by Robert Bloch
Not in her room this morning, that’s for sure, and nobody downstairs saw her leave. The lobby was like a snake pit; if somebody talked to her on the house phone the desk had been too busy to notice. She could even have used the service elevator and sneaked out the back way but her car hadn’t been moved. He should have checked again before coming out here, but you can’t think of everything.
Or everyone. The weirdo, Dunstable, there was no excuse to hold him after checking out his alibi this morning; he said he was going back to the hotel, but Christ only knew where he was now. And He wasn’t talking to anyone, not even Reverend Archer, who’d been asking for divine intervention to help destroy this place. Maybe Archer would lose patience and act on his own. Meanwhile, as of his wife’s response to a noontime call, the Reverend was not at home, she didn’t know when to expect him and couldn’t say where he’d gone.
Homer was holding the fort at the Fairvale Weekly Herald office but his boss was out. According to Homer, Hank Gibbs was slated to tape an interview over at the hotel sometime around four o’clock; TV and radio people had rented—and were taking turns using—the banquet room, which was a fancy name for the place where the Kiwanis Club held breakfast meetings every Friday morning. Today the meeting had been called off, which meant there were that many more prospective firebugs on the loose. They hadn’t been happy about Fatso Otto’s project from its beginning and now they’d be anxious to see it end. Then there was Dick Reno to consider. Tall man, short fuse. He didn’t take kindly to being fired, but you can’t depend on someone who doesn’t know enough to keep his mouth shut. He’d sneaked off while he was on duty last night; where could he have sneaked off to now?
Again Engstrom’s hand dipped to his waistband, this time not to locate the flashlight but to reassure himself his revolver was ready before he opened the front door of the Bates house. After considering all those likely to have incendiary intentions it was possible that he might not be the first visitor here.
Sunlight hazy, clouds coming in from the west. More rain coming?
If so it didn’t concern him; not at the moment, anyway. Truth to tell, a little rain this evening might be just the thing. Nothing like a good storm to put out fires. Unless, of course, the fire started before the rain did.
Once inside the house he closed the door quietly behind him. It was time to use the flashlight again. Here in the hall nothing seemed changed; a big sheet of plastic still covered the area where Terry Dowson’s body had lain and the stained flooring beneath. Didn’t look as though anyone had disturbed it since blood samples had been collected. Whole mess would have to be cleaned up sooner or later, but not right now. Maid’s day off.
The flashbeam aided vision but it didn’t help his hearing or other senses. As far as these were concerned, he’d have to depend on himself. Up until now all he heard was the sound of his own footsteps and all he smelled was a lingering trace of semi-glossy paint. He didn’t expect to be touching or tasting anything; then again, one never knows.
One never knows, but one had damn well better find out. Move slowly, softly, carefully. Upstairs first; switch the flash to your left hand and keep the right hand close to the holster. Dick Reno turned in his revolver this morning, but he had one of his own. How many more of those jokers on his list might have revolvers, target pistols, deer rifles, shotguns, or other weapons? For that matter, an ordinary butcher knife would do; it had done before, several times, and most efficiently.
Darkness hid his grim smile as he mounted the stairs, keeping the flash low so that its light wouldn’t advertise his approach. Once on the upper landing he pointed his boots down the hall and made a slow-motion survey door by door, room by room, closet by closet. All clear.
Satisfied, he retraced his route down the hall and the stairs, then duplicated his efforts on the first floor. Nobody had been hiding under the bed up above, nobody lurked behind the furniture down here. The drapes in the parlor were less than floor-length and stirred only in response to his passage.
Funny thing, though; no pictures on the walls, upstairs or here below. Maybe they’d been ordered but hadn’t arrived. Perhaps they’d come in at the last moment, too late for hanging. Only it was never too late for hanging, not in this state. Or framing, either.
Again the grim smile. Wonder what kind of pictures were supposed to go on the walls here—regular old-fashioned paintings or maybe blowup photos of Norman and his mother? Have to ask Charlie Pitkin the next time he saw him. If he saw him.
Hopefully that wouldn’t be in the basement. Or the fruit cellar.
Boot tips teetered on the steps. Down and dirty. That’s what they used to say in stud poker games when he was a kid. But this wasn’t a game and he wasn’t a kid anymore; just a grey-mustached man who had plans for living to a ripe old age. Should have sent somebody else out here in the first place, but with Reno gone he was left shorthanded. Besides, it would be too risky.
Either it was darker in the basement or his flashlight was starting to give out. That had happened here before, or was it just his imagination? In any case he’d come too far to turn back now. Now that he knew the basement was empty. Now that he had to look into the fruit cellar.
The door was slightly ajar.
Had it been that way before? He couldn’t remember.
Point the flashlight forward. Pull out the revolver and point it too. Ease the door open very gently, very slowly, using the tip of the left boot. Now fan the beam in on—
Emptiness.
It was a relief, of course. A relief, but strange; strange not to see Mother there, where she belonged. Should have had a pivot installed for her. Here, or in Otto Remsbach’s bed.
