by Robert Bloch
So perhaps Mary did steal the money. Perhaps she was tired of waiting for him to pay off his debts, and the sudden temptation was just too much. Maybe she thought she'd bring it here, cook up some story, get him to accept it. Maybe she planned for them to run away together. He had to be honest about the possibility, even the probability, that this was the case.
And if he granted that much, then he had to face the next question. Why hadn't she arrived? Where else could she have headed for after leaving the outskirts of Tulsa?
Once you began speculation about that, once you admitted to yourself that you didn't really know how another person's mind operated, then you came up against the ultimate admission—anything was possible. A decision to take a wild fling out in Las Vegas; a sudden impulse to drop out of sight completely and start a whole new life under another name, a traumatic access of guilt, resulting in amnesia—
But he was beginning to make a federal case out of it, Sam told himself wryly. Or a clinical case. If he was going off on such farfetched speculations, he'd have to admit a thousand and one other alternatives. That she had been in an accident, as Lila feared, or picked up some hitchhiker who—
Again, Sam closed off the thought. He couldn't afford to carry it any further. It was bad enough keeping it to himself without the added burden of keeping it from Lila. His job today was to cheer her up. There was always the slim chance that Arbogast would find a lead. If not, he'd go to the authorities. Then, and only then, would he allow himself to think about the worst that might happen.
Talk about not knowing other people—why, when you came right down to it, you didn't even know yourself! He'd never suspected that he could entertain such sudden doubt and disloyalty concerning Mary. And yet how easily he'd slipped into accepting the attitude! It was unfair to her. The least he could do, in partial atonement, was to keep his suspicions from her sister.
Unless, of course, she was thinking the same things....
But Lila seemed in better spirits this morning She'd changed into a lightweight suit, and when she came into the store her step was buoyant.
Sam introduced her to Bob Summerfield, then took her out to lunch. Inevitably, she began speculating about Mary and about what Arbogast might be doing today. Sam answered her briefly, attempting to keep both his replies and his tone of voice on a casual level. After their meal, he stopped at the hotel and arranged to have a transfer made on any calls which might come in for Lila during the afternoon.
Then they went back to the store. It was a light day, for Saturday, and much of the time Sam was able to sit in the back room and chat with the girl. Summerfield handled the customers, and it was only occasionally that Sam had to excuse himself and step out to take care of matters.
Lila seemed relaxed and at ease. She switched on the radio, picked up a symphonic program on AM, and listened with apparent absorption. Sam found her sitting there when he returned from one of his trips up front.
"Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra, isn't it?" he asked.
She looked up, smiling. "That's right. Funny, your knowing so much about music.
"What's so strange about that? This is the age of hi-fi, remember? Just because a person lives in a small town doesn't mean he can't be interested in music, books, art. And I've had a lot of time to fill."
Lila smoothed the collar of her blouse. "Maybe I've got things backwards, then. Maybe the funny thing isn't that you're interested in things like this, but that you're also in the hardware business. The two just don't seem to go together."
"There's nothing wrong with the hardware business.
"I didn't mean to imply that. But it seems, well, so—trivial."
Sam sat down at the table. Suddenly he stopped and picked up an object from the floor. It was small, pointed, and shiny.
"Trivial," he echoed. "Perhaps. Then again, maybe it's all in the way you look at it. For example, what's this in my hand?"
"A nail, isn't it?"
"That's right. Just a nail. I sell them by the pound. Hundreds of pounds a year. Dad used to sell them too. I'll bet we've sold ten tons of nails out of this store alone since it opened for business. All lengths, all sizes, just common ordinary nails. But there's nothing trivial about a single one of them. Not when you stop to think about it.
"Because every nail serves a purpose. An important, a lasting purpose. You know something? Maybe half the frame houses in Fairvale are held together by nails we've sold right here. I guess it's a little silly of me, but sometimes when I walk down the street here in town I get the feeling that I helped build it. The tools I sold shaped the boards and finished them. I've provided the paint that covers the houses, the brushes which applied it, the storm doors and screens, the glass for the windows—" He broke off, with a self-conscious grin. "Listen to the Master Builder, will you? But no, I mean it. Everything in this business makes sense, because it serves a real purpose, fills a need that's a part of living. Even a single nail, like this one, fulfills a function. Drive it into a crucial place and you can depend on it to do a job, keep on doing it for a hundred years to come. Long after we're dead and gone, both of us."
The moment he said the words he regretted them. But it was too late now. He watched the smile fade from her lips, as if on cue.
"Sam, I'm worried. It's almost four now, and Arbogast hasn't called—"
"He will. Just be patient; give him time."
"I can't help it! You said twenty-four hours, and then you'd go to the police if you had to."
"I meant it. But it won't be twenty-four hours until eight o'clock. And I still say maybe we won't have to go. Maybe Arbogast is right."
"Maybe! Sam, I want to know!" She smoothed her blouse again, but her brow remained wrinkled. "You aren't fooling me for one minute, with all this routine about nails. You're just as nervous as I am. Aren't you?"
