet. We just took him into custody for questioning.”
“That’s not the way I heard it.” Gibbs gestured. “Irene here told us you got the killer.”
Irene Grovesmith’s eyes were like miniature ice cubes. Her mouth opened and the vinegar flowed. “Why, Hank Gibbs! I never said any such thing!” That made two indignant sniffs in a row, Amy noted, then wondered if there would be a third forthcoming now as the secretary directed her attention to Dick Reno. “As for you,” she told him, “I think you’ve said more than enough already.”
Apparently a third sniff was unnecessary because Reno nodded quickly, and when he addressed Amy the apologetic smile had returned. “Irene’s right, Miss Haines. I don’t think there’s anything more I can tell you until you have a chance to talk to the Sheriff.”
“Chance?” Gibbs’ eyebrows rose. “You mean we’ve got to win the lottery or something?”
“Take it easy, Hank,” Reno said. “He’s just started questioning this guy now.”
“Does he know we’re here?”
Dick Reno shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then it’ll be a surprise.” Gibbs moved past the deputy in the direction of the Sheriff’s private office. As he did so, the voices of Reno and Irene Grovesmith rose and blended.
“Hey, wait a minute—”
“You can’t do that!”
He glanced back for a moment, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’m knocking.” Actions followed words.
But not for long. The door opened partially; just enough for Sheriff Engstrom’s head to emerge from the aperture.
“What’s the big idea?” The question was obviously rhetorical, and Engstrom made no pretense of waiting for a reply. Instead his stare focused on Reno. “Get these people out of here!”
“Come on, Sheriff.” Hank Gibbs contrived a smile. “It’s just a matter of common courtesy. Young lady here’s been waiting to see you—”
“Is that so?” Engstrom’s stare shifted in Amy’s direction. “Then why didn’t she take the trouble to come over and introduce herself to me in the coffee shop last night?”
“I’m sorry,” Amy said. “Actually, I wasn’t quite sure who you were at that time.”
“Looked to me as though you were listening up pretty good,” Engstrom told her.
“Or else you were speaking pretty loudly,” Amy said. Something happened to Engstrom’s stare as she spoke; his eyes flickered momentarily and the corners of his mouth twitched.
“Now look here, young lady—”
“I am looking,” Amy said, “but you’ve got the rest of it wrong. I’m going to be twenty-seven years old in another couple of months, which isn’t all that young. And when I’m working, which I happen to be right now, I’m not that much of a lady. Come to think of it, I’m not a lady at all, not in your sense of the word. Because from what I’ve been able to observe around here so far it’s just a word to you. As far as you’re concerned, the idea is still to keep the young ones barefoot and pregnant and stick the old ones behind a stove—” Amy paused for an instant, glancing at Irene Grovesmith. “Or a desk,” she concluded.
“Well I never!” The secretary sniffed in emphatic punctuation.
Somehow Amy resisted the obvious reply.
It was Engstrom who spoke for her. “That’s enough, Irene,” he said, then eased himself forward without opening the door any farther, glancing at Amy as he did so. “Be glad to set up something with you later. Right now I can give you five minutes.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.” Amy accompanied her nod with a smile. For a moment she debated whether or not to reach for the notebook inside the bag, then decided against it. Enough that she’d won; no sense pressing her luck. “Might I ask the name of the person you’ve
taken into custody?”
“Sorry, I don’t have that information.” Sheriff Engstrom’s pause was almost imperceptible. “Not yet.”
“May I ask your reasons for questioning him?”
“My deputy didn’t tell you?” Again the slightest of pauses; Amy imagined she could almost hear the wheels clicking inside his head. What she did hear next was, “Reno’s been staked out over at the Bates property. This afternoon he picked up this prowler trying to break into the house.”
“Then there is a charge,” Amy said. “Breaking and entering.”
“Well, not exactly.” Amy revised her mental image. There were no wheels inside Engstrom’s head; only a scale used for weighing his words. “When Reno picked him up he was trying the doorknob.”
“Which makes him a suspect?”
“Let’s just say it’s a matter of suspicious circumstances. Here’s this man showing up out of nowhere, no car, no ID. Doesn’t even have a driver’s license.”
