The Black Door (7 page)

“There are about three hundred students here,” I said, remembering Campion’s earlier dissertation on Bransten. “Is that right?”

“Three hundred and forty-three, to be exact.”

I wondered whether she was including Roberta Grinnel or not, but decided not to ask.

“How would you describe Roberta Grinnel, Miss Stephenson?”

Her gaze wandered once more to the window, as she thought about it, taking her time. I had the impression that she was organizing her thoughts, and that her response would be concise and incisive. I was right.

“Roberta is—was—a girl who leaves you alone if you leave her alone. She’s—she
was
—quiet and self-controlled, but underneath it all she had a lot of aggressions, I’d say. However, she was intelligent, and polite enough, and she wasn’t petty. As a hallmate, there was nothing wrong with her. It was just that I didn’t like her type. And I felt she didn’t like me.”

“Of course, you didn’t like
her.
I mean,
her
dislike could have been in response to
your
dislike.”

She nodded. “That’s true,” she answered readily, as if she really didn’t much care.

“What was Miss Grinnel studying; do you know?”

“Yes. She was studying fine arts.”

“What do
you
study?”

“Psychology.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “That explains your, ah, expert observations.”

Showing neither surprise nor pleasure, she accepted the compliment with a slight nod.

“Was Roberta a good artist, would you say?”

“She was quite good. And she could’ve been a lot better, I understand, if she’d cared enough to work at it.”

“Was she a good student otherwise? Did she get good marks?”

Betty Stephenson shrugged. “Again, she got by. That’s all she cared about, I gather—getting by. Staying in school, so as not to cause herself any trouble.”

“Did she have a car?”

“Yes.”

“A red Porsche?”

She nodded.

“From what you’ve said, Miss Stephenson, I gather that Miss Grinnel wasn’t a terribly feminine person. Would you agree with that?”

She thought about it, as if interested in the question as a problem in psychology.

“Well, she certainly wasn’t—ah—” For the first time she showed a human hesitation. Then: “She wasn’t a lesbian, or anything. But—” She’d thought about it, and now resumed her concise, clinical manner. “But she certainly wasn’t
excessively
feminine, if that’s what you mean. In fact, Roberta showed all the classical symptoms of a father fixation, which is of course the phase immediately preceding homosexual tendencies in girls, at least according to Freud. So, in that sense, you’re right; she
wasn’t
terribly feminine. But—”

“How do you mean, ‘father fixation’?”

She paused and surveyed me with her cool, thoughtful eyes.

“Sexually,” she said, “some girls are promiscuous, without becoming involved emotionally. According to Freud, this kind of behavior means that she’s looking for a father figure to, ah, cohabit with. And, since that’s impossible, she just—keeps on. It’s one theoretical explanation for nymphomania. And, as far as that’s concerned, it’s an emotional pattern that’s very often present in prostitutes—especially prostitutes that come from the middle class.”

I sat up straighter.

“Are you telling me that Roberta Grinnel was a nymphomaniac?”

She shook her head, her manner now more guarded. “All I’m telling you is that she had a reputation for promiscuity. I’m also saying that she was an emotionally withdrawn person who had, I think, a lot of suppressed aggressions. This pattern of behavior is often associated with the Electra complex, which is roughly similar to the Oedipus in boys. That is, the causes are similar. The manifestations, obviously, are different. Of course,” she added, eyeing me narrowly, “I’ll deny I said any of this, if it’s ever printed and attributed to me.”

“Miss Stephenson,” I said with deliberate emphasis. “I’ve already told you, I’m not going to mention your name. And, certainly, I’m not going to print that Roberta Grinnel was promiscuous, even if—if Freud himself told me she was. For one thing, I’d never get it past the city desk. For another, I’d be out of a job in a day, and my paper would probably be out a million-dollar libel judgment. So you don’t have to concern yourself about it. What I’m trying to do is get some background on the kind of person she was. To try and—”

I let the thought go unfinished, because I realized she wasn’t listening. Instead, for the first time, she was looking at me with an intensely interested expression, slightly frowning, and biting at her upper lip.

“What did you say your name was?” she asked.

“Stephen Drake. I—”

“Are you the clairvoyant?”

