by Robert Bloch
"Come on," said Sam. "Let's get going."
They found Sheriff Chambers at his house, finishing dinner. He chewed on a toothpick while he listened to Lila's story.
"I dunno," he said. "You'd have to be the one to sign the complaint—"
"I'll sign anything you want. Just so you go out there and look around."
"Couldn't we wait until tomorrow morning? I mean, I'm expecting word about those bank robbers and all, and—"
"Now, just a minute," Sam said. "This is a serious business, Sheriff. This girl's sister has been missing for over a week now. It isn't just a matter of money any more. For all we know, her life could be in danger. She could even be—"
"All right! You don't have to tell me my business, Sam. Come on, let's go over to the office and I'll let her sign. But if you ask me, it's a waste of time. Norman Bates is no murderer."
The word emerged, just like any other word, and died away. But its echo lingered. Sam heard it and Lila heard it. It stayed with them as they drove over to the courthouse annex with Sheriff Chambers. It stayed with them after the Sheriff drove away, out to the motel. He'd refused to take either of them along; told them to wait. So they waited in the office, just the two of them. The two of them—and the word.
It was late afternoon when he returned. He came in alone, giving them a look in which disgust and relief were equally compounded.
"Just what I told you," he said. "False alarm."
"What did you—"
"Hold your horses, young lady. Give me a chance to sit down, I'll tell you about it. Went straight out there and didn't run into any trouble at all. Bates, he was down in the woods behind the house, getting himself some kindling. I never even had to show the warrant—he was nice as pie. Told me to go look around for myself, even gave me the keys to the motel."
"And did you look?"
"Of course I did. I went into every unit of the motel, and I covered that house of his from top to bottom. Didn't find at soul. Didn't find anything. Because there's nobody there. Nobody's been there, except Bates. He's lived alone all these years."
"What about the bedroom?"
"There's a bedroom up front on the second floor, all right, and it used to be his mother's, when she was alive. That part's straight enough. In fact, he even kept it the way it was. Says he has no other use for it, seeing as how he's got the whole house to himself. Guess he's kind of an odd one, that Bates, but who wouldn't be, living alone like that all these years?"
"Did you ask him about what Arbogast told me?" Sam murmured. "About seeing his mother when he drove in, and all that?"
"Sure, right away. He says it's a lie—Arbogast never even mentioned seeing anyone. I talked kind of rough to him at first, on purpose, just to see if there was something he was holding back on, but his story makes sense. I asked him about this Chicago business again, too. And I still think that's the real answer."
"I can't believe it," Lila said. "Why would Mr. Arbogast make up that unnecessary excuse about seeing Bates's mother?"
"You'll have to ask him, next time you see him," Sheriff Chambers told her. "Maybe he saw her ghost sitting in the window."
"You're sure his mother is dead?"
"I already told you I was there, at the funeral. I saw the note she left for Bates when she and this Considine fella killed themselves. What more do you want? Do I have to dig her up and show her to you?" Chambers sighed. "I'm sorry, miss. Didn't mean to fly off that way. But I've done all I can. I searched the house. Your sister isn't there, this man Arbogast isn't there. Didn't find a trace of their cars, either, Seems to me the answer's pretty plain. Anyway, I've done all I can."
"What would you advise me to do, now?"
"Why, cheek with this fella Arbogast's home office, see if they know anything. Maybe they've got some lead on this Chicago angle. Don't suppose you can contact anyone until tomorrow morning, though."
"I guess you're right." Lila stood up. "Well, thank you for all your trouble. I'm sorry to be such a bother."
"That's what I am here for. Right, Sam?"
"Right," Sam answered.
Sheriff Chambers stood up. "I know how you feel about all this, miss," he said. "I wish I could have been more of a help to you. But there's just nothing solid for me to go on. If you only had some kind of real evidence, now, then maybe—"
"We understand," Sam said. "And we both appreciate your co-operation." He turned to Lila. "Shall we go now?"
"You look into this Chicago business," the big man called after them. "So long, now."
Then they were on the sidewalk. The late afternoon sun cast slanting shadows. As they stood there the black tip of the Civil War veteran's bayonet grazed Lila's throat.
"Want to come back to my place?" Sam suggested.
The girl shook her head.
"The hotel?"
"No."
"Where would you like to go, then?"
"I don't know about you," Lila said. "But I'm going out to that motel."
She raised her face defiantly, and the sharp shadow line slashed across her neck. For a moment, it looked as though somebody had just cut off Lila's head....
THIRTEEN
Norman knew they were coming, even before he saw them driving in.
He didn't know who they'd be, or what they'd look like, or even how many of them would come. But he knew they were coming.
He'd known it ever since last night when he lay in bed and listened to the stranger pound on the door. He had stayed very quiet, not even getting up to peek through the upstairs window. In fact, he'd even put his head under the covers while he waited for the stranger to go away. Finally, he did leave. It was lucky that Mother was locked in the fruit cellar. Lucky for him, lucky for hers lucky for the stranger.
But he'd known, then, that this wouldn't be the end of it. And it wasn't. This afternoon, when he was down at the swamp again, cleaning up, Sheriff Chambers had driven in.