“Is that a crime, Sheriff?”
“No, but whoever killed Terry Dowson wasn’t driving either. There was no sign of a car having been parked anywhere near the scene of the crime. But I guess you heard me mention that last night.”
Whichever it might be, wheels whirring or scales weighing, didn’t matter to Amy at this precise moment. What mattered was that she was watching Hank Gibbs. As she and Engstrom were talking he had begun to edge his way toward the door that stood ajar behind the Sheriff’s back.
He had moved so slowly and cautiously that neither Dick Reno nor Irene Grovesmith seemed to notice; their attention was focused on the thrust and parry of the conversation. Thus they weren’t aware that Hank Gibbs had hooked the heel of his right foot and the base of the door’s far edge, pressing it toward him to gradually expand the opening.
Now the gap in the doorway was six inches wider. Staring past the Sheriff’s head, she caught a clear glimpse of the inner office, and of the man seated there before the desk.
“Sounds like you’re implying that these circumstances are all somehow connected to the person you just brought in.” Amy shifted her gaze to Engstrom quickly as she spoke. “Are you saying you think he could have killed that girl?”
The Sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not saying anything. But I’m going to find out.”
“Let me save you the trouble,” Amy told him. “He’s not guilty.”
The narrow eyes widened. “How do you know?”
Amy met his stare. “Because on the night of the murder he was in Chicago, in my home.”
“Your home?”
“That’s right. I had friends over for the evening who can testify they saw him when he showed up unexpectedly at the apartment. I told him I couldn’t talk to him then, but made an appointment for an interview on Monday morning. Unfortunately, by Monday I’d read about what happened here and I was already on my way down. I’m afraid I forgot to notify him and cancel off.”
“Interview?” Engstrom scowled. “What kind of an interview?”
“For the book I’m doing. He’d read a squib about it in the paper.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Eric Dunstable,” Amy said. “He’s a demonologist.”
— 6 —
Otto Remsbach was a good driver. He kept both pudgy hands on the wheel, both piggy eyes on the road.
Not very charitable, Amy told herself. But from what she had seen of Mr. Remsbach thus far there was little about him to inspire charity. For a moment she regretted having accepted his dinner invitation on the phone, but his call after she returned to the hotel had caught her by surprise. After all, she did have to eat dinner somewhere, and Remsbach was on her list, one of her lists anyway; although from what she had already observed he might also earn himself a place on another.
Having conceded her lack of charity Amy tried her best to be objective about obesity. But even if she could dismiss the common cultural prejudice and replace her image of Otto Remsbach with that of a man a hundred pounds lighter, it still wouldn’t help. No matter how thin Remsbach became, everything about him would still be oversized. His vintage Caddy was too big, the diamond in his ring was not only too big but a bit too yellow. He had an outsized voice, and he used it constantly from the time he picked Amy up at the hotel until their arrival at the Montrose Country Club.
If the purpose of their meeting was an interview, he got the session off to a bad start. It was his big, booming voice that asked all the questions and Amy found herself floundering for answers in their wake.
“Is it Miss or Mrs.? What’s with this ‘Ms.’ business anyway? How come a classy lady like you didn’t pick herself a husband and settle down? What do you do for a living? Yes, I know you’re a writer, but what do you to for a living? That book you wrote—what was the name again? Does it have anything to do with Halloween? How come I never saw you on any of those talk shows? If you don’t mind my asking, how much money do they pay for writing one of those things?”
Oh, Otto Remsbach was a pistol, and no mistake. That was the important part, Amy kept reminding herself. No mistake. She did her best to avoid making one while avoiding answering him too explicitly. Maybe he’d talk himself out by the time they arrived. And then it would be her turn. At least it was a carrot of hope at the end of the stick formed by the questions with which he kept prodding her.
Just outside Montrose they turned off onto the winding road that led up the hillside to their destination. Once the drive spiraled to the plateau above they drove through wide gates past lines of light that blazed and beckoned, then parked.
At first glance the Montrose Country Club looked very much like thousands of others—a recreational center for wealthy businessmen who have not yet been indicted.