I sighed and ran a hand across the back of my neck.

“Look, Miss Stephenson, it’s getting late, and I know you haven’t eaten. So—”

Suddenly she rose and went to the bureau, yanking open the bottom drawer. She withdrew a large box of assorted cookies, which she offered to me and then took with her as she returned to the bed, now sitting cross-legged, facing me. She seemed actually animated as she said, “You’re the one who found that little girl down in San Jose, isn’t that right?”

“Well, yes, I am. But—”

“I did a paper last year on ESP for my term seminar. I’m very interested in it. I’m especially interested in J. B. Rhine’s experiments at Duke University. I did my paper on psychokinesis. You know, the effect of the mind on the behavior of inanimate objects. I think Rhine’s studies on psychokinesis are fascinating. And, although a scientist of Rhine’s stature naturally wouldn’t presume to speculate, I’m convinced that ESP has got to be electromagnetics. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, I—”

“I mean, after all, it’s already proven that all mass is actually electromagnetism. We know that atoms are actually constructed like tiny universes, and comprised exclusively of electrical charges. So, when we examine the proposition that mental states can affect inanimate objects—the roll of the dice, for instance, in Rhine’s experiments—we’re actually talking about a
single
physical state, of which both human thoughts and the dice are constructed. They’re both electrical charges, nothing more and nothing less. When you think of it like that, it’s perfectly logical to assume physical and mental states can interact, just as purely mental states can interact. It’s—” She paused for breath. “It’s a simple logic. Mind
can
influence matter, in exactly the same way that one mind influences another, psychically. Telepathy, clairvoyance, psychokinesis—they’re all related phenomena. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, I’ve never really—”

“I’ll make a bargain with you,” she said suddenly, her eyes snapping with brisk calculation. “I’ll exchange an interview with me about Roberta Grinnel for an interview with you about ESP.” It was a statement, not a request. And, besides, the exchange sounded promising.

I thought for a moment and then said, “I’ll agree to that, but only under one condition.”

“What’s that?” She popped a macaroon into her mouth.

“That you interview me some other time but right now. You see, I’ve got an appointment at two o’clock, and …”

She waved a hand. “Agreed.”

“Good.” I paused, trying to collect the scattered threads. “You may or may not know it, Miss Stephenson, but Roberta Grinnel was found murdered in a man’s apartment, under circumstances that were, ah, compromising, to say the least.”

She nodded attentively. “I gathered that from the noon news.”

“Oh. Oh, yes.” I’d momentarily forgotten about radio newscasts, a common failing of newspaper reporters.

“Were you aware that she was carrying on an affair with this man?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Yes and no, I’d say.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, Roberta was a pretty reliable topic of conversation around here, in spite of the fact that she kept pretty much to herself. It was more or less common knowledge that she didn’t sleep here one or two nights a week, although she always made it by reveille, so to speak. So the conclusion was obvious. But she didn’t flaunt it, and as a result she got away with it. With the school authorities, I mean.”

“I’m told that there’re no hours here at Bransten, no check-in, or housemothers.”

She nodded. “That’s right. However, it’s not quite as simple as that. The idea is that the students are supposed to govern themselves and their own morals, by means of student government and social pressures. If someone persists in playing a radio late at night, for instance, it’s brought up at the precinct level, you might say. The same thing is true of morals offenders.”

“Then you do punish morals offenders.”

Frowning, she took a moment to think about it. Then, with a small, out-of-patience sigh, she said, “We do, if the offense constitutes a nuisance to the community, like playing the radio too loud. And, of course, there’s a pressure in the direction of conventional, healthy moral behavior, just like there is anywhere else. That’s a common misconception about Bransten, that it’s morally permissive. Actually, it isn’t; it just handles the morality problem differently, by assuming that the student is adult enough to take some responsibility for his own behavior, and, to a certain extent, the behavior of others. The result is—” She swallowed another macaroon, which seemed to be her favorite. “The result is that Bransten isn’t any less moral than any other college, and probably a lot
more
moral than some, believe me. It’s quite possible, in fact, that the moral climate at Bransten is really healthier than most places. Take Roberta, for instance. It’s true, she was in and out of lots of boys’ rooms; there’s no question about it. But, given her particular predispositions, she’d’ve acted much the same at any college, just as soon as she was separated from Daddy. The only difference is, at most colleges, she’d’ve spent most of her time in the boiler room of some fraternity house, feeling basically even guiltier, with the result that she’d’ve been an even sicker person psychologically.” She looked at me didactically, a dumpy pedagogue in blue jeans. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” I answered, impressed. “You make yourself very clear.” I decided not to press the compliment further, since she seemed to distrust praise or flattery.

