by Robert Bloch
“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 girl-friend, 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.”
— 9 —
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 be 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.
Perhaps catharsis would help her, but Norman was glad she hadn’t spoken. Because he was suffering too. It wasn’t conscience that plagued him—it was fear.
All week long he’d waited for something to go wrong. Every time a car drove into the motel driveway, he just about jumped out of his skin. Even when cars merely drove past on the old highway, it made him nervous.
Last Saturday, of course, he’d finished cleaning up back there at the edge of the swamp. He took his own car down there and loaded the trailer with wood, and by the time he’d finished there wasn’t anything left that would look suspicious. The girl’s earring had gone into the swamp, too. And the other one hadn’t shown up. So he felt reasonably secure.
But on Thursday night, when the State Highway patrol car pulled into the driveway, he almost passed out. The officer just wanted to use the phone. Afterward, Norman was able to laugh to himself, yet at the time it wasn’t a joke at all.
Mother had been sitting at her window in the bedroom, and it was just as well the officer hadn’t seen her. Mother had looked out of the window a lot during the past week. Maybe she was worried about visitors too. Norman tried to tell her to stay out of sight, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain why. Any more than he could discuss with her why he wouldn’t permit her to come down to the motel and help out. He just saw to it that she didn’t. The ho
use was the place where she belonged—you couldn’t trust Mother around strangers, not any more. And the less they knew about her, the better. He should never have told that girl—
Norman finished shaving and washed his hands again. He’d noticed this compulsion in himself, particularly during the past week. Guilt feelings. A regular Lady Macbeth. Shakespeare had known a lot about psychology. Norman wondered if he had known other things too. There was the ghost of Hamlet’s father, for example.
No time to think about that now. He had to get down to the motel and open up.
There’d been some business during the week, not very much. Norman never had more than three or four units occupied on a given night, and that was good. It meant he didn’t need to rent out Number Six. Number Six had been the girl’s room.
He hoped he’d never have to rent it out. He was done with that sort of thing—the peeking, the voyeurism. That was what caused all the trouble in the first place. If he hadn’t peeked, if he hadn’t been drinking—
No sense crying over spilt milk, though. Even if it hadn’t been milk.
Norman wiped his hands, turning away from the mirror. Forget the past, let the dead bury the dead. Things were working out fine, and that was the only thing he had to remember. Mother was behaving herself, he was behaving himself, they were together as they always had been. A whole week had gone by without any trouble, and there wouldn’t be any trouble from now on. Particularly if he held firm to his resolve to behave like an adult instead of a child, a Mamma’s Boy. And he’d already made up his mind about that.
He tightened his tie and left the bathroom. Mother was in her room, looking out of the window again. Norman wondered if he ought to say anything to her. No, better not. There might be an argument, and he wasn’t quite ready yet to face her. Let her look if she liked. Poor, sick old lady, chained to the house here. Let her watch the world go by.
That was the child speaking, of course. But he was willing to make such a concession, as long as he behaved like a sensible adult. As long as he locked the downstairs doors when he went out.
It was locking the doors all week long which gave him his new sense of security. He’d taken her keys away from her, too—the keys to the house and the keys to the motel. Once he left, there was no way she could get out. She was safe in the house and he was safe in the motel. There could be no repetition of what had happened last week as long as he observed the precaution. After all, it was for her own good. Better the house than an asylum.
Norman walked down the path and came around the corner toward his office just as the towel-service truck drove up on its weekly rounds. He had everything ready for the driver. He accepted the fresh supply and gave him the old, dirty linen. The towel service handled the laundering of sheets and pillowcases, too. That made it simple. Actually, there was no trick to operating a motel these days.
After the truck departed Norman went in and cleaned up Number Four—some traveling salesmen from up in Illinois had pulled out earlier in the day. Left the usual mess, too. Cigarette butts on the edge of the washbowl, and a magazine on the floor next to the toilet seat. One of these science fiction things. Norman chuckled as he picked it up. Science fiction! If they only knew!
But they didn’t know. They’d never known, and they must not know. As long as he was careful about Mother, there’d be no risk. He had to protect her, and he had to protect others. What had happened last week proved it. From now on he’d be extra careful, always. For everyone’s sake.
Norman walked back to the office and put the towels away. There was already a fresh supply of linen in every unit. He was ready for today’s business—if any.
But nothing happened until around four o’clock. He sat there watching the roadway outside, and he got bored and fidgety. He was almost tempted to take a drink, until he remembered what he’d promised himself. No more drinking. That was part of the trouble, when there was trouble. He couldn’t afford to drink, not even a drop. Drinking had killed Uncle Joe Considine. Drinking had led to the killing of the girl, indirectly. So from now on he’d be a teetotaler. Still, he could use a drink now. Just one—
Norman was still hesitating when the car pulled in. Alabama plates. A middle-aged couple climbed out and came into the office. The man was bald and wore heavy, dark-rimmed glasses. The woman was fat and perspiring. Norman showed them Number One, way at the other end, for ten dollars, double. The woman complained about the stuffiness in a high, whining drawl, but she seemed satisfied when Norman switched on the fan. The man took their bags, and signed the register. Mr. and Mrs. Herman Pritzler, Birmingham, Ala. They were just tourists; they wouldn’t present any problems.
