The Best of Robert Bloch Read online

  The Best of Robert Bloch

  Robert Bloch

  CONTENTS:

  I. Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper

  II. Enoch

  III. Catnip

  IV. The Hungry House

  V. The Man Who Collected Poe

  VI. Mr. Steinway

  VII. The Past Master

  VIII. I Like Blondes

  IX. All on a Golden Afternoon

  X. Broomstick Ride

  XI. Daybroke

  XII. Sleeping Beauty

  XIII. Word of Honor

  XIV. The World-Timer

  XV. That Hell-Bound Train

  XVI. The Funnel of God

  XVII. Beelzebub

  XVIII. The Plot is the Thing

  XIX. How Like a God

  XX. The Movie People

  XXI. The Oracle

  XXII. The Learning Maze

  Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper

  I LOOKED AT THE stage Englishman. He looked at me.

  "Sir Guy Hollis?" I asked.

  "Indeed. Have I the pleasure of addressing John Carmody, the psychiatrist?"

  I nodded. My eyes swept over the figure of my distinguished visitor. Tall, lean, sandy-haired—with the traditional tufted mustache. And the tweeds. I suspected a monocle concealed in a vest pocket, and wondered if he'd left his umbrella in the outer office.

  But more than that, I wondered what the devil had impelled Sir Guy Hollis of the British Embassy to seek out a total stranger here in Chicago.

  Sir Guy didn't help matters any as he sat down. He cleared his throat, glanced around nervously, tapped his pipe against the side of the desk. Then he opened his mouth.

  "Mr. Carmody," he said, "have you ever heard of—Jack the Ripper?"

  "The murderer?" I asked.

  "Exactly. The greatest monster of them all. Worse than Springheel Jack or Crippen. Jack the Ripper. Red Jack."

  "I've heard of him," I said.

  "Do you know his history?"

  "I don't think we'll get any place swapping old wives' tales about famous crimes of history."

  He took a deep breath.

  "This is no old wives' tale. It's a matter of life or death."

  He was so wrapped up in his obsession he even talked that way. Well—I was willing to listen. We psychiatrists get paid for listening.

  "Go ahead," I told him. "Let's have the story."

  Sir Guy lit a cigarette and began to talk.

  "London, 1888," he began. "Late summer and early fall. That was the time. Out of nowhere came the shadowy figure of Jack the Ripper—a stalking shadow with a knife, prowling through London's East End. Haunting the squalid dives of Whitechapel, Spitalfields. Where he came from no one knew. But he brought death. Death in a knife.

  "Six times that knife descended to slash the throats and bodies of London's women. Drabs and alley sluts. August 7th was the date of the first butchery. They found her body lying there with thirty-nine stab wounds. A ghastly murder. On August 31st, another victim. The press became interested. The slum inhabitants were more deeply interested still.

  "Who was this unknown killer who prowled in their midst and struck at will in the deserted alleyways of night-town? And what was more important—when would he strike again?

  "September 8th was the date. Scotland Yard assigned special deputies. Rumors ran rampant. The atrocious nature of the slayings was the subject for shocking speculation.

  "The killer used a knife—expertly. He cut throats and removed—certain portions—of the bodies after death. He chose victims and settings with a fiendish deliberation. No one saw him or heard him. But watchmen making their gray rounds in the dawn would stumble across the hacked and horrid thing that was the Ripper's handiwork.

  "Who was he? What was he? A mad surgeon? A butcher? An insane scientist? A pathological degenerate escaped from an asylum? A deranged nobleman? A member of the London police?

  "Then the poem appeared in the newspapers. The anonymous poem, designed to put a stop to speculations—but which only aroused public interest to a further frenzy. A mocking little stanza:

  I'm not a butcher, I'm not a Yid

  Nor yet a foreign skipper,

  But I'm your own true loving friend,

  Yours truly—Jack the Ripper.

