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
“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
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