by Robert Bloch
— 24 —
The knife blade was six inches long and one inch wide, double-edged and razor-sharp.
Santo Vizzini stood in shadow, gripping the hilt, his gaze fixed on the pointed tip as he raised it toward the light.
He froze, startled, as Claiborne entered the room.
“Mr. Vizzini—”
“Yes?”
“I’m Dr. Claiborne. Your office told me you were over here. Hope I’m not interrupting.”
“On the contrary, you’re just in time.” Vizzini placed the knife on the tabletop under the light, then extended his hand. “A great pleasure,” he said. “I have been wanting to meet you ever since they told me of your arrival.”
Claiborne caught the scent of after-shave—no, stronger, it must be perfume or cologne—masking the smell of stale perspiration and another odor he couldn’t identify. The director turned and glanced at the knife once more. “Too thin,” he murmured. “Don’t you agree?” And now the light flooded his features as he frowned down at the knife. He was staring at Vizzini.
“Don’t you agree?” the director repeated. “We need something wider—”
“Yes.” Claiborne nodded, forced his eyes toward the knife instead of the face before him.
“This prop department!” Vizzini sighed. “An abomination. I tell them what I want, and they send me switchblades!” He rolled his eyes. “I say no, this is not for Norman Bates, and they say why not, everybody uses switchblades today.” He sighed again. “Incredible!”
Again he smiled, and again Claiborne avoided his gaze.
“I am glad you’re here,” Vizzini was saying. “It is a good omen. We will select the proper instrument together.”
Vizzini started over to a rack at the rear of the room. Moving after him into the shadowed area, Claiborne became fully aware of his surroundings for the first time.
You’ll find the weaponry stockpile down at the far end, to the left, the prop clerk had told him. And so he did, but now he realized that description was an understatement.
This room was a miniature armory. Mounted against the right wall was a double rack holding implements of ancient warfare—spears, pikes, halberds, lances, assegais, clubs, knobkerries, battle-axes, and maces—each item tagged and numbered for identification.
On the opposite wall, the rifle stands stood row on row. Harquebuses, flintlocks, Winchesters, Mausers, Enfields, Garands, and more modern firearms ranged in order. Beyond them were bins crammed with longbows, crossbows, quivers of arrows for primitive Indian and sophisticated oriental archery. In glass cases overhead he saw handguns, dueling pistols, pepperboxes, Colts, Lugers, service revolvers, police models, and Saturday-night specials.
But it was the rear wall that attracted Vizzini and now claimed Claiborne’s attention. Here, even in the shadows, there was a glittering. The glint of burnished steel half-unsheathed from mounted scabbards—Roman broadswords, serrated Aztec blades, cutlasses, scimitars, yataghans, rapiers, the longswords of Vikings, and the sabers of Napoleonic cavalry.
Vizzini ignored the display; he was inspecting the cluttered contents of the shelves above. “Look how they store these things! Sheer madness.” He shrugged. “But we will try to find something.” Reaching up, he fumbled gingerly through an assortment of tagged daggers, poniards, dirks, and stilettos, his fingers curling around a thick handle as he pulled it free. Now he glanced down at the foot-long, single-edged blade, which protruded from the guard and terminated in a curling tip.
“What is this?”
“Looks like a bowie knife,” Claiborne said. “The kind they used on the frontier back in pioneer days.”
“But not now, eh?” Vizzini replaced the weapon with obvious reluctance. “A pity. It would be most impressive.”
His hand strayed along the shelf, then halted. Once more he reached forward, drawing out an eight-inch, double-edged knife with a broad shaft and plain handle. He held it against the light from the other end of the room, nodding appreciatively at the blade shimmering against the shadows.
“A butcher knife. This is what he will use.”
“Will—?”
“In the film.” Vizzini smiled. “The right size, the right length, and it will photograph beautifully. I will have them make up some duplicates.”
