Psycho (11 page)

"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?

Right now the detective wasn't saying anything. He had picked up the envelope and laid it alongside the ledger page, comparing the handwriting. That's why he'd brought the envelop out, it was in
her
handwriting! Now he'd know. He
did
know!

Norman could tell it when the detective raised his head and stared at him. Here, close up, he could see beneath the shadow cast by the hat brim. He could see the cold eyes, the eyes that
knew
.

"It's the girl, all right. This handwriting is identical."

"It is? Are you sure?"

"Sure enough that I'm going to get a photostat made, even if it takes a court order. And that isn't all I can do, if you won't start talking and tell me the truth. Why did you lie about not seeing the girl?"

"I didn't lie. I just forgot—"

"You said you had a good memory."

"Well, yes, generally I do. Only—"

"Prove it." Mr. Arbogast lit a cigarette. "In case you don't know, car theft is a federal offense. You wouldn't want to be involved as an accessory, would you?"

"Involved? How could I be involved? A girl drives in here, she takes a room, spends the night, and drives away again. How can I possibly be involved?"

"By withholding information." Mr. Arbogast inhaled deeply. "Come on, now, let's have it. You saw the girl. What did she look like?"

"Just as you described her, I guess. It was raining hard when she came in. I was busy. I didn't really take a second look. I let her sign in, gave her a key, and that was that."

"Did she say anything? What did you talk about?"

"The weather, I suppose. I don't remember."

"Did she seem ill at ease in any way? Was there anything about her that made you suspicious?

"No. Nothing at all. She seemed like just another tourist to me."

"Good enough." Mr. Arbogast ground his cigarette butt into the ash tray. "Didn't impress you one way or the other, eh? On one hand, there was nothing to cause you to suspect anything was wrong with her. Arid on the other, she didn't particularly arouse your sympathies, either. I mean, you felt no emotion toward this girl at all."

"Certainly not."

Mr. Arbogast leaned forward, casually. "Then why did you try to shield her by pretending you never remembered that she had come here?"

"I didn't try! I just forgot, I tell you." Norman knew he'd walked into a trap, but he wasn't going any further. "What are you trying to insinuate—do you think I
helped
her steal the car?"

"Nobody's accusing you of anything, Mr. Bates. It's just that I need all the facts I can get. You say she came alone?"

"She came alone, she took a room, she left the next morning. She's probably a thousand miles away by now—"

"Probably." Mr. Arbogast smiled. "But let's take it a little slower, shall we? Maybe you can remember something. She left alone, is that it? About what time would you say?"

"I don't know. I was asleep up at the house Sunday morning."

"Then you don't actually know she was
alone
when she left?"

"I can't prove it, if that's what you mean."

"How about during the evening? Did she have any visitors?"

"No."

"You're positive?"

"Quite positive."

"Did anyone else happen to see her here that night?"

"She was the only customer."

"And you were on duty alone?"

"That's right."

"She stayed in her room?"

"Yes."

"All evening? Didn't even make a phone call?"

"Of course not."

"So you're the only one who knew she was here at all?"

"I've already told you that."

"What about the old lady—did
she
see her?"

"What old lady?"

"The one up at the house, in back of here."

Norman could feel the pounding now; his heart was going to beat its way right through his chest. He started to say, "There is no old lady," but Mr. Arbogast was still talking.

"I noticed her staring out of the window when I drove in. Who is she?"

"That's my mother." He had to admit it, there was no way out. No way out. He could explain. "She's pretty feeble, she never comes down here any more.

"Then she didn't see the girl?"

"No. She's sick. She stayed in her room when we ate supp—"

It slipped out, just like that. Because Mr. Arbogast had asked the questions too fast, he'd done it on purpose just to confuse him, and when he mentioned Mother, it caught Norman off guard. He'd thought only about protecting
her
, and now—

Mr. Arbogast wasn't casual any more. "You had supper with Mary Crane, up at your house?"

"Just coffee and sandwiches. I—I thought I told you. It wasn't anything. You see, she asked where she could eat, and I said Fairvale, but that's almost twenty miles away, and it was raining, so I took her up to the house with me. That's all there was to it."

"What did you talk about?"

"We didn't talk about anything. I told you Mother's sick, and I didn't want to disturb her. She's been sick all week. I guess that's what's been upsetting me, making me forget things. Like this girl, and having supper. It just slipped my mind."

"Is there anything else that might have slipped your mind? Like say you and this girl coming back here and having a little party—"

"No! Nothing like that! How can you say such a thing, what right have you got to say such a thing? I—I won't even talk to you any more. I've told you all you wanted to know. Now, get out of here!"

"All right." Mr. Arbogast pulled down the brim of his Stetson. "I'll be on my way. But first I'd like to have a word with your mother. Maybe she might have noticed something you've forgotten."

