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 time 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
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 time 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
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