He turned away, tapping the steel surface. “A fortunate discovery. After all, the knife is the real star of our picture, don’t you agree?”
Claiborne avoided the smiling stare. “In a way—”
“Not that the script isn’t important,” Vizzini said. “I read the revised pages Ames brought in this morning.”
“That’s what I wanted to find out about. And meet you, of course,” Claiborne added hastily. “What do you think?”
“There are some good things. I like the way he handles Norman’s reactions; it gives more depth to the character. But those cuts in the murder scenes—this is wrong for us.”
“I’ll take responsibility for that,” Claiborne told him. “It was my suggestion to eliminate some of the overt violence.”
“For what reason?” Vizzini wasn’t smiling now. “After all, we are only telling a story.”
“People tend to believe what they see.”
“Of course! But our story is about murder, and that is what I must show them—what you call the gory details, to make it seem real.”
“Violence isn’t the only reality.”
“Oh, no?” Vizzini gestured toward the walls. “Look around you. These weapons here—they are like a history of mankind. First the club, then the bow, the cold steel, the firearms. All that is missing are the nuclear weapons of today. The progress of civilization, eh?”
“But you’re talking about war—”
“I have the right.” Vizzini stared at the knife. “When Sicily was invaded in World War II, I was still a child. But I saw it all, the looting, the tortures and the killings. That is long over and done with, but the violence has never stopped—in Biafra, Bangladesh, the Gulag Archipelago, the prisons of Papa Doc, the ‘tiger cages’ of Vietnam. We live today in a world of Turkish prisons, Latin American dungeons, Irish bombings, PLO terrorists, Iranian atrocities, Cambodian genocide. A world where kids kill their parents, rape their teachers, murder strangers on the streets, trample each other to death at rock concerts, even smash their own idols the way John Lennon was destroyed. Violence is normal now.”
“So is kindness and understanding.”
Vizzini shook his head, and on the wall behind him the weapons glared and glinted. “Kindness is a luxury afforded only in times of prosperity. The world isn’t prosperous anymore, and we will see worse. There will be more people like Norman Bates, the son of a bitch. His mother was a bitch and he is a child of our times.” The director gripped the knife handle tightly. “This I believe and this is what my film must say.”
Again, Claiborne looked away. He didn’t want to see Vizzini’s face, but he had to speak.
“Some of us still hold the belief that there’s good in the world.”
“Perhaps so. But to believe in good, you must also acknowledge evil.” Vizzini started toward the doorway at the far end, still holding the knife. “There is a part of the Devil in every man. And I will show him to you.”
He moved out of the room as Claiborne stood silent. Paranoia. A sickness, a disease, very possibly a danger. But it wasn’t the diagnosis that disturbed him; after all, he’d seen it many times before.
The real shock was the sight of Vizzini’s face. He had seen that before too.
Because Santo Vizzini looked exactly like Norman Bates.
— 25 —
As a writer, Roy tried to avoid clichés. But when Claiborne entered his office, he found himself using one.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Claiborne seated himself across the desk. “I’ve just had a meeting with Vizzini.”
“And he doesn’t like the changes.” Roy nodded. “What did he do, give you his pitch about viole
nce?”
“Yes, but—”
“Forget it. He’s been handing out that line for years now, every time he does a talk show or a film seminar. I know, because a friend of mine wrote it for him. For two hundred dollars.” Roy grinned. “Never got paid, either.”
“It’s not that.” Claiborne still seemed dazed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“That Vizzini looks like Norman Bates.”
“You’re putting me on.” Roy’s grin faded. “We have photographs—”
“From years ago. He looks the way Norman looks now.”
Roy stared at him and the wheels began to turn. “Then he could be the one you saw the other night in the market?”
“Possibly.” Claiborne paused. “What do you know about him?”
“Only what I’ve read, things I’ve heard. He started out in Italy, playing heavies in spaghetti westerns. When horror flicks caught on, he switched over and started directing. Went to France, made a couple of things there. Loup-garou, the one about the werewolf, was his first biggie. That gave him the mix.”