  "And on September 30th, two more throats were slashed open. There was silence, then, in London for a time. Silence, and a nameless fear. When would Red Jack strike again? They waited through October. Every figment of fog concealed his phantom presence. Concealed it well—for nothing was learned of the Ripper's identity, or his purpose. The drabs of London shivered in the raw wind of early November. Shivered, and were thankful for the coming of each morning's sun.

  "November 9th. They found her in her room. She lay there very quietly, limbs neatly arranged. And beside her, with equal neatness, were laid her breasts and heart. The Ripper had outdone himself in execution.

  "Then, panic. But needless panic. For though press, police, and populace alike waited in sick dread, Jack the Ripper did not strike again.

  "Months passed. A year. The immediate interest died, but not the memory. They said Jack had skipped to America. That he had committed suicide. They said—and they wrote. They've written ever since. Theories, hypotheses, arguments, treatises. But to this day no one knows who Jack the Ripper was. Or why he killed. Or why he stopped killing."

  Sir Guy was silent. Obviously he expected some comment from me.

  "You tell the story well," I remarked. "Though with a slight emotional bias."

  "I suppose you want to know why I'm interested?" he snapped.

  "Yes. That's exactly what I'd like to know."

  "Because," said Sir Guy Hollis, "I am on the trail of Jack the Ripper now. I think he's here—in Chicago!"

  "Say that again."

  "Jack the Ripper is alive, in Chicago, and I'm out to find him."

  He wasn't smiling. It wasn't a joke.

  "See here," I said. "What was the date of these murders?"

  "August to November, 1888."

  "1888? But if Jack the Ripper was an able-bodied man in 1888, he'd surely be dead today! Why look, man—if he were merely born in that year, he'd be fifty-seven years old today!"

  "Would he?" smiled Sir Guy Hollis. "Or should I say, 'Would she?' Because Jack the Ripper may have been a woman. Or any number of things."

  "Sir Guy," I said. "You came to the right person when you looked me up. You definitely need the services of a psychiatrist."

  "Perhaps. Tell me, Mr. Carmody, do you think I'm crazy?"

  I looked at him and shrugged. But I had to give him a truthful answer.

  "Frankly—no."

  "Then you might listen to the reasons I believe Jack the Ripper is alive today."

  "I might."

  "I've studied these cases for thirty years. Been over the actual ground. Talked to officials. Talked to friends and acquaintances of the poor drabs who were killed. Visited with men and women in the neighborhood. Collected an entire library of material touching on Jack the Ripper. Studied all the wild theories or crazy notions.

  "I learned a little. Not much, but a little. I won't bore you with my conclusions. But there was another branch of inquiry that yielded more fruitful return. I have studied unsolved crimes. Murders.

  "I could show you clippings from the papers of half the world's greatest cities. San Francisco. Shanghai. Calcutta. Omsk. Paris. Berlin. Pretoria. Cairo. Milan. Adelaide.

  "The trail is there, the pattern. Unsolved crimes. Slashed throats of women. With the peculiar disfigurations and removals. Yes, I've followed a trail of blood. From New York westward across the continent. Then to the Pacific. From there to Africa. During the World War of 1914-18 it was Europe. After tha
t, South America. And since 1930, the United States again. Eighty-seven such murders—and to the trained criminologist, all bear the stigma of the Ripper's handiwork.

  "Recently there were the so-called Cleveland torso slayings. Remember? A shocking series. And finally, two recent deaths in Chicago. Within the past six months. One out on South Dearborn. The other somewhere up on Halsted. Same type of crime, same technique. I tell you, there are unmistakable indications in all these affairs—indications of the work of Jack the Ripper!"

  "A very tight theory," I said. "I'll not question your evidence at all, or the deductions you draw. You're the criminologist, and I'll take your word for it. Just one thing remains to be explained. A minor point, perhaps, but worth mentioning."

  "And what is that?" asked Sir Guy.

  "Just how could a man of, let us say, eight-five years commit these crimes? For if Jack the Ripper was around thirty in 1888 and lived, he'd be eighty-five today."

  "Suppose he didn't get any older?" whispered Sir Guy.

  "What's that?"

  "Suppose Jack the Ripper didn't grow old? Suppose he is still a young man today?

