by Robert Bloch
“And if it is, maybe Pitkin will loan you a key. But if I were you I wouldn’t count on it.”
“I’m not. All I want is a chance to look around before there’s a mob scene. One way or another, I’ve got to see it before I leave town.”
“That figures.” Gibbs nodded again. “I’d drive you over myself if it wasn’t for that interview session coming up.”
“Thanks, I know you would.” Amy opened the door and swung her feet down to rest on the pavement. “And thanks for the breakfast and limo service.” Emerging, she straightened and turned to close the door behind her.
“Amy?”
“Yes?”
“Promise me something. Don’t risk going out there by yourself. I’ll be free again tomorrow morning, but if you can’t wait, at least get somebody else to come with you. Don’t go there alone.”
For a moment she hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right, of course.”
“That’s better.” The slam of the passenger-side door punctuated Gibbs’ words. “By the way, what time do you expect to be back from seeing Steiner?”
“I don’t know but my guess would be somewhere around six. Six-thirty at the latest.”
“If you feel like it, give me a call at the office. Maybe we can have dinner together.”
“Where?”
“They say Irene Grovesmith makes a terrific pizza.”
The car moved forward and Amy turned away as it departed. As she made her way through the back entrance to the waiting service elevator she couldn’t avoid a rueful reflection. What did she do to make herself attractive to older men?
Maybe just being younger was enough. But rightly or wrongly, she was beginning to feel that Hank Gibbs’ intentions involved sharing more than a pizza. And why was it that he seemed incapable of being serious whenever he became serious? It would probably take someone like Dr. Steiner to answer that question; she ought to remember to ask him when they talked.
But there was so much to talk about, so much to think about, far more than she had anticipated. A good thing she’d promised not to go out to the Bates place this afternoon; what she really should do during the next two hours was to organize her thoughts, recopy some of her random notes in chronological order, and set down a list of things she meant to ask Steiner about. There already was such a list, of course, but in view of last night’s events and today’s revelations, it would have to be both revised and expanded.
The upcoming meeting with Dr. Steiner would be crucial, particularly so because the other meeting she had counted on—the one with Adam Claiborne—would never take place. Nor would she meet again with Otto Remsbach.
Stepping out of the service elevator she fished the key from her purse and moved to the door of her room. Once again she hesitated before metal met metal; a ghostly Adam Claiborne peered over her shoulder and on the other side of the door Otto Remsbach lay bedded and waiting, ready to receive her in bloody embrace.
Amy forced herself to turn the thought aside before she turned the key. There was nothing behind her but a shadow, nothing more substantial awaiting on the bed in her room.
Closing and locking the door behind her, she put her purse down on the bureau and opened the top drawer. Now where had she left the big notebook?
And who was tapping, ever so softly, but ever so persistently, on the door?
“Miss Haines—”
The muffled voice that spoke her name answered her question.
Eric Dunstable. How could she have forgotten about him?
“I’ll get the key.”
Finding anything in that overloaded bag of hers was always a problem and this instance proved no exception. After her first and fruitless scrabblings she bowed to the inevitable and dumped the contents of her purse on the bedspread. The rest was easy.
Amy unlocked the door. “Here we go.”
And here he came. It might have been a televised rerun of the other evening; the taller version of Toulouse-Lautrec hadn’t grown an inch. He was still wearing the same clothing and, as far as Amy could determine, had slept in it as well. If he’d slept at all. And the right lens of his glasses was cracked at the base of its outer rim. Spectacle frames could not conceal the crescents of darkness under his eyes. Nor the twitch in the left one.
All this was apparent at a glance, and Amy did her best not to stare. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you,” she said.
Dunstable nodded. “Would you mind if I sat down?”
“Please do.”
While he settled back in the armchair, Amy seated herself on the edge of the bed and began to restore the contents of her bag in their proper disarray. “Where have you been?” she said.
“Montrose. Rock Center. Selroy.” Another twitch. “That’s where I ended up last night; the Selroy Motor Lodge, because there was no way of getting back here again by bus until this morning. At first I’d planned to try hitching a ride, but then the storm came up and I decided against it, even though it meant spending extra money when I already had accommodations over here.” Now the inevitable twitch was accompanied by a movement of beard-bordered lips suggesting a smile. “This was probably one of the most fortunate investments I’ve ever made.”
Amy closed her bag. “How so?”
“It provided me with the necessary alibi for my whereabouts at the time of the murders.”
“Then you’ve seen Engstrom.”
“A couple of his deputies came by this morning just about ten minutes after I stepped off the bus.” The smile disappeared and the twitch returned. “They probably phoned ahead to the Sheriff’s Department here the moment I bought a ticket in Selroy. I gather my description has been rather widely circulated?”
“But Engstrom accepted your explanation?”