“Mix?”
“Sex and violence.” Roy shrugged. “They loved it at the film festivals.”
“You weren’t impressed?”
“Nobody asked me. The art-house crowd liked what they saw on the screen, and the accountants liked the figures they saw on the books. He came over here on a three-picture deal, and the rest is history.”
“Got anything on his personal background?”
“He’s always kept a low profile. Of course, you hear a lot of rumors.”
“What sort of rumors?”
“The usual. He’s been married, and divorced five times, he’s as gay as old Paree, he swings both ways, he’s hooked on drugs and can’t get it up at all. Take your choice.”
“You have no opinion?”
“Only about his work. I think he’s a real kinko. The kind who’d update Jack the Ripper and have him do his jobs with an electric carving knife.
“Vizzini’s really got a thing about mass murderers. I suppose you know he’s the one who brought this project to Driscoll in the first place. That was before they called me in, but I heard his original idea was to play Norman himself.”
“I didn’t know.” Claiborne shook his head. “Of course, there’s the resemblance—”
“Driscoll must have talked him out of it, told him they needed a name, and signed Paul Morgan. But Vizzini’s coaching him personally. He’s even picked out the wigs and the dresses.”
“And the knife,” Claiborne said. “That’s what he was doing when I saw him just now. He seems to know just what kind of weapon Norman used.”
Roy took a deep breath. “No wonder you were shook up. If he really identifies with Norman—”
Claiborne rose. “I think we ought to have a chat with Mr. Driscoll.”
But Anita Kedzie had other ideas.
She was shaking her head almost the moment they entered Driscoll’s outer office.
“Sorry, he’s not in,” she told them. “I can’t say whether he’ll be back this afternoon or not—”
“Good girl.”
Miss Kedzie looked up as Marty Driscoll opened the door behind her and nodded at his visitors. “Congratulations,” he said. “I like the pages.”
Roy glanced at Claiborne. “Vizzini doesn’t.”
“I know.” Driscoll didn’t seem upset. “Want to talk about it?” He waved them forward.
“Mr. Driscoll.” Anita Kedzie captured his attention as he turned to follow. “On your call to New York—”
“Don’t worry.” The producer consulted his watch. “It’s after seven there now, he’s probably gone to dinner. If he checks in, he’ll ring me at home tonight.”
Closing the door on her frown, Driscoll seated himself behind his desk to face Roy and Claiborne. “Glad you stopped by. I was going to get in touch with you anyway, after Vizzini sounded off to me.” He smiled at Roy. “Gave you a hard time?”
“I’m the one he spoke to,” Claiborne said. “It seems he objects to the way the murder scenes are toned down.”
“Well, I don’t.” Driscoll’s smile broadened to include them both. “Remember one thing. Vizzini’s feeling a lot of pressure right now. We’re all under the gun with that start-date coming up.”
“That’s what I wanted to discuss,” Claiborne told him.
“Go ahead.”
As the psychiatrist repeated the story of his encounter, Roy watched Driscoll’s reactions.
He seemed to be listening patiently enough, sitting immobile behind the big desk. It wasn’t until Claiborne brought up Vizzini’s resemblance to Norman Bates that he interrupted.
“I don’t see it,” he said.
“But Vizzini does. He even wanted to play the part.”
“George Ward will love you for that.” Driscoll chuckled. “It’s his gag—he planted the item in the trades.”
“I’m serious. This man is—”
“A signature director.” Driscoll hunched forward. “Without him we come up with zip. Paul Morgan may still sell tickets out in the sticks, or at least that’s what we’re hoping, but he isn’t bankable. Jan is nothing. Vizzini’s what they’re buying, he’s the key to the whole thing.”
“Even if he’s mentally unbalanced?”
“All directors are a little flaky. Don’t let it bother you.”
