Psycho - Three Complete Novels (39 page)

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 he 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 —

A
t 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—”

Jan broke off, conscious that the line was dead. Vizzini had hung up and there was only a buzzing.

As she replaced the receiver the buzzing faded, but now there was another sound—softer, and from a different source.

Someone was crying.

Jan went to the window. The fog billowed against the pane, shrouding the hillside beyond. Here, neither shape nor shadow stirred, but the crying continued, faint and forlorn.

A child, lost in the fog?

She opened the front door, peering out. The light at the corner was barely visible, and there was no sound here, only a chill stillness.

Damn Vizzini—it was his fault, getting her all shook up over nothing. That was what
he
said: nothing. Then why had he called? Disregard the changes, he told her. But the changes were mimeoed at the studio, which meant someone had okayed them, or else why send them up by special messenger? Too much was happening—that business about the fire and what Claiborne had said about seeing Norman Bates—no wonder she was flipping out, hearing things.

And while she was at it, damn Connie too. Why couldn’t she stay home nights at least once in a while, instead of leaving her all alone like this? Right now, Jan felt the need of someone’s presence, anyone’s. Maybe if she called Roy—

As she closed and locked the front door, she heard the phone ringing.

Telepathy?

No, because it wasn’t Roy. Lifting the receiver, she found herself talking to Adam Claiborne.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said. “I just thought I’d check and see if you got the new pages.”

“Yes, I have them.”

“Well, what do you think?”

She told him about Vizzini’s call.

“You mean he’s not going to use the changes?” Claiborne sounded disturbed, and that disturbed her, too.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Won’t anybody level with me?”

Claiborne didn’t reply for a moment. Then, “It’s rather involved—”

“So am I,” Jan told him. “Completely involved.” She stared into the grey world beyond the window. “Look, if you’re not busy, why don’t you come by for a drink?”

Again he hesitated, and it was Jan who broke the silence. “Please. I’ve got to know.”

“I’ll be right over.”

And that was that.

But not entirely. Because when she hung up and started down the hall into the kitchen, Jan heard the crying again.

It seemed louder here, and as she moved forward the sound held a note of urgency that impelled her to the back door.

Opening it, she saw the kitten.

The tiny yellow bundle of fur rested on the doorstep, staring up at her with topaz eyes. She picked it up; almost weightless, the kitten snuggled against her arm and the mewing modulated into a purr of pleasure.

“Where’d you come from, kitty? Are you lost?”

“Rao.”

The smoky green eyes regarded her gravely, but now she sensed a shudder rippling across the moist flanks.

“Poor baby, you’re all wet—”

Jan closed the door and carried the kitten over to the sink. Taking a dishtowel from the rack, she rubbed it gently over the damp curlicues of fur. Gradually the shivering subsided.

“There, that’s better.” She let the towel drop to the sink top. “Are you hungry?”

“Rao.”

“Okay, let’s see what we can do about that.”

Jan put the kitten down on the linoleum. It rested there motionless, but the little green eyes followed her movements as she opened the refrigerator and brought out a carton of milk. Taking a saucer from the cupboard, Jan filled it full and placed it on the floor beside her waiting guest.

And then her other guest arrived.

At the sound of the chimes she hurried through the hall to the living room, but this time she switched on the outside light and peered through the peephole to identify her caller. Then she swung the door open, admitting a wave of clammy dampness and Adam Claiborne.

“You made good time,” she said.

“The motel’s just down the hill, in Ventura.” He glanced toward the window. “But I almost got lost—couldn’t even make out the street signs. No wonder you don’t want to be alone up here.”

“I’m not alone,” Jan told him. “I have a visitor.”

She led him into the kitchen and they halted in the doorway. The kitten crouched beside the saucer, its pink tongue lapping lazily at the last drops of milk.

Claiborne smiled. “Friend of yours?”

“I hope so. She turned up at the back door a few minutes ago.”

“She?” Claiborne stared down at the fluffy figure. “How can you be sure of its sex?”

“Feminine intuition.” Jan went over and scooped the kitten up into her arms. “All right, baby, you’ve had your drink. Now it’s our turn.”

“Rao.”

It nestled contentedly against her as she led Claiborne back into the living room, and when she started to put it down, the tiny claws curled into the folds of her sweater. Jan tried to disengage its hold, but the kitten clung fast.

“Come on, give me a break,” she murmured.

“Never mind.” Claiborne went over to the bar. “I’ll do the honors. Scotch and rocks?”

“Super.”

Jan settled on the sofa while he fixed their drinks, stroking the kitten as it purred. Her fingers found the warm flesh beneath the wisps of fur and she marveled at the softness of its skin. Under the thin texture one could actually
feel
the purr vibrating through the inner organs. How fragile it was!

Almost instinctively her free hand went to her own throat, touching the pulse beating there. As it throbbed beneath her fingertips, she marveled anew.
Why, were all like that. So vulnerable. This fraction of an inch covering our flesh is our only protection. And if it were to burst, or be cut, here at the artery—

“Penny.”

She looked up as Claiborne held a glass out to her.

“What?”

“For your thoughts.”

“Oh.” She reached for her drink and shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Make it a nickel. I keep forgetting about inflation.” He lowered himself beside her on the sofa. The kitten blinked and disengaged its claws. Scampering down onto the rug, it curled up at her feet.

Claiborne turned to Jan. “That gesture you made just now—what were you thinking about?”

“Mary Crane.”

She didn’t consciously intend to say it, and until the words came out she hadn’t even realized it was true.

“What about her?”

“Not her. Me.” Jan nodded self-consciously, avoiding his intent gaze. “It’s one of those professional things, I suppose. As you get familiar with a role, you start to identify with the character.”

“Don’t.”

She met his eyes, and he wasn’t smiling now. “But I should, really, if I’m going to play the part.”

“Don’t.”

Jan raised her glass and drank, but as the scotch went down, resentment rose. Damn it, he’d seemed so nice when he came in that she’d almost forgotten his hangup about the picture. But this time, she promised herself, she wasn’t going to lose her temper.

“Please.” She kept her voice and expression under control. “We’ve been through this number before. Just because I told you Vizzini isn’t going to make those changes—”

“There’s more to it than that,” Claiborne said. “Something happened this afternoon.”

She sat back, sipping her drink as he began to talk. About meting Vizzini, and how he looked like Norman Bates. About seeing Roy and going to Driscoll, hearing his explanation of the fire and his own reservations about Vizzini.

Jan listened in silence until he finished. “Is that all?” she asked.

Claiborne’s eyebrows arched. “Isn’t it enough?”

She lowered her glass. “Maybe it’s too much.”

“Look, if you don’t believe me, ask Roy Ames.”