  "It's a crazy theory, I grant you," he said. "All the theories about the Ripper are crazy. The idea that he was a doctor. Or a maniac. Or a woman. The reasons advanced for such beliefs are flimsy enough. There's nothing to go by. So why should my notion be any worse?"

  "Because people grow older," I reasoned with him. "Doctors, maniacs, and women alike."

  "What about—sorcerers?"

  "Sorcerers?"

  "Necromancers. Wizards. Practicers of Black Magic?"

  "What's the point?"

  "I studied," said Sir Guy. "I studied everything. After a while I began to study the dates of the murders. The pattern those dates formed. The rhythm. The solar, lunar, stellar rhythm. The sidereal aspect. The astrological significance.

  "Suppose Jack the Ripper didn't murder for murder's sake alone? Suppose he wanted to make—a sacrifice?"

  "What kind of a sacrifice?"

  Sir Guy shrugged. "It is said that if you offer blood to the dark gods they grant boons. Yes, if a blood offering is made at the proper time—when the moon and the stars are right— and with the proper ceremonies—they grant boons. Boons of youth. Eternal youth."

  "But that's nonsense!"

  "No. That's—Jack the Ripper."

  I stood up. "A most interesting theory," I told him. "But why do you come here and tell it to me? I'm not an authority on witchcraft. I'm not a police official or criminologist. I'm a practicing psychiatrist. What's the connection?"

  Sir Guy smiled.

  "You are interested, then?"

  "Well, yes. There must be some point."

  "There is. But I wished to be assured of your interest first. Now I can tell you my plan."

  "And just what is that plan?"

  Sir Guy gave me a long look.

  "John Carmody," he said, "you and I are going to capture Jack the Ripper."

  2

  That's the way it happened. I've given the gist of that first interview in all its intricate and somewhat boring detail, because I think it's important. It helps to throw some light on Sir Guy's character and attitude. And in view of what happened after that—

  But I'm coming to those matters.

  Sir Guy's thought was simple. It wasn't even a thought. Just a hunch.

  "You know the people here," he told me. "I've inquired. That's why I came to you as the ideal man for my purpose. You number amongst your acquaintances many writers, painters, poets. The so-called intelligentsia. The lunatic fringe from the near north side.

  "For certain reasons—never mind what they are—my clues lead me to infer that Jack the Ripper is a member of that element. He chooses to pose as an eccentric. I've a feeling that with you to take me around and introduce me to your set, I might hit upon the right person."

  "It's all right with me," I said. "But just how are you going to look for him? As you say, he might be anybody, anywhere. And you have no idea what he looks like. He might be young or old. Jack the Ripper—a Jack of all trades? Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer—how will you know?"

  "We shall see." Sir Guy sighed heavily. "But I must find him. At once."

  "Why the hurry?"

  Sir Guy sighed again. "Because in two days he will kill again."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Sure as the stars. I've plotted this chart, you see. All of the murders correspond to certain astrological rhythm patterns. If, as I suspect, he makes a blood sacrifice to renew his youth, he must murder within two days. Notice the pattern of his first crimes in London. August 7th. Then August 31st. September 8th. September 30th. November 9th. Intervals of 24 days, 9 days, 22 days—he killed two this time—and then 40 days. Of course there were crimes in between. There had to be. But they weren't discovered and pinned on him.

  "At any rate, I've worked out a pattern for him, based on all my data. And I say that within the next two days he kills. So I must seek him out, somehow, before then."

  "And I'm still asking you what you want me to do."

  "Take me out," said Sir Guy. "Introduce me to your friends. Take me to parties."

  "But where do I begin? As far as I know, my artistic friends, despite their eccentricities, are all normal people."

  "So is the Ripper. Perfectly normal. Except on certain nights." Again that faraway look in Sir Guy's eyes. "Then he becomes an ageless pathological monster, crouching to kill."

  "All right," I said. "All right. I'll take you."

  We made our plans. And that evening I took him over to Lester Baston's studio.

  As we ascended to the penthouse roof in the elevator I took the opportunity to warn Sir Guy.