This time the smile was not quite as grim. The tension was easing now that he could be sure—reasonably sure—the house hadn’t been invaded. And wouldn’t be, if he could prevent it. Eventually those news-media turkeys would be coming out here but all they were going to get was what they’d gotten the first time around; exterior shots of the house and the motel setup. If Captain Banning pitched in they wouldn’t even get that much, but Banning’s nose was out of joint because the Highway Patrol didn’t get any exposure on the Remsbach case. He wasn’t about to detail any round-the-clock surveillance here, not even on a drive-by basis.
Banning wasn’t worrying about the media or about possible arson either. And when you came right down to it, why should he?
Coming right down to it was something to think about when coming right up the stairs again. Better check out the situation just to be on the safe side. In arson, matches are less important than motives.
Once more he reviewed the reasons that might motivate potential pyromaniacs. Only the people on his list weren’t maniacs, he reminded himself, except perhaps for Eric Dunstable. Do demonologists start fires? It didn’t matter; this character was weird enough or wired enough to do anything. Too bad the laws on substance abuse didn’t allow for a test when they’d pulled Dunstable in: both times Engstrom could have sworn the guy was on something.
The girl who worked for Doc Rawson, that Marge, was into his sample supply; he knew because Doc had told him. Said he was going to dump her as soon as he could find himself another. But so far nothing serious had happened and just because she popped a few pills didn’t necessarily tie in with a burning desire to get rid of this place.
It was the others who really wanted it destroyed, and for good reason.
Now, leaving the house, Engstrom regretted he couldn’t share their feeling. As an officer of the law he was responsible for the protection of life and property. The way things had been going, there were bound to be noises about how well he’d performed the first part of his duties. But if on top of that he let somebody burn down this place after it had been featured on the nightly news—
Engstrom shook his head.
It was up to him to keep everyone from playing with fire.
If not, he’d end up on the nightly news himself.
— 21 —
Dr. Steine
r was waiting for Amy in the lobby, and at first glance she thought he was one of the patients.
But patients in institutions of this sort were not likely to be wearing business suits nor moving freely about in wheelchairs without anyone in attendance. If anything more was necessary, his greeting offered confirmation.
“Miss Haines? I’m Nicholas Steiner.”
His outstretched hand was cold but his smile was warm. His grip was weak, his voice strong. Contrasts or contradictions? Another question among many for which she’d be needing answers. Better try an easier one first.
“How did you recognize me, Dr. Steiner?”
“There’ve been descriptions.” The smile brightened. “Besides we don’t expect many visitors this late in the afternoon, particularly the kind who arrive carrying oversized notebooks under their arms.” Again the frail hand extended. “Suppose we make a deal? I’ll carry your purse and notebook on my lap and you wheel me back to my office.”
“Fair enough.” Amy stepped behind the chair and, following Steiner’s directions, turned and propelled it past the reception desk. The white-capped, dark-faced woman behind it looked up and smiled at Dr. Steiner as they passed. “See you got yourself a new nurse,” she said.
“That’s right,” Steiner said. “Don’t report me to the union.”
Amy steered the chair into the corridor beyond—the administrative area, she concluded, since most of the doors lining the route were open to reveal glimpses of office furniture or filing facilities.
“Hang a left here,” Steiner told her.
Here was a modestly furnished but comfortably old-fashioned office; drapes instead of blinds, light incandescent rather than fluorescent, desk solid wood, not flimsy metal.
Amy wheeled Steiner up beside rather than behind it, across from the armchair in which she seated herself after retrieving purse and notebook. Extracting a pen from the former, she held it poised, flipping open the latter to an empty page.
“I was just thinking,” she said. “This must be quite a switch for you. Usually you’re the one who takes the notes.”
Steiner’s right hand loosened the folds of the scarf around his neck. “Usually I ask patients if they need some water before they start talking,” he said. “There’s a cooler over in the corner behind you, and a cup dispenser. If you don’t mind—”
“Of course.” Amy rose and obliged his request. As she settled back in the chair again he drank slowly, then placed the empty cup on the edge of the desk beside him.
“That’s better,” he murmured. “Throat’s still a little uncomfortable.”
Amy nodded. “I’ll try not to ask too many questions.”
“Ask as many questions as you wish. I’ll try not to give too many answers.”
“Suppose I start with an easy one.” Amy gripped her pen. “What was Dr. Claiborne like?”
“You call that an easy question?” The accompanying chuckle held a hint of hoarseness; then the voice sobered. “Depends on which Dr. Claiborne we’re talking about.
“The Adam Claiborne I knew—or thought I knew, as my associate here—was a caring and competent co-worker, a decent and highly intelligent man who was almost like a son to me.
“But he was also the son of Norman Bates.” Steiner expelled his breath in a silent sigh. “I failed him. All those years after he came back, all those attempts to help. And I failed him.”
“I’m sorry,” Amy said. “It must be painful for you to talk about this.”
“After what Adam did to me the other night, it’s painful to talk period.” Steiner gestured hastily. “Don’t take that as a hint. I want to talk. I need to. If this hadn’t happened, if I could do what you’ve been doing—”
Amy leaned forward. “You think you’d be able to identify the murderer?”
