Man With a Hobby - Robert Bloch, ebook, Temp
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//-->Robert BlochMan With a HobbyFrom "The Orion Book of Murder" (Peter Haining, editor)Serial killers are undoubtedly the most feared murderers in moderncrime. Amongst the best known are, surely, Jack the Ripper, whoslaughtered prostitutes in the back-streets of Victorian London, and theincredibly violent "Axe-man of New Orleans", who cut his victims topieces in their homes during the years 1911 to 1919. Both generatedsensational newspaper reports, caused widespread fear among thegeneral public, and their identities remain a mystery to this day. Suchmen—if indeed they were men!—have been described as "theimpresarios of the crime world", for while most murderers endeavour toremain anonymous, these multiple killers went to extraordinary lengthsto create special effects at the scenes of their crimes. Today's serialkillers, such as Jeffrey Dahmer and Fred West, may not have been asprone to exhibitionism, but the horror of what they did has also been feltworldwide.Robert Bloch (1917-94) has written a number of short stories andnovels about multiple killers, three of which featured real people: Jackthe Ripper, Lizzie Borden and the insidious Herman W. Mudgett of hisnative Chicago. In 1959, while still a struggling writer for the weird pulpmagazines, Bloch wrote one of the landmark crime novels of thiscentury, "Psycho", about the gentle-looking killer Norman Bates in hisGothic-style Hollywood motel. When the story was filmed the followingyear by Alfred Hitchcock with Anthony Perkins it became one of thehighest-grossing black and white motion pictures ever produced.Indeed, its unforgettable portrait of a psychopathic killer did not somuch start a trend as launch one, for there have since been two sequels(both starring Perkins, who has called the role of Bates "the Hamlet ofhorror parts") and a continuing series of similar movies including"Texas Chainsaw Massacre", "Nightmare on Elm Street", "Silence ofthe Lambs" and "Seven". Robert Bloch also returned to the theme ofderanged killers and psychopathology in several of his later bestsellingbooks—althoughhealwaysdisclaimedanyspecialistknowledge—including "The Scarf" (1947), a first-person narrative abouta strangler; "The Kidnapper" (1954), a book much disliked by critics forits "cold, clinical and unsparing honesty"; "The Couch" (1962), theaccount of a mass murderer; and "Night of the Ripper" (1984), a tour deforce in which he proposed an ingenious solution to the century-oldmystery. "Man With a Hobby" also features a psychopath, known onlyas"TheClevelandTorsoSlayer",andwasfirstpublished—appropriately—in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine ofMarch 1957…just two years before the story of another killer was tomake both men household names.It must have been around ten o'clock when I got out of the hotel. Thenight was warm and I needed a drink. There was no sense trying the hotelcocktail lounge, because the place was a madhouse. The bowlingconvention had taken that over, too.Walking down Euclid Avenue, I got the impression that Cleveland wasfull of bowlers. And most of them seemed to be looking for a drink. Everytavern I passed was jammed with shirt-sleeved men, all wearing theirbadges. Not that they needed extra identification—nearly all of themcarried their own bowling balls in the standard round bag. And most ofthem carried loads, too.Funny, the way bowlers like to drink. Scratch a bowler and yougenerally draw alcohol instead of blood. Even old Washington Irving knewthat, when he wrote about Rip Van Winkle and the dwarfs.Well, there were no dwarfs in this crowd—just man-sized drinkers. Andany sound of thunder from the distant mountain peaks would have beendrowned out by the shouting and the laughter.I wanted no part of it. So I turned off Euclid and kept wandering along,looking for a quiet spot. My own bowling bag was getting heavy. Actually,I'd meant to take it right over to the depot and check it in a locker untiltrain time, but I needed that drink first.Finally I found a place. It was dim, it was dingy, but it was alsodeserted. The bartender was all alone down at the far end of the bar,listening to the tail end of a double-header on the radio.I sat down close to the door, and put the bag on the stool next to me.Then I signalled him for a beer. "Bring me a bottle," I said. "Then I won'thave to interrupt you."I was only trying to be polite, but I could have spared myself the trouble.Before he had a chance to get back to following the game, anothercustomer came in."Double Scotch, never mind the wash."I looked up.The bowlers had taken over the city, all right. This one was a heavilybuilt man of about fifty, with wrinkles extending well up towards the top ofhis bald head. He wore a coat, but carried the inevitable bowlingbag—black, bulging, and very similar to mine. As I stared at him, he set itdown very carefully on the adjoining bar stool and reached for his drink.He threw back his head and gulped. I could see the pasty white skinripple along his neck. Then he held out the empty glass. "Do it again," hetold the bartender. "And turn down the radio, will you, Mac?" He pulled outa handful of bills.For a moment the bartender's expression hovered midway between ascowl and a smile. Then he caught sight of the bills fluttering down on thebar, and the smile won out. He shrugged and turned away, fiddling withthe volume control, reducing the announcer's voice to a distant drone. Iknew what he was thinking. If it was beer I'd tell him to go take a jump,but this guy's buying Scotch.The second Scotch went down almost as fast as the volume of theradio."Fill 'er up," said the heavy-set man.The bartender came back, poured again, took his money, rang it up;then he drifted away to the other end of the bar. Crouching over the radio,he strained to catch the voice of the announcer.I watched the third Scotch disappear. The stranger's neck was red now.Six ounces of Scotch in two minutes will do wonders for the complexion. Itwill loosen the tongue, too."Damn ball game," the stranger muttered. "I can't understand howanyone