“But it does bother me.” Claiborne frowned. “Last night, when you heard about the fire, you called Roy. Why didn’t you try to get hold of Vizzini?”
“Matter of fact I did.” Driscoll hesitated. “I left a message with his answering service.”
“Meaning he was out.” Claiborne’s frown deepened. “Did he tell you where he was? Did he ever call back at all?”
“Christ on a bicycle!” Driscoll thumped his hand down on the desktop. “You think Vizzini set fire to sabotage his own picture?”
“Somebody did.”
Driscoll’s heavy eyebrows rose. “Look, Doc. What I said to those jokers last night about not telling anybody about what happened—that was a shuck, I wanted to be sure they’d keep their own mouths shut. Just between us, I had Talbot in the office at seven o’clock this morning.”
“Your security chief?”
“Right. He got the whole story. And the gasoline can. It had my prints all over, and Madero’s, but when he checked it out he came up with another set. We know who stowed that can under the bed and it sure as hell wasn’t Vizzini.”
Roy leaned forward. “How can you be certain?”
“We’ve got a print filed on every employee in the studio. And Talbot made a match. The other set on the can belongs to Lloyd Parsons, one of the set dressers. We saw him this noon, and after Talbot leaned on him, he talked.”
“About the fire?”
Driscoll smiled triumphantly. “Remember what I told you last night? Well, that’s almost the way it happened. Parsons worked Stage Seven yesterday afternoon with a crew—not on the bedroom set but one farther over. They’re finishing up a bathroom for the shower sequence. The job ran late, and come quitting time, he stayed behind to collect the gear. Way he tells it, the gasoline can wasn’t even supposed to be there; they’d requisitioned shellac to use on the wall tiles, but somebody made a mistake.
“Anyhow, he got ready to lug this stuff back to supplies, but he couldn’t locate a handcart. What he should have done was fetch one from maintenance, but he was either too tired or too damned lazy. So he shoved everything under the bed on the set next door. Then he decided to stretch out for a minute and have himself a cigarette—they don’t let the crew smoke on the job.”
“But all he had to do was go outside,” Claiborne said.
“That’s what we told him, but he gave us a lot of doubletalk about being beat. You ask me, he’s on grass—they all are, particularly the younger ones—and he didn’t want to get caught out on the street. Of course, he wouldn’t admit it, but it sure as hell explains why h
e dozed off. When the fire started he woke up scared and ran, just like I figured. Lucky for him he didn’t burn to death.”
“Do you believe his story?” Roy said.
“If he was lying, why come up with something like that when he knew we could press changes?”
“Will you?”
“And get in a hassle with the insurance people? That’d be all we’d need right now.” Driscoll pushed his chair back from the desk. “Naturally I didn’t tell him that. He kept begging me not to bring him up before the union and I said okay, on one condition—I wanted him off the lot. I don’t know what excuse he gave them—ill health, death in the family—but he punched out his afternoon. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”
Roy waited for Claiborne to protest, but he merely nodded.
He was still silent after they left the office and filed out into the hazy late-afternoon sunshine of the studio street. And it was Roy who finally spoke.
“So what do you think? Was he telling the truth?”
“If you’re asking about the workman, I don’t know. But I’m not sure about Driscoll.”
“Is there some way we could find out?”
Claiborne stared toward the setting sun. “There damned well better be,” he said.
— 26 —
At twilight the fog came into the hills.
It came softly, like a serpent, encircling clumps of cypress and the shrubbery below. Coiling silently through the streets, its gray maw devoured darkness and swallowed the stars.
Jan watched through the window as she spoke into the phone.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Messenger service delivered the new pages here an hour ago. And now you tell me—”
“Never mind the pages. We won’t be making any changes in the script,” said Santo Vizzini. “There has been a mistake.”
“Mistake?”
“It’s not important. I will explain tomorrow when you rehearse.”
“What time?”
“Probably late afternoon, after I finish with Paul Morgan. Wait for my call.”
“All right. But are you sure—”