Once inside Amy was pleasantly surprised to discover a large lounge area, complete with fireplace and bookshelves. At one time this must have been the living room of a large and imposing private residence. Carpeting, drapes, and paneling were recognizable holdovers, but the bar and the dining room beyond had obviously been added when the home was converted for its present use.
The bar was standard; booths lining the window wall, mirrored wall elongating behind the serving counter. The side walls were hand-muraled with desert scenes featuring sagebrush, cactus, burning sand, blazing sunlight, all artfully assembled to stimulate the viewer’s thirst. The bartender wore a red vest, the barstools had red plastic coverings, the patrons had red, flushed faces. Time did not stand still here, but at least it was a bit wobbly; the cocktail hour stretched from five to eight. Actually there were only a half-dozen customers at the bar but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in volume; these greying, elderly men in their carefully tailored casual jackets and tattersall vests were used to talking just as loud as they goddamned pleased, both in the office and in public places. How they may have been forced to modulate their tone at home might be another matter. The point was they weren’t at home, they were here, just having a drink or six to relax before dinner. Good ol’ boys almost always cut their real deals over drinks and dinner; Mother ought to be used to it by now. At least she knows that’s where the money comes from, and it wasn’t like she had to just sit on her hands at home with nothing to do; she could always watch cable.
The dining room held a large number of customers but few surprises. There were no booths here, only square or round tables, each bearing a lighted, glass-sheathed candle and a bud vase containing a single rose. Since the room was a comparatively recent addition it didn’t boast a chandelier, but the indirect lighting was pleasantly non-fluorescent. Amy noted a preponderance of middle-aged and elderly patrons but almost half were wives and mothers. The conversational level was lower, and about one out of three of the male diners wore neither vest nor necktie, but none were in shirtsleeves. Out here at the source of what advertising copywriters would describe as down-home country goodness, country club dining was still a form of ritual, separating the men from the good ol’ boys.
Apparently
some things had never really changed. The maître d’ who greeted and seated them was white, but the waiters and busboys were black; still the same old setup, boss man and hired hands. The waiter, whose name was Quentin, was very good; he took Amy’s order for a vodka martini and twinned it with a double Daniel’s on the rocks without Remsbach having to request it.
Obviously her dinner partner’s preferences were well known here. Amy consulted the menu before deciding on her brook trout almondine, baked potato and dinner salad, coffee later. But Otto Remsbach didn’t bother to order; at proper intervals they served him his shrimp cocktail and a second drink, then his porterhouse medium rare and a Daniel’s redoubled.
All of which Amy noted out of the corner of her mind. Most of her attention was concentrated upon Remsbach’s continuous conversation which, like the liquor, flowed freely. It was interrupted only twice early on; the first time being when a couple identified only as Mr. and Mrs. Aversham nodded a greeting as they passed en route to a table. “Mayor of Montrose and his better half,” Remsbach told her, nodding in the direction of their departing figures. “No point introducing you—they wouldn’t have anything you want. Besides, he hates my guts and she’s gonna spend all night trying to figure out what I’m doing here with a foxy lady like you.” This observation came after the shrimp cocktail and the second drink but Amy noted that his accompanying laughter was already a trifle above the ordinary decibel level here. Good ol’ boys will be boisterous.
The other interruption followed almost immediately and she welcomed it. This one did involve an introduction to the thin, sharp-featured, middle-aged man whose most attractive attribute seemed to be a comely wife twenty years his junior. Number two, Amy guessed, then amended her estimate after a downward glance. Custom-made alligator shoes worn in these surroundings were indications of taste that might easily run to a higher number of nuptials.
“Hey there, Charlie!” Remsbach cocked his head up at the couple, ignoring the woman completely, even though it was she who nodded in response to the greeting. Probably not his wife after all, Amy decided, but outside of the AA meeting in the bar this seemed to be a fairly stuffy place; it would take a considerable amount of nerve to bring a bimbo into a roomful of self-described decent, respectable wives and mothers. Come to think of it, Remsbach had his quota of nerve too, bringing a bimbo like herself into the same surroundings. So much for snap judgments; nevertheless she was eager to be introduced to this particular stranger. Now Remsbach gratified her wish.