can listen to that crud." He wiped his forehead and blinked at me."Sometimes a guy gets the idea there's nothing in the world but baseballfans. Bunch of crazy fools yelling their heads off over nothing, all summerlong. Then comes fall and it's the football games. Same thing, only worse.And right after that's finished, it's basketball. Honest to God, what do theysee in it?""Everybody needs some kind of a hobby," I said."Yeah. But what kind of a hobby do you call that? I mean, who can getexcited over a gang of apes fighting to grab some kind of a ball?" Hescowled. "Don't kid me that they really care who wins or loses. Most guysgo to a ball game for a different reason. You ever been out to see agame, Mac?""Once in a while.""Then you know what I'm talking about. You've heard 'em out there.Heard 'em yelling. That's why they really go—to holler their heads off. Andwhat are they yelling most of the time? I'll tell you.Kill the umpire! Yeah,that's what they're screaming about.Kill the umpire!"I finished the last of my beer quickly and started to slide off the stool. Hereached out and rapped on the bar. "Here have another, Mac," he said."On me."I shook my head. "Sorry, got to catch a train out of here at midnight," Itold him.He glanced at the clock. "Plenty of time." I opened my mouth to protest,but the bartender was already opening a bottle and pouring anotherScotch. And the stranger was talking to me again."Football is worse," he said. "A guy can get hurt playing football. Someof 'em get hurt bad. That's what the crowd like to see. And boy, when theystart yelling for blood, it's enough to turn your stomach.""I don't know," I said. "After all, it's a pretty harmless way of releasingpent-up aggression."Maybe he understood me and maybe he didn't, but he nodded. "Itreleases something, like you say, but I ain't so sure it's harmless. Takeboxing and wrestling, now. Call that a sport? Call that a hobby? Peoplewant to see somebody get clobbered. Only they won't admit it."His face was quite red now. He was starting to sweat. "And what abouthunting and fishing? When you come right down to it, it's the same thing.Only there you do the killing yourself. You take a gun and shoot somedumb animal. Or you cut up a live worm and stick it on a hook and thathook cuts into a fish's mouth, and you sort of get a thrill out of it, don't you?When the hook goes in and it cuts and tears—""Now wait a minute," I said. "What makes you think that people are allsuch sadists?"He blinked at me for a moment. "Never mind the two-dollar words," hetold me. "You know it's true. Everybody gets the urge, sooner or later.Stuff like ball games and boxing don't really satisfy it, either. So we gottahave a war, every so often. Then there's an excuse to do real killing.Millions."Nietzsche thoughthewas a gloomy philosopher. He should haveknown about Double-Scotches."What's your solution?" I tried hard to keep the sarcasm out of myvoice. "Do you think there'd be less harm done if they repealed the lawsagainst murder?""Maybe." The bald-headed man studied his empty glass. "Depends onwho got killed. Suppose you just knocked off tramps and bums. Or afloozie, maybe. You know, somebody without a family or relatives oranything. Somebody who wouldn't be missed. You could get away with iteasier, too."I leaned forward, staring at him."Could you?" I asked.He didn't look at me. He gazed down at his bowling bag for a momentbefore replying."Don't get me wrong, Mac," he said, forcing a grin. "I ain't no murderer.But I was just thinking about a guy who used to do it. Right here in thistown, too. This was maybe twenty years ago.""You knew him?""No, of course not. Nobody knew him, that's the whole point. That's howhe always got away with it. But everybody knew about him. All you had todo was read the papers. They called him the Cleveland Torso Slayer. Hedid thirteen murders in four years, out in Kingsbury Run and aroundJackass Hill. Cops went nuts trying to find the guy. Figured he came intotown on weekends, maybe. Then he'd pick up some bum and lure himdown into a gully or the dumps near the tracks. Promise to give him abottle, or something. Did the same thing with women. And then he usedhis knife. He wasn't playing games, trying to fool himself. He went for thereal thing. With real thrills and a real trophy at the end. You see, he liked tocut 'em up. He liked to cut off their—"I stood up and reached for my bag. The stranger laughed."Don't be scared, Mac," he said. "This guy must of blown town back innineteen thirty-eight or so. Maybe when the war come along in Europe hejoined up over there. Went into some commando outfit and kept on doingthe same thing—only then he was a hero instead of a murderer, see?Anyway, he did it honest. He wasn't trying to pretend. He wasn't one ofthose chicken-liver types who—""Easy, now," I said. "Don't go getting yourself excited. It's your theory,not mine."He lowered his voice. "Theory? Maybe so, Mac. But I run intosomething tonight that'll really rock you. What do you suppose I beentossing down all these drinks for?""I thought all bowlers drank," I told him. "But come to think of it, if youactually feel that way about sports, then why are you a bowler?"The bald-headed man leaned close to me. "Who said I was a bowler?"he murmured.I opened my mouth, but before I could answer him there was anothernoise. We both heard it at the same time—the sound of a siren, down thestreet.The bartender looked up. "Heading this way, sounds like, doesn't it?Do you think—"But the bald-headed man was already on his feet and moving towardsthe door.I hurried after him. "Here, don't forget your bag."He didn't look at me. "Thanks," he muttered. "Thanks, Mac."And then he was gone. He didn't stay on the street, but slipped down anarrow alley between two adjoining buildings. In a moment he haddisappeared. I stood in the doorway as the siren's wail choked the street.A squad car pulled up in front of the tavern, its motor racing. A uniformedsergeant had been running along the sidewalk, accompanying it, and hecame puffing up. He glanced at the sidewalk, glanced at the tavern,
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