It gave Norman quite a start, seeing the Sheriff again, after all these years. He remembered him very well, from the time of the nightmare. That's the way Norman always thought about Uncle Joe Considine and the poison and everything—it had been a long, long nightmare from the moment he phoned the Sheriff until months afterward, when they let him out of the hospital to come back here to the house once more.
Seeing Sheriff Chambers now was like having the same nightmare all over, but people do have the same nightmare again and again. And the important thing to remember was that Norman had fooled the Sheriff the first time, when everything had been much harder. This time it should be even easier, if he remembered to be cairn. It should be, and it was.
He answered all the questions, he gave the Sheriff the keys, he let him search the house alone. That was even funny, in a way—letting the Sheriff go up to the house and search while Norman stayed down at the edge of the swamp and finished smoothing out all the footprints. It was funny, that is, as long as Mother kept quiet. If she thought Norman was down there in the cellar, if she cried out or made a sound, then there'd be real trouble. But she wouldn't do that, she had been warned, and besides the Sheriff wasn't even looking for Mother. He thought she was dead and buried.
How he'd fooled him the first time! Yes, and he fooled him just as easily again, because the Sheriff came back and he hadn't noticed a thing. He asked Norman some more questions about the girl and Arbogast and going to Chicago. Norman was tempted to invent a little more—maybe even, say that the girl had mentioned staying at a certain hotel up there-but an second thought he realized it wouldn't be wise. It was better to just stick to what he'd already made up. The Sheriff believed that. He almost apologized before he went away.
So that part was settled, but Norman knew there'd be more. Sheriff Chambers hadn't come out here just on his own initiative. He wasn't following up any hunch—he couldn't be, because he hadn't known anything. His phone call yesterday was the tipoff. It meant somebody else knew about Arbogast and the girl. They got Sheriff Chambers to call. They sent the stranger
out here last night, to snoop. They sent the Sheriff out today. And the next step would be to come out themselves. It was inevitable. Inevitable.
When Norman thought about that, his heart started up again. He wanted to do all sorts of crazy things—run away, go down into the cellar and put his head in Mother's lap, go upstairs and pull the covers back over his head. But none of this would help. He couldn't run away and leave Mother, and he couldn't risk taking her with him, now; not in her condition. He couldn't even go to her for comfort or advice. Up until last week, that's just what he would have done, but he didn't trust her any more, couldn't trust her after what had happened. And pulling the covers over his head wouldn't help.
If they came here again, he'd have to face them. That was the only sensible solution. Just face them, stick to his story, and nothing would happen.
But meanwhile he had to do something about the way his heart pounded.
He sat there in the office, all alone. Alabama had pulled out early this morning, and Illinois had left right after lunch There were no new customers. It was beginning to cloud up again, and if the storm came he needn't expect any business this evening. So one drink wouldn't hurt. Not if it made his heart calm down again.
Norman found a bottle in the cubbyhole under the counter. It was the second bottle of the three he'd put there over a month ago. That wasn't bad; just the second bottle. Drinking the first one had gotten him into all this trouble, but it wouldn't happen that way again. Not now, when he could be sure Mother was safely out of the way. In a little while, when it got dark, he'd see about fixing her some dinner. Maybe tonight they could talk. But right now, he needed this drink. These thinks. The first didn't really help, but the second did the trick. He was quite relaxed now. Quite relaxed. He could even take a third one if he wanted to.
And then he wanted to very much, because he saw the car drive in.
It had nothing to distinguish it from any other car, no out-of-state license or anything like that, but Norman knew right away that they were here. When you're a psychic sensitive, you can feel the vibrations. And you can feel your heart pound, so you gulp the drink and watch them get out of the car. The man was ordinary looking, and for a moment Norman wondered if he hadn't made a mistake. But then he saw the girl.
He saw the girl, and he tilted the bottle up—tilted it up to take a hasty swallow and to hide her face at the same time—because it was the girl.
She'd come back, out of the swamp!
No. No, she couldn't. That wasn't the answer, it couldn't be. Look at her again. Now, in the light. Her hair wasn't the same color at all, really; it was brownish blond. And she wasn't as heavy. But she looked enough like the girl to be her sister.
Yes, of course. That must be who she was. And it explained everything. This Jane Wilson or whatever her real name was had run away with that money. The detective came after her, and now her sister. That was the answer.
He knew what Mother would do in a case like this. But thank God he'd never have to run that risk again. All he had to do was stick to his story and they'd go away. Just remember nobody could find anything, nobody could prove anything. And there was nothing to worry about, now that he knew what to expect.
The liquor had helped. It helped him to stand patiently behind the counter while he waited for them to come in. He could see them talking together outside the office, and that didn't bother him. He could see the dark clouds coming on out of the west, and that didn't bother him either. He saw the sky darken as the sun surrendered its splendor. The sun surrendered its splendor—why, it was like poetry; he was a poet; Norman smiled. He was many things. If they only knew—
But they didn't know, and they wouldn't know, and right now he was just a fat, middle-aged motel proprietor who blinked up at the pair of them as they came in and said, "Can I help you?"