"Yes. I guess so." He stood up, swinging his arms. "I don't know why Arbogast hasn't called in by now. There aren't that many places in this area to check, not if he stopped at every highway hamburger joint and motel in the county! If he doesn't get in touch with us by suppertime, I'll go over to Jud Chambers myself."
"Who?"
"Jud Chambers. He's the sheriff here. Fairvale's the county seat, you know."
"Sam, I—"
The phone rang, out in the store. He disappeared without waiting for her to complete her sentence. Bob Summerfield was already answering.
"It's for you," he called.
Sam picked up the receiver, glancing over his shoulder and noting that Lila had followed him out.
"Hello—Sam Loomis speaking."
"Arbogast. Thought you might be worried about me."
"We were. Lila and I have been sitting here and waiting for you to call. What did you find out?"
There was a short, almost imperceptible pause. Then, "No dice, so far."
"So far? Where have you been all day?"
"Where haven't I been? I've covered this area from one end to another. Right now I'm in Parnassus."
"That's way down at the edge of the county, isn't it? What about the highway between?"
"I came out on it. But I understand I can come back another way, on an alternate."
"Yes, that's right. The old highway—it's a county trunk now. But there's absolutely nothing along that route. Not even a filling station."
"Fellow in the restaurant here tells me there's a motel back in through there."
"Oh—come to think of it, I guess there is. The old Bates place. I didn't know it was still open. It isn't likely you'll find anything there."
"Well, it's the last on the list. I'm coming back anyway, so I might as well stop in. How you holding?"
"All right."
"And the girl?"
Sam lowered his voice. "She wants me to notify the authorities immediately. And I think she's right. After what you've told me, I know she's right."
"Will you wait until I get there?"
"How long is it going to take?"
"An hour, maybe.
Unless I run into something at this motel." Arbogast hesitated. "Look, we made a bargain. I'm willing to keep my end of it. All I'm asking is for you to wait until I come back to town. Let me go with you to the police. It'll be a lot easier to get co-operation that way, with me along. You know how it is with small-town law. The minute you ask them to put through a long-distance call they press the panic button."
"We'll give you an hour," Sam said. "You can find us here at the store."
He hung up and turned away.
"What did he say?" Lila asked. "He didn't find out anything, did he?"
"Well, no, but he isn’t finished yet. There's another place where he plans to stop—"
"Only one more place?"
"Don't say it like that. Maybe he'll hear something there. If not, he's due back within an hour. We'll go to the sheriff. You heard what I told him."
"All right. We'll wait. One hour, you said."
It wasn't a pleasant hour. Sam was almost grateful when the late Saturday afternoon crowd came in and he had an excuse to go out front and help wait on the overflow. He couldn't pretend to be cheerful any longer, couldn't make small talk. Not to her, nor to himself.
Because he was beginning to feel it now.
Something had happened.
Something had happened to Mary.
Something—
"Sam!"
He turned away from the cash register after completing a sale, and Lila was there. She'd come out from the back room and she was pointing at her wrist watch. "Sam, the hour's up!"
"I know. Let's give him a few more minutes, shall we? I've got to close up the store first, anyway."
"All right. But only a few minutes. Please! If you knew how I felt—"
"I do know." He squeezed her arm, squeezed out a smile. "Don't worry, he'll be here any second."
But he didn't come.
Sam and Summerfield shooed out the last straggler at five-thirty. Sam checked the register and Summerfield spread the dust covers for the night.
Still Arbogast didn't appear.
Summerfield switched off the lights, prepared to depart. Sam got ready to lock the door.
No Arbogast.
Now, Lila said. Let s go now. If you don't, then I w—"
"Listen!" Sam said. "It's the phone."
And, seconds later, "Hello?"
"Arbogast."
"Where are you? You promised to—"
"Never mind what I promised." The investigator's voice was low, his words hurried. "I'm out at the motel, and I've only got a minute. Wanted to let you know why I hadn't showed. Listen, I've found a lead. Your girl-friend was here, all right. Last Saturday night."
“Mary? You’re sure?”
"Pretty sure. I checked the register, got a chance to compare handwriting. Of course she used another name—Jane Wilson—and gave a phony address. I'll have to get a court order to photostat the register entry, if we need proof."
"What else did you find out?"
"Well, the car description tallies, and so does the description of the girl. The proprietor filled me in."
"How'd you manage to get that information?"
"I pulled my badge and gave him the stolen car routine. He got all excited. A real oddball, this guy. Name's Norman Bates. You know him?"
"No, I can't say that I do."
"He says the girl drove in Saturday night, around six. Paid in advance. It was a bad night, raining, and she was the only customer. Claims she pulled out early the next morning, before he came down to open up. He lives in a house behind the motel with his mother."
"Do you think he s telling the truth?'
"I don't know, yet."
"What does that mean?"
"Well, I put a little heat on him, about the car and all. And he let it slip that he'd invited the girl up to the house for supper. Said that was all there was to it, his mother could verify it."