  "Baston's a real screwball," I cautioned him. "So are his guests. Be prepared for anything and everything."

  "I am." Sir Guy Hollis was perfectly serious. He put his hand in his trousers pocket and pulled out a gun.

  "What the—" I began.

  "If I see him I'll be ready," Sir Guy said. He didn't smile, either.

  "But you can't go running around at a party with a loaded revolver in your pocket, man!"

  "Don't worry, I won't behave foolishly."

  I wondered. Sir Guy Hollis was not, to my way of thinking, a normal man.

  We stepped out of the elevator, went toward Baston's apartment door.

  "By the way," I murmured, "just how do you wish to be introduced? Shall I tell them who you are and what you are looking for?"

  "I don't care. Perhaps it would be best to be frank."

  "But don't you think that the Ripper—if by some miracle he or she is present—will immediately get the wind up and take cover?"

  "I think the shock of the announcement that I am hunting the Ripper would provoke some kind of betraying gesture on his part," said Sir Guy.

  "It's a fine theory. But I warn you, you're going to be in for a lot of ribbing. This is a wild bunch."

  Sir Guy smiled.

  "I'm ready," he announced. "I have a little plan of my own. Don't be shocked at anything I do."

  I nodded and knocked on the door.

  Baston opened it and poured out into the hall. His eyes were as red as the maraschino cherries in his Manhattan. He teetered back and forth regarding us very gravely. He squinted at my square-cut homburg hat and Sir Guy's mustache.

  "Aha," he intoned. "The Walrus and the Carpenter."

  I introduced Sir Guy.

  "Welcome," said Baston, gesturing us inside with over-elaborate courtesy. He stumbled after us into the garish parlor.

  I stared at the crowd that moved restlessly through the fog of cigarette smoke.

  It was the shank of the evening for this mob. Every hand held a drink. Every face held a slightly hectic flush. Over in me corner the piano was going full blast, but the imperious strains of the March from The Love for Three Oranges couldn't drown out the profanity from the crap-game in the other corner.

  Prokofieff had no
chance against African polo, and one set of ivories rattled louder than the other.

  Sir Guy got a monocle-full right away. He saw LaVerne Gonnister, the poetess, hit Hymie Kralik in the eye. He saw Hymie sit down on the floor and cry until Dick Pool accidentally stepped on his stomach as he walked through to the lining room for a drink.

  He heard Nadia Vilinoff, the commercial artist, tell Johnny Odcutt that she thought his tattooing was in dreadful taste, and he saw Barclay Melton crawl under the dining room table with Johnny Odcutt's wife.

  His zoological observations might have continued indefinitely if Lester Baston hadn't stepped to the center of the room and called for silence by dropping a vase on the floor.

  "We have distinguished visitors in our midst," bawled Lester, waving his empty glass in our direction. "None other than the Walrus and the Carpenter. The Walrus is Sir Guy Hollis, a something-or-other from the British Embassy. The Carpenter, as you all know, is our own John Carmody, the prominent dispenser of libido liniment."

  He turned and grabbed Sir Guy by the arm, dragging him to the middle of the carpet. For a moment I thought Hollis might object, but a quick wink reassured me. He was prepared for this.

  "It is our custom, Sir Guy," said Baston, loudly, "to subject our new friends to a little cross-examination. Just a little formality at these very formal gatherings, you understand. Are you prepared to answer questions?"

  Sir Guy nodded and grinned.

  "Very well," Baston muttered. "Friends—I give you this bundle from Britain. Your witness."

  Then the ribbing started. I meant to listen, but at that moment Lydia Dare saw me and dragged me off into the vestibule for one of those Darling-I-waited-for-your-call-all-day routines.

  By the time I got rid of her and went back, the impromptu quiz session was in full swing. From the attitude of the crowd, I gathered that Sir Guy was doing all right for himself.

  Then Baston himself interjected a question that upset the apple-cart.

  "And what, may I ask, brings you to our midst tonight? What is your mission, oh Walrus?"

  "I'm looking for Jack the Ripper."