The man came up to the counter. Norman braced himself for the first question, then blinked again when the man didn't ask it. Instead he was saying, "Could we have a room, please?"
Norman nodded, unable to answer. Had he made a mistake? But no, now the girl was stepping forward, and she was the sister, no doubt about it.
"Yes. Would you like to—"
"No, that's not necessary. We're anxious to get into some clean clothes."
It was a lie. Their clothing was fresh. But Norman smiled. "All right. It's ten dollars, double. If you'll just sign here and pay me now—"
He pushed the register forward. The man hesitated for a moment, then scribbled. Norman had had long practice when it came to reading names upside down. Mr. and Mrs. Sam Wright. Independence, Mo.
That was another lie. Wright was wrong. Filthy, stupid liars! They thought they were so clever, coming in here and trying to pull their tricks on him. Well, they'd see!
The girl was staring at the register now. Not at the name the man had written, but at another one, up on top of the page. Her sister's name. Jane Wilson, or whatever it was.
She didn't think he noticed when she squeezed the man's arm, but he did.
"I'll give you Number One," Norman said.
"Where is that?" the girl asked.
"Down at the end."
"How about Number Six?"
Number Six. Norman remembered now. He'd written it down, as he always did after each signature. Number Six had been the room he'd given the sister, of course. She'd noticed that.
"Number Six is up at this end," he said "But you wouldn't want that. The fan's broken."
"Oh, we won't need a fan. Storm's coming up, it'll cool off in a hurry." Liar. "Besides, six is our lucky number. We were married on the sixth of this month." Dirty, filthy liar.
Norman shrugged. "All right," he said.
And it was all right. Now that he thought it over, it was even better than all right. Because if that's the way the liars were going to play it, if they weren't going to come out with any questions but just sneak around, then Number Six was ideal. He didn't have to worry about them finding anything in there. And he could keep an eye on them. Yes, he could keep an eye on them. Perfect!
So he took the key and he escorted them next door to Number Six. It was only a few steps, but already the wind had come up and it felt chilly there in the twilight. He unlocked the unit while the man brought out a bag. One ridiculous little bag, all the way from Independence. Nasty, rotten liars!
He opened the door and they stepped in. "Will there be anything else?" he asked.
"No, we're all right now, thank you."
Norman closed the door. He went back to the office and took another drink. A congratulatory drink. This was going to be even easier than he'd dreamed. It was going to be easy as pie.
Then he tilted the license in its frame and stared through the crack into the bathroom of Number Six.
They weren't occupying it, of course; they were in the bedroom beyond. But he could hear them moving around, and once in a while he caught muffled phrases of their conversation. The two of them were searching for something. What it was he couldn't imagine. Judging from what he overheard, they weren't even sure, themselves.
"... help if we knew what we were looking for." The man's voice.
And then, the girl's. "... anything happened, there'd be something he overlooked. I'm sure of it. Crime laboratories you read about... always little clues..."
Man's voice again. "But we're not detectives. I still think... better to talk to him... come right out, frighten him into admitting..."
Norman smiled. They weren't going to frighten him into anything. Any more than they were going to find anything. He'd been over that room thoroughly, from top to bottom. There were no telltale signs of what had happened, not the tiniest stain of blood, not a single hair.
Her voice, coming closer now. "... understand? If we only could find something to go on, then we'd be able to scare him so that he'd talk."
She was walking into the bathroom now, and he was following her. "With any kind of evidence at all we could make the Sheriff come out. The State Police do that kin
d of laboratory work, don't they?"
He was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, watching her as she examined the sink. "Look how clean everything is! I tell you, we'd better talk to him. It's our only chance."
She had stepped out of Norman's field of vision. She was looking into the shower stall now, he could hear the curtains swishing back. The little bitch, she was just like her sister, she had to go into the shower. Well, let her. Let her and be damned!
"... not a sign..."
Norman wanted to laugh out loud. Of course there wasn't a sign! He waited for her to step out of the shower stall, but she didn't reappear. Instead he heard a sudden thumping noise.
"What are you doing?"
It was the man who asked the question, but Norman echoed it. What was she doing?
"Just reaching around in back here, behind the stall. You never know... Sam. Look! I've found something!"
She was standing in front of the mirror again, holding something in her hand. What was it, what had the little bitch found?
"Sam, it's an earring. One of Mary's earrings!"
"Are you sure?"
No, it couldn't be the other earring. It couldn't be.
"Of course it's one of hers. I ought to know. I gave them to her myself, for her birthday, last year. There's a custom jeweler who runs a little hole-in-the-wall shop in Dallas. He specializes in making up individual pieces—just one of a kind, you know. I had him do these for her. She thought it was terribly extravagant of me, but she loved them."
He was holding the earring under the light now, staring at it as she spoke.
"She must have knocked it off when she was taking her shower and it fell over in back of the stall. Unless something else happ—Sam, what's the matter?"
"I'm afraid something did happen, Lila. Do you see this? Looks to me like dried blood."
"Oh—no!"
"Yes. Lila, you were right."
The bitch. They were all bitches. Listen to her, now.
"Sam, we've got to get into that house. We've got to."