"Did you talk to her?"
"No, but I'm going to. She's up at the house, in her room. He tried to hand me a line that she's too sick to see anyone, but I noticed her sitting at the bedroom window giving me the once-over when I drove in. So I told him I was going to have a little chat with his old lady whether he liked it or not."
"But you have no authority—"
"Look, you want to find out about your girlfriend, don't you? And he doesn't seem to know anything about search warrants. Anyway, he hotfooted it off to the house, to tell his mother to get dressed. I thought I'd sneak through a call while he's gone. So you stick around until I'm finished here. Oh-oh, he's coming back. See you."
The receiver clicked and the line went dead. Sam hung up. He turned to Lila and reported the conversation.
"Feel better now?"
"Yes. But I wish I knew—"
"We will know, in just a little while. Now all we have to do is wait."
NINE
Saturday afternoon, Norman shaved. He shaved only once a week, and always on a Saturday.
Norman didn't like to shave, because of the mirror. It had those wavy lines in it. All mirrors seemed to have wavy lines that hurt his eyes.
Maybe the real trouble was that his eyes were bad. Yes that was it, because he remembered how he used to enjoy looking in the mirror as a boy. He liked to stand in front of the glass without any clothes on. One time Mother caught him at it and hit him on the side of the head with the big silver-handled hairbrush. She hit him hard, and it hurt. Mother said that was a nasty thing to do, to look at yourself that way.
He could still remember how it hurt, and how his head ached afterward. From then on it seemed he got a headache almost every time he looked in a mirror. Mother finally took him to the doctor and the doctor said he needed glasses. The glasses helped, but he still had trouble seeing properly when he gazed into a mirror. So after a while, he just didn't, except when he couldn't help it. And Mother was right. It was nasty to stare at yourself, all naked and unprotected; to peek at the blubbery fat, the short hairless arms, the big belly, and underneath it
When you did, you wished you were somebody else. Somebody who was tall and lean and handsome, like Uncle Joe Considine. "Isn't he the best-looking figure of a man you ever saw?" Mother used to remark.
It was the truth, too, and Norman had to admit it. But he still hated Uncle Joe Considine, even if he was handsome. And he wished Mother wouldn't insist, on calling him "Uncle Joe." Because he wasn't any real relation at all—just a friend who came around to visit Mother. And he got her to build the motel, too, after she sold the farm acreage.
That was strange. Mother always talked against men, and about Your-father-who-ran-off-and-deserted-me, and yet Uncle Joe Considine could wrap her around his little finger. He could do anything he wanted with Mother. It would be nice to be like that, and to look the way Uncle Joe Considine looked.
Oh, no, it wouldn't! Because Uncle Joe was dead.
Norman blinked at his reflection as he shaved. Funny how it had slipped his mind. Why it must he almost twenty years now. Time is relative, of course. Einstein said so, and he wasn't the first to discover it—the ancients knew it too, and so did some of the modern mystics like Aleister Crowley and Ouspensky. Norman had read them all, and he even owned some of the books. Mother didn't approve; she claimed these things were against religion, but that wasn't the real reason. It was because when he read the books he wasn't her little boy any more. He was a grown man, a man who studied the secrets of time and space and mastered the secrets of dimension and being.
It was like being two people, really—the child and the adult. Whenever he thought about Mother, he became a child again, with a child's vocabulary, frames of reference, and emotional reactions. But when he was by himself—not actually by himself, but off in a book—he was a mature individual. Mature enough to understand that he might even be the victim of a mild form of schizophrenia, most likely some form of borderline neurosis.
Granted, it wasn't the healthiest situation in the world. Being Mother's little boy had its drawbacks. On the other hand
, as long as he recognized the dangers he could cope with them, and with Mother. It was just lucky for her that he knew when to be a man; that he did know a few things about psychology and parapsychology too.
It had been lucky when Uncle Joe Considine died, and it was lucky again last week, when that girl came along. If he hadn't acted as an adult, Mother would be in real trouble right now.
Norman fingered the razor. It was sharp, very sharp. He had to be careful not to cut himself. Yes, and. he had to be careful to put it away when he finished shaving, to lock it up where Mother couldn't get hold of it. He couldn't trust Mother with anything that sharp. That's why he did most of the cooking, and the dishes too. Mother still loved to clean house—her own room was always neat as a pin—but Norman always took charge of the kitchen. Not that he ever said anything to her, outright; he just took over.
She never questioned him, either, and he was glad of that. Things had gone along for a whole week now, since that girl had come last Saturday, and they hadn't discussed the affair at all, It would have been awkward and embarrassing for both of them; Mother must have sensed it, for it seemed as if she deliberately avoided him—she spent a lot of time just resting in her room, and didn't have much to say. Probably her conscience bothered her.
And that was as it should be. Murder was a terrible thing. Even if you're not quite right in the head, you can realize that much. Mother must be suffering quite a bit.