“Somebody must. And soon.”
“How would you go about it?”
Dr. Steiner shrugged. “Not the way Engstrom has, or Captain Banning. I’ve talked to them both and all they’re interested in is clues, alibis, and motives. The problem is they have no clues, alibis can be faked, and motives can be concealed.”
“Then where do you start?”
“The same place you did when you wrote your book about Bonnie Walton. You begin by constructing a profile of your subject.”
“But I knew in advance that Bonnie Walton was the guilty party. She’d already been convicted of murder. And the profile of her I constructed in advance turned out to be wrong.”
Steiner took another sip of water. “So you changed it, correcting errors on the basis of what you learned as you went along. And in the end it’s my opinion you came pretty close to the truth.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank yourself for doing an honest and thorough piece of work.” Steiner dropped his emptied paper cup into the waiting wastebasket beside the desk. “The point is, you probably never would have started the project if you hadn’t already formed a profile of the subject in your own mind. Right or wrong, you needed to visualize an image as a point of departure. Then interviews helped you correct that image as you went along.”
“Let’s talk about the image of a possible suspect in this case. Do you have enough to create such a profile now?”
Steiner frowned. “Only in generalities, on the basis of what little I’ve learned.”
As he spoke, Amy’s pen raced to keep pace with his words.
“No need to repeat what we both know. Actually there are just a few points of special interest that I think haven’t been given enough consideration.
“First off, in the murder of Terry Dowson. According to Captain Banning, Highway Patrol people couldn’t locate tire tread marks anywhere nearby. They say the storm must have washed them away, but I don’t think our suspect would have left it to chance. Because nothing else was left to chance; nothing turned up in the house that was of any use to the forensic lab. So far the same thing holds true for the murders of Doris Huntley and her lover.
“This doesn’t establish whether the homicides were premeditated or the result of circumstance but it does indicate the culprit is someone capable of careful and logical action to conceal these crimes. And, subsequently, to conceal identity. Which leaves us with only one remaining clue.”
Steiner paused for a moment and it was Amy’s impatience that broke the silence. “Aren’t you going to tell me what it is?”
Dr. Steiner nodded. “Let me put it in the form of a question. Why would anyone steal the wax figure of Norman’s mother?”
Now it was Amy who paused. “Some kind of a psycho? Someone who thought he was Norman?”
“If by ‘psycho’ you mean ‘psychopath’ then such a possibility exists. This type of personality disorder does not involve irrationality or psychotic patterns of behavior.”
“Then the murderer wouldn’t necessarily believe himself to be Norman.”
“But it could be someone who wanted us to think he had such a belief. If that’s true, there’s no reason the murderer couldn’t be female.”
“Or a fanatic.” Amy turned a page in her notebook. “Of either sex.” She raised the pen and strove to make her question seem casual. “Mind telling me the name of the patient who visited you from Fairvale today?”
“I’ve had several visitors.” Steiner’s reply was casual too. “Frankly, if any of them were patients it’s my obligation not to reveal their identities.”
Amy smiled. “That won’t be necessary. I think I saw the last one going to his car as I drove in. Reverend Archer, wasn’t it?”
“Archer was here, yes.” The casual note was missing from Steiner’s answer now. “Fact is he comes out on a regular basis to pay ministerial calls on some of our cases. That doesn’t make him a patient.”
“But fanaticism does.”
Amy too was far from casual; both voice and stare were direct.
Steiner sighed. “You understand this is privileged information?”
Amy lowered her pen. “I promise you I won’t wri
te anything down.”
“Not for the moment, anyway. But my hunch is that the press will dig up all this material and a lot more, long before your book sees publication.” He hesitated. “I still don’t know—”
“Neither do I,” Amy said softly. “But I want to find out. Not just for the sake of the book, but because of my own involvement. In some ways I feel personally responsible for what happened last night.”
“Your only responsibility was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Steiner moved the wheelchair a few inches forward, his voice lowering. “Now about Archer. He and Norman Bates were friends. In high school, and after. Archer actually knew Norman’s mother; he used to go out to the house frequently before she first began seeing Joe Considine.”
“Her lover.” Amy nodded.
“And Norman’s enemy. Or so he thought.” Steiner settled back in his chair. “That’s when the trouble began. You and I both know what happened to Mrs. Bates and Considine, but at the time nobody suspected Norman. Apparently nobody had any reason to suspect him, except for Archer.”
“He knew?”
“From what he’s told me, Norman found out about his mother’s affair with Considine. In his eyes she had betrayed him; his rage grew to a point where he was openly voicing threats against them both. That’s when Archer stopped seeing Norman and by the time Mrs. Bates and Considine died Archer was already off to the university. But ever since then he’s carried guilt feelings about not speaking up.
“According to him, he never saw Norman again, which is not all that unusual when you consider Archer was away for eight years between the time he started university and his eventual return as an ordained minister of the gospel. By then Norman was already a recluse, except during the performance of his duties in running the motel.