“Not until he checked it out with the Selroy Motor Lodge.” Sunlight from the window glittered against the cracked lens as Dunstable glanced up. “I understand you had some problems last night.”
“That’s a very polite way of phrasing it.” Amy paused. “I was on the scene after Doris Huntley was murdered. But I didn’t kill her, and at the time I wasn’t even aware Otto Remsbach was dead.”
“I believe you.” Dunstable’s left eyelid blinked in affirmation. “You don’t have the aura.”
“Aura?”
“Of evil.” He leaned forward beyond the reach of the sunbeam’s ray and his shadowed face was somber. “So many have that aura here. I could feel it at the church—”
Bedbug, Amy told herself. He’s as crazy as a bedbug. But she didn’t tell him that; you’re supposed to humor the crazies.
She did her best. “The other night you said that if you attended the memorial services you’d be able to identify Terry Dowson’s murderer.”
“I was wrong.” Again the affirmative twitch. “Because they were wrong. The auras, too many of them, too confusing; impossible to separate vessel from contents.”
“I’m not following that.” Amy frowned.
“The body is a vessel, its contents good or evil, most generally an admixture of both. During possession the aural emanation is pure evil. A contradiction in terms, of course, but it’s difficult to explain.”
“I know.” At least she’d better pretend that she did. “But you still haven’t told me what you were doing in all those places.”
“Yesterday morning I hitched a ride to Montrose. In the afternoon I got over to Rock Center and then on to Selroy just after dinnertime. That’s where I finally found it.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Apparently something of a rarity in these parts. A Catholic church.”
Amy nodded. “You wanted to talk to a priest.”
“Not so. I wanted to steal some holy water.” Dunstable leaned back, but the sun had shifted slightly, just enough so his face was still in shadow. “And I did, from the font they have near the exit.” In the dimmer light the twitch was almost invisible. “A good thing I had a few minutes before they picked me up after I got back here. I more
or less assumed that would happen so the first thing I did was empty the little cough syrup bottle of holy water into the glass in the bathroom. As I expected, they searched the place when they came and one of them named Al was still at it when his partner took me over to the Sheriff’s office.” Shadow and beard hid the smile but satisfaction sounded in his voice. “Naturally he didn’t find anything, and he never noticed the water in the glass.”
“I assume it has something to do with exorcism?”
Dunstable nodded. “You might call it the vital ingredient.”
“Exactly how will you use it?”
“That all depends upon who or what I use it on.”
“Which means you still feel that some form of possession is involved.”
“More than ever, after what I’ve learned about last night.” Once more the winking from the shadows accompanied the words. “Do you know that Dr. Claiborne died over at Baldwin Memorial Hospital just before those murders took place here in town?”
“I did hear something to that effect,” Amy said. “But of course nobody has established the exact time when Remsbach and Doris Huntley were killed. Even an autopsy report will only be an educated guess.”
“This isn’t guesswork.” Eric Dunstable’s hoarse voice rose in reply. “And it isn’t the first time this demonic entity has deserted the dead to possess the living.”
Now he leaned into the light. “There’s no way of telling just when and where the possession originated, but we do know that all those who came in contact with the entity were themselves possessed and died in turn. The phenomenon may have begun with Mrs. Bates herself rather than Norman.”
Amy frowned. “You have nothing to support such a theory.”
“Not entirely, but you can’t dismiss the necrology. First Mrs. Bates, then her lover, Ed Considine. Next were Mary Crane and Arbogast, the insurance investigator. Then the two nuns, Sister Barbara and Sister Cupertine.” His fingers rose and fell in accompanying enumeration. “After which came Norman himself. But it didn’t stop there. There was that producer, Driscoll, out in Hollywood, and Vicinzi, the director. Now we’ve had Terry Dowson, Doris Huntley, and Otto Remsbach here. An even dozen.”
As the list mounted Amy felt her own apprehension mounting with it. She knew the names, but somehow, up until this moment, she had never consciously realized the chain had so many links. And while possession might be a preposterous explanation, the linkage remained. The thought disturbed her and she strove for a light dismissal.
“Let’s hope there’s no more. Thirteen is an unlucky number.”
“I don’t believe in superstitions.” Dunstable was actually serious, Amy realized. And, she mustn’t forget, crazy as a bedbug. Except there was something about what he said, or the way he said it, that continued to trouble her.
Eric Dunstable seemed aware of that, because now he attempted to relieve her mind. “Don’t worry about the number,” he said. “The entity has already passed to take over another.”
“If that’s the case, you’re right back to square one,” Amy said. “You still have to identify whoever is being possessed.”
“Now the circumstances are different. This time I think it will be comparatively easy.”
Amy’s fingers pressed hard against the bedspread and the mattress beneath. “Aren’t you going to tell me whom you suspect?”
“I’m not quite ready to do so yet.”