Norman sat down again, riffling the pages of the science fiction magazine he’d found. The light was dim; must be around five o’clock now. He switched on the lamp.
Another car rolled up the drive, with a lone man behind the wheel. Probably another salesman. Green Buick, Texas license.
Texas license! That girl, that Jane Wilson, had come from Texas!
Norman stood up and stepped behind the counter. He saw the man leave the car, heard the crunch of his approaching footsteps on the gravel, matched the rhythm with the muffled thumping of his own heart.
It’s just coincidence, he told himself. People drive up from Texas every day. Why, Alabama is even further away.
The man entered. He was tall and thin, and he wore one of those gray Stetson hats with a broad brim that shadowed the upper portion of his face. His chin showed tan under the heavy stubble of beard.
“Good evening,” he said, without much of a drawl.
“Good evening.” Norman shifted his feet uneasily underneath the counter.
“You the proprietor here?”
“That’s right. Would you like a room?”
“Not exactly. I’m looking for a little information.”
“I’ll be glad to help, if I can. What is it you wanted to know?”
“I’m trying to locate a girl.”
Norman’s hands twitched. He couldn’t feel them, because they were numb. He was numb all over. His heart wasn’t pounding any more—it didn’t even seem to be beating. Everything was quiet. It would be terrible if he screamed.
“Her name is Crane,” the man said. “Mary Crane. From Fort Worth, Texas. I was wondering if she might have registered here.”
Norman didn’t want to scream now. He wanted to laugh. He could feel his heart resume its normal functions again. It was easy to reply.
“No,” he said. “There hasn’t been anybody by that name here.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. We don’t get too much business these days. I’m pretty good at remembering my customers.”
“This girl would have stopped over about a week ago. Last Saturday night, say, or Sunday.”
“I didn’t have anyone here over the weekend. Weather was bad in these parts.”
“Are you sure? This girl—woman, I should say—is about twenty-seven. Five feet five, weight around one-twenty, dark hair, blue eyes. She drives a 1953 Plymouth sedan, a blue Tudor with a stove-in front fender on the right side. The license number is—”
Norman stopped listening. Why had he said there hadn’t been anyone here? The man was describing that girl all right, he knew all about her. Well, he still couldn’t prove the girl had come, if Norman denied it. And he’d have to keep on denying, now.
“No, I don’t think I can help you.”
“Doesn’t the description fit anyone who’s been here during the past week? It’s quite likely she would have registered under another name. Perhaps if you’d let me look over your register for a minute—”
Norman put his hand on the ledger and shook his head. “Sorry, mister,” he said. “I couldn’t let you do that.”
“Maybe this will change your mind.”
The man reached into his inside coat pocket, and for a minute Norman wondered if he was going to offer him some money. The wallet came out, but the man didn’t remove any bills.
Instead he flipped it open and laid it on the counter, so Norman could read the card.
“Milton Arbogast,” the man said. “Investigator for Parity Mutual.”
“You’re a detective?”
He nodded. “I’m here on business, Mr.—”
“Norman Bates.”
“Mr. Bates. My company wants me to locate this girl, and I’d appreciate your co-operation. Of course, if you refuse to let me inspect your register, I can always get in touch with the local authorities. I guess you know that.”
Norman didn’t know, but he was sure of one thing. There mustn’t be any local authorities to come snooping around. He hesitated, his hand still covering the ledger. “What’s this all about?” he asked. “What did this girl do?”
“Stolen car,” Mr. Arbogast told him.
“Oh.” Norman was a little more relieved. For a moment he’d been afraid it was something serious, that the girl was missing or wanted for some major offense. In that case, there’d be a real investigation. But a missing car, particularly an old beat-up heap like that one—
“All right,” he said. “Help yourself. I just wanted to make sure you had a legitimate reason.” He removed his hand.
“It’s legitimate, all right.” But Mr. Arbogast didn’t reach for the register right away. First he took an envelope out of his pocket and laid it down on the counter. Then he grabbed the ledger, turned it around, and thumbed down the list of signatures.
Norman watched his blunt thumb move, saw it stop suddenly and decisively.
“I thought you said something about not having any customers last Saturday or Sunday?”
“Well, I don’t recall anyone. I mean, we might have had one or two, but there was no big business.”
“How about this one? This Jane Wilson, from San Antonio? She signed in on Saturday night.”
“Oh—come to think of it, you’re right.” The pounding had started up in Norman’s chest again, and he knew he’d made a mistake when he pretended not to recognize the description, but it was too late now. How could he possibly explain in such a way so that the detective wouldn’t be suspicious? What was he going to say?