Free The Black Door by Collin Wilcox

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.”
    I exhaled. “Of course.”
    “In other words,” she was saying, by way of explanation, “sibling rivalry. It’s nothing new, of course.”
    “Of course,” I answered automatically. “Well—” I rose to my feet. “You’ve been a really tremendous help, Miss Stephenson. Really tremendous. I think I could’ve gone through the entire student body and not found anyone as—as intelligent and articulate as you are. And I want to thank you.”
    She bounced off the bed, walking with me to the door. “You’re welcome,” she said briskly. “Now, what about my interview with you?”
    “Oh, yes.” I’d hoped she’d forgotten. “Well, I’m going to be pretty busy for the next day or two, probably. How about if I call you next week?”
    She thought about it, and said: “I’ll call you. At the Sentinel?”
    Resigned, I nodded.
    “Good,” she said decisively. “I’ll probably be downtown next Wednesday afternoon. I’ll give you a call ahead of time. I should think an hour would be enough. Can we talk in your office?”
    “Well, ah, I don’t have an office. But we can find a conference room somewhere, I’m sure.”
    “Good.” Suddenly she smiled, and suddenly I decided she wasn’t such a terrible brat after all. Just fat and probably lonely. She put out her hand, and we sealed the bargain.
    “I’ll call you Wednesday,” she repeated.
    “Fine. I’ll put it on the calendar. And thanks again. You should write books.”
    “Someday I will,” she said, without the slightest doubt.
    I nodded. “I believe you. Good-by.”
    “Good-by.”
    As I walked down the hallway, I heard another giggle. I smiled and continued toward the door, softly whistling to myself.

5
    C AMPION AND I SPENT the next hour in the coffee shop, discussing the case and swapping oddments of information. I offered for trade my character sketches of Roberta and Bobby Grinnel. Campion offered the information that, reportedly, Roberta had spent the earlier part of her last night at an informal drinking session, attended by herself, John Randall and another couple. If I’d been fortunate in finding an acute student of psychology for my character sketches, apparently Campion had been fortunate in finding the campus gossip.
    According to Campion’s information John Randall, Roberta Grinnel, and the other couple took a bottle of bourbon, four glasses and potato chips into the office of the student literary magazine, on which Randall worked as advertising manager and Roberta sometimes worked as an artist. The hour was about 8 P.M. The occasion, supposedly, was the completion of the magazine’s current issue, and the four students were celebrating. Although nothing was known of the actual party, there was much speculation on what might have happened. Apparently the furnishings of the office included two couches, and the lights in the office weren’t seen all night. But, in any case, it was rumored that Roberta left the party about ten thirty, for an unknown