The Best of Robert Bloch - Robert Bloch, ebook, Temp
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//-->The Best of Robert BlochRobert BlochCONTENTS:I.Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper| II.Enoch| III.Catnip| IV.The Hungry House| V.The ManWho Collected PoeVI.Mr. Steinway| VII.The Past Master| VIII.I Like Blondes| IX.All on a Golden Afternoon|X.Broomstick RideXI.Daybroke| XII.Sleeping Beauty| XIII.Word of Honor| XIV.The World-Timer| XV.ThatHell-Bound TrainXVI.The Funnel of God| XVII.Beelzebub| XVIII.The Plot is the Thing| XIX.How Like a God| XX.The Movie PeopleXXI.The Oracle| XXII.The Learning MazeYours Truly, Jack the RipperI 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—withthe traditional tufted mustache. And the tweeds. I suspected a monocle concealed in a vest pocket, andwondered 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 toseek 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. Wepsychiatrists 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 theshadowy figure of Jack the Ripper—a stalking shadow with a knife, prowling through London's EastEnd. Haunting the squalid dives of Whitechapel, Spitalfields. Where he came from no one knew. But hebrought death. Death in a knife."Six times that knife descended to slash the throats and bodies of London's women. Drabs and alleysluts. August 7th was the date of the first butchery. They found her body lying there with thirty-nine stabwounds. A ghastly murder. On August 31st, another victim. The press became interested. The sluminhabitants were more deeply interested still."Who was this unknown killer who prowled in their midst and struck at will in the deserted alleywaysof 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. Theatrocious 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 afterdeath. He chose victims and settings with a fiendish deliberation. No one saw him or heard him. Butwatchmen making their gray rounds in the dawn would stumble across the hacked and horrid thing thatwas the Ripper's handiwork."Who was he? What was he? A mad surgeon? A butcher? An insane scientist? A pathologicaldegenerate 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 tospeculations—but which only aroused public interest to a further frenzy. A mocking little stanza:I'm not a butcher, I'm not a YidNor 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 Londonfor a time. Silence, and a nameless fear. When would Red Jack strike again? They waited throughOctober. Every figment of fog concealed his phantom presence. Concealed it well—for nothing waslearned of the Ripper's identity, or his purpose. The drabs of London shivered in the raw wind of earlyNovember. 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. Andbeside her, with equal neatness, were laid her breasts and heart. The Ripper had outdone himself inexecution."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 hadskipped to America. That he had committed suicide. They said—and they wrote. They've written eversince. Theories, hypotheses, arguments, treatises. But to this day no one knows who Jack the Ripperwas. 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—inChicago!""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! Whylook, 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 mayhave 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 theservices 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 tofriends and acquaintances of the poor drabs who were killed. Visited with men and women in theneighborhood. Collected an entire library of material touching on Jack the Ripper. Studied all the wildtheories or crazy notions."I learned a little. Not much, but a little. I won't bore you with my conclusions. But there was anotherbranch 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 peculiardisfigurations and removals. Yes, I've followed a trail of blood. From New York westward across thecontinent. Then to the Pacific. From there to Africa. During the World War of 1914-18 it was Europe.After that, South America. And since 1930, the United States again. Eighty-seven such murders—and tothe trained criminologist, all bear the stigma of the Ripper's handiwork."Recently there were the so-called Cleveland torso slayings. Remember? A shocking series. Andfinally, two recent deaths in Chicago. Within the past six months. One out on South Dearborn. The othersomewhere up on Halsted. Same type of crime, same technique. I tell you, there are unmistakableindications 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'rethe 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 wasaround 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 hewas 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 themurders. The pattern those dates formed. The rhythm. The solar, lunar, stellar rhythm. The siderealaspect. The astrological significance."Suppose Jack the Ripper didn't murder for murder's sake alone? Suppose he wanted to make—asacrifice?""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 bloodoffering is made at the proper time—when the moon and the stars are right— and with the properceremonies—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'mnot 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."2That's the way it happened. I've given the gist of that first interview in all its intricate and somewhatboring detail, because I think it's important. It helps to throw some light on Sir Guy's character andattitude. 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 formy purpose. You number amongst your acquaintances many writers, painters, poets. The so-calledintelligentsia. 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 amember of that element. He chooses to pose as an eccentric. I've a feeling that with you to take mearound 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 beanybody, anywhere. And you have no idea what he looks like. He might be young or old. Jack theRipper—a Jack of all trades? Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer—how will youknow?""We shall see." Sir Guy sighed heavily. "But I must find him. At once.""Why the hurry?"
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