"I tell you she didn't even
see
the girl!" Norman, came around the counter. "Besides, you can't talk to her. She's very ill." He could hear his heart pounding and he had to shout above it. "I forbid you to see her."

"In that case, I'll come back with a search warrant."

He was bluffing, Norman knew it now. "That's ridiculous! Nobody'd issue one. Who'd believe I'd steal an old car?"

Mr. Arbogast lit another cigarette and threw the match into the ash tray. "I'm afraid you don't understand," he said, almost gently. "It isn't really the car at all. You might as well have the whole story. This girl—Mary Crane—stole forty thousand dollars in cash from a real estate firm in Fort Worth."

"Forty thousand—"

"That's right. Skipped town with the money. You can see it's a serious business. That's why everything I can find out is important. That's why I'm going to insist on talking to your mother. With or without your permission."

"But I've already told you she doesn't know anything, and she's not well, she's not well at all."

"I promise I won't say anything to upset her." Mr. Arbogast paused. "Of course, if you want me to come back with the sheriff and a warrant

"No." Norman shook his head hastily. "You mustn't do that. He hesitated, but there was nothing to hesitate about now.
Forty thousand dollars. No wonder he'd asked so many questions, Of course he could get a warrant, no use making a scene. And besides, there was that Alabama couple down the line. No way out, no way at all
.

"All right," Norman said. "You can talk to her. But let me go up to the house first and tell her you're coming. I don't want you busting in without any explanation and getting her all excited." He moved toward the door. "You wait here, in case anyone drives in."

"Okay." Arbogast nodded, and Norman hurried out.

It wasn't much of a climb up the hill, but he thought he'd never make it. His heart pounded the way it had the other night, and it was just like the other night now, nothing had changed. No matter what you did, you couldn't get away from it. Not by trying to behave like a good boy and not by trying to behave like an adult, either. Nothing helped, because be was what he was, and that wasn't enough. Not enough to save him, and not enough to save Mother, If there was going to be any help at all now, it would have to come from her.

Then he unlocked the front door and climbed the stairs and went into her room, and he intended to speak to her very calmly, but when he saw her just sitting there by the window he couldn't hold it back. He began to shake and the sobs came tearing up out of his chest, the terrible sobs, and he put his head down against her skirt and he told her.

"All right," Mother said. She didn't seem surprised at all. "We'll take care of this. Just leave everything to me."

"Mother—if you just talked to him for a minute, told him you don't know anything—he'd go away, then."

"But he'd come back. Forty thousand dollars, that's a lot of money. Why didn't you tell me about it?"

"I didn't know. I swear it, I didn't know!"

"I believe you. Only
he
won't. He won't believe you and he won't believe me. He probably thinks we're all in on it together. Or that we did something to the girl, because of the money. Don't you see how it is?"

"Mother—" He closed his eyes, he couldn't look at her. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to get dressed. We want to be all ready for your visitor, don't we? I'll just take some things into the bathroom. You can go back and tell this Mr. Arbogast to come up now."

"No, I can't. I won't bring him up here, not if you're going to—"

And he couldn't, he couldn't move at all, now. He wanted to faint, but even that wouldn't stop what was going to happen.

In just a few minutes, Mr. Arbogast would get tired of waiting. He'd walk up to the house alone, he'd knock on the door, he'd open it and come in. And when he did—

"Mother, please,
listen
to me!"

But she didn't listen, she was in the bathroom, she was getting dressed, she was putting on make-up, she was getting ready.
Getting ready
.

And all at once she came gliding out, wearing the nice dress with the ruffles. Her face was freshly powdered and rouged, she was pretty as a picture, and she smiled as she started down the stairs.

Before she was hallway down, the knocking came.

It was happening, Mr. Arbogast was here; he wanted to call out and warn him, but something was stuck in his throat. He could only listen as Mother cried gaily, "I'm coming! I'm coming! Just a moment, now!"

And it
was
just a moment.

Mother opened the door and Mr. Arbogast walked in. He looked at her and then he opened his mouth to say something. As he did so he raised his head, and that was all Mother had been waiting for. Her arm went out and something bright and glittering flashed back and forth, back and forth—

It hurt Norman's eyes and he didn't want to look. He didn't have to look, either, because he already knew.

Mother had found his razor....

Norman smiled at the elderly man and said, "Here's your key. That'll be ten dollars for the two of you, please."

The elderly man's wife opened her purse. "I've got the money here, Homer." She placed a bill on the counter, nodding at Norman. Then she stopped nodding and her eyes narrowed. "What's the matter, don't you feel good?"

"I'm—I'm just a little tired, I guess. Be all right. Going to close up now."

"So early? I thought motels stayed open until all hours. Particularly on Saturday nights."

"We don't get much business here. Besides, it's almost ten."