Psycho by Robert Bloch Read Free Book Online Page A

one of those awful holes. A state hospital.
    Norman stared at the neat, old-fashioned room with its wallpaper pattern of rambler roses. He couldn't take Mother away from this and see her locked up in a bare cell. Right now he was safe—the police didn't even know about Mother. She stayed here, in the house, and nobody knew. It had been all right to tell the girl, because she'd never see him again. But the police couldn't find out about Mother and what she was like. They'd put her away to rot. No matter what she'd done, she didn't deserve that .
    And she wouldn't have to get it, because nobody knew what she'd done.
    He was pretty certain, now, that he could keep anyone from knowing. All he had to do was think it over, think back to the events of the evening, think carefully.
    The girl had driven in alone, said she'd been on the road all day. That meant she wasn't visiting en route . And she didn't seem to know where Fairvale was, didn't mention any other towns nearby, so the chances were she had no intention of seeing anyone around here. Whoever expected her—if anyone was expecting her—must live some distance further north.
    Of course this was all supposition, but it seemed logical enough. And he'd have to take a chance on being right.
    She had signed the register, of course, but that meant nothing. If anybody ever asked, he'd say that she had spent the night and driven on.
    All he had to do was get rid of the body and the car and make sure that everything was cleaned up afterward.
    That part would be easy. He knew just how to do it. It wouldn't be pleasant, but it wouldn't be difficult, either.
    And it would save him from going to the police. It would save Mother.
    Oh, he still intended to have things out with her—he wasn't backing down on that part of it, not this time—but this could wait until afterward.
    The big thing now was to dispose of the evidence. The corpus delicti .
    Mother's dress and scarf would have to be burned, and so would the clothing he was wearing. No, on second thought, he might as well get rid of it all when he got rid of the body.
    Norman wadded the garments into a ball and carried them downstairs. He grabbed an old shirt and pair of coveralls from the hook in the back hallway, then shed his clothing in the kitchen and donned the others. No sense stopping to wash up now—that could wait until the rest of the messy business was completed.
    But Mother had remembered to wash when she came back. He could see more of the pink stains here at the kitchen sink; a few telltale traces of rouge and powder, too.
    He made a mental note to clean everything thoroughly when he got back, then sat down and transferred everything from the pockets of his discarded clothing to those in his coveralls. It was a pity to throw away good clothes like this, but that couldn't be helped. Not if Mother was to be helped.
    Norman went down into the basement and opened the door of the old fruit cellar. He found what he was looking for—a discarded clothes hamper with a sprung cover. It was large enough and it would do nicely.
    Nicely—God, how can you think like that about what you're proposing to do?
    He winced at the realization, then took a deep breath. This was no time to be self-conscious or self-critical. One had to be practical. Very practical, very careful, very calm.
    Calmly, he tossed his clothes into the hamper. Calmly, he took an old oilcloth from the table near the cellar stairs. Calmly, he went back upstairs, snapped off the kitchen light, snapped off the hall light, and let himself out of the house in darkness, carrying the hamper with the oilcloth on top.
    It was harder to be calm here in the dark. Harder not to think about a hundred and one things that might go wrong.
    Mother had wandered off—where? Was she out on the highway, ready to be picked up by anyone who might come driving by? Was she still suffering a hysterical reaction, would the shock of what she had done cause her to blurt out the truth to