“But when you are—”
“Exorcism.”
“How?”
“By whatever method proves necessary.” Dunstable stared at her. “Words banish. Water purifies. Fire cleanses.”
His eye blinked.
— 20 —
Sheriff Milt Engstrom parked his car a little way up and off the road.
And it was his own car, not the Department’s. Anyone passing by wouldn’t be apt to give it a second look and nobody would be trying to reach him on the squawk. In fact no one knew where he was and that’s the way he wanted it.
His pointed boots moved soundlessly along the elbow at the right-hand side of the road, still silent as he crossed to the door.
It was only after he unlocked it and entered the office that his heels clicked against the floorboards.
“Hello, Norman,” he said.
The figure on the pivot pedestal did not turn, nor did it reply.
“What’s the matter?” Engstrom said. “You got wax in your ears?”
Just a little joke. A very little one, but right now he’d settle for whatever might lighten things up, even for a moment. Just too damn bad the power hadn’t been turned on here; even in the shadows and with his back turned Engstrom didn’t particularly care for Norman’s looks.
Looks. Better case the room and bath, just to make sure. Floorboards creaked as he crossed to the door of number one. New lumber and old lumber; both creak the same. Engstrom wondered if the floorboards were silent when someone walked on them in the old motel. Had to be, of course. That’s how Norman managed to sneak into the room and the bath beyond, just the way he was sneaking now.
Only he didn’t have to sneak. There was no need, because for the first time since last night he was alone. No phones, no messages, nobody yapping questions. Which meant he didn’t have to give any answers. That was one of the reasons why he was here, to get away from giving answers.
There were none to be found in the bedroom when Engstrom opened the door and switched on the flashlight he’d lifted from his waistband. Its beam traveled with him into the bathroom; no answers here, from the wax figure of the victim standing under the shower.
He wondered what Fatso Otto might have done about it if he’d lived. How long would it’ve taken him to pipe water out here and set his prices? Five bucks to use the john, ten bucks for a shower. Just the thing for the tourist trade. Nice conversation piece for the ladies when they got back home. Tell all your friends you used the bathroom in the Bates Motel. Give ’em a gift certificate. Get your picture taken with the dummy.
Engstrom shook his head. Come to think of it, Fatso Otto would never think of it. This was the kind of stuff Charlie Pitkin would try to pull; he was the brains and Otto was just the blubber.
Right now the coroner would be carving away at the blubber over at Baldwin Memorial. But where was the brains? Nobody at the office since noon, and at the house his daughter said he’d left right after lunch, she didn’t know for where.
Lot of things she didn’t know about dear old Daddy, or did she? How much was she onto some of those deals he had going for him up at the legislature, or even here at the Fairvale office? How much and how often did she cover for him?
Troubling questions, but there was another one which bothered him even more. How much did he really know about that girl? When you got right down to it, damned little except with the kind of gossip Irene Grovesmith brought back from the beauty parlor, which didn’t count because Irene hated that girl almost as much as she hated this place. All the women seemed to hate it; Sandy Oliver, Marge Gifford in Doc Rawson’s office, the waitresses, store clerks, even the girls in the steamy back room over at Qwik Dry Cleaners. Emma hated it too, and it was a good thing she was off visiting her sister Frances in Springfield this week. She’d missed all of the excitement and he’d missed all the static he would have gotten about how it served Otto Remsbach right, why didn’t somebody stop him from building out there in the first place, why doesn’t somebody just burn it down?
In his own mind Engstrom could almost hear her saying just that, but he couldn’t picture her burning anything down. Some of those other women, yes, and some of the men too.
He retraced his steps to the office, flashlight fanning the silver bell on the counter and the figure facing the wall behind it. Certainly was some piece of work, that one. And so was the pivot mechanism in the pedestal. He’d already checked the battery setup that operated it when you pressed the bell on the counter and turned on the little strip of voice-tape. No clear print on the bell, and of course Banning’s peo
ple couldn’t get anything off the connecting wire that ran down behind the desk and into the base of the pedestal. Pretty cute the way they’d figured that one out, but then the outfit Charlie had hired did a lot more complicated things for some of those special effects in the movies.
Engstrom’s lips tightened as he left the office. Don’t look now, but your age is showing. They don’t make movies anymore; it’s all films. Got to keep up with the times.
And got to keep up with the present situation too. Switching off the flash, he started for the house. Where were all of those potential arsonists right now?
Irene was at the office handling calls and reporters, God help her; she wouldn’t even have time to light a match. Sandy Oliver’d phoned in sick, so she was probably at home, but Doc Rawson’s office hadn’t heard from her. That’s where Marge Gifford worked and she was on the job today. He’d talked to Pitkin’s daughter less than an hour ago, out at the lake cottage. But where the hell was Amelia Haines?
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?
