Read Online Psycho - Three Complete Novels by Robert Bloch - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Bloch
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Impressions.
Ottorino Respighi had been dead for many years, and the symphonic group— L’Orchestre des Concertes Colonne —had been conducted in the work many thousands of miles away.
But when Sam Loomis reached out and switched on the tiny FM radio, the music welled forth, annihilating space and time and death itself.
It was, as far as he understood it, an authentic miracle.
For a moment, Sam wished that he weren’t alone. Miracles are meant to be shared. Music is meant to be shared. But there was no one in Fairvale who would recognize either the music itself or the miracle of its coming. Fairvale people were inclined to be practical about things. Music was just something you got when you put a nickel in a jukebox or turned on the television set. Mostly it was rock-’n-roll, but once in a while there’d be some longhair stuff like that William Tell piece they played for westerns. What’s so wonderful about this Ottorino What’s-His-Name, or whoever he is?
Sam Loomis shrugged, then grinned. He wasn’t complaining about the situation. Maybe small-town people didn’t dig his sort of music, but at least they left him the freedom to enjoy it for himself. Just as he made no attempt to influence their tastes. It was a fair bargain.
Sam pulled out the big ledger and carried it over to the kitchen table. For the next hour, the table would double in brass as his desk. Just as he would double in brass as his own bookkeeper.
That was one of the drawbacks of living here in one room behind the hardware store. There was no extra space available, and everything doubled in brass. Still, he accepted the situation. It wouldn’t go on this way very much longer, the way things were breaking for him these days.
A quick glance at the figures seemed to confirm his optimism. He’d have to do some checking on inventory requirements, but it looked very much like he might be able to pay off another thousand this month. That would bring the total up to three thousand for the half-year mark. And this was off-season, too. There’d be more business coming this fall.
Sam scribbled a hasty figure-check on a sheet of scratch paper. Yes, he could probably swing it. Made him feel pretty good. It ought to make Mary feel good, too.
Mary hadn’t been too cheerful, lately. At least her letters sounded as if she were depressed. When she wrote at all, that is. Come to think of it, she owed him several letters now. He’d written her again, last Friday, and still no reply. Maybe she was sick. No, if that was the case he’d have gotten a note from the kid sister, Lila, or whatever her name was. Chances were that Mary was just discouraged, down in the dumps. Well, he didn’t blame her. She’d been sweating things out for a long time.
So had he, of course. It wasn’t easy, living like this. But it was the only way. She understood, she agreed to wait.
Maybe he ought to take a few days off next week, leave Summerfield in charge here, and take a run down to see her. Just drop in and surprise her, cheer her up. Why not? Things were very slack at the moment, and Bob could handle the store alone.
Sam sighed. The music was descending now, spiraling to a minor key. This must be the theme for the snake garden. Yes, he recognized it, with its slithering strings, its writhing woodwinds squirming over the sluggish bass. Snakes. Mary didn’t like snakes. Chances were, she didn’t like this kind of music, either.
Sometimes he almost wondered if they hadn’t made a mistake when they planned ahead. After all, what did they really know about each other? Aside from the companionship of the cruise and the two days Mary had spent here last year, they’d never been together. There were the letters, of course, but maybe they just made things worse. Because in the letters, Sam had begun to find another Mary—a moody, almost petulant personality, given to likes and dislikes so emphatic they were almost prejudices.
He shrugged. What had come over him? Was it
Ottorino Respighi had been dead for many years, and the symphonic group— L’Orchestre des Concertes Colonne —had been conducted in the work many thousands of miles away.
But when Sam Loomis reached out and switched on the tiny FM radio, the music welled forth, annihilating space and time and death itself.
It was, as far as he understood it, an authentic miracle.
For a moment, Sam wished that he weren’t alone. Miracles are meant to be shared. Music is meant to be shared. But there was no one in Fairvale who would recognize either the music itself or the miracle of its coming. Fairvale people were inclined to be practical about things. Music was just something you got when you put a nickel in a jukebox or turned on the television set. Mostly it was rock-’n-roll, but once in a while there’d be some longhair stuff like that William Tell piece they played for westerns. What’s so wonderful about this Ottorino What’s-His-Name, or whoever he is?
Sam Loomis shrugged, then grinned. He wasn’t complaining about the situation. Maybe small-town people didn’t dig his sort of music, but at least they left him the freedom to enjoy it for himself. Just as he made no attempt to influence their tastes. It was a fair bargain.
Sam pulled out the big ledger and carried it over to the kitchen table. For the next hour, the table would double in brass as his desk. Just as he would double in brass as his own bookkeeper.
That was one of the drawbacks of living here in one room behind the hardware store. There was no extra space available, and everything doubled in brass. Still, he accepted the situation. It wouldn’t go on this way very much longer, the way things were breaking for him these days.
A quick glance at the figures seemed to confirm his optimism. He’d have to do some checking on inventory requirements, but it looked very much like he might be able to pay off another thousand this month. That would bring the total up to three thousand for the half-year mark. And this was off-season, too. There’d be more business coming this fall.
Sam scribbled a hasty figure-check on a sheet of scratch paper. Yes, he could probably swing it. Made him feel pretty good. It ought to make Mary feel good, too.
Mary hadn’t been too cheerful, lately. At least her letters sounded as if she were depressed. When she wrote at all, that is. Come to think of it, she owed him several letters now. He’d written her again, last Friday, and still no reply. Maybe she was sick. No, if that was the case he’d have gotten a note from the kid sister, Lila, or whatever her name was. Chances were that Mary was just discouraged, down in the dumps. Well, he didn’t blame her. She’d been sweating things out for a long time.
So had he, of course. It wasn’t easy, living like this. But it was the only way. She understood, she agreed to wait.
Maybe he ought to take a few days off next week, leave Summerfield in charge here, and take a run down to see her. Just drop in and surprise her, cheer her up. Why not? Things were very slack at the moment, and Bob could handle the store alone.
Sam sighed. The music was descending now, spiraling to a minor key. This must be the theme for the snake garden. Yes, he recognized it, with its slithering strings, its writhing woodwinds squirming over the sluggish bass. Snakes. Mary didn’t like snakes. Chances were, she didn’t like this kind of music, either.
Sometimes he almost wondered if they hadn’t made a mistake when they planned ahead. After all, what did they really know about each other? Aside from the companionship of the cruise and the two days Mary had spent here last year, they’d never been together. There were the letters, of course, but maybe they just made things worse. Because in the letters, Sam had begun to find another Mary—a moody, almost petulant personality, given to likes and dislikes so emphatic they were almost prejudices.
He shrugged. What had come over him? Was it
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