“Assuming that she was carrying on an affair with the man with whom she was found, was she also going around with anyone here on campus, that you know of?”

“Oh, sure,” she answered readily. “Several. Or, rather, several boys were completely gone on her, and she didn’t do anything to discourage it, as long as they didn’t press her too hard for possession. That’s one thing about Roberta, she might’ve played rough with the boys, but she played fair.”

“How do you mean?”

“She didn’t give them any false hopes or herself any unfair advantages. Most girls, as you probably know, make devastating use of their looks and their desirability. Or, to put it another way, the average girl uses the man’s sex drive against him, for her own ends. Roberta didn’t do that, in spite of the fact that, objectively, she was a really gorgeous, desirable girl. Maybe that’s the reason—she didn’t have to be reassured.” Her glance flickered aside, involuntarily a little pensive. “The rest of us, I’m afraid, have to have constant reassurances that we’re desirable to men. So we tease them a little, make them beg. It’s all part of the game, as I’m sure you know.” Again, briefly, her eyes wavered aside as she thought about it. Reluctantly, I had to admire her uncompromising insight. I wondered how many chances she’d had to tease the boys and therefore confirm her own desirability.

Finally, a little subdued, she summed up, “Basically, I think Roberta wanted to always have the initiative with men. Which isn’t, of course, an especially feminine characteristic. It does, however, go with the Electra complex.”

I nodded. I was beginning to get hungry and a little impatient to get away from the psychology, in spite of its revealing insight.

“Was there any boy here at Bransten that Roberta saw more of than any other?” I asked. “Or one that seemed more in love with her than any other?”

She thought about it, now eating a cream-filled cookie.

“There’s John Randall. I gather that she’d go back to him, from time to time, and he’d go back to her. John himself is like her, in many ways, basically self-centered, attractive, and inclined to be rough on the opposite sex. Maybe that’s why they got along. They played by the same rules.”

I nodded, making a mental note of the name. Then, responding to an impulse, I said, “Do you know Roberta’s brother, Miss Stephenson?”

“Yes.” She almost snapped out the single word.

“What kind of a person is he?”

The answer came promptly, as if she were reading from a prepared text. “He’s a semi-hysterical, ineffective, spoiled, unattractive brat who spent his entire life in the shadow of either his sister or his father, and who therefore doesn’t have any sense of self-identity whatever. As a result, ever since he came here, he’s been strutting around like a little Hitler, imitating, I suppose, his illustrious father.” Her lip curled as she took a deep breath. It was the first time I’d seen her show any real feelings or convictions. My impression was that she was reacting mostly to Grinnel’s politics, which she obviously despised.

She began again. “Bobby and Roberta, each in their different ways, are practically textbook examples of what happens to a child when he has the misfortune to have someone like Robert Grinnel for a father. As infants and young children, he undoubtedly gave them constant overdoses of himself, and his—” she hesitated, but only briefly—“his satanic, messianic, self-righteous charisma, and they’ve been stuck with it ever since. ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me,’ he must have announced every morning at the breakfast table. ‘Suffer them to come unto me, just as soon as they’ve become perfect little Aryans.’”

Again her lip curled, and now her breathing was quicker. But her voice was controlled as she finished. “The only problem being, of course, that there’s no such thing as perfection. A child doesn’t know it, but an adult does, or should. So it’s the crudest thing you can require of a child. Result: Bobby has been trying to get Daddy’s attention ever since, and Roberta’s been trying to make love to Daddy. Subconsciously, of course. And, in addition, Roberta has been trying to castrate Bobby, to show up the competition, and Bobby’s probably been trying to—” she paused, her eyes wayward with sudden reflection—“trying to kill her,” she said softly. “Figuratively, of course.”